It was the night before Christmas. Snow was falling without; and the
wind dashed the cold flakes, in eddying whirls, into the faces of those
wayfarers whom business or pleasure kept out thus late. They drew their
warm garments more closely about them, and hurried onward; little heeding
the pelting of the storm while the vision of a cheerful hearth and a
merry family circle danced before their eyes and warmed their hearts.
Merry St. Nicholas, too, the patron saint of children, was abroad. It
was a busy night with him. Thousands of parcels must be made up, and
showered down as many chimneys into expectant stockings, before the
morrow’s dawn. So he gives the reins to his coursers, and speeds swiftly
along,—
“through forest and brake;
Through deep, drifting snow; over river and lake;
Over hill, over dale, where the keen northern blast,
With fierce, angry moaning, drives fearfully past.”
In a large and pleasant room sat little Bertha, gazing thoughtfully
into the fire. The fire crackled and burnt; and shadows, cast by its
flickering light, danced on the wall. But little Bertha’s thoughts were
far away, and she heeded them not. For many weeks, she had been looking
forward to this very night; and now she was trying to conjecture what
gifts good St. Nicholas had in store for her. At length she grew weary
of conjecture, took a lamp from the table, and went up stairs to bed. It
was a neat little chamber; and the counterpane on Bertha’s bed rivalled
in whiteness the falling snow without. Bertha looked out of the window,
against the panes of which the snow was beating noisily.
“It is a cold night,” thought she. “St. Nicholas will have a hard time of
it. What if he should not come at all?”
Bertha’s apprehensions were soon dispelled; for, as she looked out, the
sound of silvery bells came nearer and nearer, till at length it paused
under her window, and, a moment afterwards, was heard in an opposite
direction. Bertha rubbed her eyes, and strove to distinguish the sleigh
from which these sounds proceeded; but she could distinguish nothing.
“Can it be St. Nicholas?” thought she.
Even as she spoke, mingling with the sound of the retreating bells,
she thought she could distinguish the words of a song. She listened
attentively; and these were the words which the wind bore to her:—
“The path I have chosen
Is covered with snow;
The streams are all frozen;
Yet onward I go.
“I glide o’er the mountain,
And skim o’er the lea;
I pass by the fountain;
Yet no eye can see—
“My form or my shadow
On snow-drift or mound,
On hill-top or meadow,
Or frost-spangled ground.
“While sleigh-bells are ringing
Upon the highway,
And glad parties singing
So thoughtless and gay,—
“I pass through and over
Each hamlet and hall
Ere mortals discover
Who gave them a call.
“I pause but to count o’er
The gifts for each one,
And then quickly mount o’er
The stile. I am gone!”
“That must certainly be Santa Claus,” thought Bertha. So she carefully
hung up her stockings before the fire, and went to bed. She soon became
tired of waiting for St. Nicholas to come; and, in a few minutes, she was
asleep. But the thoughts of Christmas had taken fast hold of her mind,
and, as she slept, shaped themselves into the following dream:—
She thought, that, as she was lying awake in her chamber, there appeared
suddenly before her three figures, clad in white. Slowly they advanced,
hand in hand, till they stood before her bedside. Then, with united
voices, they chanted the following lines:—
“Maiden, from the fields of air
We have winged our rapid flight,
Bringing gifts both rich and rare,
On this frosty Christmas night.
Guard them ever: they will be
Of exceeding worth to thee.”