soon clattering across the bridge and into the great paved courtyard. The
count flung his bridle to a little page who hastened out to meet him, and
then, springing from his saddle, lightly lifted Félix and swung him to the
ground. He took the boy by the hand and led him into the great hall of the
castle.
To Félix this looked marvelously beautiful. Christmas garlands of myrtle
hung on the walls, and a great pile of freshly cut laurel boughs lay on a
bench, ready for the morrow's arranging. But that which took his eyes most
of all was the lovely carving everywhere to be seen. The benches and
tables were covered with it; the wainscot of the spacious room was richly
adorned; and over and about the wide fireplace great carved dragons of
stone curled their long tails and spread their wings through a maze of
intricate traceries. Félix was enchanted, and gazed around till his eyes
fairly ached.
Presently in came running a little girl, laughing with delight. Bounding
up into Count Bernard's arms, she hugged and kissed him in true Provençal
fashion. Then, catching sight of Félix, "Ah, mon père," she exclaimed,
"and where foundest thou thy pretty new page?"
"Nay, sweetheart," answered the count, looking down at Félix's yellow
hair; "'t is no page, but a little goldfinch we found perched in a
chestnut-tree as we rode through the forest."
Then, smiling at the Lady Elinor's bewilderment, he told her the little
boy's story, and she at once slipped down and greeted him kindly. Then,
clapping her hands with pleasure at finding a new playmate, she declared
he must come and see the Christmas crèche which she was just finishing.
She seized him by the hand and hastened across the hall, where her crèche
was built up on a carved bench. The poor little Lady Elinor had no mother,
and her father, the count, had been gone for several days; and while in
the castle were no end of serving men and women and retainers, yet none of
these presumed to dictate to the little mistress, and so she had put her
crèche together in a very odd fashion.
"There!" said she, "what thinkest thou of it, Félix? Of a truth, I fancy
somewhat is wanting, yet I know not how to better it!"
"Yes," said Felix, bashfully; "it may be I can help thee."
And so he set to work rearranging the little houses and figures, till he
succeeded in giving quite a lifelike air to the crèche, and Lady Elinor
fairly danced with delight.
While placing the little manger he happened to remember the figure of the
Christ Child still in his blouse pocket; this he timidly took out and
showed the little girl, who was charmed, and still more so when he drew
forth a small wooden sheep and a dog, which were also in the same pocket.
The Lady Elinor was so carried away with joy that she flew to the side of
the count, and, grasping both his hands, dragged him across the room to
show him the crèche and the wonderful figures carved by Félix.
"See, mon père!" said Elinor, "see this, and this!" And she held up the
little carvings for the count's inspection.
Count Bernard, who had good-naturedly crossed the room to please his
little daughter, now opened his eyes wide with surprise. He took the
little figures she handed him and examined them closely, for he was a good
judge of artistic work of this kind. Then he looked at Félix, and at
length he said:
"Well, little forest bird, who taught thee the carver's craft?"
"No one, sir," faltered Félix; "indeed, I wish, above all things, to learn
of the Père Videau, the master carver; but my father says I must be a
shepherd, as he is."
Here a tear rolled down Félix's cheek, for you must remember he was
terribly tired.
"Well, well," said the count, "never mind! Thou art weary, little one; we
will talk of this more on the morrow. 'T is high time now that both of you
were sound asleep. Hey, there! Jean! Jacques! Come hither and take care of
this little lad, and see to it that he hath a soft bed and a feather
pillow!"
The next morning the children ate a merry breakfast together, and after it
Count Bernard took Félix aside and asked him many questions of his life
and his home. Then, by and by, knowing how anxious the boy's parents would
be, he ordered his trusty squire, Brian, to saddle a horse and conduct
Félix back to Sur Varne.
Meantime the little Lady Elinor begged hard that he stay longer in the
castle for her playfellow, and was quite heartbroken when she saw the
horse stand ready in the courtyard. Indeed, she would not be satisfied
until her father, the count, who could not bear to see her unhappy, had
promised to some day take her over to see Félix in Sur Varne. Then she
smiled, and made a pretty farewell courtesy, and suddenly snatching from
her dark hair a crimson ribbon of Lyons taffeta, she tied it about Félix's
sleeve, declaring, "There! thou must keep this token, and be my little
knight!" for the Lady Elinor had many lofty notions in her small curly
head.
Félix could only stammer out an embarrassed good-by, for in the presence
of this lively little maid he found himself quaking more than when he
feared the terrible wolves of the forest. In another moment Brian lifted
him to the saddle, and, springing up behind, took the bridle-rein, and off
they went.
When, after several hours' riding, they drew near Sur Varne, Félix showed
Brian the way to the Michaud cottage, and you can fancy how overjoyed were
the Père and Misè to see the travelers; for they had been fairly beside
themselves with grief, and had searched all night for their little son.
Of course almost the first question Félix asked was about Beppo, and he
felt a great load taken off his mind when he learned that the little
truant, who had not really strayed very far from the village, had been
found and brought home by one of the shepherds, and was even then penned
up safe and sound in the sheepfold.
After a good night's sleep Félix was quite rested from his journey, and
was busy the next day in helping garland the Yule log, in giving Ninette
and Beppo an extra scrubbing and brushing, and in all the final happy
preparations for the great holiday.
And so Christmas Eve came. It was a lovely star-lit night, and on all sides
one could hear the beautiful Christmas songs of old Provence that all the
peasants and the children sang as they trooped along the roads on their
way to the great church of the village; for thither every one flocked as
the expected hour drew on.
Then presently the stately service began, and went on with song and
incense, and the sweet chanting of children's voices, till suddenly from
the upper tower of the church a joyous peal of bells rang in the midnight!
And all at once, through the dense throng of worshipers nearest the door
a pathway opened, and in came four peasants playing on pipes and flutes
and flageolets a quaint old air made up three hundred years before by good
King René for just such a ceremony as was to follow.
After the pipers walked ten shepherds, two by two, each wearing a long
brown cloak, and carrying a staff and lighted candle; that is, all save
the first two, and these bore, one a basket of fruit, the melons and
grapes and pears of sunny Provence, while the other held in his hands a
pair of pretty white pigeons with rose-colored eyes and soft, fluttering
wings.
And then, behind the shepherds came--what do you suppose?--Ninette!
Ninette, her fleece shining like snow, a garland of laurel and myrtle
about her neck, and twigs of holly nodding behind her ears, while bound
about her woolly shoulders a little harness of scarlet leather shone
against the white with dazzling effect; and fastened to the harness, and
trundling along at Ninette's heels, came the gayest of little wooden
carts. It was painted in the brightest colors. Its wheels were wrapped
with garlands, and in it, curled up in a fat fleecy ball, lay Beppo! Tied
about his neck in a huge bow was a crimson ribbon of Lyons taffeta, with a
sprig of holly tucked into its loops.
Beppo lay quite still, looking about him with a bewildered, half-dazed
expression, and just behind his cart came ten more shepherds with staffs
and candles, while following them was a great throng of peasant folk and
children (among them Félix), all carrying lighted tapers, and radiant with
delight; for this was the Procession of the Offered Lamb, and to walk in
its train was considered by all as the greatest honor and privilege.
And especially did the shepherd folk love the beautiful old custom which
for centuries the people of Provence had cherished from year to year in
memory of the time, long ago, when the real Christ Child lay in the manger
of Bethlehem, and the shepherds of Judea sought him out to worship him,
and to offer him their fruits and lambs as gifts.
And so on up the long aisle the procession slowly moved, the pipers
playing, and Ninette marching solemnly along, only now and then pausing to
thrust her nose between the Père Michaud and his companion, who walked
directly in front of her. Ninette pattered on as if she had trod the
floors of churches all her life; and as for Beppo, only once did he stir,
and then he gave a faint "Baa!" and tried to uncurl himself and stand up;
but just then the queer little cart gave a joggle which quite upset his
shaky lamb legs, and down he sank, and kept quiet throughout the rest of
the time.
After the service the players again struck up King René's tune, and the
procession, shepherds, Ninette, Beppo, peasants, and all, once more moved
on, this time down the outer aisle and toward the great open portal.
It took some time for the last of its followers to reach the doorway, for
the throng was very great; but at length Félix, who had marched with the
children in the last group, came to the threshold and stepped out into the
starry night.
He stood for a moment smiling and gazing aimlessly ahead, overwhelmed with
the glory of all that had passed within the church, when presently he felt
some one pluck his sleeve, and turning round, he met the dancing eyes of
the little Lady Elinor.
She gave a little peal of laughter at his surprise, and exclaimed: "Oh, I
coaxed _mon père,_ the count, to fetch me hither for this blessed night.
Thou knowest he promised! I rode my white palfrey all the way by the side
of his big brown horse. And I have seen the procession, and Beppo with my
red ribbon round his neck." Here she gave another little gurgle of
delight. "And oh, Félix, my father hath seen thine, and 't is all settled!
Thou art to be a famous carver with the Père Videau, as thou wishest" (for
the Lady Elinor had unbounded faith in Félix's powers); "and, Félix," she
added, "I trow 't was the little Christ Child for thy crèche that did it!"
Then, with a merry little smile, she darted off to her father, the Count
Bernard, who was waiting for her down the church path.
For a little while after she had gone Félix did not move, but stood as one
in a dream. Presently a loud bleat close at his side startled him, and,
looking down, he saw that Ninette, decked in her gay garlands, and still
dragging the be-ribboned Beppo in the little cart, had broken away from
the Père Michaud and come close up to himself.
Then, with a sudden movement, he stooped over, and, seizing Beppo in both
arms, hugged and squeezed him till poor Beppo squeaked with surprise, and
opened his red mouth and fairly gasped for breath. But Félix only hugged
him the harder, murmuring under his breath, "Bless thy little heart,
Beppo! Bless thy little heart!" For in a vague way he realized that the
truant lamb had somehow brought him his heart's desire, and that was quite
enough Christmas happiness for one year.
And the little Lady Elinor was right, too. Years after, when Félix grew to
be a man, he did, in very truth, become a "famous carver," as she had
declared.
Far surpassing his first master, the Père Videau, he traveled and worked
in many cities; yet never, through all his long life, did he forget that
Christmas Eve in the little village of Sur Varne.
Those who knew him best said that among his dearest treasures he always
kept a beautifully carved little box, and in it a bit of faded crimson
ribbon from the looms of Lyons. While, as for Beppo--well, if ever some
happy day you chance to visit the lovely land of Provence, perhaps you
will see a certain grand old cathedral in the ancient city of Arles; and,
if you do, look sharp at the figure of a lamb chiseled in white stone over
the great portal. Look well, I say, for Félix, when he carved it, would
have told you that he was thinking all the while of his little pet lamb
Beppo.
THE SABOT OF LITTLE WOLFF
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE
Once upon a time,--it was so long ago that the whole world has forgotten
the date,--in a city in the north of Europe, whose name is so difficult to
pronounce that nobody remembers it,--once upon a time there was a little
boy of seven, named Wolff. He was an orphan in charge of an old aunt who
was hard and avaricious, who only kissed him on New Year's Day, and who
breathed a sigh of regret every time that she gave him a porringer of
soup.
But the poor little lad was naturally so good that he loved his aunt just
the same, although she frightened him very much; and he could never see
her without trembling, for fear she would whip him.
As the aunt of Wolff was known through all the village to have a house and
an old stocking full of gold, she did not dare send her nephew to the
school for the poor, but she obtained a reduction of the price with the
schoolmaster whose school little Wolff attended. The teacher, vexed at
having a scholar so badly dressed and who paid so poorly, often punished
him unjustly, and even set his fellow-pupils against him.
The poor little fellow was therefore as miserable as the stones in the
street, and hid himself in out-of-the-way corners to cry when Christmas
came.
The night before Christmas the schoolmaster was to take all of his pupils
to church, and bring them back to their homes. As the winter was very
severe that year, and as for several days a great quantity of snow had
fallen, the children came to the master's house warmly wrapped and bundled
up, with fur caps pulled down over their ears, double and triple jackets,
knitted gloves and mittens, and good, thick-nailed boots with strong
soles. Only little Wolff came shivering in the clothes that he wore
week-days and Sundays, and with nothing on his feet but coarse Strasbourg
socks and heavy sabots, or wooden shoes.
His thoughtless comrades made a thousand jests over his forlorn looks and
his peasant's dress; but little Wolff was so occupied in blowing on his
fingers to keep them warm, that he took no notice of the boys or what they
said.
The troop of boys, with their master at their head, started for the
church. As they went they talked of the fine suppers that were waiting
them at home. The son of the burgomaster had seen, before he went out, a
monstrous goose that the truffles marked with black spots like a leopard.
At the house of one of the boys there was a little fir tree in a wooden
box, from whose branches hung oranges, sweetmeats and toys.
The children spoke, too, of what the Christ-child would bring to them, and
what he would put in their shoes, which they would, of course, be very
careful to leave in the chimney before going to bed. And the eyes of those
little boys, lively as a parcel of mice, sparkled in advance with the joy
of seeing in their imagination pink paper bags filled with cakes, lead
soldiers drawn up in battalions in their boxes, menageries smelling of
varnished wood, and magnificent jumping-jacks covered with purple and
bells.
Little Wolff knew very well by experience that his old aunt would send him
supperless to bed; but, knowing that all the year he had been as good and
industrious as possible, he hoped that the Christ-child would not forget
him, and he, too, looked eagerly forward to putting his wooden shoes in
the ashes of the fireplace.
When the service was ended, every one went away, anxious for his supper,
and the band of children, walking two by two after their teacher, left the
church.
In the porch, sitting on a stone seat under a Gothic niche, a child was
sleeping--a child who was clad in a robe of white linen, and whose feet
were bare, notwithstanding the cold. He was not a beggar, for his robe was
new and fresh, and near him on the ground was seen a square, a hatchet, a
pair of compasses, and the other tools of a carpenter's apprentice. Under
the light of the stars, his face bore an expression of divine sweetness,
and his long locks of golden hair seemed like an aureole about his head.
But the child's feet, blue in the cold of that December night, were sad to
see.
The children, so well clothed and shod for the winter, passed heedlessly
before the unknown child. One of them, the son of one of the principal men
in the village, looked at the waif with an expression in which no pity
could be seen.
But little Wolff, coming the last out of the church, stopped, full of
compassion, before the beautiful sleeping child. "Alas!" said the orphan
to himself, "it is too bad that this poor little one has to go barefoot in
such bad weather. But what is worse than all, he has not even a boot or a
wooden shoe to leave before him while he sleeps to-night, so that the
Christ-child could put something there to comfort him in his misery."
And, carried away by the goodness of his heart, little Wolff took off the
wooden shoe from his right foot, and laid it in front of the sleeping
child. Then, limping along on his poor blistered foot and dragging his
sock through the snow, he went back to his aunt's house.
"Look at that worthless fellow!" cried his aunt, full of anger at his
return without one of his shoes. "What have you done with your wooden
shoe, little wretch?"
Little Wolff did not know how to deceive, and although he was shaking with
terror, he tried to stammer out some account of his adventure.
The old woman burst into a frightful peal of laughter. "Ah, monsieur takes
off his shoes for beggars! Ah, monsieur gives away his wooden shoes to a
barefoot! This is something new! Ah, well, since that is so, I am going to
put the wooden shoe which you have left in the chimney, and I promise you
the Christ-child will leave there to-night something to whip you with in
the morning. And you shall pass the day to-morrow on dry bread and water.
We will see if next time you give away your shoe to the first vagabond
that comes."
Then the aunt, after having given the poor boy a couple of slaps, made him
climb up to his bed in the attic. Grieved to the heart, the child went to
bed in the dark, and soon went to sleep, his pillow wet with tears.
On the morrow morning, when the old woman went downstairs--oh, wonderful
sight!--she saw the great chimney full of beautiful playthings, and sacks
of magnificent candies, and all sorts of good things; and before all these
splendid things the right shoe, that her nephew had given to the little
waif, stood by the side of the left shoe, that she herself had put there
that very night, and where she meant to put a birch rod.
As little Wolff, running down to learn the meaning of his aunt's
exclamation, stood in artless ecstasy before all these splendid gifts,
suddenly there were loud cries and laughter out of doors. The old woman
and the little boy went out to know what it all meant, and saw the
neighbors gathered around the public fountain. What had happened? Oh,
something very amusing and extraordinary! The children of all the rich
people of the village, those whose parents had wished to surprise them
with the most beautiful gifts, had found only rods in their shoes.
Then the orphan and the old woman, thinking of all the beautiful things
that were in their chimney, were full of amazement. But presently they saw
the curé coming toward them, with wonder in his face. In the church porch,
where in the evening a child, clad in a white robe, and with bare feet,
had rested his sleeping head, the curé had just seen a circle of gold
incrusted with precious stones.
Then the people understood that the beautiful sleeping child, near whom
were the carpenter's tools, was the Christ-child in person, become for an
hour such as he was when he worked in his parents' house, and they bowed
themselves before that miracle that the good God had seen fit to work, to
reward the faith and charity of a child.
THE LITTLE FRIEND
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
"Oh! I am so cold, so cold!" sobbed little Pierre, as he stumbled through
the snow which was drifting deep upon the mountain side. "Oh, I am so
cold! The snow bites my face and blinds me, so that I cannot see the road.
Where are all the Christmas candle-lights? The people of the village must
have forgotten. The little Jesus will lose His way to-night. I never
forgot to set our window at home full of lights on Christmas Eve. But now
it is Christmas Eve, and there is no home any more. And I am so cold, so
cold!"
Little Pierre sobbed again and stumbled in the snow, which was drifting
deeper and deeper upon the mountain side. This was the stormiest Christmas
Eve which had been seen for years, and all the little boys who had good
homes were hugging themselves close to the fire, glad that they were not
out in the bleak night. Every window was full of flickering tapers to
light the expected Holy Child upon His way through the village to the
church. But little Pierre had strayed so far from the road that he could
not see these rows and rows of tiny earth-stars, any more than he could
see through the snow the far-off sky-stars which the angels had lighted
along the streets of heaven.
Pierre was on his way to the village from the orphan boys' home at the
Abbé's charity school. And that was not like a happy real home, for the
little Brothers were rough and rude and far from loving one another. He
had started at dusk from the school, hoping to be at the village church
before curfew. For Pierre had a sweet little voice, and he was to earn a
few pennies by singing in the choir on Christmas morning. But it was
growing late. The church would be closed and the Curé gone home before
Pierre could reach it; and then what should he do?
The snow whirled faster and faster, and Pierre's legs found it harder and
harder to move themselves through the great drifts. They seemed heavy and
numb, and he was growing oh, so tired! If he could but lie down to sleep
until Christmas Day! But he knew that he must not do that. For those who
choose this kind of soft and tempting bed turn into ice-people, and do not
wake up in the morning. So he bent his head and tried to plough on through
the drifts.
Whish! A soft white thing flapped through the snow and struck Pierre in
the face, so that he staggered and almost lost his balance. The next
moment he had caught the thing as it fell and was holding it tenderly in
his numb hands. It was a beautiful dove, white as the snow from which it
seemed to come. It had been whirled about by the storm until it had lost
strength to fly, and it now lay quite still, with closed eyes. Pierre
stroked the ruffled feathers gently and blew upon its cold body, trying to
bring it back to life.
"Poor bird!" he said softly. "You are lost in the snow, like me. I will
try to keep you warm, though I am myself a cold little body." He put the
bird under his jacket, holding it close to his heart. Presently the dove
opened its eyes and stirred feebly, giving a faint "Coo!"
"I wish I had something for you to eat, poor bird," said Pierre,
forgetting his own cold and hunger. "If I could but take you into my own
house and feed you as I used to feed the birds upon Christmas Eve! But now
I have no home myself, and I can scarcely keep you warm."
Pierre shivered and tried to move forward. But the storm seemed to grow
even fiercer, and the wind blew so keenly in his face that he could
scarcely stand. "I cannot go another step," he said, and down he sank in
the snow, which began to cover him with a downy blanket, pretending to be
a careful mother. He hugged the bird closer and began to feel afraid. He
knew that he was in great danger. "Dear Dove," he whispered, "I am sorry
that I cannot save you. We shall turn into ice-images together. But I will
keep you warm as long as I can." Then he closed his eyes, for he was very
sleepy.
In a little while something made Pierre open his eyes. At first he could
see only the whirling snow, which seemed to be everywhere. But presently
he found that some one was bending over him, with face close to his; some
one chubby and rosy and young,--a child like himself, but more beautiful
than any child whom Pierre had ever seen. He stared hard at the face which
seemed to smile at him through the snow, not minding the cold.