a minute, and he was very much surprised to find that she had come, too.
"Bless my soul!" he said, "where did you come from, Little Girl? and how
in the world can we both get back up that chimney again? It's easy
enough to slide down, but it's quite another matter to climb up again!"
and Santa looked real worried. But Little Girl was beginning to feel
very tired by this time, for she had had a very exciting evening, so she
said, "Oh, never mind me, Santa. I've had such a good time, and I'd just
as soon stay here a while as not. I believe I'll curl up on this
hearth-rug a few minutes and have a little nap, for it looks as warm and
cozy as our own hearth-rug at home, and--why, it _is_ our own hearth and
it's my own nursery, for there is Teddy Bear in his chair where I leave
him every night, and there's Bunny Cat curled up on his cushion in the
corner."
And Little Girl turned to thank Santa and say good-bye to him, but
either he had gone very quickly, or else she had fallen asleep very
quickly--she never could tell which--for the next thing she knew, Daddy
was holding her in his arms and was saying, "What is my Little Girl
doing here? She must go to bed, for it's Christmas Eve, and old Santa
won't come if he thinks there are any little folks about."
But Little Girl knew better than that, and when she began to tell him
all about it, and how the Christmas fairies had welcomed her, and how
Santa had given her such a fine ride, Daddy laughed and laughed, and
said, "You've been dreaming, Little Girl, you've been dreaming."
But Little Girl knew better than that, too, for there on the hearth was
the little Black Coal, which had given her Two Shoes and Bright Light,
and tight in her hand she held a holly berry which one of the Christmas
Sprites had placed there. More than all that, there she was on the
hearth-rug herself, just as Santa had left her, and that was the best
proof of all.
The trouble was, Daddy himself had never been a Little Girl, so he
couldn't tell anything about it, but we know she hadn't been dreaming,
now, don't we, my dears?
VII
"A CHRISTMAS MATINEE"[D]
MRS. M. A. L. LANE
IT WAS the day before Christmas in the year 189--. Snow was falling
heavily in the streets of Boston, but the crowd of shoppers seemed
undiminished. As the storm increased, groups gathered at the corners and
in sheltering doorways to wait for belated cars; but the holiday cheer
was in the air, and there was no grumbling. Mothers dragging tired
children through the slush of the streets; pretty girls hurrying home
for the holidays; here and there a harassed-looking man with perhaps a
single package which he had taken a whole morning to select--all had the
same spirit of tolerant good-humor.
"School Street! School Street!" called the conductor of an electric car.
A group of young people at the farther end of the car started to their
feet. One of them, a young man wearing a heavy fur-trimmed coat,
addressed the conductor angrily.
"I said, 'Music Hall,' didn't I?" he demanded. "Now we've got to walk
back in the snow because of your stupidity!"
"Oh, never mind, Frank!" one of the girls interposed. "We ought to have
been looking out ourselves! Six of us, and we went by without a thought!
It is all Mrs. Tirrell's fault! She shouldn't have been so
entertaining!"
The young matron dimpled and blushed. "That's charming of you, Maidie,"
she said, gathering up her silk skirts as she prepared to step down into
the pond before her. "The compliment makes up for the blame. But how it
snows!"
"It doesn't matter. We all have gaiters on," returned Maidie Williams,
undisturbed.
"Fares, please!" said the conductor stolidly.
Frank Armstrong thrust his gloved hand deep into his pocket with angry
vehemence. "There's your money," he said, "and be quick about the
change, will you? We've lost time enough!"
The man counted out the change with stiff, red fingers, closed his lips
firmly as if to keep back an obvious rejoinder, rang up the six fares
with careful accuracy, and gave the signal to go ahead. The car went on
into the drifting storm.
Armstrong laughed shortly as he rapidly counted the bits of silver lying
in his open palm. He turned instinctively, but two or three cars were
already between him and the one he was looking for.
"The fellow must be an imbecile," he said, rejoining the group on the
crossing. "He's given me back a dollar and twenty cents, and I handed
him a dollar bill."
"Oh, can't you stop him?" cried Maidie Williams, with a backward step
into the wet street.
The Harvard junior, who was carrying her umbrella, protested: "What's
the use, Miss Williams? He'll make it up before he gets to Scollay
Square, you may be sure. Those chaps don't lose anything. Why, the other
day, I gave one a quarter and he went off as cool as you please.
'Where's my change?' said I. 'You gave me a nickel,' said he. And there
wasn't anybody to swear that I didn't except myself, and I didn't
count."
"But that doesn't make any difference," insisted the girl warmly.
"Because one conductor was dishonest, we needn't be. I beg your pardon,
Frank, but it does seem to me just stealing."
"Oh, come along!" said her cousin, with an easy laugh. "I guess the West
End Corporation won't go without their dinners to-morrow. Here, Maidie,
here's the ill-gotten fifty cents. _I_ think you ought to treat us all
after the concert; still, I won't urge you. I wash my hands of all
responsibility. But I do wish you hadn't such an unpleasant conscience."
Maidie flushed under the sting of his cousinly rudeness, but she went on
quietly with the rest. It was evident that any attempt to overtake the
car was out of the question.
"Did you notice his number, Frank?" she asked, suddenly.
"No, I never thought of it," said Frank, stopping short. "However, I
probably shouldn't make any complaint if I had. I shall forget all about
it to-morrow. I find it's never safe to let the sun go down on my wrath.
It's very likely not to be there the next day."
"I wasn't thinking of making a complaint," said Maidie; but the two
young men were enjoying the small joke too much to notice what she said.
The great doorway of Music Hall was just ahead. In a moment the party
were within its friendly shelter, stamping off the snow. The girls were
adjusting veils and hats with adroit feminine touches; the pretty
chaperon was beaming approval upon them, and the young men were taking
off their wet overcoats, when Maidie turned again in sudden desperation.
"Mr. Harris," she said, rather faintly, for she did not like to make
herself disagreeable, "do you suppose that car comes right back from
Scollay Square?"
"What car?" asked Walter Harris, blankly. "Oh, the one we came in? Yes,
I suppose it does. They're running all the time, anyway. Why, you are
not sick, are you, Miss Williams?"
There was genuine concern in his tone. This girl, with her sweet,
vibrant voice, her clear gray eyes, seemed very charming to him. She
wasn't beautiful, perhaps, but she was the kind of girl he liked. There
was a steady earnestness in the gray eyes that made him think of his
mother.
"No," said Maidie, slowly. "I'm all right, thank you. But I wish I
could find that man again. I know sometimes they have to make it up if
their accounts are wrong, and I couldn't--we couldn't feel very
comfortable----"
Frank Armstrong interrupted her. "Maidie," he said, with the studied
calmness with which one speaks to an unreasonable child, "you are
perfectly absurd. Here it is within five minutes of the time for the
concert to begin. It is impossible to tell when that car is coming back.
You are making us all very uncomfortable. Mrs. Tirrill, won't you please
tell her not to spoil our afternoon?"
"I think he's right, Maidie," said Mrs. Tirrell. "It's very nice of you
to feel so sorry for the poor man, but he really was very careless. It
was all his own fault. And just think how far he made us walk! My feet
are quite damp. We ought to go in directly or we shall all take cold,
and I'm sure you wouldn't like that, my dear."
She led the way as she spoke, the two girls and young Armstrong
following. Maidie hesitated. It was so easy to go in, to forget
everything in the light and warmth and excitement.
"No," said she, very firmly, and as much to herself as to the young man
who stood waiting for her. "I must go back and try to make it right. I'm
so sorry, Mr. Harris, but if you will tell them----"
"Why, I'm going with you, of course," said the young fellow, impulsively.
"If I'd only looked once at the man I'd go alone, but I shouldn't know
him from Adam."
Maidie laughed. "Oh, I don't want to lose the whole concert, Mr. Harris,
and Frank has all the tickets. You must go after them and try to make my
peace. I'll come just as soon as I can. Don't wait for me, please. If
you'll come and look for me here the first number, and not let them
scold me too much----" She ended with an imploring little catch in her
breath that was almost a sob.
"They sha'n't say a word, Miss Williams!" cried Walter Harris, with
honest admiration in his eyes. But she was gone already, and conscious
that further delay was only making matters worse, he went on into the
hall.
Meanwhile, the car swung heavily along the wet rails on its way to the
turning-point. It was nearly empty now. An old gentleman and his nurse
were the only occupants. Jim Stevens, the conductor, had stepped inside
the car.
"Too bad I forgot those young people wanted to get off at Music Hall,"
he was thinking to himself. "I don't see how I came to do it. That chap
looked as if he wanted to complain of me, and I don't know as I blame
him. I'd have said I was sorry if he hadn't been so sharp with his
tongue. I hope he won't complain just now. 'Twould be a pretty bad time
for me to get into trouble, with Mary and the baby both sick. I'm too
sleepy to be good for much, that's a fact. Sitting up three nights
running takes hold of a fellow somehow when he's at work all day. The
rent's paid, that's one thing, if it hasn't left me but half a dollar to
my name. Hullo!" He was struck by a sudden distinct recollection of the
coins he had returned. "Why, I gave him fifty cents too much!"
He glanced up at the dial which indicated the fares and began to count
the change in his pocket. He knew exactly how much money he had had at
the beginning of the trip. He counted carefully. Then he plunged his
hand into the heavy canvas pocket of his coat. Perhaps he had half a
dollar there. No, it was empty!
He faced the fact reluctantly. Fifty cents short, ten fares! Gone into
the pocket of the young gentleman with the fur collar! The conductor's
hand shook as he put the money back in his pocket. It meant--what did it
mean? He drew a long breath.
Christmas Eve! A dark dreary little room upstairs in a noisy tenement
house. A pale, thin woman on a shabby lounge vainly trying to quiet a
fretful child. The child is thin and pale, too, with a hard, racking
cough. There is a small fire in the stove, a very small fire; coal is so
high. The medicine stands on the shelf. "Medicine won't do much good,"
the doctor had said; "he needs beef and cream."
Jim's heart sank at the thought. He could almost hear the baby asking:
"Isn't papa coming soon? Isn't he, mamma?"
"Poor little kid!" Jim said, softly, under his breath. "And I shan't
have a thing to take home to him; nor Mary's violets, either. It'll be
the first Christmas _that_ ever happened. I suppose that chap would
think it was ridiculous for me to be buying violets. He wouldn't
understand what the flowers mean to Mary. Perhaps he didn't notice I
gave him too much. That kind don't know how much they have. They just
pull it out as if it was newspaper."
The conductor went out into the snow to help the nurse, who was
assisting the old gentleman to the ground. Then the car swung on again.
Jim turned up the collar of his coat about his ears and stamped his
feet. There was the florist's shop where he had meant to buy the
violets, and the toy-shop was just around the corner.
A thought flashed across his tired brain. "Plenty of men would do it;
they do it every day. Nobody ever would be the poorer for it. This car
will be crowded going home. I needn't ring in every fare; nobody could
tell. But Mary! She wouldn't touch those violets if she knew. And she'd
know. I'd have to tell her. I couldn't keep it from her, she's that
quick."
He jumped off to adjust the trolley with a curious sense of unreality.
It couldn't be that he was really going home this Christmas Eve with
empty hands. Well, they must all suffer together for his carelessness.
It was his own fault, but it was hard. And he was so tired!
To his amazement he found his eyes were blurred as he watched the people
crowding into the car. What! Was he going to cry like a baby--he, a
great burly man of thirty years?
"It's no use," he thought. "I couldn't do it. The first time I gave Mary
violets was the night she said she'd marry me. I told her then I'd do my
best to make her proud of me. I guess she wouldn't be very proud of a
man who could cheat. She'd rather starve than have a ribbon she couldn't
pay for."
He rang up a dozen fares with a steady hand. The temptation was over.
Six more strokes--then nine without a falter. He even imagined the bell
rang more distinctly than usual, even encouragingly.
The car stopped. Jim flung the door open with a triumphant sweep of his
arm. He felt ready to face the world. But the baby--his arm dropped. It
was hard.
He turned to help the young girl who was waiting at the step. Through
the whirling snow he saw her eager face, with a quick recognition
lighting the steady eyes, and wondered dimly, as he stood with his hand
on the signal-strap, where he could have seen her before. He knew
immediately.
"There was a mistake," she said, with a shy tremor in her voice. "You
gave us too much change and here it is." She held out to Jim the piece
of silver which had given him such an unhappy quarter of an hour.
He took it like one dazed. Would the young lady think he was crazy to
care so much about so small a coin? He must say something. "Thank you,
miss," he stammered as well as he could. "You see, I thought it was
gone--and there's the baby--and it's Christmas Eve--and my wife's
sick--and you can't understand----"
It certainly was not remarkable that she couldn't.
"But I do," she said, simply. "I was afraid of that. And I thought
perhaps there was a baby, so I brought my Christmas present for her,"
and something else dropped into Jim's cold hand.
"What you waiting for?" shouted the motorman from the front platform.
The girl had disappeared in the snow.
Jim rang the bell to go ahead, and gazed again at the two shining half
dollars in his hand.
"I didn't have a chance to tell her," he explained to his wife late in
the evening, as he sat in a tiny rocking-chair several sizes too small
for him, "that the baby wasn't a her at all, though if I thought he'd
grow up into such a lovely one as she is, I don't know but I almost wish
he was."
"Poor Jim!" said Mary, with a little laugh as she put up her hand to
stroke his rough cheek. "I guess you're tired."
"And I should say," he added, stretching out his long legs toward the
few red sparks in the bottom of the grate, "I should say she had tears
in her eyes, too, but I was that near crying myself I couldn't be
sure."
The little room was sweet with the odour of English violets. Asleep in
the bed lay the boy, a toy horse clasped close to his breast.
"Bless her heart!" said Mary, softly.
* * * * *
"Well, Miss Williams," said Walter Harris, as he sprang to meet a
snow-covered figure coming swiftly along the sidewalk. "I can see that
you found him. You've lost the first number, but they won't scold
you--not this time."
The girl turned a radiant face upon him. "Thank you," she said, shaking
the snowy crystals from her skirt. "I don't care now if they do. I
should have lost more than that if I had stayed."
FOOTNOTE:
[D] This story was first published in the _Youth's Companion_, vol. 74.
VIII
TOINETTE AND THE ELVES[E]
SUSAN COOLIDGE
THE winter's sun was nearing the horizon's edge. Each moment the tree
shadows grew longer in the forest; each moment the crimson light on the
upper boughs became more red and bright. It was Christmas Eve, or would
be in half an hour, when the sun should be fairly set; but it did not
feel like Christmas, for the afternoon was mild and sweet, and the wind
in the leafless boughs sang, as it moved about, as though to imitate the
vanished birds. Soft trills and whistles, odd little shakes and
twitters--it was astonishing what pretty noises the wind made, for it
was in good humor, as winds should be on the Blessed Night; all its
storm-tones and bass-notes were for the moment laid aside, and gently as
though hushing a baby to sleep, it cooed and rustled and brushed to and
fro in the leafless woods.
Toinette stood, pitcher in hand, beside the well. "Wishing Well," the
people called it, for they believed that if any one standing there bowed
to the East, repeated a certain rhyme and wished a wish, the wish would
certainly come true. Unluckily, nobody knew exactly what the rhyme
should be. Toinette did not; she was wishing that she did, as she stood
with her eyes fixed on the bubbling water. How nice it would be! she
thought. What beautiful things should be hers, if it were only to wish
and to have. She would be beautiful, rich, good--oh, so good. The
children should love her dearly, and never be disagreeable. Mother
should not work so hard--they should all go back to France--which mother
said was _si belle_. Oh, dear, how nice it would be. Meantime, the sun
sank lower, and mother at home was waiting for the water, but Toinette
forgot that.
Suddenly she started. A low sound of crying met her ear, and something
like a tiny moan. It seemed close by but she saw nothing.
Hastily she filled her pitcher and turned to go. But again the sound
came, an unmistakable sob, right under her feet. Toinette stopped short.
"What is the matter?" she called out bravely. "Is anybody there? and if
there is, why don't I see you?"
A third sob--and all at once, down on the ground beside her, a tiny
figure became visible, so small that Toinette had to kneel and stoop her
head to see it plainly. The figure was that of an odd little man. He
wore a garb of green bright and glancing as the scales of a beetle. In
his mite of a hand was a cap, out of which stuck a long pointed feather.
Two specks of tears stood on his cheeks and he fixed on Toinette a
glance so sharp and so sad that it made her feel sorry and frightened
and confused all at once.
"Why how funny this is!" she said, speaking to herself out loud.
"Not at all," replied the little man, in a voice as dry and crisp as the
chirr of a grasshopper. "Anything but funny. I wish you wouldn't use
such words. It hurts my feelings, Toinette."
"Do you know my name, then?" cried Toinette, astonished. "That's
strange. But what is the matter? Why are you crying so, little man?"
"I'm not a little man. I'm an elf," responded the dry voice; "and I
think you'd cry if you had an engagement out to tea, and found yourself
spiked on a great bayonet, so that you couldn't move an inch. Look!" He
turned a little as he spoke and Toinette saw a long rosethorn sticking
through the back of the green robe. The little man could by no means
reach the thorn, and it held him fast prisoner to the place.
"Is that all? I'll take it out for you," she said.
"Be careful--oh, be careful," entreated the little man. "This is my new
dress, you know--my Christmas suit, and it's got to last a year. If
there is a hole in it, Peascod will tickle me and Bean Blossom tease,
till I shall wish myself dead." He stamped with vexation at the thought.
"Now, you mustn't do that," said Toinette, in a motherly tone, "else
you'll tear it yourself, you know." She broke off the thorn as she
spoke, and gently drew it out. The elf anxiously examined the stuff. A
tiny puncture only was visible and his face brightened.
"You're a good child," he said. "I'll do as much for you some day,
perhaps."
"I would have come before if I had seen you," remarked Toinette,
timidly. "But I didn't see you a bit."
"No, because I had my cap on," cried the elf. He placed it on his head
as he spoke, and hey, presto! nobody was there, only a voice which
laughed and said: "Well--don't stare so. Lay your finger on me now."
"Oh," said Toinette, with a gasp. "How wonderful. What fun it must be to
do that. The children wouldn't see me. I should steal in and surprise
them; they would go on talking, and never guess that I was there. I
should so like it. Do elves ever lend their caps to anybody? I wish
you'd lend me yours. It must be so nice to be invisible."
"Ho," cried the elf, appearing suddenly again. "Lend my cap, indeed! Why
it wouldn't stay on the very tip of your ear, it's so small. As for
nice, that depends. Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. No, the
only way for mortal people to be invisible is to gather the fern-seed
and put it in their shoes."
"Gather it? Where? I never saw any seed to the ferns," said Toinette,
staring about her.
"Of course not--we elves take care of that," replied the little man.
"Nobody finds the fern-seed but ourselves. I'll tell you what, though.
You were such a nice child to take out the thorn so cleverly, that I'll
give you a little of the seed. Then you can try the fun of being
invisible, to your heart's content."
"Will you really? How delightful. May I have it now?"
"Bless me. Do you think I carry my pockets stuffed with it?" said the
elf. "Not at all. Go home, say not a word to any one, but leave your
bedroom window open to night, and you'll see what you'll see."
He laid his finger on his nose as he spoke, gave a jump like a
grasshopper, clapping on his cap as he went, and vanished. Toinette
lingered a moment, in hopes that he might come back, then took her
pitcher and hurried home. The woods were very dusky by this time; but
full of her strange adventures, she did not remember to feel afraid.
"How long you have been," said her mother. "It's late for a little maid
like you to be up. You must make better speed another time, my child."
Toinette pouted as she was apt to do when reproved. The children
clamoured to know what had kept her, and she spoke pettishly and
crossly; so that they too became cross, and presently went away into the
outer kitchen to play by themselves. The children were apt to creep away
when Toinette came. It made her angry and unhappy at times that they
should do so, but she did not realize that it was in great part her own
fault, and so did not set herself to mend it.
"Tell me a 'tory," said baby Jeanneton, creeping to her knee a little
later. But Toinette's head was full of the elf; she had no time to spare
for Jeanneton.
"Oh, not to-night," she replied. "Ask mother to tell you one."
"Mother's busy," said Jeanneton wistfully.
Toinette took no notice and the little one crept away disconsolately.
Bedtime at last. Toinette set the casement open, and lay a long time
waiting and watching; then she fell asleep. She waked with a sneeze and
jump and sat up in bed. Behold, on the coverlet stood her elfin friend,
with a long train of other elves beside him, all clad in the beetle-wing
green, and wearing little pointed caps. More were coming in at the
window; outside a few were drifting about in the moon rays, which lit
their sparkling robes till they glittered like so many fireflies. The
odd thing was, that though the caps were on, Toinette could see the
elves distinctly and this surprised her so much, that again she thought
out loud and said, "How funny."
"You mean about the caps," replied her special elf, who seemed to have
the power of reading thought. "Yes, you can see us to-night, caps and
all. Spells lose their value on Christmas Eve, always. Peascod, where is
the box? Do you still wish to try the experiment of being invisible,
Toinette?"
"Oh, yes--indeed I do."
"Very well; so let it be."
As he spoke he beckoned, and two elves puffing and panting like little
men with a heavy load, dragged forward a droll little box about the size
of a pumpkin-seed. One of them lifted the cover.
"Pay the porter, please, ma'am," he said giving Toinette's ear a
mischievous tweak with his sharp fingers.
"Hands off, you bad Peascod!" cried Toinette's elf. "This is my girl.
She shan't be pinched!" He dealt Peascod a blow with his tiny hand as he
spoke and looked so brave and warlike that he seemed at least an inch
taller than he had before. Toinette admired him very much; and Peascod
slunk away with an abashed giggle muttering that Thistle needn't be so
ready with his fist.
Thistle--for thus, it seemed, Toinette's friend was named--dipped his
fingers in the box, which was full of fine brown seeds, and shook a
handful into each of Toinette's shoes, as they stood, toes together by
the bedside.
"Now you have your wish," he said, "and can go about and do what you
like, no one seeing. The charm will end at sunset. Make the most of it
while you can; but if you want to end it sooner, shake the seeds from
the shoes and then you are just as usual."
"Oh, I shan't want to," protested Toinette; "I'm sure I shan't."
"Good-bye," said Thistle, with a mocking little laugh.
"Good-bye, and thank you ever so much," replied Toinette.