away out of sight. When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting close
by his own hearth, with the fire burnt low. The hands of the clock were
still, the bolt was fixed firm in the door. The fairies' lights were
gone, and the only bright thing was the candle burning in old Barney's
cabin across the road.
A running of feet sounded outside, and then the snatch of a song:
"'Tis well that ye mind--ye who sit by the fire--
That the Lord he was born in a dark and cold byre.
Mhuire as truagh!"
"Wait ye, whoever ye are!" and Teig was away to the corner, digging fast
at the loose clay, as a terrier digs at a bone. He filled his hands full
of the shining gold, then hurried to the door, unbarring it.
The miller's wee Cassie stood there, peering at him out of the darkness.
"Take those to the widow O'Donnelly, do ye hear? And take the rest to
the store. Ye tell Jamie to bring up all that he has that is eatable an'
dhrinkable; and to the neighbours ye say, 'Teig's keepin' the feast this
night.' Hurry now!"
Teig stopped a moment on the threshold until the tramp of her feet had
died away; then he made a hollow of his two hands and called across the
road:
"Hey there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?"
FOOTNOTE:
[F] Published originally in the _Outlook_. Reprinted here by arrangement
with the author.
X
A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD[G]
A German legend for Christmas Eve as told by
ELIZABETH HARRISON
ONCE upon a time, a long, long time ago, on the night before Christmas,
a little child was wandering all alone through the streets of a great
city. There were many people on the street, fathers and mothers, sisters
and brothers, uncles and aunts, and even gray-haired grandfathers and
grandmothers, all of whom were hurrying home with bundles of presents
for each other and for their little ones. Fine carriages rolled by,
express wagons rattled past, even old carts were pressed into service,
and all things seemed in a hurry and glad with expectation of the coming
Christmas morning.
From some of the windows bright lights were already beginning to stream
until it was almost as bright as day. But the little child seemed to
have no home, and wandered about listlessly from street to street. No
one took any notice of him except perhaps Jack Frost, who bit his bare
toes and made the ends of his fingers tingle. The north wind, too,
seemed to notice the child, for it blew against him and pierced his
ragged garments through and through, causing him to shiver with cold.
Home after home he passed, looking with longing eyes through the
windows, in upon the glad, happy children, most of whom were helping to
trim the Christmas trees for the coming morrow.
"Surely," said the child to himself, "where there is so much gladness
and happiness, some of it may be for me." So with timid steps he
approached a large and handsome house. Through the windows, he could see
a tall and stately Christmas tree already lighted. Many presents hung
upon it. Its green boughs were trimmed with gold and silver ornaments.
Slowly he climbed up the broad steps and gently rapped at the door. It
was opened by a large man-servant. He had a kindly face, although his
voice was deep and gruff. He looked at the little child for a moment,
then sadly shook his head and said, "Go down off the steps. There is no
room here for such as you." He looked sorry as he spoke; possibly he
remembered his own little ones at home, and was glad that they were not
out in this cold and bitter night. Through the open door a bright light
shone, and the warm air, filled with fragrance of the Christmas pine,
rushed out from the inner room and greeted the little wanderer with a
kiss. As the child turned back into the cold and darkness, he wondered
why the footman had spoken thus, for surely, thought he, those little
children would love to have another companion join them in their joyous
Christmas festival. But the little children inside did not even know
that he had knocked at the door.
The street grew colder and darker as the child passed on. He went sadly
forward, saying to himself, "Is there no one in all this great city who
will share the Christmas with me?" Farther and farther down the street
he wandered, to where the homes were not so large and beautiful. There
seemed to be little children inside of nearly all the houses. They were
dancing and frolicking about. Christmas trees could be seen in nearly
every window, with beautiful dolls and trumpets and picture-books and
balls and tops and other dainty toys hung upon them. In one window the
child noticed a little lamb made of soft white wool. Around its neck was
tied a red ribbon. It had evidently been hung on the tree for one of the
children. The little stranger stopped before this window and looked long
and earnestly at the beautiful things inside, but most of all was he
drawn toward the white lamb. At last creeping up to the window-pane, he
gently tapped upon it. A little girl came to the window and looked out
into the dark street where the snow had now begun to fall. She saw the
child, but she only frowned and shook her head and said, "Go away and
come some other time. We are too busy to take care of you now." Back
into the dark, cold streets he turned again. The wind was whirling past
him and seemed to say, "Hurry on, hurry on, we have no time to stop.
'Tis Christmas Eve and everybody is in a hurry to-night."
Again and again the little child rapped softly at door or window-pane.
At each place he was refused admission. One mother feared he might have
some ugly disease which her darlings would catch; another father said he
had only enough for his own children and none to spare for beggars.
Still another told him to go home where he belonged, and not to trouble
other folks.
The hours passed; later grew the night, and colder grew the wind, and
darker seemed the street. Farther and farther the little one wandered.
There was scarcely any one left upon the street by this time, and the
few who remained did not seem to see the child, when suddenly ahead of
him there appeared a bright, single ray of light. It shone through the
darkness into the child's eyes. He looked up smilingly and said, "I will
go where the small light beckons, perhaps they will share their
Christmas with me."
Hurrying past all the other houses, he soon reached the end of the
street and went straight up to the window from which the light was
streaming. It was a poor, little, low house, but the child cared not for
that. The light seemed still to call him in. From what do you suppose
the light came? Nothing but a tallow candle which had been placed in an
old cup with a broken handle, in the window, as a glad token of
Christmas Eve. There was neither curtain nor shade to the small, square
window and as the little child looked in he saw standing upon a neat
wooden table a branch of a Christmas tree. The room was plainly
furnished, but it was very clean. Near the fireplace sat a lovely faced
mother with a little two-year-old on her knee and an older child beside
her. The two children were looking into their mother's face and
listening to a story. She must have been telling them a Christmas story,
I think. A few bright coals were burning in the fireplace, and all
seemed light and warm within.
The little wanderer crept closer and closer to the window-pane. So sweet
was the mother's face, so loving seemed the little children, that at
last he took courage and tapped gently, very gently on the door. The
mother stopped talking, the little children looked up. "What was that,
mother?" asked the little girl at her side. "I think it was some one
tapping on the door," replied the mother. "Run as quickly as you can and
open it, dear, for it is a bitter cold night to keep any one waiting in
this storm." "Oh, mother, I think it was the bough of the tree tapping
against the window-pane," said the little girl. "Do please go on with
our story." Again the little wanderer tapped upon the door. "My child,
my child," exclaimed the mother, rising, "that certainly was a rap on
the door. Run quickly and open it. No one must be left out in the cold
on our beautiful Christmas Eve."
The child ran to the door and threw it wide open. The mother saw the
ragged stranger standing without, cold and shivering, with bare head and
almost bare feet. She held out both hands and drew him into the warm,
bright room. "You poor, dear child," was all she said, and putting her
arms around him, she drew him close to her breast. "He is very cold, my
children," she exclaimed. "We must warm him." "And," added the little
girl, "we must love him and give him some of our Christmas, too." "Yes,"
said the mother, "but first let us warm him."
The mother sat down by the fire with the little child on her lap, and
her own little ones warmed his half-frozen hands in theirs. The mother
smoothed his tangled curls, and, bending low over his head, kissed the
child's face. She gathered the three little ones in her arms and the
candle and the fire light shone over them. For a moment the room was
very still. By and by the little girl said softly, to her mother, "May
we not light the Christmas tree, and let him see how beautiful it
looks?" "Yes," said the mother. With that she seated the child on a low
stool beside the fire, and went herself to fetch the few simple
ornaments which from year to year she had saved for her children's
Christmas tree. They were soon so busy that they did not notice the room
had filled with a strange and brilliant light. They turned and looked at
the spot where the little wanderer sat. His ragged clothes had changed
to garments white and beautiful; his tangled curls seemed like a halo of
golden light about his head; but most glorious of all was his face,
which shone with a light so dazzling that they could scarcely look upon
it.
In silent wonder they gazed at the child. Their little room seemed to
grow larger and larger, until it was as wide as the whole world, the
roof of their low house seemed to expand and rise, until it reached to
the sky.
With a sweet and gentle smile the wonderful child looked upon them for a
moment, and then slowly rose and floated through the air, above the
treetops, beyond the church spire, higher even than the clouds
themselves, until he appeared to them to be a shining star in the sky
above. At last he disappeared from sight. The astonished children turned
in hushed awe to their mother, and said in a whisper, "Oh, mother, it
was the Christ-Child, was it not?" And the mother answered in a low
tone, "Yes."
And it is said, dear children, that each Christmas Eve the little
Christ-Child wanders through some town or village, and those who receive
him and take him into their homes and hearts have given to them this
marvellous vision which is denied to others.
FOOTNOTE:
[G] Reprinted by permission of the author from her collection,
"Christmas tide," published by the Chicago Kindergarten College.
XI
JIMMY SCARECROW'S CHRISTMAS
MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
JIMMY SCARECROW led a sad life in the winter. Jimmy's greatest grief was
his lack of occupation. He liked to be useful, and in winter he was
absolutely of no use at all.
He wondered how many such miserable winters he would have to endure. He
was a young Scarecrow, and this was his first one. He was strongly made,
and although his wooden joints creaked a little when the wind blew he
did not grow in the least rickety. Every morning, when the wintry sun
peered like a hard yellow eye across the dry corn-stubble, Jimmy felt
sad, but at Christmas time his heart nearly broke.
On Christmas Eve Santa Claus came in his sledge heaped high with
presents, urging his team of reindeer across the field. He was on his
way to the farmhouse where Betsey lived with her Aunt Hannah.
Betsey was a very good little girl with very smooth yellow curls, and
she had a great many presents. Santa Claus had a large wax doll-baby for
her on his arm, tucked up against the fur collar of his coat. He was
afraid to trust it in the pack, lest it get broken.
When poor Jimmy Scarecrow saw Santa Claus his heart gave a great leap.
"Santa Claus! Here I am!" he cried out, but Santa Claus did not hear
him.
"Santa Claus, please give me a little present. I was good all summer and
kept the crows out of the corn," pleaded the poor Scarecrow in his
choking voice, but Santa Claus passed by with a merry halloo and a great
clamour of bells.
Then Jimmy Scarecrow stood in the corn-stubble and shook with sobs until
his joints creaked. "I am of no use in the world, and everybody has
forgotten me," he moaned. But he was mistaken.
The next morning Betsey sat at the window holding her Christmas
doll-baby, and she looked out at Jimmy Scarecrow standing alone in the
field amidst the corn-stubble.
"Aunt Hannah?" said she. Aunt Hannah was making a crazy patchwork quilt,
and she frowned hard at a triangular piece of red silk and circular
piece of pink, wondering how to fit them together. "Well?" said she.
"Did Santa Claus bring the Scarecrow any Christmas present?"
"No, of course he didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because he's a Scarecrow. Don't ask silly questions."
"I wouldn't like to be treated so, if I was a Scarecrow," said Betsey,
but her Aunt Hannah did not hear her. She was busy cutting a triangular
snip out of the round piece of pink silk so the piece of red silk could
be feather-stitched into it.
It was snowing hard out of doors, and the north wind blew. The
Scarecrow's poor old coat got whiter and whiter with snow. Sometimes he
almost vanished in the thick white storm. Aunt Hannah worked until the
middle of the afternoon on her crazy quilt. Then she got up and spread
it out over the sofa with an air of pride.
"There," said she, "that's done, and that makes the eighth. I've got one
for every bed in the house, and I've given four away. I'd give this away
if I knew of anybody that wanted it."
Aunt Hannah put on her hood and shawl, and drew some blue yarn stockings
on over her shoes, and set out through the snow to carry a slice of
plum-pudding to her sister Susan, who lived down the road. Half an hour
after Aunt Hannah had gone Betsey put her little red plaid shawl over
her head, and ran across the field to Jimmy Scarecrow. She carried her
new doll-baby smuggled up under her shawl.
"Wish you Merry Christmas!" she said to Jimmy Scarecrow.
"Wish you the same," said Jimmy, but his voice was choked with sobs, and
was also muffled, for his old hat had slipped down to his chin. Betsey
looked pitifully at the old hat fringed with icicles, like frozen tears,
and the old snow-laden coat. "I've brought you a Christmas present,"
said she, and with that she tucked her doll-baby inside Jimmy
Scarecrow's coat, sticking its tiny feet into a pocket.
"Thank you," said Jimmy Scarecrow faintly.
"You're welcome," said she. "Keep her under your overcoat, so the snow
won't wet her, and she won't catch cold, she's delicate."
"Yes, I will," said Jimmy Scarecrow, and he tried hard to bring one of
his stiff, outstretched arms around to clasp the doll-baby.
"Don't you feel cold in that old summer coat?" asked Betsey.
"If I had a little exercise, I should be warm," he replied. But he
shivered, and the wind whistled through his rags.
"You wait a minute," said Betsey, and was off across the field.
Jimmy Scarecrow stood in the corn-stubble, with the doll-baby under his
coat and waited, and soon Betsey was back again with Aunt Hannah's crazy
quilt trailing in the snow behind her.
"Here," said she, "here is something to keep you warm," and she folded
the crazy quilt around the Scarecrow and pinned it.
"Aunt Hannah wants to give it away if anybody wants it," she explained.
"She's got so many crazy quilts in the house now she doesn't know what
to do with them. Good-bye--be sure you keep the doll-baby covered up."
And with that she ran across the field, and left Jimmy Scarecrow alone
with the crazy quilt and the doll-baby.
The bright flash of colours under Jimmy's hat-brim dazzled his eyes, and
he felt a little alarmed. "I hope this quilt is harmless if it _is_
crazy," he said. But the quilt was warm, and he dismissed his fears.
Soon the doll-baby whimpered, but he creaked his joints a little, and
that amused it, and he heard it cooing inside his coat.
Jimmy Scarecrow had never felt so happy in his life as he did for an
hour or so. But after that the snow began to turn to rain, and the crazy
quilt was soaked through and through: and not only that, but his coat
and the poor doll-baby. It cried pitifully for a while, and then it was
still, and he was afraid it was dead.
It grew very dark, and the rain fell in sheets, the snow melted, and
Jimmy Scarecrow stood halfway up his old boots in water. He was saying
to himself that the saddest hour of his life had come, when suddenly he
again heard Santa Claus' sleigh-bells and his merry voice talking to his
reindeer. It was after midnight, Christmas was over, and Santa was
hastening home to the North Pole.
"Santa Claus! dear Santa Claus!" cried Jimmy Scarecrow with a great sob,
and that time Santa Claus heard him and drew rein.
"Who's there?" he shouted out of the darkness.
"It's only me," replied the Scarecrow.
"Who's me?" shouted Santa Claus.
"Jimmy Scarecrow!"
Santa got out of his sledge and waded up. "Have you been standing here
ever since corn was ripe?" he asked pityingly, and Jimmy replied that he
had.
"What's that over your shoulders?" Santa Claus continued, holding up his
lantern.
"It's a crazy quilt."
"And what are you holding under your coat?"
"The doll-baby that Betsey gave me, and I'm afraid it's dead," poor
Jimmy Scarecrow sobbed.
"Nonsense!" cried Santa Claus. "Let me see it!" And with that he pulled
the doll-baby out from under the Scarecrow's coat, and patted its back,
and shook it a little, and it began to cry, and then to crow. "It's all
right," said Santa Claus. "This is the doll-baby I gave Betsey, and it
is not at all delicate. It went through the measles, and the
chicken-pox, and the mumps, and the whooping-cough, before it left the
North Pole. Now get into the sledge, Jimmy Scarecrow, and bring the
doll-baby and the crazy quilt. I have never had any quilts that weren't
in their right minds at the North Pole, but maybe I can cure this one.
Get in!" Santa chirruped to his reindeer, and they drew the sledge up
close in a beautiful curve.
"Get in, Jimmy Scarecrow, and come with me to the North Pole!" he
cried.
"Please, how long shall I stay?" asked Jimmy Scarecrow.
"Why, you are going to live with me," replied Santa Claus. "I've been
looking for a person like you for a long time."
"Are there any crows to scare away at the North Pole? I want to be
useful," Jimmy Scarecrow said, anxiously.
"No," answered Santa Claus, "but I don't want you to scare away crows. I
want you to scare away Arctic Explorers. I can keep you in work for a
thousand years, and scaring away Arctic Explorers from the North Pole is
much more important than scaring away crows from corn. Why, if they
found the Pole, there wouldn't be a piece an inch long left in a week's
time, and the earth would cave in like an apple without a core! They
would whittle it all to pieces, and carry it away in their pockets for
souvenirs. Come along; I am in a hurry."
"I will go on two conditions," said Jimmy. "First, I want to make a
present to Aunt Hannah and Betsey, next Christmas."
"You shall make them any present you choose. What else?"
"I want some way provided to scare the crows out of the corn next
summer, while I am away," said Jimmy.
"That is easily managed," said Santa Claus. "Just wait a minute."
Santa took his stylographic pen out of his pocket, went with his lantern
close to one of the fence-posts, and wrote these words upon it:
NOTICE TO CROWS
Whichever crow shall hereafter hop, fly, or flop
into this field during the absence of Jimmy
Scarecrow, and therefrom purloin, steal, or
abstract corn, shall be instantly, in a twinkling
and a trice, turned snow-white, and be ever after
a disgrace, a byword and a reproach to his whole
race.
Per order of SANTA CLAUS.
"The corn will be safe now," said Santa Claus, "get in." Jimmy got into
the sledge and they flew away over the fields, out of sight, with merry
halloos and a great clamour of bells.
The next morning there was much surprise at the farmhouse, when Aunt
Hannah and Betsey looked out of the window and the Scarecrow was not in
the field holding out his stiff arms over the corn stubble. Betsey had
told Aunt Hannah she had given away the crazy quilt and the doll-baby,
but had been scolded very little.
"You must not give away anything of yours again without asking
permission," said Aunt Hannah. "And you have no right to give anything
of mine, even if you know I don't want it. Now both my pretty quilt and
your beautiful doll-baby are spoiled."
That was all Aunt Hannah had said. She thought she would send John
after the quilt and the doll-baby next morning as soon as it was light.
But Jimmy Scarecrow was gone, and the crazy quilt and the doll-baby with
him. John, the servant-man, searched everywhere, but not a trace of them
could he find. "They must have all blown away, mum," he said to Aunt
Hannah.
"We shall have to have another scarecrow next summer," said she.
But the next summer there was no need of a scarecrow, for not a crow
came past the fence-post on which Santa Claus had written his notice to
crows. The cornfield was never so beautiful, and not a single grain was
stolen by a crow, and everybody wondered at it, for they could not read
the crow-language in which Santa had written.
"It is a great mystery to me why the crows don't come into our
cornfield, when there is no scarecrow," said Aunt Hannah.
But she had a still greater mystery to solve when Christmas came round
again. Then she and Betsey had each a strange present. They found them
in the sitting-room on Christmas morning. Aunt Hannah's present was her
old crazy quilt, remodelled, with every piece cut square and true, and
matched exactly to its neighbour.
"Why, it's my old crazy quilt, but it isn't crazy now!" cried Aunt
Hannah, and her very spectacles seemed to glisten with amazement.
Betsey's present was her doll-baby of the Christmas before; but the doll
was a year older. She had grown an inch, and could walk and say,
"mamma," and "how do?" She was changed a good deal, but Betsey knew her
at once. "It's my doll-baby!" she cried, and snatched her up and kissed
her.
But neither Aunt Hannah nor Betsey ever knew that the quilt and the doll
were Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas presents to them.
XII
WHY THE CHIMES RANG[H]
RAYMOND MC ALDEN
THERE was once in a faraway country where few people have ever
travelled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a
great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas,
thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like
lines of ants all moving in the same direction.
When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark
passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church.
This room was so long that one standing at the doorway could scarcely
see to the other end, where the choir stood by the marble altar. In the
farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud, that
sometimes when it played, the people for miles around would close their
shutters and prepare for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such
church as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up
for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old. But the
strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of
bells.
At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing
over it as far up as one could see. I say as far as one could see,
because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it
rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any
one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be
certain that it was in sight. Up, and up, and up climbed the stones and
the ivy; and as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds
of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.