and Peggy is not left to wash the Christmas dishes all alone. Because
she is smiling and her cheeks are bright, her sisters do not notice that
her eyes are wet, for Peggy is hotly ashamed of certain thoughts and
feelings that she cannot down. She forgets them for a while, however,
sitting on the hearth-rug, snuggled against her father's knee in the
Christmas twilight.
Yet the troublesome thoughts came back in the evening, when Peggy sat
upstairs in the dark with Minna, vainly trying to induce the excited
little girl to go to sleep, while bursts of merriment from the family
below were always breaking in upon the two in their banishment.
There was another restless night of it with the little niece, and
another too early waking. Everybody but Minna was sleepy enough, and
breakfast was a protracted meal, to which the "children" came down
slowly one by one. Arna did not appear at all, and Peggy carried up to
her the daintiest of trays, all of her own preparing. Arna's kiss of
thanks was great reward. It was dinner-time before Peggy realized it,
and she had hoped to find a quiet hour for her Latin.
The dreadful regent's examination was to come the next week, and Peggy
wanted to study for it. She had once thought of asking Arna to help her,
but Arna seemed so tired.
In the afternoon Esther came to see her chum, and to take her home with
her to spend the night. The babies, fretful with after-Christmas-crossness,
were tumbling over their aunt, and sadly interrupting confidences, while
Peggy explained that she could not go out that evening. All the family
were going to the church sociable, and she must put the babies to bed.
"I think it's mean," Esther broke in. "Isn't it your vacation as well as
theirs? Do make that child stop pulling your hair!"
If Esther's words had only not echoed through Peggy's head as they did
that night! "But it is so mean of me, so mean of me, to want my own
vacation!" sobbed Peggy in the darkness. "I ought just to be glad
they're all at home."
Her self-reproach made her readier than ever to wait on them all the
next morning. Nobody could make such buckwheat cakes as could Mrs.
Brower; nobody could turn them as could Peggy. They were worth coming
from New York and Baltimore and Ohio to eat. Peggy stood at the griddle
half an hour, an hour, two hours. Her head was aching. Hazen, the latest
riser, was joyously calling for more.
At eleven o'clock Peggy realized that she had had no breakfast herself,
and that her mother was hurrying her off to investigate the lateness of
the butcher. Her head ached more and more, and she seemed strangely slow
in her dinner-getting and dish-washing. Her father was away, and there
was no one to help in the clearing-up. It was three before she had
finished.
Outside the sleigh-bells sounded enticing. It was the first sleighing of
the season. Mabel and Ben had been off for a ride, and Arna and Hazen,
too. How Peggy longed to be skimming over the snow instead of polishing
knives all alone in the kitchen. Sue Cummings came that afternoon to
invite Peggy to her party, given in Esther's honour. Sue enumerated six
other gatherings that were being given that week in honour of Esther's
visit home. Sue seemed to dwell much on the subject. Presently Peggy,
with hot cheeks, understood why. Everybody was giving Esther a party,
everybody but Peggy herself. Esther's own chum, and all the other girls,
were talking about it.
Peggy stood at the door to see Sue out, and watched the sleighs fly by.
Out in the sitting-room she heard her mother saying, "Yes, of course we
can have waffles for supper. Where's Peggy?" Then Peggy ran away.
In the wintry dusk the doctor came stamping in, shaking the snow from
his bearskins. As always, "Where's Peggy?" was his first question.
Peggy was not to be found, they told him. They had been all over the
house, calling her. They thought she must have gone out with Sue. The
doctor seemed to doubt this. He went through the upstairs rooms, calling
her softly. But Peggy was not in any of the bedrooms, or in any of the
closets, either. There was still the kitchen attic to be tried.
There came a husky little moan out of its depths, as he whispered,
"Daughter!" He groped his way to her, and sitting down on a trunk,
folded her into his bearskin coat.
"Now tell father all about it," he said. And it all came out with many
sobs--the nights and dawns with Minna, the Latin, the sleighing,
Esther's party, breakfast, the weariness, the headache; and last the
waffles, which had moved the one unbearable thing.
"And it is so mean of me, so mean of me!" sobbed Peggy. "But, oh, daddy,
I do want a vacation!"
"And you shall have one," he answered.
He carried her straight into her own room, laid her down on her own bed,
and tumbled Hazen's things into the hall. Then he went downstairs and
talked to his family.
Presently the mother came stealing in, bearing a glass of medicine the
doctor-father had sent. Then she undressed Peggy and put her to bed as
if she had been a baby, and sat by, smoothing her hair, until she fell
asleep.
It seemed to Peggy that she had slept a long, long time. The sun was
shining bright. Her door opened a crack and Arna peeped in, and seeing
her awake, came to the bed and kissed her good morning.
"I'm so sorry, little sister!" she said.
"Sorry for what?" asked the wondering Peggy.
"Because I didn't see," said Arna. "But now I'm going to bring up your
breakfast."
"Oh, no!" cried Peggy, sitting up.
"Oh, yes!" said Arna, with quiet authority. It was as dainty cooking as
Peggy's own, and Arna sat by to watch her eat.
"You're so good to me, Arna!" said Peggy.
"Not very," answered Arna, dryly. "When you've finished this you must
lie up here away from the children and read."
"But who will take care of Minna?" questioned Peggy.
"Minna's mamma," answered a voice from the next room, where Mabel was
pounding pillows. She came to the door to look in on Peggy in all her
luxury of orange marmalade to eat, Christmas books to read, and Arna to
wait upon her.
"I think mothers, not aunts, were meant to look after babies," said
Mabel. "I'm so sorry, dear!"
"Oh, I wish you two wouldn't talk like that!" cried Peggy. "I'm so
ashamed."
"All right, we'll stop talking," said Mabel quickly, "but we'll
remember."
They would not let Peggy lift her hand to any of the work that day.
Mabel managed the babies masterfully. Arna moved quietly about,
accomplishing wonders.
"But aren't you tired, Arna?" queried Peggy.
"Not a bit of it, and I'll have time to help you with your Cæsar
before----"
"Before what?" asked Peggy, but got no answer. They had been translating
famously, when, in the late afternoon, there came a ring of the
doorbell. Peggy found Hazen bowing low, and craving "Mistress Peggy's
company." A sleigh and two prancing horses stood at the gate.
It was a glorious drive. Peggy's eyes danced and her laugh rang out at
Hazen's drolleries. The world stretched white all about them, and their
horses flew on and on like the wind. They rode till dark, then turned
back to the village, twinkling with lights.
The Brower house was alight in every window, and there was the sound of
many voices in the hall. The door flew open upon a laughing crowd of
boys and girls. Peggy, all glowing and rosy with the wind, stood utterly
bewildered until Esther rushed forward and hugged and shook her.
"It's a party!" she exclaimed. "One of your mother's waffle suppers!
We're all here! Isn't it splendid?"
"But, but, but----" stammered Peggy.
"'But, but, but,'" mimicked Esther. "But this is your vacation, don't
you see?"
FOOTNOTE:
[J] This story was first published in the _Youth's Companion_, vol. 77.
XV
LITTLE WOLFF'S WOODEN SHOES
A CHRISTMAS STORY BY FRANÇOIS COPPÉE; ADAPTED AND TRANSLATED BY ALMA J.
FOSTER
ONCE upon a time--so long ago that everybody has forgotten the date--in
a city in the north of Europe--with such a hard name that nobody can
ever remember it--there was a little seven-year-old boy named Wolff,
whose parents were dead, who lived with a cross and stingy old aunt, who
never thought of kissing him more than once a year and who sighed deeply
whenever she gave him a bowlful of soup.
But the poor little fellow had such a sweet nature that in spite of
everything, he loved the old woman, although he was terribly afraid of
her and could never look at her ugly old face without shivering.
As this aunt of little Wolff was known to have a house of her own and an
old woollen stocking full of gold, she had not dared to send the boy to
a charity school; but, in order to get a reduction in the price, she had
so wrangled with the master of the school, to which little Wolff finally
went, that this bad man, vexed at having a pupil so poorly dressed and
paying so little, often punished him unjustly, and even prejudiced his
companions against him, so that the three boys, all sons of rich
parents, made a drudge and laughing stock of the little fellow.
The poor little one was thus as wretched as a child could be and used to
hide himself in corners to weep whenever Christmas time came.
It was the schoolmaster's custom to take all his pupils to the midnight
mass on Christmas Eve, and to bring them home again afterward.
Now, as the winter this year was very bitter, and as heavy snow had been
falling for several days, all the boys came well bundled up in warm
clothes, with fur caps pulled over their ears, padded jackets, gloves
and knitted mittens, and strong, thick-soled boots. Only little Wolff
presented himself shivering in the poor clothes he used to wear both
weekdays and Sundays and having on his feet only thin socks in heavy
wooden shoes.
His naughty companions noticing his sad face and awkward appearance,
made many jokes at his expense; but the little fellow was so busy
blowing on his fingers, and was suffering so much with chilblains, that
he took no notice of them. So the band of youngsters, walking two and
two behind the master, started for the church.
It was pleasant in the church which was brilliant with lighted candles;
and the boys excited by the warmth took advantage of the music of the
choir and the organ to chatter among themselves in low tones. They
bragged about the fun that was awaiting them at home. The mayor's son
had seen, just before starting off, an immense goose ready stuffed and
dressed for cooking. At the alderman's home there was a little pine-tree
with branches laden down with oranges, sweets, and toys. And the
lawyer's cook had put on her cap with such care as she never thought of
taking unless she was expecting something very good!
Then they talked, too, of all that the Christ-Child was going to bring
them, of all he was going to put in their shoes which, you might be
sure, they would take good care to leave in the chimney place before
going to bed; and the eyes of these little urchins, as lively as a cage
of mice, were sparkling in advance over the joy they would have when
they awoke in the morning and saw the pink bag full of sugar-plums, the
little lead soldiers ranged in companies in their boxes, the menageries
smelling of varnished wood, and the magnificent jumping-jacks in purple
and tinsel.
Alas! Little Wolff knew by experience that his old miser of an aunt
would send him to bed supperless, but, with childlike faith and certain
of having been, all the year, as good and industrious as possible, he
hoped that the Christ-Child would not forget him, and so he, too,
planned to place his wooden shoes in good time in the fireplace.
Midnight mass over, the worshippers departed, eager for their fun, and
the band of pupils always walking two and two, and following the
teacher, left the church.
Now, in the porch and seated on a stone bench set in the niche of a
painted arch, a child was sleeping--a child in a white woollen garment,
but with his little feet bare, in spite of the cold. He was not a
beggar, for his garment was white and new, and near him on the floor was
a bundle of carpenter's tools.
In the clear light of the stars, his face, with its closed eyes, shone
with an expression of divine sweetness, and his long, curling, blond
locks seemed to form a halo about his brow. But his little child's feet,
made blue by the cold of this bitter December night, were pitiful to
see!
The boys so well clothed for the winter weather passed by quite
indifferent to the unknown child; several of them, sons of the notables
of the town, however, cast on the vagabond looks in which could be read
all the scorn of the rich for the poor, of the well-fed for the hungry.
But little Wolff, coming last out of the church, stopped, deeply
touched, before the beautiful sleeping child.
"Oh, dear!" said the little fellow to himself, "this is frightful! This
poor little one has no shoes and stockings in this bad weather--and,
what is still worse, he has not even a wooden shoe to leave near him
to-night while he sleeps, into which the little Christ-Child can put
something good to soothe his misery."
And carried away by his loving heart, Wolff drew the wooden shoe from
his right foot, laid it down before the sleeping child, and, as best he
could, sometimes hopping, sometimes limping with his sock wet by the
snow, he went home to his aunt.
"Look at the good-for-nothing!" cried the old woman, full of wrath at
the sight of the shoeless boy. "What have you done with your shoe, you
little villain?"
Little Wolff did not know how to lie, so, although trembling with terror
when he saw the rage of the old shrew, he tried to relate his adventure.
But the miserly old creature only burst into a frightful fit of
laughter.
"Aha! So my young gentleman strips himself for the beggars. Aha! My
young gentleman breaks his pair of shoes for a bare-foot! Here is
something new, forsooth. Very well, since it is this way, I shall put
the only shoe that is left into the chimney-place, and I'll answer for
it that the Christ-Child will put in something to-night to beat you with
in the morning! And you will have only a crust of bread and water
to-morrow. And we shall see if the next time, you will be giving your
shoes to the first vagabond that happens along."
And the wicked woman having boxed the ears of the poor little fellow,
made him climb up into the loft where he had his wretched cubbyhole.
Desolate, the child went to bed in the dark and soon fell asleep, but
his pillow was wet with tears.
But behold! the next morning when the old woman, awakened early by the
cold, went downstairs--oh, wonder of wonders--she saw the big chimney
filled with shining toys, bags of magnificent bonbons, and riches of
every sort, and standing out in front of all this treasure, was the
right wooden shoe which the boy had given to the little vagabond, yes,
and beside it, the one which she had placed in the chimney to hold the
bunch of switches.
As little Wolff, attracted by the cries of his aunt, stood in an ecstasy
of childish delight before the splendid Christmas gifts, shouts of
laughter were heard outside. The woman and child ran out to see what all
this meant, and behold! all the gossips of the town were standing around
the public fountain. What could have happened? Oh, a most ridiculous and
extraordinary thing! The children of the richest men in the town, whom
their parents had planned to surprise with the most beautiful presents
had found only switches in their shoes!
Then the old woman and the child thinking of all the riches in their
chimney were filled with fear. But suddenly they saw the priest appear,
his countenance full of astonishment. Just above the bench placed near
the door of the church, in the very spot where, the night before, a
child in a white garment and with bare feet, in spite of the cold, had
rested his lovely head, the priest had found a circlet of gold imbedded
in the old stones.
Then, they all crossed themselves devoutly, perceiving that this
beautiful sleeping child with the carpenter's tools had been Jesus of
Nazareth himself, who had come back for one hour just as he had been
when he used to work in the home of his parents; and reverently they
bowed before this miracle, which the good God had done to reward the
faith and the love of a little child.
XVI
CHRISTMAS IN THE ALLEY[K]
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
"I DECLARE for 't, to-morrow is Christmas Day an' I clean forgot all
about it," said old Ann, the washerwoman, pausing in her work and
holding the flatiron suspended in the air.
"Much good it'll do us," growled a discontented voice from the coarse
bed in the corner.
"We haven't much extra, to be sure," answered Ann cheerfully, bringing
the iron down onto the shirt-bosom before her, "but at least we've
enough to eat, and a good fire, and that's more'r some have, not a
thousand miles from here either."
"We might have plenty more," said the fretful voice, "if you didn't
think so much more of strangers than you do of your own folk's comfort,
keeping a houseful of beggars, as if you was a lady!"
"Now, John," replied Ann, taking another iron from the fire, "you're not
half so bad as you pretend. You wouldn't have me turn them poor
creatures into the streets to freeze, now, would you?"
"It's none of our business to pay rent for them," grumbled John. "Every
one for himself, I say, these hard times. If they can't pay you'd ought
to send 'em off; there's plenty as can."
"They'd pay quick enough if they could get work," said Ann. "They're
good honest fellows, every one, and paid me regular as long as they had
a cent. But when hundreds are out o' work in the city, what can they
do?"
"That's none o' your business, you can turn 'em out!" growled John.
"And leave the poor children to freeze as well as starve?" said Ann.
"Who'd ever take 'em in without money, I'd like to know? No, John,"
bringing her iron down as though she meant it, "I'm glad I'm well enough
to wash and iron, and pay my rent, and so long as I can do that, and
keep the hunger away from you and the child, I'll never turn the poor
souls out, leastways, not in this freezing winter weather."
"An' here's Christmas," the old man went on whiningly, "an' not a penny
to spend, an' I needin' another blanket so bad, with my rhumatiz, an'
haven't had a drop of tea for I don't know how long!"
"I know it," said Ann, never mentioning that she too had been without
tea, and not only that, but with small allowance of food of any kind,
"and I'm desperate sorry I can't get a bit of something for Katey. The
child never missed a little something in her stocking before."
"Yes," John struck in, "much you care for your flesh an' blood. The
child ha'n't had a thing this winter."
"That's true enough," said Ann, with a sigh, "an' it's the hardest thing
of all that I've had to keep her out o' school when she was doing so
beautiful."
"An' her feet all on the ground," growled John.
"I know her shoes is bad," said Ann, hanging the shirt up on a line that
stretched across the room, and was already nearly full of freshly ironed
clothes, "but they're better than the Parker children's."
"What's that to us?" almost shouted the weak old man, shaking his fist
at her in his rage.
"Well, keep your temper, old man," said Ann. "I'm sorry it goes so hard
with you, but as long as I can stand on my feet, I sha'n't turn anybody
out to freeze, that's certain."
"How much'll you get for them?" said the miserable old man, after a few
moments' silence, indicating by his hand the clean clothes on the line.
"Two dollars," said Ann, "and half of it must go to help make up next
month's rent. I've got a good bit to make up yet, and only a week to do
it in, and I sha'n't have another cent till day after to-morrow."
"Well, I wish you'd manage to buy me a little tea," whined the old man;
"seems as if that would go right to the spot, and warm up my old bones a
bit."
"I'll try," said Ann, revolving in her mind how she could save a few
pennies from her indispensable purchases to get tea and sugar, for
without sugar he would not touch it.
Wearied with his unusual exertion, the old man now dropped off to sleep,
and Ann went softly about, folding and piling the clothes into a big
basket already half full. When they were all packed in, and nicely
covered with a piece of clean muslin, she took an old shawl and hood
from a nail in the corner, put them on, blew out the candle, for it must
not burn one moment unnecessarily, and, taking up her basket, went out
into the cold winter night, softly closing the door behind her.
The house was on an alley, but as soon as she turned the corner she was
in the bright streets, glittering with lamps and gay people. The shop
windows were brilliant with Christmas displays, and thousands of warmly
dressed buyers were lingering before them, laughing and chatting, and
selecting their purchases. Surely it seemed as if there could be no want
here.
As quickly as her burden would let her, the old washerwoman passed
through the crowd into a broad street and rang the basement bell of a
large, showy house.
"Oh, it's the washerwoman!" said a flashy-looking servant who answered
the bell; "set the basket right in here. Mrs. Keithe can't look them
over to-night, there's company in the parlour--Miss Carry's Christmas
party."
"Ask her to please pay me--at least a part," said old Ann hastily. "I
don't see how I can do without the money. I counted on it."
"I'll ask her," said the pert young woman, turning to go upstairs; "but
it's no use."
Returning in a moment, she delivered the message. "She has no change
to-night; you're to come in the morning."
"Dear me!" thought Ann, as she plodded back through the streets, "it'll
be even worse than I expected, for there's not a morsel to eat in the
house, and not a penny to buy one with. Well--well--the Lord will
provide, the Good Book says, but it's mighty dark days, and it's hard to
believe."
Entering the house, Ann sat down silently before the expiring fire. She
was tired, her bones ached, and she was faint for want of food.
Wearily she rested her head on her hands, and tried to think of some way
to get a few cents. She had nothing she could sell or pawn, everything
she could do without had gone before, in similar emergencies. After
sitting there some time, and revolving plan after plan, only to find
them all impossible, she was forced to conclude that they must go
supperless to bed.
Her husband grumbled, and Katey--who came in from a neighbour's--cried
with hunger, and after they were asleep old Ann crept into bed to keep
warm, more disheartened than she had been all winter.
If we could only see a little way ahead! All this time--the darkest the
house on the alley had seen--help was on the way to them. A
kind-hearted city missionary, visiting one of the unfortunate families
living in the upper rooms of old Ann's house, had learned from them of
the noble charity of the humble old washerwoman. It was more than
princely charity, for she not only denied herself nearly every comfort,
but she endured the reproaches of her husband, and the tears of her
child.
Telling the story to a party of his friends this Christmas Eve, their
hearts were troubled, and they at once emptied their purses into his
hands for her. And the gift was at that very moment in the pocket of the
missionary, waiting for morning to make her Christmas happy.
Christmas morning broke clear and cold. Ann was up early, as usual, made
her fire, with the last of her coal, cleared up her two rooms, and,
leaving her husband and Katey in bed, was about starting out to try and
get her money to provide a breakfast for them. At the door she met the
missionary.
"Good-morning, Ann," said he. "I wish you a Merry Christmas."
"Thank you, sir," said Ann cheerfully; "the same to yourself."
"Have you been to breakfast already?" asked the missionary.
"No, sir," said Ann. "I was just going out for it."
"I haven't either," said he, "but I couldn't bear to wait until I had
eaten breakfast before I brought you your Christmas present--I suspect
you haven't had any yet."
Ann smiled. "Indeed, sir, I haven't had one since I can remember."
"Well, I have one for you. Come in, and I'll tell you about it."
Too much amazed for words, Ann led him into the room. The missionary
opened his purse, and handed her a roll of bills.
"Why--what!" she gasped, taking it mechanically.
"Some friends of mine heard of your generous treatment of the poor
families upstairs," he went on, "and they send you this, with their
respects and best wishes for Christmas. Do just what you please with
it--it is wholly yours. No thanks," he went on, as she struggled to
speak. "It's not from me. Just enjoy it--that's all. It has done them
more good to give than it can you to receive," and before she could
speak a word he was gone.
What did the old washerwoman do?