dose been pooty bad!" He studied the subject for a few moments, his
stolid face suddenly grown thoughtful. Charlie stared at the stove. Far
away by the river a lonely coyote set up his quick, howling yelp.
"Dere's been seven kids oop dere," said Nels at last, glancing up as if
for corroboration.
"Yes, seven," agreed Charlie.
"Say, do ve need Seigert's team very pad?"
"Well, now that depends," said Charlie. "Why not?"
"Nothin', only Ay vas tankin' ve might tak' some a das veat we vas goin'
to sell and--and----"
"Yep, what?"
"And dumb it on Roney's granary floor to-night after dere been asleeb."
Charlie stared at his companion for a moment in silence. Then he rose,
and, approaching Nels, examined his partner's face with solemn scrutiny.
"By the great horn spoon," he announced, finally, "you've got a head on
you like a balloon, my boy! Keep on gettin' ideas like that, and you'll
land in Congress or the poor-farm before many years!"
Then, abandoning his pretense of gravity, he slapped the other on the
back.
"Why didn't I think of that? It's the best yet. Seigert's team? Oh, hang
Seigert's team. We don't need it. We'll have a little merry Christmas
out of this yet. Only they mustn't know where it came from. I'll write a
note and stick it under the door, 'You'll find some merry wheat----' No,
that ain't it. 'You'll find some wheat in the granary to give the kids a
merry Christmas with,' signed, 'Santa Claus.'"
He wrote out the message in the air with a pointing forefinger. He had
entered into the spirit of the thing eagerly.
"It's half-past nine now," he went on, looking at the clock. "It'll be
eleven time we get the stuff loaded and hauled up there. Let's go out
and get at it. Lucky the bobs are on the wagon; they don't make such a
racket as wheels."
He took the lantern from its nail behind the door and lighted it, after
which he put on his boots, cap, and mittens, and flung his overcoat
across his shoulders. Nels, meanwhile, had put on his outer garments,
also.
"Shut up the stove, Nels." Charlie blew out the light and opened the
door. "There, hang it!" he exclaimed, turning back. "I forgot the note.
Ought to be in ink, I suppose. Well, never mind now; we won't put on any
style about it."
He took down a pencil from the shelf, and, extracting a bit of wrapping
paper from a bundle behind the wood-box, wrote the note by the light of
the lantern.
"There, I guess that will do," he said, finally. "Come on!"
Outside, the night air was cold and bracing, and in the black vault of
the sky the winter constellations flashed and throbbed. The shadows of
the two men, thrown by the lantern, bobbed huge and grotesque across the
snow and among the bare branches of the cottonwoods, as they moved
toward the barn.
"Ay tank ve put on dose extra side poards and make her an even fifty
pushel," said Nels, after they had backed the wagon up to the granary
door. "Ve might as vell do it oop right, skence ve're at it."
Having carried out this suggestion, the two shovelled steadily, with
short intervals of rest, for three quarters of an hour, the dark pile of
grain in the wagon-box rising gradually until it stood flush with the
top.
Good it was to look upon, cold and soft and yielding to the touch, this
heaped-up wealth from the inexhaustible treasure-house of the mighty
West. Charlie and Nels felt something of this as they viewed the results
of their labours for a moment before hitching up the team.
"It's A number one hard," said Charlie, picking up a handful and sifting
it slowly through his fingers, "and it'll fetch seventy-four cents. But
you can't raise any worse on this old farm of ours if you try," he
added, a little proudly. "Nor anywhere else in the Jim River Valley, for
that matter."
As they approached the Roney place, looking dim and indistinct in the
darkness, their voices hushed apprehensively, and the noise of the
sled-runners slipping through the snow seemed to them to increase from a
purr to a roar.
"Here, stob a minute!" whispered Nels, in agony of discovery. "Ve're
magin' an awful noise. Ay'll go und take a beek."
He slipped away and cautiously approached the house. "Et's all right,"
he whispered, hoarsely, returning after a moment; "dere all asleeb. But
go easy; Ay tank ve pest go easy." They seemed burdened all at once with
the consciences of criminals, and went forward with almost guilty
timidity.
"Thunder, dere's a bump! Vy don'd you drive garefuller, Sharlie?"
"Drive yourself, if you think you can do any better!"
As they came into the yard a dog suddenly ran out from the barn,
barking furiously. Charlie reined up with an ejaculation of despair;
"Look there, the dog! We're done for now, sure! Stop him, Nels! Throw
somethin' at 'im!"
The noise seemed to their excited ears louder than the crash of
artillery. Nels threw a piece of snow crust. The dog ran back a few
steps, but his barking did not diminish.
"Here, hold the lines. I'll try to catch 'im." Charlie jumped from the
wagon and approached the dog with coaxing words: "Come, doggie, good
doggie, nice boy, come!"
His manoeuvre, however, merely served to increase the animal's frenzy.
As Charlie approached the dog retired slowly toward the house, his head
thrown back, and his rapid barking increased to a long-drawn howl.
"Good boy, come! Bother the brute! He'll wake up the whole household!
Nice doggie! Phe-e----"
The noise, however, had no apparent effect upon the occupants of the
house. All remained as dark and silent as ever.
"Sharlie, Sharlie, let him go!" cried Nels, in a voice smothered with
laughter. "Ay go in dose parn; maype ha'll chase me."
His hope was well founded. The dog, observing this treacherous
occupation by the enemy of his last harbour of refuge, gave pursuit and
disappeared within the door, which Charlie, hard behind him, closed
with a bang. There was the sound of a hurried scuffle within. The dog's
barking gave place to terrified whinings, which in turn were suddenly
quenched to a choking murmur.
"Gome in, Sharlie, kvick!"
"You got him?" queried Charlie, opening the door cautiously. "Did he
bite you?"
"Na, yust ma mitten. Gat a sack or someding da die him oop in."
A sack was procured from somewhere, into which the dog, now silenced
from sheer exhaustion and fright, was unceremoniously thrust, after
which the sack was tied and flung into the wagon. This formidable
obstacle overcome and the Roneys still slumbering peacefully, the rest
was easy. The granary door was pried open and the wheat shovelled
hurriedly in upon the empty floor. Charlie then crept up to the house
and slipped his note under the door.
The sack was lifted from the now empty wagon and opened before the barn,
whereupon its occupant slipped meekly out and retreated at once to a far
corner, seemingly too much incensed at his discourteous treatment even
to fling a volley of farewell barks at his departing captors.
"Vell," remarked Nels, with a sigh of relief as they gained the road,
"Ay tank dose Roneys pelieve en Santa Claus now. Dose peen funny vay fer
Santa Claus to coom."
Charlie's laugh was good to hear. "He didn't exactly come down the
chimney, that's a fact, but it'll do at a pinch. We ought to have told
them to get a present for the dog--collar and chain. I reckon he
wouldn't hardly be thankful for it, though, eh?"
"Ay gass not. Ha liges ta haf hes nights ta hemself."
"Well, we had our fun, anyway. Sort of puts me in mind of old Wisconsin,
somehow."
From far off over the valley, with its dismantled cornfields and
snow-covered haystacks, beyond the ice-bound river, floated slow, and
sonorous, the mellow clanging of church bells. They were ushering in the
Christmas morn.
Overhead the starlit heavens glistened, brooding and mysterious, looking
down with luminous, loving eyes upon these humble sons of men doing a
good deed, from the impulse of simple, generous hearts, as upon that
other Christmas morning, long ago, when the Jewish shepherds, guarding
their flocks by night, read in their shining depths that in Bethlehem of
Judea the Christ-Child was born.
The rising sun was touching the higher hilltops with a faint rush of
crimson the next morning when the back door of the Roney house opened
with a creak, and Mr. Roney, still heavy-eyed with sleep, stumbled out
upon the porch, stretched his arms above his head, yawned, blinked at
the dazzling snow, and then shambled off toward the barn.
As he approached, the dog ran eagerly out, gambolled meekly around his
feet and caressed his boots. The man patted him kindly.
"Hello, old boy! What were you yappin' around so for last night, huh?
Grain-thieves? You needn't worry about them. There ain't nothin' left
for them to steal. No, sir! If they got into that granary they'd have to
take a lantern along to find a pint of wheat. I don't suppose," he
added, reflectively, "that I could scrape up enough to feed the chickens
this mornin', but I guess I might's well see."
He passed over to the little building. What he saw when he looked within
seemed for a moment to produce no impression upon him whatever. He
stared at the hillock of grain in motionless silence.
Finally Mr. Roney gave utterance to a single word, "Geewhilikins!" and
started for the house on a run. Into the kitchen, where his wife was
just starting the fire, the excited man burst like a whirlwind.
"Come out here, Mary!" he cried. "Come out here, quick!"
The worthy woman, unaccustomed to such demonstrations, looked at him in
amazement.
"For goodness sake, what's come over you, Peter Roney?" she exclaimed.
"Are you daft? Don't make such a noise! You'll wake the young ones, and
I don't want them waked till need be, with no Christmas for 'em, poor
little things!"
"Never mind the young 'uns," he replied. "Come on!"
As they passed out he noticed the slip of paper under the door and
picked it up, but without comment. He charged down upon the granary, his
wife, with a shawl over her head, close behind.
She peered in, apprehensively at first, then with eyes of widening
wonder.
"Why, Peter!" she said, turning to him. "Why, Peter! What does--I
thought----"
"You thought!" he broke in. "Me, too. But it ain't so. It means that
we've got some of the best neighbours that ever was, a thinkin' of our
young 'uns this way! Read that!" and he thrust the paper into her hand.
"Why, Peter!" she ejaculated again, weakly. Then suddenly she turned,
and laying her head on his shoulder, began to sob softly.
"There, there," he said, patting her arm awkwardly. "Don't you go and
cry now. Let's just be thankful to the good Lord for puttin' such
fellers into the world as them fellers down the road. And now you run in
and hurry up breakfast while I do up the chores. Then we'll hitch up and
get into town 'fore the stores close. Tell the young 'uns Santy didn't
get round last night with their things, but we've got word to meet him
in town. Hey? Yes, I saw just the kind of sled Pete wants when I was up
yesterday, and that china doll for Mollie. Yes, tell 'em anything you
want. 'Twon't be too big. Santy Claus has come to Roney's ranch this
year, sure!"
FOOTNOTE:
[X] This story was first printed in the _Youth's Companion_, vol. 76.
XXXIII
LITTLE GRETCHEN AND THE WOODEN SHOE[Y]
ELIZABETH HARRISON
THE following story is one of many which has drifted down to us from the
story-loving nurseries and hearthstones of Germany. I cannot recall when
I first had it told to me as a child, varied, of course, by different
tellers, but always leaving that sweet, tender impression of God's
loving care for the least of his children. I have since read different
versions of it in at least a half-dozen story books for children.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, far away across the great ocean, in a
country called Germany, there could be seen a small log hut on the edge
of a great forest, whose fir-trees extended for miles and miles to the
north. This little house, made of heavy hewn logs, had but one room in
it. A rough pine door gave entrance to this room, and a small square
window admitted the light. At the back of the house was built an
old-fashioned stone chimney, out of which in winter usually curled a
thin, blue smoke, showing that there was not very much fire within.
Small as the house was, it was large enough for the two people who
lived in it. I want to tell you a story to-day about these two people.
One was an old, gray-haired woman, so old that the little children of
the village, nearly half a mile away, often wondered whether she had
come into the world with the huge mountains, and the great fir-trees,
which stood like giants back of her small hut. Her face was wrinkled all
over with deep lines, which, if the children could only have read
aright, would have told them of many years of cheerful, happy,
self-sacrifice, of loving, anxious watching beside sick-beds, of quiet
endurance of pain, of many a day of hunger and cold, and of a thousand
deeds of unselfish love for other people; but, of course, they could not
read this strange handwriting. They only knew that she was old and
wrinkled, and that she stooped as she walked. None of them seemed to
fear her, for her smile was always cheerful, and she had a kindly word
for each of them if they chanced to meet her on her way to and from the
village. With this old, old woman lived a very little girl. So bright
and happy was she that the travellers who passed by the lonesome little
house on the edge of the forest often thought of a sunbeam as they saw
her. These two people were known in the village as Granny Goodyear and
Little Gretchen.
The winter had come and the frost had snapped off many of the smaller
branches from the pine-trees in the forest. Gretchen and her Granny were
up by daybreak each morning. After their simple breakfast of oatmeal,
Gretchen would run to the little closet and fetch Granny's old woollen
shawl, which seemed almost as old as Granny herself. Gretchen always
claimed the right to put the shawl over her Granny's head, even though
she had to climb onto the wooden bench to do it. After carefully pinning
it under Granny's chin, she gave her a good-bye kiss, and Granny started
out for her morning's work in the forest. This work was nothing more nor
less than the gathering up of the twigs and branches which the autumn
winds and winter frosts had thrown upon the ground. These were carefully
gathered into a large bundle which Granny tied together with a strong
linen band. She then managed to lift the bundle to her shoulder and
trudged off to the village with it. Here she sold the fagots for
kindling wood to the people of the village. Sometimes she would get only
a few pence each day, and sometimes a dozen or more, but on this money
little Gretchen and she managed to live; they had their home, and the
forest kindly furnished the wood for the fire which kept them warm in
cold weather.
In the summer time Granny had a little garden at the back of the hut
where she raised, with little Gretchen's help, a few potatoes and
turnips and onions. These she carefully stored away for winter use. To
this meagre supply, the pennies, gained by selling the twigs from the
forest, added the oatmeal for Gretchen and a little black coffee for
Granny. Meat was a thing they never thought of having. It cost too much
money. Still, Granny and Gretchen were very happy, because they loved
each other dearly. Sometimes Gretchen would be left alone all day long
in the hut, because Granny would have some work to do in the village
after selling her bundle of sticks and twigs. It was during these long
days that little Gretchen had taught herself to sing the song which the
wind sang to the pine branches. In the summer time she learned the chirp
and twitter of the birds, until her voice might almost be mistaken for a
bird's voice; she learned to dance as the swaying shadows did, and even
to talk to the stars which shone through the little square window when
Granny came home too late or too tired to talk.
Sometimes, when the weather was fine, or her Granny had an extra bundle
of newly knitted stockings to take to the village, she would let little
Gretchen go along with her. It chanced that one of these trips to the
town came just the week before Christmas, and Gretchen's eyes were
delighted by the sight of the lovely Christmas-trees which stood in the
window of the village store. It seemed to her that she would never tire
of looking at the knit dolls, the woolly lambs, the little wooden shops
with their queer, painted men and women in them, and all the other fine
things. She had never owned a plaything in her whole life; therefore,
toys which you and I would not think much of, seemed to her to be very
beautiful.
That night, after their supper of baked potatoes was over, and little
Gretchen had cleared away the dishes and swept up the hearth, because
Granny dear was so tired, she brought her own small wooden stool and
placed it very near Granny's feet and sat down upon it, folding her
hands on her lap. Granny knew that this meant she wanted to talk about
something, so she smilingly laid away the large Bible which she had been
reading, and took up her knitting, which was as much as to say: "Well,
Gretchen, dear, Granny is ready to listen."
"Granny," said Gretchen slowly, "it's almost Christmas time, isn't it?"
"Yes, dearie," said Granny, "only five more days now," and then she
sighed, but little Gretchen was so happy that she did not notice
Granny's sigh.
"What do you think, Granny, I'll get this Christmas?" said she, looking
up eagerly into Granny's face.
"Ah, child, child," said Granny, shaking her head, "you'll have no
Christmas this year. We are too poor for that."
"Oh, but, Granny," interrupted little Gretchen, "think of all the
beautiful toys we saw in the village to-day. Surely Santa Claus has sent
enough for every little child."
"Ah, dearie," said Granny, "those toys are for people who can pay money
for them, and we have no money to spend for Christmas toys."
"Well, Granny," said Gretchen, "perhaps some of the little children who
live in the great house on the hill at the other end of the village
will be willing to share some of their toys with me. They will be so
glad to give some to a little girl who has none."
"Dear child, dear child," said Granny, leaning forward and stroking the
soft, shiny hair of the little girl, "your heart is full of love. You
would be glad to bring a Christmas to every child; but their heads are
so full of what they are going to get that they forget all about anybody
else but themselves." Then she sighed and shook her head.
"Well, Granny," said Gretchen, her bright, happy tone of voice growing a
little less joyous, "perhaps the dear Santa Claus will show some of the
village children how to make presents that do not cost money, and some
of them may surprise me Christmas morning with a present. And, Granny,
dear," added she, springing up from her low stool, "can't I gather some
of the pine branches and take them to the old sick man who lives in the
house by the mill, so that he can have the sweet smell of our pine
forest in his room all Christmas day?"
"Yes, dearie," said Granny, "you may do what you can to make the
Christmas bright and happy, but you must not expect any present
yourself."
"Oh, but, Granny," said little Gretchen, her face brightening, "you
forget all about the shining Christmas angels, who came down to earth
and sang their wonderful song the night the beautiful Christ-Child was
born! They are so loving and good that _they_ will not forget any little
child. I shall ask my dear stars to-night to tell them of us. You
know," she added, with a look of relief, "the stars are so very high
that they must know the angels quite well, as they come and go with
their messages from the loving God."
Granny sighed, as she half whispered, "Poor child, poor child!" but
Gretchen threw her arm around Granny's neck and gave her a hearty kiss,
saying as she did so: "Oh, Granny, Granny, you don't talk to the stars
often enough, else you wouldn't be sad at Christmas time." Then she
danced all around the room, whirling her little skirts about her to show
Granny how the wind had made the snow dance that day. She looked so
droll and funny that Granny forgot her cares and worries and laughed
with little Gretchen over her new snow-dance. The days passed on, and
the morning before Christmas Eve came. Gretchen having tidied up the
little room--for Granny had taught her to be a careful little
housewife--was off to the forest, singing a birdlike song, almost as
happy and free as the birds themselves. She was very busy that day,
preparing a surprise for Granny. First, however, she gathered the most
beautiful of the fir branches within her reach to take the next morning
to the old sick man who lived by the mill.
The day was all too short for the happy little girl. When Granny came
trudging wearily home that night, she found the frame of the doorway
covered with green pine branches.
"It's to welcome you, Granny! It's to welcome you!" cried Gretchen;
"our old dear home wanted to give you a Christmas welcome. Don't you
see, the branches of evergreen make it look as if it were smiling all
over, and it is trying to say, 'A happy Christmas' to you, Granny!"
Granny laughed and kissed the little girl, as they opened the door and
went in together. Here was a new surprise for Granny. The four posts of
the wooden bed, which stood in one corner of the room, had been trimmed
by the busy little fingers, with smaller and more flexible branches of
the pine-trees. A small bouquet of red mountain-ash berries stood at
each side of the fireplace, and these, together with the trimmed posts
of the bed, gave the plain old room quite a festival look. Gretchen
laughed and clapped her hands and danced about until the house seemed
full of music to poor, tired Granny, whose heart had been sad as she
turned toward their home that night, thinking of the disappointment
which must come to loving little Gretchen the next morning.
After supper was over little Gretchen drew her stool up to Granny's
side, and laying her soft, little hands on Granny's knee, asked to be
told once again the story of the coming of the Christ-Child; how the
night that he was born the beautiful angels had sung their wonderful
song, and how the whole sky had become bright with a strange and
glorious light, never seen by the people of earth before. Gretchen had
heard the story many, many times before, but she never grew tired of
it, and now that Christmas Eve had come again, the happy little child
wanted to hear it once more.
When Granny had finished telling it the two sat quiet and silent for a
little while thinking it over; then Granny rose and said that it was
time for them to go to bed. She slowly took off her heavy wooden shoes,
such as are worn in that country, and placed them beside the hearth.
Gretchen looked thoughtfully at them for a minute or two, and then she
said, "Granny, don't you think that _somebody_ in all this wide world
will think of us to-night?"
"Nay, Gretchen," said Granny, "I don't think any one will."
"Well, then, Granny," said Gretchen, "the Christmas angels will, I know;
so I am going to take one of your wooden shoes, and put it on the
windowsill outside, so that they may see it as they pass by. I am sure
the stars will tell the Christmas angels where the shoe is."
"Ah, you foolish, foolish child," said Granny, "you are only getting
ready for a disappointment. To-morrow morning there will be nothing
whatever in the shoe. I can tell you that now."
But little Gretchen would not listen. She only shook her head and cried
out: "Ah, Granny, you don't talk enough to the stars." With this she
seized the shoe, and, opening the door, hurried out to place it on the
windowsill. It was very dark without, and something soft and cold
seemed to gently kiss her hair and face. Gretchen knew by this that it
was snowing, and she looked up to the sky, anxious to see if the stars
were in sight, but a strong wind was tumbling the dark, heavy
snow-clouds about and had shut away all else.
"Never mind," said Gretchen softly to herself, "the stars are up there,
even if I can't see them, and the Christmas angels do not mind
snowstorms."
Just then a rough wind went sweeping by the little girl, whispering
something to her which she could not understand, and then it made a
sudden rush up to the snow-clouds and parted them, so that the deep,
mysterious sky appeared beyond, and shining down out of the midst of it
was Gretchen's favourite star.