_Edith Houghton Hooker_
Everybody’s hands were quite full of little pin-pricks from the holly
leaves. Alan and David and little Alice had all been helping with the
Christmas greens, and at last the wreaths were securely fastened on
tiny tacks in the windows, and sprays of holly peeped festively out
from behind each picture. There was a large red paper bell hanging from
the chandelier in the hall for Santa Claus to ring when he came in,
and beside it a sprig of mistletoe, so there would be no embarrassment
about kissing him in case he should be caught.
It was Christmas eve, and we all gathered around the fire to rest
after our labors and to speculate about the prospects for the morrow.
“Suppose he doesn’t come,” surmised David, “or suppose he would bring
us only switches!” The thought was terrifying.
“It all depends on what you deserve,” I answered. “Santa Claus has a
way, you know, of finding out just what each child really ought to get.”
“Well,” said Alan, the skeptic, “there are some who say there isn’t
any Santa Claus--that he’s just a story made up by older people to
amuse the children. I never knew of any one who’d seen him.”
Alice gasped. “You will get only switches, Alan, if you say such
things,” she warned him.
“There are people who deny everything that’s good and true,” I took the
conversation over, “but their lack of faith hurts no one as much as
themselves. Would you like to hear about the old man who denied there
was a Santa Claus and to learn what happened to him?”
“Please, please!” they all cried, and I began the story:
* * * * *
Once upon a time there was an old man whose name was Mr. Grouch, and he
had lived so many years that he could hardly count them. He was little,
and thin, and bent over, and wrinkled, and he had a scraggly little
beard and cross, snapping eyes. He used to carry a big stick that he
would shake at the boys when they laughed at him, and he never had a
smile for anybody. He lived all alone with one crabbed old man-servant
in a vast house, and no one even dared to ring the doorbell.
One Christmas eve I was coming down the street taking gifts around to
some friends, and my mind was full of Christmas. There was a new fall
of snow on the ground and the sleighbells were jingling. Even the busy
shopkeepers seemed to be in the Christmas spirit. Banks of fir-trees
stood on the corners, and every now and then I passed some one proudly
carrying home a tree over his shoulder. All of a sudden, whom should
I see coming toward me but old Mr. Grouch, looking crosser than ever.
He was shaking his stick at the Christmas trees and scowling at the
fat turkeys, and for a moment I was half afraid to speak to him. Still
it seemed too bad not to give the old man the season’s greetings, so
I called out as cheerily as I could--“A Merry Christmas to you, Mr.
Grouch!”
He turned on me, coming quite close and shaking his big stick in my
face, so that he frightened me. “A Merry Nonsense!” he snarled, biting
the words off short. “You should go home and attend to your business,
not go running around wasting your own time and other people’s. This
Merry Christmasing is all nonsense, I tell you, fit only for children
and simpletons. There’s no such person as Santa Claus! It’s all a myth
concocted by idle folk to fool the children.”
I stood quite still, rooted to the spot, in terror lest Santa Claus
should see me in such bad company.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Mr. Grouch!” I finally brought out.
“It’s wicked to deny the spirit of Christmas.”
“Wicked or not wicked,” he retorted, “I say it again--A Merry Nonsense
to you and all your kind!”
He looked so fierce that I hastened on my way without another word, and
as I turned the corner, I still heard him muttering--“A Merry Nonsense!
A Merry Nonsense!”
On he went homeward to his great dreary house, and there he found a
frugal supper laid out by the old man-servant. He ate without appetite
and then went upstairs. Then, after stuffing cotton in his ears and
closing both the windows and the shutters to keep out the music of the
bells and Christmas crackers, he climbed into his large four-poster
bed, and pulling his nightcap down over his head, he went fast asleep.
How long he slept, he never knew, but suddenly he awoke hearing a
strange sound. “_Plump!_” It was over near the fireplace, and there was
a great rush of falling soot and plaster.
Mr. Grouch sat up quickly, scratched a match, and lighted his bedside
candle. He lifted it high and scanned the room, peering out over the
bed-clothes like a strange gnome in his pointed nightcap. He stared at
the fireplace, and there--what do you think he saw? He could scarcely
believe his eyes--and yet, sure enough, it was Santa Claus, dressed all
in ermine and scarlet velvet, red cheeks glowing from the cold, his
white beard glistening with snowflakes. There he stood chuckling softly
and rubbing his hands together, the jolliest possible twinkle in his
kind blue eyes.
“A Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Grouch,” he said in a deep hearty voice.
Mr. Grouch trembled so that the candle wax dripped on his hand. “A
Merry Christmas, Sir,” he said, his voice sounding queer and squeaky.
“Now, Mr. Grouch,” said Santa Claus, smiling broadly, “that doesn’t
sound natural from you. Why don’t you say ‘A Merry Nonsense’? You don’t
believe in Santa Claus, and I know it, and I’ve come here this evening
to give you back your faith--as a Christmas present. Put that candle
down; get out of bed and into your clothes while I count three. My
reindeer will be tired waiting.”
Then you should have seen Mr. Grouch scramble. He popped his thin legs
into his trousers and laced up his boots with shaking fingers; then he
pulled on his greatcoat and wound his long knitted muffler round his
neck just as Santa Claus said three!
“You’ve forgotten your hat,” Santa Claus reminded him, chuckling. And
sure enough, there he stood, the funniest figure you can imagine, still
with his pointed nightcap on his head. He tore off his cap and placed
his old beaver in its stead just as Santa Claus gave him a great boost
that sent him flying up the chimney. Santa followed close after, and
Mr. Grouch could hear him puffing and panting, and digging his boots
into the side of the chimney as he came up behind him.
On top of the house it was all singularly quiet and peaceful. There was
snow everywhere, on all the roofs as far as the eye could reach, and
above was the limitless heaven with the calm stars shining out.
Santa Claus stretched his arm toward the East. “It was there,” he said,
“before I was born, that the wise men saw the Star of Bethlehem.” His
voice was so full and deep that the old man trembled. He looked out
over the great city and saw in a thousand homes the candles burning
for Christmas. A group of singers, strolling by in the street, stopped
and began to sing a Christmas carol. Suddenly the bells rang out from
churches far and near. It was midnight, they were pealing the glad
tidings.
“We must be off,” said Santa Claus; “we are already late; we must be
going.”
Mr. Grouch noticed now for the first time a wonderful little sleigh
drawn by eight reindeer harnessed in pairs together. In it lay Santa
Claus’s great pack, bursting with toys, and candy, and all sorts of joy
for the children. One or two switches which Mr. Grouch saw sticking out
on the top gave him a sense of uneasiness. “Get in, my man, get in!”
commanded Santa Claus, and they leaped into the sleigh. The reindeer
pawed the snow and snorted; then Santa Claus gave them the word and
away they went. Over the housetops and over the trees, on--on--like a
wind through the heavens. The old man clutched his hat down close on
his head and shook with fear as he saw the great city glide by beneath
them. Past the great houses they went and never drew rein. “They’re
rich there,” said Santa Claus; “they have more than they need. We won’t
stop; they’re untrue to the Spirit of Christmas.”
After a time they came to a part of the town where the houses were
all small and wretched-looking. “These are my boys and girls,” said
Santa, as he drew up on the roof of a particularly sorry-looking
little dwelling. The reindeer shook their great horns and their bells
jingled. The old man looked doubtfully at Santa Claus and then at the
little chimney.
“Can we get down?” he asked fearfully.
“It’s the size of their hearts, not the size of their chimneys, that
makes the difference,” answered Santa Claus. “I’ll go first and you
follow.”
He stepped in the chimney and down he went, and then Mr. Grouch stepped
in and down he went, also. The fire was out, and they found themselves
in a tiny little room all cold and wintry. Two little stockings were
hanging by the hearth, long and lank and empty, and in a bed near by,
two little children were sleeping. They were smiling happily as they
slept, dreaming of Christmas morning. Before the empty fireplace a
woman was sitting, dressed all in black. She was slight and small, and
around her thin shoulders she had drawn a shawl to protect herself from
the cold. Here there was no holly, no wreaths in the windows, nothing
at all to suggest Christmas except the unfilled stockings. The little
mother had her eyes fixed on the dead ashes, and her thoughts could not
have been happy for tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Oh, the poor
children!” she whispered to herself, with something very like a sob,
“what will they do in the morning?” She hid her face in her hands and
began to weep bitterly; and it was just at this juncture that Santa
Claus and Mr. Grouch came down the chimney.
“Her husband died two months ago,” whispered Santa Claus to Mr.
Grouch, “and she has nothing in the house for Christmas,--no toys, no
Christmas turkey, no nuts and raisins, nothing at all to fill those
hungry stockings.” A large tear rolled down his cheek. Mr. Grouch
sniffed and looked uneasily at the sleeping children.
“Now,” said Santa Claus, “watch and see what happens.”
While the little widow sobbed on, he took one thing after another out
of his wonderful pack--nuts, raisins, candy canes, a beautiful great
doll with yellow curls and blue eyes that went to sleep, a little
railway-train, a top, a small tea-set, a doll’s chair, and finally,
several pieces of nice warm clothing. Then he proceeded to fill the
stockings with remarkable speed. When they were finished, the doll
was peeping out of one, and the little engine out of the other. Mr.
Grouch thought it was all over; but no, Santa Claus reached far down
into his pack once more and brought out a beautiful Christmas basket.
The fat legs of a turkey were standing out amid cranberries, and sweet
potatoes, and oranges, and apples, and every other sort of good thing
you can imagine.
Santa Claus placed the basket under the stockings, and then poked Mr.
Grouch in the ribs so hard that it made him jump. “Now,” said he,
“watch; for she’ll be looking up.”
And sure enough, in a moment the little widow sighed and raised her
eyes. Then you should have been there to see her. Her poor little face
grew quite pink with joy, she gasped, and her breath came fast with
bewilderment. She rubbed her eyes with her thin hands; she couldn’t
believe it was not a dream. Then she gave a little cry, just between a
sob and a laugh, and fell on her knees before the basket.
She poked the fat turkey and felt deftly between all the other things
until she knew exactly what was in the basket. “We’ll have a beautiful
Christmas dinner, after all,” she said, “even a turkey!” She didn’t
take a thing out of the stockings--just peeped in and felt softly down
the long knobby legs. “I’ll leave them for the children just as he
packed them, the dear saint!” she murmured to herself. She went over
to the children and kissed each one softly; they smiled and wriggled
cosily in their sleep. Then she looked over again at the wonderful
hearthside--it seemed to Mr. Grouch that she looked straight at him,
though of course she couldn’t see him as both he and Santa Claus had
on caps of darkness. Her face was shining with a wonderful light of
love and joy. Her eyes beamed like two stars, and the room seemed to be
filled with a kind of glory. “It’s the blessed spirit of Christmas,”
she whispered brokenly, “come to cheer my fatherless little ones and
me.” Then she knelt down by her little bed, and it was plain that she
was praying.
Santa Claus nodded triumphantly at Mr. Grouch, shaking off another big
tear, and Mr. Grouch returned the look tremulously. He drew a large red
handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped both eyes before speaking.
“Couldn’t we take off our caps of darkness,” he finally whispered,
“and wish her a Merry Christmas?”
“A Merry Nonsense!” said Santa Claus, laughing until his fat sides
shook; “no--we’re not allowed to be seen. ’_Sh-h!_ it’s time to go up
the chimney.”
Up they went into the dark night where the reindeer were waiting for
them. Into the sleigh they jumped and off they started, and, as the
wind whistled by them, Mr. Grouch said: “Santa Claus, I feel I owe you
an apology. When I saw her face--”
Santa Claus interrupted him: “If you’re ready to admit you were wrong,
go out to-morrow and wish every one a Merry Christmas.”
Far, far away they went, out over the rolling sea till they came to
a ship which had had to sail out from port just three days before
Christmas. Down into the forecastle they went, where the sailors were
sadly thinking of their homes, and spread cheer around until each man
wished the other a Merry Christmas.
All the long night they sped over the great world leaving joy behind
them. They visited the children’s hospitals, where little boys and
girls were lying awake, weeping for their mothers, and they quieted
them and touched them with joy, and they slept, forgetful of their
pain and sorrow. They visited sinful men in prison and softened their
hearts, and they stopped at the homes of the rich and bade them
remember their poorer brothers.
It was a night to dream of, such as no one else but Santa Claus can
ever know again, but at last the pink glow of morning showed in the
eastern sky.
“It’s time to be getting home,” said Santa Claus. “We can be seen if
we’re out when the day is dawning.”
In a moment they had landed safely on Mr. Grouch’s roof.
“Good-by,” said Santa Claus, as he politely helped his passenger to
alight and to shake off the snow and start down the chimney, “and
remember, you are never to say you don’t believe in Santa Claus again!”
“Never in all this world!” said Mr. Grouch, in heartfelt tones. “Long
live the spirit of Christmas!” He took off his hat and bowed in an
old-fashioned, ceremonious manner just before the reindeer leaped into
the air and started in the direction of the North Pole.
Mr. Grouch must have slid down the chimney and gone to bed after
that, but in the morning he had forgotten all about that part of the
adventure.
When the sun was high, the old man-servant knocked at the door and
reminded him that breakfast was waiting. Mr. Grouch woke with a start.
“A Merry Christmas to you, Andrew,” he shouted.
The old servant ran almost all the way downstairs with never a word. He
thought his master must be mad, for he had never heard him give that
greeting before in all his thirty years of service.
* * * * *
On Christmas morning I went out to take some toys, to the crippled
children’s hospital, and there, coming down the street, whom should I
see but old Mr. Grouch, a gayly decorated little Christmas tree over
his shoulder, the pockets of his greatcoat bulging with toys and candy,
and behind him, trooping merrily along, an endless chain of boys and
girls, each with a toy and a bag of candy.
I stood stock-still with surprise and waited for the procession to come
up.
“A Merry Christmas to you!” shouted Mr. Grouch, his face glowing from
the crisp air, and all the children called out too, “A Merry Christmas!”
“We’re going to take this tree to some fatherless children,” he said:
“would you like to come along with us?”
When I found my voice, I explained my errand and, quick as a wink, Mr.
Grouch said they would stop at the hospital too, on the way to the
other children. So on we went, all together, and everybody smiled and
beamed and echoed our joy as soon as they saw us.
It must have been merely my imagination, but Mr. Grouch’s voice sounded
to me just like Santa Claus’s as he wished everybody “Merry Christmas!”
He spent the whole day going round from one poor family to another,
taking them toys and good cheer and leaving joy everywhere behind him.
Now the most curious part of the story is yet to come, for, would you
believe it, Mr. Grouch has grown quite fat and jolly as time has gone
by, until now, if you saw him, except for his black coat you would
think he was Santa Claus. He has round red cheeks and a shining white
beard, and his eyes are no longer cross and snapping; they beam upon
every one the whole year round as if they were always saying, “I wish
you a Merry Christmas!”
All of which goes to prove that Santa Claus is just as real as we think
him, for each one of us can show by our own deeds and words the reality
of the Spirit of Christmas.
* * * * *