_Ellen Manly_
Farmer Jones was standing at his front gate one bright December morning
when a quaint figure came hurrying along the road--a bent old woman in
a long blue cloak, with the ruffles of a big cap flopping about her
wrinkled face.
“Good day!” said she, as soon as she was near enough to be heard.
“You’re Farmer Jones, I believe. I think you will do nicely to head the
procession--just step right behind me and we’ll move on!”
“And, pray, who are you and what should I be doing in a procession?”
cried the astonished man. “I’m quite too busy to leave home to-day!”
“Never mind!” answered the old crone, “I know all about _you_, for
I’ve heard you grumbling over the weather many a time. As I came down
the hill just now you were complaining at the cold and wishing it were
June--you’re a regular ‘weather fretter!’ I’m the Grumble Collector,
and you’d better do just as you’re told or there’ll be trouble. My name
is Dame Quimp, and my work is to hunt up grumblers and bring them to my
old friend Santa Claus before Christmas. If there’s anything he hates,
it is grumbling, and he says he is going to teach some folks a lesson
this year.
“It’s no use to say a word--just follow me, and be quick about it,
too!” So off started Dame Quimp with Farmer Jones behind her, grumbling
as he went.
She soon stopped short before a little house by the roadside and
listened a moment. There was a sound of violent stamping, and an angry
voice cried out: “I hate that old dress and I won’t wear the ugly
thing! I never have any pretty clothes!” and out on the porch rushed
the milliner’s little daughter, in a fine temper.
“Hoity-toity!” cried the dame. “You’re a pleasant little girl, to be
sure! Just the one I’m looking for! Never mind asking ‘Why?’ but stop
scolding at once and fall in line behind Farmer Jones.”
The child looked crosser than ever and began to cry, but she couldn’t
help herself, and away went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, and the
milliner’s little daughter.
As they neared the first corner, loud voices were heard and angry
tones, and there stood the baker’s boy and the grocer’s clerk having
a hot discussion. “It’s too far!” cried the first. “I can’t tramp way
over on the hill for _anybody_! I hate to be sent on errands from
morning till night from one end of town to the other!”
“So do I!” exclaimed the grocer’s clerk. “I’m always being told to take
something somewhere for somebody just when I want a little time to
myself. The skating’s fine to-day and I ought to get off early, but I
shan’t be allowed to. It’s a shame to have to carry bundles instead of
being on the pond!”
“Very well, young men!” cried Dame Quimp, “you shall have a nice long
walk. I’m very pleased to meet you! Just step next in line to the
little girl and we’ll hurry along! No questions, please!”
So off went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter,
the baker’s boy, and the grocer’s clerk.
As they passed the doctor’s house, the cook, in her apron and cap, was
standing at the gate grumbling to the ice-man. “Shure an’ ’tis nothin’
but cook, cook, cook, all day long, an’ meals havin’ to be kept hot fer
a man that’s niver in the house when he ought to be! I’m that tired of
wurruk that I’ve a foine mind to tell him he may cook fer himself fer a
while!”
“All right, Bridget!” called Dame Quimp, sharply. “You step off right
now! Just take your place next to the grocer’s clerk and we’ll move
on!” And away again went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s
little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, and the doctor’s
cook.
Pretty soon they came to little Tommy Brooks’s house, and there
was Tommy at the front door fussing with his mother. “I don’t need
any overcoat!” cried he, “and I can’t wear rubbers,--they hurt my
feet,--and I left my mittens at school! I hate to be bundled up just
like a girl, anyway, and I wish people would let little boys alone!”
“Thomas Brooks!” called out the dame, severely, “you put on that
overcoat and those rubbers at once and get behind the doctor’s
cook--you’re the boy for me! Step lively, now, all of you!” And off
started Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the
baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, and little Tommy
Brooks.
A little farther up the street the shoemaker’s wife was grumbling to a
neighbor, as she shook out her duster on the porch. “I’ve no patience
with housekeeping!” declared the sharp voice. “I don’t do anything
but chase dirt from morning till night, and yet the place is never
clean--and my work is never done. Yes, it _is_ a comfortable and pretty
house, but I’m tired of the sight of it! I have to go and sweep the
dining-room this very minute!”
“Oh no! not at all!” cried Dame Quimp. “That nice home of yours won’t
get any more cleaning _this_ day! You can fall right in line behind
Tommy Brooks, and no remarks, if you please!”
So off they went again--Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little
daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook,
little Tommy Brooks, and the shoemaker’s wife.
At the turn of the road there was the sound of excited talking and high
words, and there stood the minister’s twin grandchildren quarreling
over a sled and a pair of skates.
“I don’t want the old sled!” cried the boy. “I do nothing but give you
rides on it! You can just let me have the skates, and drag the sled,
yourself, for a while!”
“Take the old skates!” answered the little girl, angrily. “I can’t
stand up on them, anyway, and I’m tired of trying, and I don’t want the
sled, either. I wish people would give us some _nice_ presents. What’s
the use of being twins if you can’t have a good time?”
“Sure enough!” cried Dame Quimp. “Two nice little children who can’t
be happy with a fine sled and a pair of new skates--I never heard of
such a thing! Come right here and take places behind the shoemaker’s
wife; and don’t cry about it, either, for there’s no time to lose!” And
away hurried Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter,
the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy
Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, and the minister’s twin grandchildren.
Before long they came to the beautiful big house where the banker
lived, and there, just coming out of the gate, they met the governess,
looking much distressed and almost in tears. “What can I do for you, my
dear?” asked Dame Quimp, anxiously; “you seem to be in trouble. I’m the
Grumble Collector, and perhaps I can help you.”
“Indeed you can,” said the governess, eagerly, “if you will only tell
me what to do with the banker’s Dorothy. She has everything in the
world to please and amuse her, and yet she’s always in a fret. As for
clothes, she has so many pretty things that she can’t tell which she
wants to wear. I ran away just now because I was quite worn out with
her grumbling. I left her fussing over a pink, a blue, and a green
frock, trying to decide which to put on, and in such a temper that she
couldn’t look nice in anything.”
“I see! I see!” replied the dame; “a very bad case indeed! Just bring
her to me at once and she shall report to Santa Claus-- Ah, here she
is! Come right along, Dorothy; you’re just the kind of little girl
needed in this procession! Stop fretting, directly, and step in line
behind the minister’s twin grandchildren and we’ll move on!”
And away again went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little
daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook,
little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin
grandchildren, and the banker’s Dorothy.
“Let me see,” said the dame, as they reached the end of the street;
“I think I have heard that the barber’s grandmother was a terrible
grumbler--I might try to find out.” So at a little house at the corner
they all waited while she knocked vigorously at the door. It was opened
quickly by a sharp-looking little old woman who held on her arm a big
basket of mending.
“What do you want!” she said crossly. “I haven’t time to say a word to
anybody, so I can’t ask you in. I’m just as fretted as I can be with
all this mending to do! I do think that after darning socks for nearly
fifty years I might be allowed to hold my hands for a bit; but every
week here’s this great basket full and nobody but me to attend to it.
It makes me so cross that I grumble over every pair of the old socks--I
wish they were in Guinea!”
“Tut! Tut!” replied Dame Quimp, sternly. “I don’t know much about
Guinea, but I do know where _you’re_ going! You’re the very one to
finish my collection. Set down that basket at once and put on a warm
cloak and hood and follow the banker’s Dorothy, and we’ll go straight
to Santa Claus--he’ll be quite horrified to see such a string of
grumblers!”
So off once more went Dame Quimp, with Farmer Jones, the milliner’s
little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s
cook, little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin
grandchildren, the banker’s Dorothy, and the barber’s grandmother, all
following behind her, one after another.
They walked and they walked,--over the bridge and past the mill; out
beyond the golf-links; up one hill and down another; across ploughed
fields, and through narrow woodland paths, till they were all very
tired and cold, and the barber’s grandmother, being such an old woman,
was quite worn out. Dame Quimp, however, would listen to no complaints,
but kept them all strictly in line and hurried them on, until, in a
couple of hours’ time, they reached Christmas Town.
They found Santa Claus in his shop busily engaged in tying up
delightful-looking parcels in gay paper, with seals and labels, gold
and silver cord, scarlet and green ribbons, and sprigs of holly
scattered around him in every direction.
“Good day, old friend!” cried Dame Quimp as she entered. “I have done
a good morning’s work, as you see--all these are fine, first-class
grumblers, and not one of them deserves a Christmas gift. Let me
introduce them--here are Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter,
the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy
Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin grandchildren, the
banker’s Dorothy, and the barber’s grandmother. Take a good look at
them so you will make no mistakes.”
“Oh dear, dear!” cried Santa Claus, in much distress. “Is it really as
bad as that! I never should have thought you could find so many grumbly
people in a town full of pleasant things, with so much to make them
happy! I suppose I ought to give them a severe lesson to check this
terrible habit, but I’m afraid, Dame, that I should quite spoil my own
Christmas pleasure if I were to pass them all by!
“What can be done about it? Don’t you think we might let them off
_this_ time with a warning? I’m sure you must already have given them a
pretty good scolding, for it seems to me you are getting to be quite a
grumbler yourself, and I have no doubt you have been lecturing them all
along the way.”
“Indeed I have!” replied the dame, “and a thankless job it was! They’re
a troublesome lot, I tell you, and you’d better not let them off too
easily! But, of course, you must suit yourself.”
“Oh dear! Oh dear!” cried Santa Claus again, as he tried to look
sternly at the unhappy grumblers. “This is very sad--very sad indeed!
It is too near Christmas for any one even to _look_ cross, to say
nothing of scolding!” And here his round face broke into a broad smile,
and all the grumblers smiled, too.
“See, Dame Quimp!” cried he, eagerly, “these poor people are all in a
good temper already, and I feel sure that, if I trust them, they will
try very hard not to be grumblers any longer. Is it not so, my friends?”
And Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the
grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s
wife, the minister’s twin grandchildren, the banker’s Dorothy, and the
barber’s grandmother, all promptly answered, “Yes!”
“Now hurry home as fast as you can,” said Santa Claus, giving them each
a big stick of candy. “You have been gone so long that your friends
will be anxiously wondering where you are. Dame Quimp and the barber’s
grandmother will wait and have a cup of tea with me, and I will take
them home in my sleigh a little later.”
There was a perfect chorus of thanks and promises, a beaming smile from
Santa Claus, a reluctant grunt of farewell from Dame Quimp, and each
member of the grumbler procession set out at best speed on the return
trip.
It was late when they all reached home, but, strange to say, with
the exception of the doctor’s cook, the baker’s boy, and the grocer’s
clerk, not one of them had been missed, for the various friends and
relations had been having such a delightfully quiet and restful
afternoon that they had forgotten all about the departed grumblers.
[13] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”