_Elaine Sterne_
The little boy in No. 60 pressed his nose against the cold window-pane
and looked out over the school yard. It was a deserted white courtyard,
with a few muddy footprints zigzagging across the snow toward the
second dormitory. There was, to be sure, a rusty puddle in one corner
where the drops from the rain-pipe spattered, but aside from that, four
gray walls with staring windows looked him back square in the eye, no
matter how far he twisted his head.
The little boy had been ill. Even now, a bright red flannel compress
was wound about his tender throat, and he was propped up in a
much-too-big Morris chair, with a plaid rug across his knees. There is
nothing to being sick at school--nothing at all. The little boy in No.
60 could have told you that, because he had had two months of it, and
only now, at Christmas time, had he begun to get well.
Of course, on the other hand, the infirmary is good sport, with Mrs.
Darling fussing over you and feeding you hot broths from a little
blue china bowl. But even with Mrs. Darling tucking you in here and
patting you down there, and even with the boys stumbling in for a few
minutes to chatter about the junior team and the senior squad, there is
something very “wantable” that you miss most fearfully much. Something
that begins with a capital “M.” The little boy in No. 60 never let
himself get farther than the capital “M,” because his mother was a
whole ocean away, and it wasn’t any good wishing for her anyway, you
see, it cost so much to come.
The little boy in No. 60 sat by the window a long time, until the
shadows began to get long and black and reaching, and a crisp
chilliness was in the air. He wound the plaid rug tightly about him,
until only his sharp little chin peeked out, and he was glad when he
heard the door click and Mrs. Darling rustled in.
“And was the little plum-pudding left all by himself?” she asked,
switching on the lights briskly. “Such a busy day as it’s been--what
with putting the place to rights after the young gentlemen, and getting
the perfessers off for the holiday, why we forgot all and everything
about you. You’re not cold, are you?”
“Not very,” said the little boy, quietly; “not very, at all.”
“Well, I’m having Nora build us a fire in the study, and I’ll carry you
down across my shoulder, like the little pack of bones that you are.”
“Perhaps I could walk, if you--”
“Walk! And do you think I couldn’t lift you, after caring for you two
whole months? Mercy! but the boy’s getting well!”
Even as she spoke, she was bundling the plaid about him and lifting him
gently. There is something rather revolting in having a woman carry
you, just like a tiny baby, and the little boy’s mouth stiffened, and
he stuck out his chin.
“Just as you like,” he said. “Only do be sure nobody sees you doing it.”
Mrs. Darling laughed aloud. “I’ll be so careful that I’ll drop you like
a hot potato if any one comes sneaking around.”
And so the little boy in No. 60 was carried ignominiously down the long
stairs, his fair head resting against Mrs. Darling’s plump shoulder.
Nora, down on her hands and knees, was piling logs on a roaring fire.
It did look cozy. The little boy was almost glad he had come, only
fires and crackling logs somehow need a great laughing crew about them.
You really shouldn’t be at all lonesome beside a fire, because it is
such a big, warm, glorious, friendly thing. Mrs. Darling set him down
carefully and stuffed a pillow behind his back. The little boy quite
hated the sight of a pillow, but he let it stay because it _did_ feel
good in that spot, and then she bustled away, for just “half a minute,”
and left him watching Nora, still poking and prodding the fire as
though she were trying to keep it awake.
Suddenly he spoke. “Nora,” he said, “what ever are you crying for?”
Nora did not answer, but her shoulders began to shake, and she dropped
the poker.
“Nora, I guess perhaps I know why you’re crying,” he said thoughtfully.
“O-o-h!” moaned Nora, her hands over her face. “It’s homesick I am, and
I’ve thried me bes’ niver to shid a tear, an’ now what’ll Mrs. Darlin’
say?”
“Never mind her,” he said soothingly. “Never mind her at all. Perhaps,
Nora, if you keep on crying, I’ll cry too, and it wouldn’t be very good
for me, I don’t--believe.” There was the least bit of a catch in his
voice, and Nora swung around.
“For shame on me!” she cried, “whin it’s you as should be
mournin’--bein’ so sick an’ little an’ swate. Sure, an’ don’t you begin
to cry, for Mrs. Darlin’ will be blamin’ me.”
“I’ll try not to,” he said quietly. “I’ll try very hard. Nora,” he
said, “have you a-a--m-oth--”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I’ve niver had one--that is, since I
was too schmall to remimber.”
“Then what are you homesick for?”
“It’s me brothers, and sisters, and their childer, an’ the tree, an’
stockin’s,--an’--oh, it’s Christmas--”
“I see,” he said solemnly.
“Nora,” he added suddenly, “why couldn’t we have a tree?”
“Sure, an’ where’d we get it?”
“I don’t know, except where everybody gets trees--I guess you buy
them.”
“Yes, an’ they’re after costin’ a heap of money, too.”
“I suppose so,” he said. Then he clasped his hands. “Nora,” he said,
“we simply _must_ have some kind of a tree, because, you see, it
wouldn’t be Christmas at all if we didn’t.”
“There ain’t nothin’ in the house that’d do for a tree, I don’t
suppose.”
“No--not unless--oh, Nora, the hat-tree! The _hat_-tree!”
“The hat-tree, is it? A shiny mahogany tree? Oh, it’s better than that
we can do.”
“I believe,” his eyes were very bright--“I believe that would do all
right. Of course we’d have to pretend it was a glorious tree that
reached to the ceiling, and that it was aglow with candles--and--and,
Nora, w-we could play I was the king, and you, and Mrs. Darling, and
old Patrick, and the cook were poor subjects that I had invited in
for the--the--feast; and we could have apples--and stockings--and
nuts--and--”
“Sure, I don’t believe Mrs. Darlin’ will be lettin’ you do it.”
But just at that moment Mrs. Darling, bearing a big tray, appeared.
“Guess what you’re going to have for supper to-night,” she called
across the cloud of steam that rose, but the little boy was too eager
to guess.
“Oh, Mrs. Darling!” he cried, “can’t we have a Christmas party here?
Can’t we have you and Nora and Patrick and--”
“A Christmas party! And this Christmas eve! Whatever are you thinking
of? With Nora, and old Patrick, and no tree or nothing--”
Something about the little boy’s face stopped her short. Perhaps it was
his eyes. You see, they had grown very large and “wishful” since his
illness, and they had a way of speaking much more distinctly than his
lips. He did not say a word, but just watched Mrs. Darling until she
felt a big lump spring into her throat.
“I guess we can manage it somehow,” she said suddenly, “although I
don’t see exactly how.”
The little boy clapped his hands.
“Let me do it!” he cried. “I’m going to pretend that I am--well--a sort
of a--” It was much easier telling Nora things than Mrs. Darling. Some
people have such an understanding way.
“Sure,” broke in Nora, “it’s a king he’s goin’ to be, with us a-bowin’
an’ a-scrapin’ before him!”
“I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind,” said the little boy,
apologetically, a pink flush mounting into his pale cheeks. “You see,
it would only be pretending, and I--guess--perhaps--Patrick, and the
cook, and Nora wouldn’t mind pretending, on Christmas, just this once,
when it’s only a make-believe Christmas, after all.”
“You can be as big a king as you want to,” said Mrs. Darling, with a
laugh, “if you eat the chicken soup I’ve brought you and the buttered
toast.”
The little boy sighed contentedly and obediently tucked a napkin under
his chin. He could feed himself now. He was very glad of that. But
to-night his hand trembled a bit, and he set down his spoon hastily.
“I don’t believe I want any soup,” he said slowly, but Mrs. Darling
shook her head.
“Here, let me give it to you. And then you’ll have time after dinner to
think up what you are going to do. I believe we could roast some of the
chestnuts Patrick picked up to-day.”
So the little boy drank each mouthful as quickly as he could, and
munched the toast without speaking another word. After he had finished,
Mrs. Darling brought him a pad and pencil.
“Here, Your Majesty,” she said, smiling, “write down your commands.”
The little boy’s eyes brightened, and he looked up at her shyly.
“You don’t mind playing it, do you?” he asked.
“Mind! Why, I guess it will do us all a world of good, old as we are,”
she said.
Of course after that, there was nothing for him to do but to write
down, in a shaky hand, his commands.
“Cut down the highest tree in the forest,” he wrote first. “It must be
so high and so strong that it takes three men to chop it down. Then
carry it into the banquet-hall and set it up.” Here he stopped. “Do you
suppose we _can_ have the hat-tree, Mrs. Darling?” he asked.
“You can have anything you want,” she said firmly.
“Order the Great-High-Tree-Trimmer, Sir Patrick, to enter, and to hang
the gold and silver bells on the tree, and to light the candles-- We
can pretend the hat-tree has candles on it, can’t we?” he paused to ask.
“Of course we can,” she assured him.
“Then light the-- What was it they burned at Christmas, Mrs. Darling?”
“The Yule log.”
“Yes. Light the Yule log, and pile up the presents under the tree--all
kinds--whatever any one has ever wished for in the world. Then hang the
stockings on the mantel, and let the Great-High-Filler, Lady Nora, fill
them with toys and books and--and--electric engines. Then let the doors
be flung open and the guests enter. There!” he said, with a little
sigh, “that’s all.”
“That’s enough for to-night,” said Mrs. Darling, looking at his flushed
cheeks. “Just put your seal to it.”
The little boy solemnly wrote “Rex,” just as he had seen it done in
books, and handed the paper to Mrs. Darling with a smile.
“It will be a--a glorious--Christmas,” he said bravely; “just a
glorious one!” Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes,
for he was suddenly very tired.
* * * * *
Have you ever awakened on Christmas morning, with the cold clear
sunlight slanting across your floor, and the blue sky peeking in your
window, and yet not even felt the least bit glad it _was_ Christmas?
The little boy opened his eyes and looked around as though he half
expected to see a bursting stocking, and to hear his moth-- He jerked
over on his side. Even if it was Christmas morning, what was to prevent
a fellow from taking another nap! But something hot and wet slid down
his cheek, before he could stop it, and, as long as there wasn’t any
one around, it didn’t make so much difference. But the little boy
brushed it angrily away and sat up in bed.
“Merry Christmas!” he said fiercely to the table in the corner. “Merry
Christmas!” and he lay back on his pillows with his eyes fixed on the
ceiling and his lip between his teeth. Somebody was whistling in the
lower corridor. He could hear it quite distinctly, and it sounded so
glad and cheerful that the little boy slid to the floor, although his
legs wabbled under him, and opened the door.
“Hullo, down there!” he called over the banisters. “Merry Christmas!”
“Hullo, up there!” came back old Patrick’s crackled voice. “Merry
Christmas, Your Majesty.”
The little boy laughed out loud.
“Patrick, Patrick, do come up! How did you know to call me that?”
“Sure, Your Majesty, I’ll be there as soon as I mop up the last few
steps. Git back into bed, and I’ll come and pay you me respects.”
The little boy climbed back gladly under the warm covers and waited for
the old man, his eyes shining eagerly.
Patrick thumped heavily up the stairs, then rapped loudly on the little
boy’s door.
“You may enter,” said the little boy, stiffly, though he did giggle
just the least bit, for old Patrick had pulled off his cap and shuffled
in with his head bent.
“The top o’ th’ mornin’ to Your Majesty!” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“The same to you, Sir Patrick. Have you cut down the--the highest tree?”
“Sure, and it’s so high that I’m after thinkin’ the little people have
bewitched it.”
“And--and where have they put it?”
“Right beside your throne, Your Majesty.”
“Oh,” said the little boy, with a gasp, “I forgot about having a
throne! Isn’t that fine!”
“And the ceremonies are to begin immejetly after your royal breakfast.”
“But, Patrick--Sir Patrick, I mean,--can we have the chestnuts you
picked?”
“Sure thirty men have been gatherin’ chestnuts for Your Majesty since
yesterday mornin’--and the chief cook is roastin’ ’em on the kitchen
stove.”
“Oh--oh--and when can we have the feast?”
“Whin every one’s wished for whatever they wants the most in the
world,” said old Patrick, with never a smile, “and not a minute before!”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that, Your Majesty; just that!” he said solemnly as he backed out
of the room.
“Oh, wait, Sir Patrick!” the little boy cried.
“I can’t wait, Your Majesty, for there’s much to be done, includin’
shovelin’ the snow off the front path.” And with a wave of his hand he
was gone.
The little boy bombarded Mrs. Darling with questions when she appeared
with his breakfast.
“What did Patrick mean? When are we going to begin? Oh, what ever does
Patrick, and Nora, and the cook want for Christmas? What do you suppose
I can give them that will make them ever so happy?”
“Help! help! Your Majesty!” cried Mrs. Darling, putting her hands over
her ears. But the little boy persisted.
“Please, couldn’t I give them something?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Darling, importantly, “if you won’t tell, I have a
present for each one of them.”
“Oh, but you had them to give yourself!”
“It doesn’t matter who gives things, Your Majesty, so long as people
get them. It’s the getting them that counts.”
The little boy nodded gravely. There was a great deal in that. And he
waited for Mrs. Darling to continue.
“There are a pair of heavy woolen mittens for Patrick to keep his hands
warm all winter, and for Nora a red scarf of just the right shade to
set off her black hair and eyes. For the cook there is a stout new pair
of overshoes, hers being worn to the very sole.”
But still the boy was not satisfied. Mrs. Darling saw it in his eyes,
and she guessed the reason.
“As for me,” she said carelessly, “I don’t expect to get anything--let
alone what I really want and need most of anything in the world.”
“W-what _do_ you need?” asked the little boy, eagerly, entirely
forgetting about his breakfast.
Mrs. Darling shrugged her shoulders. “It’s something I have use for
every day, and nobody could be expected to think of it.”
The little boy hitched his shoulders impatiently. “It’s fun telling
what you want, anyhow,” he said.
“Well, then, I never can remember the things I have to do without
putting them down on a pad, and I never have a pad handy. If only some
one would string some sheets of paper together for me to scribble
things on. But what’s the use of talking! Whoever would think of such a
thing!”
The little boy smothered a laugh the best way he could, and tried to
look very solemn while Mrs. Darling lifted the tray off his knees.
“The packages have all got to be tied up, and, although I haven’t a bit
of red ribbon, pink and blue will do every bit as well,” she said.
“Yes,” agreed the little boy, “only--only don’t come back for--about
half an hour, will you? I want to write--to--well, some letters, you
know.”
Mrs. Darling nodded, and closed the door softly.
* * * * *
Of course, when you have only half an hour to make a whole Christmas
present, it behooves you to hurry. The little boy reached over for his
dressing-gown and slipped his arms into it, then drew on his slippers.
He remembered his arithmetic pad--or, rather, there _had_ been an
arithmetic pad before he was taken ill--and it ought to be in his desk
drawer, behind the French Grammar. He opened the drawer and pushed
aside the French Grammar with a shout, for there lay the pad! He lifted
it out, and, as he did so, something slipped from its pages. It was a
letter. He knew the writing, even if he had not recognized the foreign
stamp. He stood very still, staring at it where it had fallen, a white
blur, on the floor. Then he winked his eyes hard and picked it up.
“My darling little son,” it ran, “if I could only be with you this--”
“Pshaw!” he said huskily, “it costs so much to come!” And he turned his
back abruptly on the desk without another word.
When Mrs. Darling knocked at the door, a short time later, there was a
long pause before a hurried “Come in,” replied.
The little boy looked very uncomfortable, as though he were just about
to be caught doing something he shouldn’t do, and there was a look
about one of his pillows as though something had been hastily stuffed
beneath it. Mrs. Darling’s arms were full of packages and paper,
besides a quantity of pink and blue ribbon which gave her very much the
appearance of a Maypole.
“Will Your Royal Majesty fasten up the presents now?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the little boy, gravely; “but how about the stockings?
There must be stockings.”
“The stockings are already hung by the mantelpiece in the study, just
as Your Majesty commanded, and Lady Nora is filling them with fudge and
nuts and apples, besides a sprinkling of ginger-cookies, that she made
at the last minute.”
“O-o-oh!” cried the little boy; “how splendid!”
“And Sir Patrick is trimming up the tree with great boughs of
evergreen.”
The little boy’s face was radiant.
“And nobody knows what they’re going to get?”
“I should say not!” said Mrs. Darling; “although I heard Nora wishing
for a red scarf a few minutes ago.”
Then the little boy set to work. There are any quantity of ways to tie
up Christmas presents so that they will look as though they were full
of your heart’s desire. Of course to do that you must have tissue-paper
that is soft and crinkly, and red, red ribbon, besides a sprig of holly
to lay across the top. The little boy had only stiff brown paper, but
it did very well, for it bulged out in places where it shouldn’t have,
and made the packages look a great deal more imposing than they really
were.
Mrs. Darling insisted on his getting dressed after that. There was a
very best suit in the closet that he had not worn for weeks, and he
slipped it on, although it hung rather loosely upon him.
“Kings always have to dress up,” she explained; “that’s one of the
worst things about being a king.” So the little boy submitted to having
his hair brushed and his face washed, although he would a great deal
rather have been left alone to finish his present.
“Of course you can’t go down into the study until the feast is ready,”
she said. “You see, every one is getting dressed for it, including old
Patrick himself, so as to be fit to enter the banquet-hall.”
The little boy nodded. He understood exactly how one must appear before
a king, and he felt just a little sorry for Patrick and the rest. Mrs.
Darling gathered up the packages.
“Nora is going to hang them on the tree,” she explained, “and when the
guests have all assembled, why, then I’ll send the heralds to escort
you to your court.”
After Mrs. Darling had left him, he sat still a long time, listening
to the hum of voices in the lower corridor. There was an excitement in
the air, something that seemed to hum and throb and thrill. Perhaps it
was the sweet smell of the cranberry sauce that was wafted up to him,
or perhaps it was Nora’s shrill whispering, but it was there--a great
unknown _something_ that sent the little boy’s pulses leaping.
After a while, he heard some one stamping up the stairs.
“Sure and is the king ready for the feast?” called out Patrick’s voice.
“Yes, oh, yes!” said the little boy, breathlessly; “but, Patrick,
Patrick, do hang this on the tree for Mrs. Darling, won’t--”
He stopped short, for at his door stood a bowing Patrick in a shabby
black suit, and a curtseying Nora in a bright blue dress. Between them
they held a cushion. The little boy recognized it. It was one of the
green plush cushions from the headmaster’s couch, and he laughed aloud.
“If you’ll be climbin’ on the pillow,” said Nora, as they lowered it
between them, “we’ll be carryin’ you to the feast.”
Somehow when the little boy--white and fair and eager--was perched on
the cushion, he did look like a flaxen-haired little king, between two
loyal subjects. It was a very serious matter to him, and although his
mouth would curl at the corners when they fell out of step, his eyes
were very grave, and he bowed his head first to Mrs. Darling, then to
the cook, who awaited him at the foot of the stairs.
“Three cheers for the king!” shouted old Patrick at the top of his
voice.
“Three cheers!” they called.
“Let the king make a speech,” cried Patrick, and Mrs. Darling echoed,
“Speech!”
“Oh!” cried the little boy. Then he recovered himself, and his eyes
wandered over their heads, beyond, to the closed door. “Dear, dear
people,” he said, in a hurried, breathless sort of way, “may this be
the--the--merriest Christmas you have ever had. May you get whatever
you want--even if it is the impossiblest thing in the world--even if
it--it--costs so much--”
“Ah hah!” cried Patrick quite forgetting that a king must never be
interrupted, no matter how long he takes. “Ah hah, it’s a pair of
gloves I’m wishin.’ for, but never a glove will I get!”
“And as for me,” cried Mrs. Darling, “His Majesty is the only one who
knows what I want, and that’s quite enough, seeing it’s such a hopeless
thing!”
“It’s a beautiful rid shawl I’m after wantin’,” sighed Nora; “but it’s
niver a rid shawl I’ll see this Christmas--”
“And I need a pair of overshoes the worst way,” said the cook, smiling;
“but whoever would think of that!”
“Oh!” cried the little boy, his eyes shining with gladness. “Oh! now we
can surely go to the feast, for every one’s wished for what they want
most in the world--do hurry and open the door!”
“Wait!” said old Patrick, raising his hand, “I haven’t heard His
Majesty askin’ for a thing--I--”
“But kings, Patrick--kings don’t ever _get_ things, they all the time
_give_ them!”
“This is Christmas, Your Majesty, and before that door is opened,
every one, king included, wishes for the thing he wants most. Quick
now--what’ll you have?”
“Oh,” said the little boy, suddenly shrinking, “please--_please_--”
“Go on, Your Majesty,” said Patrick, firmly, “for until you wish the
feast stays on the other side of the door.”
“Oh--oh--” the little boy covered his face, “I--I--mustn’t even think
about it--and--and I’m trying--”
“Is it a ball you’re wantin’?”
“Oh, no!”
“A steam-engine?”
“No!”
“A pair of boxin’-gloves?”
“No--no--_no_! It’s--my--mother--I want!” he said, with a sob.
“Hullo!” said Patrick, flinging the door open suddenly, “and why
couldn’t you have said that long ago, instid of keepin’ her sittin’
here and waitin’ for you full half an hour--”
* * * * *
Late that night, after Nora, with her red scarf over her shoulders, had
gathered up the remains of the Christmas feast, and only a low, red,
cozy light gleamed beneath the burnt-out logs, the little boy raised
his head from his mother’s shoulder and laid his hand on her cheek.
“But it cost so much to come!” he said softly, with a little shake in
his voice. She drew him down in her arms, with a way mothers have.
“Look!” she whispered, “there’s the last spark! “Wish--quick--wish!”
“I wish,” he said slowly, “--I wish every girl and boy in the world has
had as happy a Christmas as I have. I wish--”
But he didn’t get any farther, for the tiny red spark went out quite
gently, as if it did not want at all to disturb the little boy in No.
60 and his mother.
[14] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.