_Thomas Travis_
There were three of them, plodding wearily through the snow, a man,
a woman, and a boy about six years old. The man and the woman seemed
gloomy, sad, and walked along silently till, with a deep sigh, the man
spoke: “It’s too bad, too bad, Mother, the storm coming up like this.
If it had only held off a couple of hours more, we’d have made town all
right. But as it is--well, what’ll we do?” And he looked wearily at the
snow-covered mountains and the trackless waste of snow. He shivered as
his cold face brushed a laden bush that dabbed his bare neck with icy
snow. “It’s bitter cold, isn’t it, Mother? And if I’m not mistaken, the
storm’s only just beginning.”
The mother was too tired to answer. They had walked this way all day.
“If it had only held off a couple of hours,” the man repeated gloomily,
“we’d have made the town all right. And there’s a job for me there.
We’d have had a good Christmas, after all.”
“Oh well, Daddy,” said little Sandy, sturdily, “maybe the storm’ll stop
soon and somebody come along and give us a ride. Wouldn’t it be fun if
we could have a real sleigh-ride--at Christmas?”
But nobody came along the bleak waste, as they still plodded on. And
the storm did not stop. It blew up stronger and stronger before a
bitter northeast wind that sent whirling clouds of icy snow against
their faces and sifted it down their necks, till they were wet and half
frozen. It was only about four in the afternoon; but the wind had now
risen to a howling storm that made the great trees rock and groan and
scream in answer to the snoring of the white gale, and forced the three
to bend almost double to force their way against it.
They were all three tired, miserably tired, and hungry and cold. The
snow-laden swirls covered them till they looked like walking ghosts.
Little Sandy’s feet ached dreadfully; but he was a sturdy lad, and as
he walked, he kept chattering out all sorts of questions, just to keep
his mind off his cold feet. He didn’t care whether his questions were
answered or not--he just talked.
A big crow came swirling down the gale, veered in the shelter of a
clump of pines, set his black wings, and, with a doleful caw, settled
on one of the lower branches. Another did the same, and another, the
three crows snuggling up to each other with a soft chuckle that said,
just as plain as plain could be: “Boy, but it’s cold! And it’s going
to be a cold night for old Jim Crow. Better be looking up a bed now,
before it gets too dark. It’s a hummer, this gale is, a hummer!”
And the father felt just about the same. “We’d better look for some
sort of a shelter, Mother,” he said; “we can’t make town to-night.
We’ll be frozen stiff. Just my luck! Out of work since Thanksgiving;
get a letter that there’s a good job here for me if I can make it by
Christmas--and here’s this snow!” And he peered through the blinding
storm to where the city lights showed once in a while deep down in the
valley.
“But look, Dad!” Sandy shouted; “look! There’s just the place for us.”
And he pointed down in a hollow, where a little log-cabin lay pushed
into a thick clump of tall evergreens.
Snow was drifted over the roof and over the trail to the door, as they
entered and looked around. In fact, it had no door, only the place
for one. It had two windows, but only one had glass in it. And it had
neither fireplace nor stove--only a square of logs filled in with sand,
for the fire, and a hole in the roof to let the smoke out.
“Just my luck!” said the father; “just my luck!” And he shivered again
as the bitter wind swirled a cloud of icy snow through the door and
window.
But Sandy piped up: “Well, anyhow, it’s better than nothing. And
besides, I think it’s just fine. We can camp here and be all right.
Come on, let’s make a warm fire.” For his feet ached now so badly he
could scarcely keep the tears back.
They hunted around, found an old lantern, and lit it, for it was now
dark. And the gale had helped them somewhat, after all. For they found
great dry branches of the fragrant pine, broken off by the wind, piled
in heaps--some of it splintered to shreds under the twisting of the
gale.
Soon a roaring fire was going. But the wind, howling through the
doorway and the window, made it pretty hard to get warm.
“Just my kind of luck!” grumbled the father.
But Sandy said: “Supposin’ we get some of those little trees, those
pine and spruce, and pack them in the door and window. That will keep
the wind out, and make us snug as a bug in a rug. Come on.”
So they packed the window and the door with spruce-trees broken off
and stuck in the deep drift. Father sighed a bit with satisfaction,
and Mother sat down with a weary smile, thrusting her hands out to the
blaze as she looked tenderly at the boy.
“Fine Christmas, isn’t it?” grunted the father, again; “fine Christmas!
Look at the icicles hanging on that spruce. Look at the snow powdering
the tree, and that right in the room with us. Fine Christmas!”
“Sure it’s fine,” said Sandy, sturdily. “I think it’s finer than a
boughten tree. It’s a real Christmas tree, and it’s got real icicles,
not glass ones. And it’s got real snow for powder. All we want is
some birds and stars and things on it, and there wouldn’t be a better
Christmas tree anywhere. Mother and Daddy, you rest. I’ll go out here
and get a good stack of wood,--that’ll keep the fire going,--and then
we’ll have something to eat and we’ll be fine.” So, stamping his cold
feet, he squeezed through the blocked door and crept out under the
great pines.
Now what with the dense evergreens and the log-cabin, it was
comparatively quiet and calm there under the pines. And Sandy got his
first glimpse of how the wild creatures live through a storm. The
lower branches of the pines were crowded with crows, jays, and other
feathered waifs of the storm. They were doing their best to keep warm,
and having a hard time of it in that bitter gale.
You know, these wild birds must sleep out in all kinds of weather. You
know, too, that most birds’ feet can cling to a bough even when they
are asleep. Also, you know that feather coats are warmer even than fur.
And these birds, huddled together for shelter, picking out the thickest
parts of the low boughs, snuggled down in the roaring gale and tucked
their heads under their wings, crouching down low so that their feather
overcoats could cover them from head to feet.
But perhaps you may not know that there is one weak point about this
feather overcoat. They can not entirely cover up in it. There is just
one spot at the eye which they can not cover. That too, perhaps, is
to shield them. They keep one eye out, literally, for the fox and the
owl and the hawk. But on a bitter night like this, there is another
trouble. If it gets too cold, that one spot, meant for a lookout, will
freeze. And often after a bitter winter gale you will find crows and
jays and snowbirds blinded by the cold. They have changed positions,
put one eye, and then the other under, but been able to keep neither
warm. That one bit, exposed, acts just as if you were all tucked in
blankets, except one toe. You can keep changing the toe, but in bitter
weather, very bitter, that toe will freeze. So with the birds that
roost. They have no nest; they do not crawl into some hole. They roost
in fear of their enemies, and sometimes pay the terrible penalty for
that one hole in their feather blanket.
That’s why sometimes you hear a “thump” on your window on a very cold
winter night, and the next morning, find a poor quail or grouse or jay
or crow cold, freezing, half-blind already. He had seen the glow of
your fire dimly and flown to it--for safety.
And that was what was happening when Sandy crept out to get more
firewood. This was a record blizzard--a bitter, freezing, zero night.
And the birds were doing their level best to keep their eyes warm.
They did not even notice Sandy as he crept near and watched. Some
meadow-larks and quail had crouched under the snow-covered bushes at
the foot of the pines, and they were bunched together, all heads out
and all trying to keep their eyes from freezing. Sandy saw it and felt
sorry for them. He was trying to keep his own feet from freezing, and
knew how it felt. But he could not help the birds.
He could see the glow of the fire through the spruce-blocked door
and window. It shone cheerily through the one window with glass. And
hastily Sandy gathered some wood and came back inside. Then they ate
their supper, Sandy saving the crumbs for the birds.
The blizzard grew worse and worse. The great trees rocked and groaned
and cracked till Sandy thought they would break off short and tumble on
the shaking cabin. Some of them did split, with a boom like thunder,
and fell with a muffled thud in the deep snow. Then came faint
twitterings and dismayed caws. The birds were having a hard time out
there.
There came a thud against the single pane, and Sandy lifted the sash
to take in two quail that had flown against the glass in their attempt
to come into the warm room. But the crows were wiser than the quail.
They came farther down through the twigs and roosted on the branches.
They showed the others the way to the warm room. Then came some
snowbirds, their black-and-white feathers all fluffed out with frost;
and meadow-larks, quail, and grouse, all perching on the tree in the
window; all grateful for the warm refuge in that terrible blizzard.
Even a couple of rabbits came hopping through the open door and
crouched panting from the gale.
So Sandy and Father and Mother sat over the fire, trying hard to keep
warm. Mother was so tired she soon fell asleep, her head resting on
Sandy’s lap. They sat late, very late--almost to midnight. And then
came a wonderful thing--the storm stopped almost suddenly. The stars
came out; the northern lights began to glow and burn like melted opals,
like soft fires, all colors, in the sky. It was Christmas eve, and the
churchbells in the valley began to ring out Christmas carols--
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old.
Faintly the bells rang, faint and far across the snow.
So Sandy did not hear the approach of anybody till there came a hail at
the door. Pulling away the spruce that blocked it, Sandy was surprised
to see a great, burly man enter, with a sheep under one arm and half a
dozen panting after him.
“Saw your firelight, neighbor,” he said. “Just out trying to save my
sheep in the storm. Thought I’d never make it. But here we are.” And
shepherd and sheep crowded into the room.
“Come right along,” said the father. “It’s a bitter night. Seems as if
the cold grew worse since the wind dropped. Come on in and sit down by
the fire. Fine Christmas, eh?”
The man with the sheep sat down, throwing off his pack and using it
as a chair. Puffing and blowing, pulling icicles from his beard, he
rumbled: “Fine Christmas, you say? Well now, I’m glad of a place to be
in out of the cold. This looks fine enough to me. Thought I’d never
make it.” And he continued combing the ice from his beard and mustache.
“Fine Christmas when I thought it was going to be a case of freeze and
lose all the sheep, and then get them safe into a nice snug place like
this. This is fine Christmas luck!”
“Sure it’s fine,” laughed Sandy, whose feet were now warm again. “And
just look! If that isn’t the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.”
And he pointed to the tree in the window.
It really was wonderful. Back of the tree blazed a big star, just as
if it hung on the topmost twig. Scores of others twinkled through the
evergreen boughs. The northern lights crackled and shone mysteriously;
and against the lit sky they could see the birds crouching--crows,
iridescent, jays, gaudy blue, meadow-larks, with breasts dipped in
gold, quail, grouse, and snowbirds in lovely markings and shadings,
all perched on the tree, chuckling and crooning as though come there
specially to decorate it. Great icicles hung down glittering in the
low glow of the fire; and over all, the powdered snow glittered like
diamonds.
“It’s a fine Christmas tree, and I’m going to hang my stockings on it
when I go to bed.”
“Much good it’ll do you, Sandy,” grinned his father; “no Christmas, no
Santa this time.” Then, turning to the shepherd, he explained grumpily,
“Out of work; goin’ for a job; caught in this storm; stony broke--at
Christmas time.”
“Hard lines,” said the shepherd, soberly; “but that’s a fine boy you
have. Seems a bright youngster and just as chipper as can be.”
“Anyhow,” said Sandy, as he curled in his blanket before the fire,
“I’ve hung up my stockings. Maybe good old Santa will remember me
after all.”
He really didn’t expect anything, you know; but still he was a cheery
soul. And as he slept, he dreamed--dreamed a big, strong, genial Santa
came and filled his stockings with the nicest things--dreamed, and
mumbled in his sleep, “Well, anyhow, it’s a good Christmas, after all.”
But the others just slept--Father and Mother too sad and tired even to
dream, till they were roused in the early dawn of Christmas by a wild
yell from Sandy. There he stood in his blanket, hauling out gift after
gift from his stockings, from the twigs of the trees, and even some
from beneath the tree.
He never knew how they got there. But Sandy’s father told me that the
shepherd had them all in his pack, bringing them home for his own
family Christmas tree. But the storm that stopped Sandy’s father,
stopped him too. And seeing Sandy so sturdy and brave in the cold
and night, he thought he would give the presents to him and then buy
others, since he couldn’t get home in time for Christmas eve.
But Sandy never knew how they came. His eyes simply grew big and
shining in his six-year-old face. His squeals of joy rang through the
cabin, till even the sheep huddled together a little nervously and
watched him with shy eyes. The birds of the tree chuckled and flew out
into the new dawn of Christmas day. The shepherd’s sleigh came along
and gave them all a lift to town. And Father got his new job!
As the party separated in town, the shepherd took little Sandy in his
big strong arms as the boy said: “Well, we had a merry Christmas,
didn’t we? I think it was fine.”
And the shepherd gave him an extra hug as he answered: “Sandy, you have
the best Christmas gift of all. A Merry Christmas comes from inside a
man, from his happy and live soul, from his brave spirit. The boy that
has a gift like that doesn’t need anything else. He’ll have a Merry
Christmas anywhere.”
Sandy didn’t entirely understand. He just shook hands cheerily with the
shepherd, waved an arm to the sheep, now huddled cosily in the straw of
the sled, picked up his bundle, and walked on with a grin of joy.
“And anyhow,” he said that night, as he heard his father telling about
the terrible Christmas eve they had had, “anyhow, we had a real tree
and real birds and real stars and real snow powder and real sheep
and--a real shepherd! I think it was just the finest Christmas tree any
boy ever had.”
[19] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.