SILVERTONGUE WAS FINISHING OFF A GREAT WHITE FURRY RABBIT (page [6])

The Santa Claus
Brownies

BY
ETHEL CALVERT PHILLIPS

With Illustrations

Boston and New York
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1928

COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY ETHEL CALVERT PHILLIPS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

CONTENTS

THE ROCKING-HORSE PONY WHO WANTED BLUE EYES

THE ROCKING-HORSE PONY WHO WANTED BLUE EYES

It was a bright cold March morning and round the four corners of Santa Claus’s Snow Palace on the very tip-top of the North Pole the wind swept blustering and shouting on his way.

It was so early in the morning that some of Santa Claus’s Brownies had not yet finished their household tasks.

Little Crusty, oldest of the Brownies, who was in charge of the reindeer and who, in spite of a snarled-up face, had a very tender heart, was still busy in the stable, brushing the brown coats of the eight tiny reindeer and making them glossy and neat for the day.

Down in the kitchen Sweet-Tooth, chief of the candy cooks, was showing his tidy little band of helpers, each in white apron and cap, how to make very-black licorice drops.

‘Now that March is here some Brownie is sure to catch a Spring cold,’ said Sweet-Tooth, measuring and mixing with all his might, ‘and there is nothing better than licorice drops for a cold in the Spring.’

Out in front of the Palace stood Nimbletoes, sweeping off the steps with great strokes of his broom. Nimbletoes, who could run as fast and jump as high as any Brownie who ever lived, was late with his work this morning because he had been running and playing in the wind.

‘I could run for miles and miles this morning,’ said Nimbletoes with a last little jump, ‘but I suppose I must finish my work. Here goes!’

And Nimbletoes made his arms fly round like the sails of a windmill as he swept the steps with great wide flourishes of his broom.

All the other Brownies were hard at work in Santa Claus’s work-room, making Christmas toys. Although December and Christmas seemed far away, when you stop to think how many toys Santa Claus must have ready on Christmas Eve, you will see why the Brownies were kept busy the whole year long.

Kindheart was fitting a blue flannel jacket on a tiny baby doll. Silvertongue was finishing off a great white furry rabbit, with gleaming ruby-red eyes and the cunningest little bob-tail in the world. Mischief was painting a gay yellow sled. Fleetfoot was whittling the sticks of a drum. Santa Claus was fitting out a little boy’s tool box, and very great pains he took with it, too.

Over in a corner sat Merrythought, the very best toy-maker of them all, and beside him stood Sharpeyes, the little errand boy, who picked up pins and threaded needles and found lost scissors for all the other Brownies. But for the past week, as a special treat, Sharpeyes had been working upon a toy, too. Merrythought had showed him how to make a Rocking-Horse, and now the gay little prancing steed stood before them finished, except for a leather bridle that Sharpeyes was trying to fit into the Pony’s mouth.

He was a little brown Pony with a long brown tail and a wavy brown mane. His mouth was a bright, bright red. He wore a yellow saddle fastened by neat little straps. And in his head there sparkled two dark brown eyes, quite the prettiest brown eyes, Sharpeyes thought, that a little Pony had ever worn.

But, in spite of this, there was something about those pretty brown eyes that did not please the Rocking-Horse Pony. And this is the way he showed his feeling about it.

The first thing that morning, when Merrythought and Sharpeyes went to work on the Rocking-Horse Pony, Sharpeyes said, ‘I think I will give my Pony brown eyes, Merrythought, because they will match his brown coat so well.’

So into the little Pony’s head went the dark brown eyes.

This was the first time the Pony had been able to see, you know, and Sharpeyes and Merrythought both laughed to watch him stare in pleasure and astonishment round the work-room, already fairly well filled with toys.

The little Rocking-Horse Pony looked at Santa Claus, he looked at the Brownies, he looked at the toys. Then slowly and taking plenty of time the Rocking-Horse Pony began to rock himself all around the room.

He stopped before the woolly lambs and stared earnestly into their mild brown eyes. He rocked round to the furry rabbits and gazed at their eyes of ruby-red. He studied the pussy-cats and the toy dogs, the tigers and the elephants, the Teddy bears with their eyes of yellow and brown and black. But when he reached the corner where Kindheart was at work upon his baby dolls, each one with eyes of beautiful bright blue, then the Rocking-Horse Pony stood still before them and quite refused to move.

He shook himself impatiently when Sharpeyes called him to come. He did not turn his head when Merrythought snapped his fingers and said, ‘Here, Pony! Here, sir, come!’

He not only stood still before the dolls, but he looked and he looked at their lovely blue eyes. And the next moment, with a wink and a blink, the Pony’s own brown eyes flew out of his head and landed upon the floor!

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Merrythought. ‘Put them in again, Sharpeyes, as fast as you can.’

Into the little Pony’s head went the dark brown eyes again. But—would you believe it?—in less than no time the brown eyes lay upon the floor once more, and the pony’s red mouth wore a satisfied smile that seemed to say, ‘Now see! I’ve done it again.’

‘I don’t like this,’ said Merrythought, shaking his head. ‘I never knew eyes to fall out of a Pony’s head before.’

‘Perhaps I don’t put them in the right way,’ answered Sharpeyes, looking troubled. ‘This is the first toy I have ever made. Watch me, Merrythought, and see that I do it well.’

Merrythought and Sharpeyes both worked away until it seemed as if the brown eyes would never come out again.

But in less than ten minutes not only were the eyes out of the Pony’s head, but they were lost as well. Sharpeyes searched for almost half an hour before he found them. And where do you think they were? You would never, never guess. One of them was tucked in the corner of a doll carriage under a pink-and-white wool cover. That was strange enough. But the other eye was stuffed into the wide-open red mouth of a poor little trumpeting elephant, who was so surprised that his thin gray tail stood straight out with excitement and fright. This was stranger and stranger still. It almost seemed as if the Pony had hidden them on purpose himself, though no one could imagine how he had done such a thing. A lively little toy monkey, who had been watching the Pony, might have told something about it, if he had wished. But he didn’t speak a word.

‘What ails my Pony, Merrythought?’ asked Sharpeyes. ‘I never knew toys acted in this way. Do you think perhaps he doesn’t like his brown eyes?’

‘Why wouldn’t he like his brown eyes?’ replied Merrythought. ‘He is simply full of fun and likes a joke. But we must put those eyes in to stay. Let us go and look for some of Mr. Mendham’s glue. He may have left a little when he was here a year or so ago. There is no glue in the world like Mr. Mendham’s.’

‘Mr. Mendham is a very fine Toy Tinker, isn’t he?’ asked Sharpeyes. ‘I believe he could mend any broken toy. Do you remember the Christmas time he and Mrs. Mendham came here to help Santa Claus make the toys?’

‘Of course I do,’ answered Merrythought, smiling at the question. ‘He came to help because we Brownies were all ill in bed from eating too many of Sweet-Tooth’s rich caramel creams.’

‘Does he live far from here?’ asked Sharpeyes. ‘I have never seen his house.’

‘Not so far,’ was Merrythought’s reply. ‘Straight down past the Eskimo village and then on to a little wood of evergreen trees. His house stands there with a sign over the door. Now let us try to find a bit of Mr. Mendham’s glue.’

Neither Sharpeyes nor Merrythought glanced at the Pony. If they had they would have seen in a moment that he had listened to every word they said.

At the words ‘Toy Tinker’ the Pony’s tail had begun to swish. When Merrythought had told where Mr. Mendham lived, the Pony’s ears had twitched to and fro. And no sooner did the Pony have a moment to himself than over to the window he rocked and tried to push it open with his little red nose. How he knew his way about without any eyes I don’t know. And once he had opened the window, did he mean to jump out?

Nobody can tell. For Brownie Kindheart felt the cold air on his doll babies and closed the window. And just then back came Merrythought and Sharpeyes with a pot of Mr. Mendham’s glue. Neatly and firmly the brown eyes were glued in, this time to stay, though the naughty little Pony rocked and pranced to show that he did not like it at all.

But Sharpeyes was pleased.

‘He is a beautiful Pony,’ said Sharpeyes with pride. ‘I will put on his bridle now and then he will be finished.’

But the Rocking-Horse Pony did not want to wear his bridle. He shut his mouth tight and tossed his head. He rocked himself to and fro with a thump and a bump. It was plain to be seen that the Rocking-Horse Pony did not wish to wear a bridle. And with a sudden toss and jerk of his head he managed to break the bridle quite in two.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Sharpeyes, unexpectedly tumbling backward and sitting down hard upon the floor. ‘Oh! What shall we do?’

‘Fetch a new bridle out of the store-room,’ answered Merrythought, helping his friend to his feet. ‘Come along and I will show you where they are.’

Now every one in the work-room was as busy as could be. No one saw that Sharpeyes and Merrythought had left the room. Much less did they notice the Rocking-Horse Pony, who now rocked quietly over to the door, moved out into the hall, and started down the stairs with a thump! thump! thump! Just as softly as he could manage, you may be sure.

The first one to spy the Rocking-Horse Pony was Nimbletoes, still busy at sweeping the Palace front steps.

Down the steps behind Nimbletoes’ back bumped the Pony, and then off he started over the snow at a rocking, galloping canter that surprised even himself, it carried him over the ground at such a pace.

In the mean time Nimbletoes stood staring. He couldn’t believe his eyes. For a whole half-minute he stood there, leaning on his broom, his eyes and his mouth open wide.

Then Nimbletoes gave a great leap into the air.

‘Hi, there!’ he shouted up at the work-room windows. ‘Hi, there! Sharpeyes! Merrythought! Your Pony has run away! Brownies! Brownies! Come! Come!’

At this loud shouting all the Brownies, and Santa Claus, too, rushed to the work-room windows and looked out. Up from the kitchen scampered Sweet-Tooth, leaving the very-black licorice drops to his band of little cooks. Out of the stable hurried little Crusty, his scarlet cap tipped over one ear and the reindeer’s hair-brush clutched in his hand.

They all saw a strange sight—the Rocking-Horse Pony rocking swiftly away over the snow and after him Brownie Nimbletoes, using his broom as a staff, taking great flying leaps and bounds, the wind lifting him off his feet time and time again.

‘My Pony! My Pony!’ called Sharpeyes, running toward the door. ‘Oh, Merrythought! Oh, Brownies! Help me, do!’

At this, all the Brownies trooped after him, down the stairs, out the front door, and over the snow, while Santa Claus stood on the steps, laughing and waving them on.

‘Catch him, Brownies! Catch him!’ called Santa Claus. ‘Oh, what a race!’

A race it was! For the Rocking-Horse Pony seemed fairly to skim over the ground, and behind him, blown by the wind and carried by their own swift little feet, came the Brownies, every one, for Sweet-Tooth and Crusty had joined them and were running quite as fast as any one else.

The Rocking-Horse Pony seemed to know where he wanted to go. On and on he rocked over the ice and snow. Now he came to a group of low round huts made of snow, where the Eskimos lived, fathers and mothers and little boy and girl Eskimos, too. Smoke was pouring from the hole in the top of each hut, and this smoke the wind caught and gayly blew hither and yon. The little Eskimo boys and girls, bundled in fur, ran out of the huts, their long-haired dogs barking at their heels, and they all, children and dogs, stared in amazement at the galloping Rocking-Horse Pony who was followed so closely by the gay band of Brownies, laughing and shouting and waving their arms as they sped by.

Now came the evergreen trees, tall and thick and green, and the Rocking-Horse Pony and the Brownies found themselves racing through a dense little wood.

‘I know where he is going!’ shouted Nimbletoes, who, with Brownie Fleetfoot, was running well in the lead. ‘I believe he is going to Mr. Mendham’s house!’

The news was passed down the line until the last one in the procession, little old Crusty, heard the tidings.

‘He is going to Mr. Mendham’s, we all believe!’

Soon the Brownies set up another shout.

‘There is Mr. Mendham’s house! We are right! Sharpeyes’ Pony is going to Mr. Mendham’s house.’

Between two tall trees before them there stood a little house, a little white house with a bright red chimney, green window-boxes, and a green front door. Over the door hung a sign—

MR. MENDHAM
TOY TINKER

The Brownies saw the Rocking-Horse Pony take the knocker on the green front door in his mouth and rap smartly—Rap-a-tap-tap! There was no answer, so the Rocking-Horse Pony gently pushed the door open and rocked inside. The door shut behind him with a thump.

Now out behind the house, busily hanging up a basketful of clothes, were Mr. and Mrs. Mendham. They spied the Brownies, they came running forward, and when they heard about the Rocking-Horse Pony they crept into the house on tiptoe, followed by the Brownies, to see what the Pony was doing now.

There he was in Mr. Mendham’s work-room, rocking round and round, looking for something with all his might and main. He looked high, he looked low, he even looked in the corners and on the floor. But at last he gave up the search and stood still in the middle of the room, and the Brownies and Mr. and Mrs. Mendham saw that the tears were rolling down his little brown face. He looked as if his heart was broken. What was the matter with the Rocking-Horse Pony?

The mended toys in the work-room were trying to help the little brown Pony.

‘I know Mr. Mendham keeps his eyes in that basket over there,’ said a black-and-white dog with a bright red tongue, ‘but, as you can see, he hasn’t a blue eye left, not one.’

‘He put his last blue eyes in my head,’ said a big white furry kitten, who had a golden bell tied about his neck. ‘For my part I don’t like blue eyes. I prefer green. They shine so well in the dark. If Mr. Mendham will give me green eyes, you may have my blue.’

At this kind offer all the toys began to call out, ‘Mr. Mendham! Mr. Mendham!’

So Mr. Mendham and the Brownies trooped into the room.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you wanted blue eyes?’ asked Sharpeyes as he wiped the tears from his little Pony’s face. ‘Of course you shall have them if Mr. Mendham is willing to make the change.’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ agreed Mr. Mendham, who was a kind-hearted man. ‘Green eyes always look well in a cat, and there is no reason why this Pony shouldn’t have blue eyes, though I will say I never gave them to a Rocking-Horse before.’

‘Blue eyes are so beautiful,’ murmured the Rocking-Horse Pony. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of starting out next Christmas Eve with brown eyes in my head.’

So Mr. Mendham made the change in a twinkling.

The white cat was more than satisfied with his new green eyes.

‘They have a fine sparkle and gleam,’ he purred, with a proud wave of his tail. ‘Blue eyes are too girlish for me.’

And the Rocking-Horse Pony was happier than words can tell. He smiled, he rocked, he bumped about in a very ecstasy of joy. When the time came, he rocked home, with Sharpeyes on his back, in a very whirl of pleasure.

‘Blue eyes! Blue eyes!’ he sang to himself as he bumped over the snow.

When Sharpeyes showed the Pony to Santa Claus and told him what had happened, Santa Claus laughed and rubbed the Rocking-Horse Pony upon his soft brown nose.

‘I know a little boy who likes blue eyes the very best of all,’ said Santa Claus, ‘and you shall go to live with him next Christmas, if you wish.’

When he heard this, the Rocking-Horse Pony was so happy he thought his heart would burst with joy.

So if, next Christmas, you meet a little boy who has a Rocking-Horse Pony with bright blue eyes, you may know that the Pony was made by Brownie Sharpeyes and that he came down on Christmas Eve in Santa Claus’s sleigh straight from the Snow Palace on the very tip-top of the North Pole.

THE GAY LITTLE TOWN OF BO-PEEP

THE GAY LITTLE TOWN OF BO-PEEP

Santa Claus stood on the front steps of his Snow Palace at the very tip-top of the North Pole.

Softly, very softly, the great door behind him swung open and out rushed the Brownies, pulling on their scarlet caps, fastening their mittens, and laughing and shouting and calling as they came.

‘Santa Claus! Santa Claus!’ shouted the Brownies. ‘Here we come, Santa Claus! Here we all come!’

‘What does this mean?’ asked Santa Claus in surprise, his eyes twinkling with fun. ‘Why aren’t you hard at work upstairs, making toys? Come, come, now!’

And Santa Claus laughed in spite of himself to see his Brownies turning somersaults in the soft snow.

‘Oh, Santa Claus, we want a holiday!’ shouted the Brownies. ‘We don’t feel like working at all. We want a holiday, Santa Claus. Do say that we may.’

‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ nodded Santa Claus, laughing again to see his Brownies’ antics in the snow. ‘You will work all the better for a little fun. Be off, every one.’

So off they went, three by three, each little group of Brownies with a plan of its own.

Sharpeyes, the little errand boy, Merrythought, the very best toy-maker of them all, and little Crusty, who was in charge of the reindeer, ran off to call on a nearby family of seals.

Mischief, Nimbletoes, and Fleetfoot scampered down to a great smooth stretch of snow back of the stable where the eight tiny reindeer lived.

‘We want to run races, Santa Claus,’ called they, ‘more than anything else in the world.’

Kindheart, Silvertongue, and Sweet-Tooth, chief of the candy cooks, stood for a moment wondering just where they would go.

‘We mean to take a long walk,’ said Silvertongue to Santa Claus, who stood by their side. ‘Tell us where to go, Santa Claus, for we don’t know.’

‘Have you ever been to the Town of Bo-Peep?’ asked Santa Claus. ‘I would go there, if I were you. It used to be a gay, merry little Town, but you will find it very different now. Stay as long as you like. There may be some work for you to do.’

So the three Brownies set off for the Town of Bo-Peep.

‘It is too far to walk all the way,’ said Santa Claus. ‘You had better borrow my handkerchief for a sail.’

A gentle breeze was blowing, and as the Brownies held up Santa Claus’s great white handkerchief, with S.C. embroidered in the corner, the wind filled the handkerchief like a sail and took them steadily along.

It was great fun to skim over the ground and surprising to see how quickly they traveled. They soon left the cold and snow behind. Presently the grass grew green and the sun shone warm and the three little Brownies put down the great handkerchief and tripped merrily along the road hand in hand.

‘I smell the sea,’ said Sweet-Tooth, who, being a cook, had a very sharp nose.

On they ran, and at a turn in the road they came upon the sea, wide and blue and sparkling under a summer sky. Far out in the water stood a Lighthouse. Below the road stretched the beach, a long curve of firm, white sand, and back of the beach lay the little Town of Bo-Peep.

It was a pretty little Town with red roofs and chimney pots, and each little house had its own gay little garden plot.

But the Town was quiet, no one walked about the streets. And though the tide was low and the cool wet sand lay bare, not a single child was playing on the beach.

‘They have all gone away,’ said Kindheart. ‘The Town seems empty to-day.’

‘Perhaps they have gone on a picnic,’ suggested Silvertongue, ‘or for a sail across the bay.’

But Sweet-Tooth shook his head.

‘The mothers are at home,’ said he. ‘I can see the smoke rising from the chimneys and I think I can smell baking bread.’

‘Let us go down into the town,’ said Kindheart, ‘and look about. Santa Claus said there might be work to do.’

Down in the town the three little Brownies walked quietly along, past the neat houses, past the gay flower-beds, until they came to a little shop, and here the Brownies stood stock still on the sandy road.

It was a Candy Shop. At least a big sign over the door said so. But the blinds were pulled down and the door was shut tight and there was a card in the window that read

NO CANDY SOLD HERE

The Brownies looked at one another. Sweet-Tooth’s face wore a horrified look. He couldn’t speak. He managed to peep under the window-shade, but all the window held was a dismal row of empty glass candy jars.

‘It must be there are no children in the Town,’ said Silvertongue in a low voice.

And Kindheart and Sweet-Tooth could only nod their heads in reply.

A few steps beyond the Candy Shop they came upon another little store. ‘TOY SHOP’ was painted on the window. But here too the blinds were down and the door locked fast and thick dust covered the doorstep and the window-ledge. Kindheart stood on tiptoe and read a card tacked on the door.

NO TOYS SOLD HERE

‘What can be the matter?’ whispered the Brownies. ‘Who ever heard before of a Town where no children lived?’

Down on the beach crept the Brownies and here strange signs were sprinkled as thick as blackberries wherever they might look.

NO PADDLING ON THIS BEACH

said a bright blue sign stuck in the sand here and there.

The Brownies read this aloud and tears came into gentle Kindheart’s eyes.

‘I never saw a better beach for paddling,’ said he, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.

‘Listen to this!’ cried Silvertongue, standing before a scarlet sign that was repeated all along the shore.

NO SAND BUILDING ALLOWED

read the scarlet sign in great black letters that all could see.

‘What about this?’ called Sweet-Tooth, capering before a green sign over which he had just stubbed his toe.

NO DIGGING ON THIS BEACH

‘That is what the sign says. But I can’t believe it. I am going straight through this Town until I see what they have done with the children here.’

The Brownies did not have far to go to find the children. A stone’s throw from the beach stood the school-house, a dingy red brick building with a tall iron fence all roundabout.

Under the fence squeezed the Brownies. They wanted to read a great golden sign over the school-house door.

THIS SCHOOL OPEN FROM
NINE UNTIL SIX O’CLOCK

Sweet-Tooth read the sign aloud and would have tumbled to the ground in his surprise if Silvertongue and Kindheart had not caught him by the arm.

‘That means all day!’ gasped Sweet-Tooth. ‘They have to go to school all day!’

Through the school-house window they could see the heads of the children, little brown and yellow and black heads, both curly and straight. Indeed one little red head lay on the window-sill, fast asleep.

‘Tired out, and no wonder,’ murmured Silvertongue, which was a very harsh speech for him.

Out of the window floated the voices of the children droning sleepily over and over again—

‘Two times one are two,

Two times two are four,

Two times three are six.’

The Brownies didn’t speak another word that afternoon. They sat down round the corner of the school-house with their backs against the wall and watched the clock in the church tower tick the sunny hours away.

At last the clock struck six.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The school-house door opened and out trooped the children. As they started home, the Brownies followed and watched them as they went.

Some of them peeped in the Toy Shop window and rattled the latch. Some of them stood on tiptoe and knocked the knocker on the Candy Shop door. Some of them ran away from their big brothers and sisters and sat on the beach and made holes in the sand with their fingers and piled up little heaps. And some of the children even ran down and put their toes in the water, they did so want a little pleasure and fun.

But their big brothers and sisters were frightened.

‘The King will see you!’ said they. ‘Come home! The King will catch you!’

So the Children were taken home, and soon after their supper the candles were lighted in their bedrooms and the Brownies could see the children in their night-gowns going to bed.

As it grew dusk, the Brownies sat flat on the lonely beach with no one but the sandpipers and the seagulls to keep them company.

What did it all mean? Who was the King? Why were the children treated so?

The light in the Lighthouse across the bay blazed out and Kindheart sprang to his feet.

‘I am going to borrow that little boat,’ said he, pointing to a white boat pulled up on the beach, ‘and row over to the Lighthouse. Perhaps some one there can tell us what it is all about.’

When they reached the Lighthouse two figures ran down to the shore and helped them from the boat.

One was that of a little man who smelled strongly of peppermint candy.

‘He is the Candy Man,’ said Sweet-Tooth in a flash. And so he proved to be.

The other figure was that of a neat little lady who held a half-made doll’s dress in her hand.

‘The Toy Lady,’ said Silvertongue and Kindheart in a breath. And this was so too.

The Candy Man and the Toy Lady both talked at once, they were so excited at seeing the Brownies and so anxious to tell their tale.

‘It is the new King’s fault,’ said they, together. ‘He won’t have a bit of noise. He doesn’t want the children to romp and be noisy, and that is why they must go to school all day and never play on the beach. That is why he sent us over here to live. He doesn’t want the children to eat candy nor to play with toys. All the King does from morning till night is to think of different things we mustn’t do and then make signs to tell us so. Bo-Peep Town used to be a gay and merry place to live in, but now we are miserable, just miserable. And the children simply long to have us come back again.’

The Brownies and the Toy Lady and the Candy Man sat up almost all night talking things over. Of course matters couldn’t go on as they were. And once they had made up their minds what to do, they fell to work.

For two days and nights they worked as hard as ever they could. The Candy Man and Sweet-Tooth made candy, all kinds. Silvertongue and Kindheart and the Toy Lady made toys—boats and pails and shovels and all sorts of sand toys, fish and stars and patty-pans and cones.

Then early one morning, when it was darkest, just before dawn, they filled their little boat with toys and candy and rowed over to the mainland.

The Brownies first helped the Toy Lady and the Candy Man to open their little shops and place the toys and candy inside.

Then Silvertongue and Kindheart and Sweet-Tooth stole into the Palace and up to the bedroom where the King and his little Queen lay sleeping side by side.

They were thoughtful little Brownies, you must admit. They packed a bag of clothes for the King and Queen. They even remembered their golden crowns and put them in too.

Then they carried the sleeping King and Queen down to the little boat, rowed them over to the Lighthouse, and left them there.

Next morning when the children went to school there was a new sign on the door.

NO SCHOOL TO-DAY

Some one spied the Toy Shop. The door was wide open. The window was filled with brand-new toys, and a fresh sign was fluttering in the breeze.

PENNY TOYS SOLD HERE

At first the children crowded round and stared. Then they sped to the Candy Shop. That was wide open, too, every glass jar filled to the brim with the most delicious candy ever seen.

‘The sign! The sign!’ shrieked the children.

There it was, shining and new.

PENNY CANDY SOLD HERE

Down to the beach ran the children, screaming as they ran. They were so excited they had forgotten the King.

The beach was covered with glittering new signs.

PLEASE PADDLE ON THE
BEACH

GOOD SAND FOR BUILDING
HERE
KINDLY DIG ON THIS BEACH

The children scarcely knew what to do first. Some ran to the Toy Shop, others to the Candy Man to taste his fine new wares. How glad they were to see their old friends, the Toy Lady and the Candy Man, once more! Some of the children settled down to dig, some of them fell to building in the sand, while many of them pulled off their shoes and stockings and happily splashed and paddled about in the cool green waves.

Every one took a holiday, fathers and mothers too. And that night, when dusk fell, they were still romping and playing and enjoying themselves on the beach.

Suddenly, out blazed the light from the Lighthouse and the figures of the King and the Queen stood on the shore.

‘We like it here!’ shouted the King, making a great deal of noise for such a quiet man. ‘We mean to stay! It is quiet here! We never want to live in the Town again!’

The King and the Queen waved their hands good-bye. They had reached the Lighthouse door when the King turned back.

‘Our crowns!’ he shouted. ‘You may have them! We don’t want them any more!’

And he tossed them one by one into the sea.

When the crowns came floating in on the beach, the people picked them up and gave them to the Toy Lady and the Candy Man.

‘Please be our King and Queen,’ said they.

But the Toy Lady and the Candy Man shook their heads.

‘I would rather sell toys than be a Queen,’ said the Toy Lady.

‘I would rather make candy than be a King,’ said the Candy Man.

So, since they had no King nor Queen, the people locked the front door of the Palace and threw the key away. The crowns they fastened over the Toy Shop and the Candy Shop because they looked well hanging there.

Bo-Peep Town became overnight what it had always been before, a gay and lively and pleasant place in which to live.

And Silvertongue and Kindheart and Sweet-Tooth went home happy, but not any more happy than Santa Claus when he heard what they had done.

BUTTONS AND BOOTS

BUTTONS AND BOOTS

It was the middle of the night. All the Brownies, and Santa Claus, too, were fast asleep in their beds in the Snow Palace at the very tip-top of the North Pole.

It was a cold, frosty night. ‘Whoo-oo-oo! Whoo-oo-oo!’ sang the West Wind round the chimneys, in such a chilly voice, with a tinkle of ice in it, that the Brownies snuggled down under their covers and pulled the bed-quilts up about their ears.

All the Brownies were fast asleep, I said. But, as the great clock in the hall downstairs slowly boomed out the hour of twelve, Brownie Fleetfoot opened his bright black eyes.

‘Ugh! How cold it is!’ shivered Brownie Fleetfoot, trying to roll himself into a ball. ‘It wasn’t so cold when I went to bed. I wonder what the Moon is laughing at up there in the sky. He likes to see me freeze, I guess.’

For a great silver Moon, with a broad smile on his face, was looking straight in the window at Fleetfoot, and it did seem as if he were laughing at some joke of his own.

‘I will shut my eyes and count ten,’ said Fleetfoot to himself, ‘and then I will look at the Moon again to see if he is still laughing at me.’

He shut his black eyes with a snap. Slowly he counted up to ten. But when he opened his eyes again he forgot the Moon entirely.

For beside his bed stood a little figure dressed in snowy white. He wore a glittering cap trimmed with a frosty plume, and over his shoulder, like a soldier’s musket, he carried a paint-brush, long and slim.

‘Jack Frost!’ exclaimed Fleetfoot, sitting up in surprise. ‘Jack Frost! What are you doing here? No wonder I was so cold with you standing beside my bed. That was why the Moon laughed in at me, I suppose. He saw you all the while.’

‘Yes, he did,’ nodded Jack Frost, unbuttoning his snowy white coat. ‘How warm it is in here! He watched me slip through the crack in the window. It made him laugh, too, because I have been tickling you with an icicle trying to wake you up. Put on your clothes, Fleetfoot, and come along with me. I have a piece of work for you to do.’

Jack Frost and Santa Claus and the Brownies were old, old friends. Jack Frost was always glad to do Santa Claus a good turn, such as making Christmas Day bright and cold, with plenty of snow and ice for the boys and girls with new snow-shoes and sleds and skates. On the other hand, as every one knows, all Brownies, and of course Santa Claus’s Brownies, too, are never so happy as when they are being helpful and kind. These Brownies at the North Pole were quite used to being called upon, day or night, to do some kind or thoughtful act.

Fleetfoot was not surprised, therefore, when he heard that Jack Frost had a piece of work for him to do. He dressed in a twinkling. It took him only a moment to slip into his neat little suit, draw on his pointed Brownie shoes, and pull his scarlet Brownie cap well down over his ears.

‘I am ready,’ he whispered, creeping over to the door.

But Jack Frost laid a chilly little hand on his arm.

‘Bring a bell with you,’ murmured Jack Frost in the Brownie’s ear. ‘You will need to use a bell to-night.’

‘A bell?’ whispered back Fleetfoot. ‘What kind of bell? A dinner bell? A bicycle bell?’

‘No,’ answered Jack Frost, his finger on his lips, ‘a cat’s bell. Hush!’

For Brownie Mischief had flung out his arms and tossed his quilt off on the floor, and Sharpeyes had turned over with a long, long sigh.

Fleetfoot crept on tiptoe into the work-room and without a sound untied a silver bell from the neck of a drowsy white fur cat.

Then he and Jack Frost stole downstairs and out of the house without being seen by a single person except the friendly Moon, who not only smiled as he watched them, but followed them on their journey all the way.

‘Now, we can talk,’ said Jack Frost, as hand in hand they sped over the snow. ‘Let me tell you why I came after you to-night.’

Brownie Fleetfoot nodded his red-capped head. This was just what he wanted to know, of course.

‘In the first place,’ began Jack Frost, ‘Buttons has lost Boots.’

Here he paused for a moment to shift his paint-brush from one shoulder to the other, but Fleetfoot was too wise to interrupt by a question. He knew what a sharp little fellow Jack Frost could be if he wished.

‘Buttons is a little boy,’ went on Jack Frost, taking a tight hold on Fleetfoot’s hand. ‘He has a new winter coat trimmed with brass buttons. And, too, his eyes are as round as buttons and so are his nose and his mouth. All this may be why he is called Buttons. I can’t say. Boots is his cat. It is easy to tell where he gets his name, for he wears a white fur boot on each foot.’

Brownie Fleetfoot didn’t answer, for at that moment he tumbled headlong into a drift of snow. He lay there kicking until Jack Frost pulled him out and gently shook him to brush him off.

‘Try to keep your eyes open,’ said Jack Frost, tweaking the end of Fleetfoot’s nose. ‘And now come along. I was in Buttons’ front yard to-night painting his maple tree yellow and red,’ continued Jack Frost, ‘and a very pretty tree it is going to be. The night was as quiet as quiet could be, not a sound, when, all of a sudden, out of the door like a flash came Boots and shot off round the house as fast as he could go. He didn’t stop for anything. I could hear the bell on his neck tinkling all the way to the top of Butternut Hill. That is a high hill just back of Buttons’ house. Look out for that ice, Fleetfoot! Do you want to tumble down?’

The little Brownie laughed and shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t hurt me if I did,’ said saucy Fleetfoot, but under his breath so that Jack Frost couldn’t hear.

‘In no time at all,’ went on Jack Frost, ‘out of the house came Buttons himself in his night-clothes and no slippers, enough to give him his death of cold. And he started to hunt for Boots.’

‘It is lucky his mother didn’t see him,’ said Fleetfoot. ‘You know how particular mothers are about coats and sweaters and rubbers and all.’

‘Yes, I know,’ answered Jack Frost shortly. Perhaps he thought it was partly his fault that mothers behaved so. At any rate, he didn’t seem pleased. ‘Don’t interrupt, Fleetfoot. Of course Buttons hadn’t heard the bell going up Butternut Hill, so where does he go to look for Boots but round the barn. He thought Boots was after mice, I suppose. Well, I did my best to make Buttons go up Butternut Hill. I whispered in his ear, but he couldn’t understand a word I said. He thought I was the wind blowing. Think of that! Then I rubbed my icicle over his nose and gave his cheeks and his toes a little pinch. But that didn’t help either. He kept walking round and round the barn calling, “Boots! Boots!” and saying, “Ouch!” every time he stepped on a sharp stone with his bare feet.’

‘Poor Buttons!’ murmured Fleetfoot, looking down at his own pointed Brownie shoes that were helping him speed so swiftly over the ground. ‘Poor Buttons! He must have hurt his toes.’

‘Yes, he did,’ answered Jack Frost, a trifle sharply. ‘But I couldn’t help that, you know. Now I am so busy this Autumn weather that I couldn’t spend any more time on him. So I hurried up Butternut Hill, and there at the top, huddled in a tree, sat Boots. The foolish fellow had dreamed that a dog was chasing him. I heard him say so, talking to himself. There he sat and wouldn’t come down. Dream or no dream, he was afraid that the dog was at the foot of the hill. I pinched him and nipped him on ears and nose and toes, but still he wouldn’t move for me. I find that cats never are friendly with me,’ said Jack Frost thoughtfully, and a trifle sadly, too. ‘They are too fond of the fire and their comfort to like me very well.’

‘Perhaps,’ answered Fleetfoot, trying to be both honest and kind; ‘but you mustn’t mind that, you know. Think how fond of you our reindeer are, and all the Polar Bears. But what is it you want me to do, Jack Frost? You said you had brought me down here to help.’

‘We must send Buttons back to bed as soon as we can,’ was Jack Frost’s answer. ‘I am a little worried about him. He will catch a cold, I am afraid, out in his night-clothes this frosty night. And this is how I want you to help. I thought you could play you were Boots, Fleetfoot. You Brownies can do anything, I know. You could ring your bell and run on ahead and lead Buttons straight up Butternut Hill to where the real Boots sits in a tree. I chose you, Fleetfoot, because you could run so lightly and so fast. Once Buttons has found Boots, he will carry him home to bed. There isn’t anything else that he can do. And that will be the end of it, I hope. Just think of my being so busy to-night and having to stop for a boy and a cat.’

Here Jack Frost shook his paint-brush so impatiently that Fleetfoot skipped along at his side faster than ever before.

‘Don’t I hear Buttons calling?’ asked Fleetfoot presently, as they stopped a moment for breath. ‘I hear some one calling, “Boots! Boots! Boots!”’

‘Yes, that is Buttons’ voice,’ answered Jack Frost; ‘I hear him too. Now I will keep out of the way, for I am afraid of giving Buttons a chill, and you lead him up the hill to Boots as fast as you can go.’

All this seemed great fun to Fleetfoot. He watched the little figure in white creeping round and round the barn calling, ‘Boots! Boots! Come home, Boots!’ Then he pulled from his pocket the silver bell he had taken from the neck of the drowsy white fur cat.

Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!

Fleetfoot crouched close to the ground and rang the bell at Buttons’ feet.

‘Boots!’ called Buttons with a little jump. ‘Where are you? I hear your bell.’

‘Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!’ called the bell a little farther away, and as Buttons started toward it, Fleetfoot cried, ‘Me-ow!’ in such a natural way that it is no wonder Buttons felt sure it was the voice of the missing Boots.

Round the barn and round the house they went, the bell calling, ‘Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!’ and Buttons following close behind. Up Butternut Hill they climbed, Buttons quite forgetting his tender toes in his eagerness to catch his little friend. Up and up they went. Every time that Fleetfoot cried, ‘Me-ow!’ Buttons would run faster than before.

At last the top of the hill was reached and Fleetfoot and Buttons both spied Boots sitting on the branch of a tree, his eyes gleaming in the darkness like green lamps and every hair standing straight out with excitement and fright.

‘Oh, Boots! Boots!’ cried Buttons, standing at the foot of the tree and stretching up his arms. ‘Come down! Come down! We are all alone. There is no one here but me.’

Fleetfoot wanted to laugh as he peeped from behind the roots of the tree. All alone, were they? Not to mention himself, over the top of a bayberry bush Fleetfoot could see the white plume in Jack Frost’s cap. He had followed them all the way up the hill. Indeed, Boots and Buttons were not alone.

But neither Jack Frost nor Fleetfoot stirred nor made a sign. They both wanted Boots and Buttons to run home at once.

Slowly down the trunk of the tree crept Boots. Tenderly he was gathered into Buttons’ arms. Down the hill started Buttons on his way toward home.

Close behind them came Fleetfoot watching Buttons’ every step.

‘Dear me, those bare toes!’ thought he to himself. ‘How I wish he was safe at home!’

Every time Buttons stepped on a stone and cried, ‘Ouch!’ Fleetfoot winced as if his own tiny toes had been hurt. Brownies are the kindest little people in the world and their hearts are very tender, you must know.

Behind them, lurking in the shadows, marched Jack Frost, carrying his paint-brush like a banner, and stopping now and then to paint a scarlet spray on a bush or to trace with white the leaves of a late wayside flower. Jack Frost felt happy. He had been troubled about Buttons, wandering out in his night-clothes on this frosty night. But now, with the help of Fleetfoot, he had started Buttons toward home. In five minutes, if Buttons kept straight on, the little boy would be tucked snugly in his own warm bed.

But Buttons didn’t keep straight on. Suddenly, to every one’s surprise, he sat down by the side of the road.

‘Ouch! Ouch!’ cried Buttons, rocking to and fro. ‘I have hurt my toe again. Ouch! Ouch! Oh! Oh! I can’t walk another step. Let us stay here, Boots, and go to sleep. I am so tired. We can go home in the morning.’

And burying his face in Boots’ fur, poor, tired Buttons fell fast asleep.

‘This won’t do! This won’t do!’ scolded Jack Frost, hurrying up and shaking his paint-brush as if he would sweep Boots and Buttons down the road. ‘This will never do! Come, Fleetfoot, come! We must get home at once.’

‘Yes, yes,’ answered Fleetfoot soothingly, sitting down beside Buttons and quickly pulling off his own pointed Brownie shoes. ‘See, Jack Frost, I will put my own Brownie shoes on Buttons’ feet. Just like this. Now I will pull Boots down on the ground and climb on his back, so. Whoa, Boots, whoa! Now, Jack Frost, take your icicle and poke Buttons until he wakes. Wake up, Buttons, wake up! Open your eyes! Good! Now, let’s run!’

And, sure enough, off they started. Boots ran like the wind, his bell all a-tinkle, his ears pointing skyward, his tail and his whiskers standing out straight. On his back rode Fleetfoot, holding on by the cat’s collar, and ringing his own bell wildly as he rode. Behind them sped Buttons, the Brownie shoes carrying him over the ground faster than he had ever run before. Close at his side came Jack Frost, poking him with his icicle now and then, though there wasn’t the slightest need.

It was the funniest race the silver Moon had ever looked down upon. No wonder he laughed until the stars all crowded round to see too.

Home at last! Jack Frost gave a great sigh of relief as Buttons vanished into the house and up the stairs to bed. Boots like a shadow ran at his heels.

‘Just a moment,’ said Jack Frost, as he and Fleetfoot stared up at the dark and silent house, ‘until I see that they are really safe.’

Like a flash Jack Frost disappeared, and when he came back, as suddenly as he had gone, his face was all a-smile.

‘Fast asleep already,’ said he. ‘They were both tired out. Now, Fleetfoot, you must go home. You had better ride back on the Wind, I think. You have run enough for one night. Tell Santa Claus you were a great help. I never could have got those two home if it hadn’t been for you. Good-bye! I must go back to work. This maple tree isn’t half finished. Look at the green leaves I must paint to-night.’

Jack Frost with a flourish of his paint-brush disappeared among the maple boughs as Fleetfoot climbed upon the shoulder of the friendly West Wind.

They were halfway home, sweeping along through the air, when Fleetfoot suddenly cried out.

‘My shoes!’ cried Fleetfoot. ‘My shoes! I have left them on Buttons’ feet. What will Buttons think in the morning when he sees my Brownie shoes?’

The West Wind didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t know what to say. As for the Moon, he was still smiling. He made Fleetfoot smile too.

‘That is the best thing to do,’ said Fleetfoot. ‘Laugh about it. Probably that is what Buttons will do to-morrow morning when he sees my funny shoes.’

And Fleetfoot was right. That is just what Buttons did.

THE BOOK OF GOOD CHILDREN

THE BOOK OF GOOD CHILDREN

There was once a little boy whom every one called the Little Brown Boy. This was because his name was Brown and because his hair and his eyes were dark brown, too.

Of course he had another name, indeed, he had two—William John. But no one except his mother and father, and his aunts and uncles, and the minister, when he came to tea, ever called him anything but the Little Brown Boy.

One night the Little Brown Boy lay in bed as wide awake as ever he could be. He had been so sleepy when his mother put him to bed that he couldn’t stand up straight to take off his clothes. But once tucked in bed and his mother gone downstairs, the Little Brown Boy’s eyes flew open and he felt as lively as if it were morning instead of his usual bed-time, seven o’clock.

The Little Brown Boy looked from his bed out of the open window at the tree-tops that were tossing and nodding in a gay West Wind. Down from the trees whirled the Autumn leaves, red and yellow and russet-brown, flying and falling here and there, rustling where they fell.

Bump! Bump! Bump!

The Little Brown Boy knew what that sound meant. Nuts were blowing off the great walnut tree that stood over the way from the Little Brown Boy’s house.

Whisk! Scrabble! Rush!

That was a squirrel traveling over the roof, as the Little Brown Boy well knew.

In the next room, through the half-open door, the Little Brown Boy could see his toys lying about on the floor. There was his Jack-in-the-Box, looking very uncomfortable, indeed, with his head hanging over the side of the box almost touching the ground. There was his Jumping Jack, tossed in a corner, arms and legs stretched out to jump, and a tired look upon his little painted face. A company of smart red-and-blue tin soldiers lay in an untidy heap, face down, their Captain buried underneath them all. You wouldn’t dream that they were soldiers if you didn’t see their uniforms and swords and guns. There was a gray horse and a scarlet wagon, both standing on their heads. There were fire-engines, topsy-turvy, scattered here and there. A Mother Goose picture-book lay under a chair, and if you had been close by you would have seen that Mother Goose on the cover did not seem at all pleased at finding herself in such a place.

What was the matter with this play-room, that the toys lay scattered about on the floor? Why were they not put neatly away in closet and cupboard and drawer?

I will tell you.

The Little Brown Boy never, never put away his toys!

His mother talked and scolded and even shut him in the closet now and then. His father shook his head and said to his mother, ‘Well, I shall have to leave this to you.’ His pretty Aunt Jeannie said she would give him a present if only he would put away his toys every night. His tall Uncle Joe promised to take him to the circus if he would pick up his playthings for a week.