TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Some minor changes to the text are noted at the [end of the book].

CHRISTMAS IN
MODERN STORY
An Anthology for Adults

Edited by
MAUD VAN BUREN
and
KATHARINE ISABEL BEMIS

THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORKLONDON

Copyright, 1927, by
The Century Co.
First Printing, September, 1927
PRINTED IN U. S. A.

PREFATORY NOTE

This volume is the outgrowth of a librarian’s search each holiday time for stories to meet the ever growing demand from clubs, schools, societies, and home circles for something “Christmassy” to read aloud. Several great stories that are read over and over, Christmas after Christmas, have purposely been omitted. These can be found in other collections. If our readers gain from this anthology even a little of the gracious spirit manifested by the authors in the writing of the stories and again in granting permission to reprint, the compilers can but feel that their work has been well worth while.

Owatonna, Minnesota,
May 16, 1927.

NOTE OF APPRECIATION

The editors of this volume desire to express their deep appreciation to the authors and publishers whose permissions for use of copyright stories have been so courteously and generously granted. Without this splendid spirit of coöperation this collection of Christmas stories would have been impossible.

CONTENTS

CHRISTMAS IN MODERN STORY

THE CANDLE IN THE FOREST[1]

Temple Bailey

The Small Girl’s mother was saying, “The onions will be silver, and the carrots will be gold——”

“And the potatoes will be ivory,” said the Small Girl, and they laughed together.

The Small Girl’s mother had a big white bowl in her lap, and she was cutting up vegetables. The onions were the hardest, because one cried a little over them.

“But our tears will be pearls,” said the Small Girl’s mother, and they laughed at that and dried their eyes, and found the carrots much easier, and the potatoes the easiest of all.

Then the Next-Door-Neighbor came in and said, “What are you doing?”

“We are making a beefsteak pie for our Christmas dinner,” said the Small Girl’s mother.

“And the onions are silver, and the carrots gold, and the potatoes ivory,” said the Small Girl.

“I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the Next-Door-Neighbor. “We are going to have turkey for Christmas, and oysters, and cranberries and celery.”

The Small Girl laughed and clapped her hands. “But we are going to have a Christmas pie—and the onions are silver and the carrots gold——”

“You said that once,” said the Next-Door-Neighbor, “and I should think you’d know they weren’t anything of the kind.”

“But they are,” said the Small Girl, all shining eyes and rosy cheeks.

“Run along, darling,” said the Small Girl’s mother, “and find poor Pussy-Purr-up. He’s out in the cold. And you can put on your red sweater and red cap.”

So the Small Girl hopped away like a happy robin, and the Next-Door-Neighbor said,

“She is old enough to know that onions aren’t silver.”

“But they are,” said the Small Girl’s mother, “and the carrots are gold and the potatoes are——”

The Next-Door-Neighbor’s face was flaming. “If you say that again, I’ll scream. It sounds silly to me.”

“But it isn’t in the least silly,” said the Small Girl’s mother, and her eyes were as blue as sapphires, and as clear as the sea; “it is sensible. When people are poor, they have to make the most of little things. And we’ll have only a pound of steak in our pie, but the onions will be silver——”

The lips of the Next-Door-Neighbor were folded in a thin line. “If you had acted like a sensible creature, I shouldn’t have asked you for the rent.”

The Small Girl’s mother was silent for a moment, then she said: “I am sorry—it ought to be sensible to make the best of things.”

“Well,” said the Next-Door-Neighbor, sitting down in a chair with a very stiff back, “a beefsteak pie is a beefsteak pie. And I wouldn’t teach a child to call it anything else.”

“I haven’t taught her to call it anything else. I was only trying to make her feel that it was something fine and splendid for Christmas day, so I said that the onions were silver——”

“Don’t say that again,” snapped the Next-Door-Neighbor, “and I want the rent as soon as possible.”

With that, she flung up her head and marched out of the front door, and it slammed behind her and made wild echoes in the little house.

And the Small Girl’s mother stood there alone in the middle of the floor, and her eyes were like the sea in a storm.

But presently the door opened, and the Small Girl, looking like a red-breast robin, hopped in, and after her came a great black cat with his tail in the air, and he said “Purr-up,” which gave him his name.

And the Small Girl said out of the things she had been thinking, “Mother, why don’t we have turkey?”

The clear look came back into the eyes of the Small Girl’s mother, and she said, “Because we are content.”

And the Small Girl said, “What is ‘content’?”

And her mother said: “It is making the best of what God gives us. And our best for Christmas day, my darling, is a beefsteak pie.”

So she kissed the Small Girl, and they finished peeling the vegetables, and then they put them with the pound of steak to simmer on the back of the stove.

After that, the Small Girl had her supper of bread and milk, and Pussy-Purr-up had milk in a saucer on the hearth, and the Small Girl climbed up in her mother’s lap and said,

“Tell me a story.”

But the Small Girl’s mother said, “Won’t it be nicer to talk about Christmas presents?”

And the Small Girl sat up and said, “Let’s.”

And the mother said, “Let’s tell each other what we’d rather have in the whole wide world——”

“Oh, let’s,” said the Small Girl. “And I’ll tell you first that I want a doll—and I want it to have a pink dress—and I want it to have eyes that open and shut—and I want it to have shoes and stockings—and I want it to have curly hair——”

She had to stop, because she didn’t have any breath left in her body, and when she got her breath back, she said, “Now, what do you want, Mother—more than anything else in the whole wide world?”

“Well,” said her mother, “I want a chocolate mouse.”

“Oh,” said the Small Girl scornfully, “I shouldn’t think you’d want that.”

“Why not?”

“Because a chocolate mouse—why, a chocolate mouse isn’t anything.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” said the Small Girl’s mother. “A chocolate mouse is Dickory Dock, and Pussy-Cat-Pussy-Cat-Where-Have-You-Been—and it’s Three-Blind-Mice—and it’s A-Frog-He-Would-a-Wooing-Go—and it’s——”

The Small Girl’s eyes were dancing. “Oh, tell me about it——”

And her mother said: “Well, the mouse is Dickory-Dock ran up the clock, and the mouse in Pussy-Cat-Pussy-Cat was frightened under a chair, and the mice in Three-Blind-Mice ran after the farmer’s wife, and the mouse in A-Frog-He-Would-a-Wooing-Go went down the throat of the crow——”

And the Small Girl said, “Could a chocolate mouse do all that?”

“Well,” said the Small Girl’s mother, “we could put him on the clock, and under a chair, and cut his tail off with a carving knife, and at the very last we could eat him up like a crow.”

The Small Girl shivered deliciously. “And he wouldn’t be a real mouse?”

“No, just a chocolate one, with cream inside.”

“Do you think I’ll get one for Christmas?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Would he be nicer than a doll?”

The Small Girl’s mother hesitated, then told the truth. “My darling—Mother saved up the money for a doll, but the Next-Door-Neighbor wants the rent.”

“Hasn’t Daddy any more money?”

“Poor Daddy has been sick so long.”

“But he’s well now.”

“I know. But he has to pay money for doctors, and money for medicine, and money for your red sweater, and money for milk for Pussy-Purr-up, and money for our beefsteak pie.”

“The Boy-Next-Door says we’re poor, Mother.”

“We are rich, my darling. We have love, and each other, and Pussy-Purr-up——”

“His mother won’t let him have a cat,” said the Small Girl, with her mind still on the Boy-Next-Door. “But he’s going to have a radio.”

“Would you rather have a radio than Pussy-Purr-up?”

The Small Girl gave a crow of derision. “I’d rather have Pussy-Purr-up than anything else in the whole wide world.”

At that, the great cat, who had been sitting on the hearth with his paws tucked under him and his eyes like moons, stretched out his satin-shining length, and jumped up on the arm of the chair beside the Small Girl and her mother, and began to sing a song that was like a mill-wheel away off. He purred so long and so loud that at last the Small Girl grew drowsy.

“Tell me some more about the chocolate mouse,” she said, and nodded, and slept.

The Small Girl’s mother carried her into another room, put her to bed, and came back to the kitchen—and it was full of shadows.

But she did not let herself sit among them. She wrapped herself in a great cape and went out into the cold dusk, with a sweep of wind; heavy clouds overhead: and a band of dull orange showing back of the trees, where the sun had burned down.

She went straight from her little house to the big house of the Next-Door-Neighbor and rang the bell at the back entrance. A maid let her into the kitchen, and there was the Next-Door-Neighbor, and the two women who worked for her, and a daughter-in-law who had come to spend Christmas. The great range was glowing, and things were simmering, and things were stewing, and things were steaming, and things were baking, and things were boiling, and things were broiling, and there was the fragrance of a thousand delicious dishes in the air.

And the Next-Door-Neighbor said: “We are trying to get as much done as possible to-night. We are having twelve people for Christmas dinner to-morrow.”

And the Daughter-in-Law, who was all dressed up and had an apron tied about her, said in a sharp voice, “I can’t see why you don’t let your maids work for you.”

And the Next-Door-Neighbor said: “I have always worked. There is no excuse for laziness.”

And the Daughter-in-Law said: “I’m not lazy, if that’s what you mean. And we’ll never have any dinner if I have to cook it,” and away she went out of the kitchen with tears of rage in her eyes.

And the Next-Door-Neighbor said, “If she hadn’t gone when she did, I should have told her to go,” and there was rage in her eyes but no tears.

She took her hands out of the pan of breadcrumbs and sage, which she was mixing for the stuffing, and said to the Small Girl’s mother,

“Did you come to pay the rent?”

The Small Girl’s mother handed her the money, and the Next-Door-Neighbor went upstairs to write a receipt. Nobody asked the Small Girl’s mother to sit down, so she stood in the middle of the floor and sniffed the entrancing fragrances, and looked at the mountain of food which would have served her small family for a month.

While she waited, the Boy-Next-Door came in and he said, “Are you the Small Girl’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to have a tree?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to see mine?”

“It would be wonderful.”

So he led her down a long passage to a great room, and there was a tree which touched the ceiling, and on the very top branches and on all the other branches were myriads of little lights which shone like stars, and there were gold balls and silver ones, and gold bells and silver ones, and red and blue and green balls, and red and blue and green bells—and under the tree and on it were toys for boys and toys for girls, and one of the toys was a doll in a pink dress!

At that the heart of the Small Girl’s mother tightened, and she was glad she wasn’t a thief, or she would have snatched at the pink doll when the boy wasn’t looking, and hidden it under her cape, and run away with it!

The Boy-Next-Door was saying: “It’s the finest tree anybody has around here. But Dad and Mother don’t know that I’ve seen it.”

“Oh, don’t they?” said the Small Girl’s mother.

“No,” said the Boy-Next-Door, with a wide grin, “and it’s fun to fool ’em.”

“Is it?” said the Small Girl’s mother. “Now, do you know, I should think the very nicest thing in the whole wide world would be not to have seen the tree.”

The Boy-Next-Door stared and said, “Why?”

“Because,” said the Small Girl’s mother, “the nicest thing in the world would be to have somebody tie a handkerchief around your eyes, as tight, as tight, and then to have somebody take your hand and lead you in and out and in and out and in and out, until you didn’t know where you were, and then to have them untie the handkerchief—and there would be the tree—all shining and splendid——”

She stopped, but her singing voice seemed to echo and re-echo in the great room.

The boy’s staring eyes had a new look in them. “Did anybody ever tie a handkerchief over your eyes?”

“Oh, yes——”

“And lead you in and out, and in and out?”

“Yes.”

“Well, nobody does things like that in our house. They think it’s silly.”

The Small Girl’s mother laughed, and her laugh tinkled like a bell. “Do you think it is silly?”

He was eager. “No, I don’t.”

She held out her hand to him. “Will you come and see our tree?”

“To-night?”

“No, to-morrow morning—early.”

“Before breakfast?”

She nodded.

“Gee, I’d like it.”

So that was a bargain, with a quick squeeze of their hands on it. And the Small Girl’s mother went back to the kitchen, and the Next-Door-Neighbor came down with the receipt, and the Small Girl’s mother went out of the back door and found that the orange band which had burned on the horizon was gone, and that there was just the wind and the sighing of the trees.

Two men passed her on the brick walk which led to the house, and one of the men was saying:

“If you’d only be fair to me, Father.”

And the other man said, “All you want of me is money.”

“You taught me that, Father.”

“Blame it on me——”

“You are to blame. You and Mother—did you ever show me the finer things?”

Their angry voices seemed to beat against the noise of the wind and the sighing trees, so that the Small Girl’s mother shivered, and drew her cape around her, and ran on as fast as she could to her little house.

There were all the shadows to meet her, but she did not sit among them. She made coffee and a dish of milk toast, and set the toast in the oven to keep hot, and then she stood at the window watching. At last she saw through the darkness what looked like a star low down, and she knew that the star was a lantern, and she ran and opened the door wide.

And her young husband set the lantern down on the threshold, and took her in his arms, and said, “The sight of you is more than food and drink.”

When he said that, she knew he had had a hard day, but her heart leaped because she knew that what he had said of her was true.

Then they went into the house together, and she set the food before him. And that he might forget his hard day, she told him of her own. And when she came to the part about the Next-Door-Neighbor and the rent, she said,

“I am telling you this because it has a happy ending.”

And he put his hands over hers and said, “Everything with you has a happy ending.”

“Well, this is a happy ending,” said the Small Girl’s mother, with all the sapphires in her eyes emphasizing it. “Because when I went over to pay the rent I was feeling how poor we were, and wishing that I had a pink doll for baby, and books for you, and—and—and a magic carpet to carry us away from work and worry. And then I went into the kitchen of the big house, and there was everything delicious and delectable, and then I went into the parlor and saw the tree—with everything hanging on it that was glittering and gorgeous—and then I came home,” her breath was quick and her lips smiling, “I came home—and I was glad I lived in my little house.”

“What made you glad, dearest?”

“Oh, love is here; and hate is there, and a boy’s deceit, and a man’s injustice. They were saying sharp things to each other—and—and—their dinner will be a—stalled ox—And in my little house is the faith of a child in the goodness of God, and the bravery of a man who fought for his country——”

She was in his arms now.

“And the blessing of a woman who has never known defeat.” His voice broke on the words.

In that moment it seemed as if the wind stopped blowing, and as if the trees stopped sighing, and as if there was the sound of a heavenly host singing——

The Small Girl’s mother and the Small Girl’s father sat up very late that night. They popped a great bowlful of crisp snowy corn and made it into balls. They boiled sugar and molasses, and cracked nuts, and made candy of them. They cut funny little Christmas fairies out of paper and painted their jackets bright red, with round silver buttons of the tinfoil that came on a cream cheese. And then they put the balls and the candy and the painted fairies and a long red candle in a big basket, and set it away. And the Small Girl’s mother brought out the chocolate mouse.

“We will put this on the clock,” she said, “where her eyes will rest on it the first thing in the morning.”

So they put it there, and it seemed as natural as life, so that Pussy-Purr-up positively licked his chops and sat in front of the clock as if to keep his eye on the chocolate mouse.

And the Small Girl’s mother said, “She was lovely about giving up the doll, and she will love the tree.”

“We’ll have to get up very early,” said the Small Girl’s father.

“And you’ll have to run ahead and light the candle.”

Well, they got up before dawn the next morning, and so did the Boy-Next-Door. He was there on the step, waiting, blowing his hands and beating them quite like the poor little boys in a Christmas story, who haven’t any mittens.

But he wasn’t a poor little boy, and he had so many pairs of fur-trimmed gloves that he didn’t know what to do with them, but he had left the house in such a hurry that he had forgotten to put them on.

So there he stood on the front step of the little house, blowing on his hands and beating them. And it was dark, with a sort of pale shine in the heavens, which didn’t seem to come from the stars or to herald the dawn; it was just a mystical silver glow that set the boy’s heart to beating.

He had never been out alone like this. He had always stayed in his warm bed until somebody called him, and then he had waited until they called again, and then he had dressed and gone down to breakfast, where his father scolded because he was late, and his mother scolded because he ate too fast. But this day had begun with adventure, and for the first time, under that silver sky, he felt the thrill of it.

Then suddenly some one came around the corner—some one tall and thin, with a cap on his head and an empty basket in his hands.

“Hello,” he said. “A Merry Christmas.”

It was the Small Girl’s father, and he put the key in the lock, and went in, and turned on a light, and there was the table set for four.

And the Small Girl’s father said: “You see we have set a place for you. We must eat something before we go out.”

And the Boy said: “Are we going out? I came to see the tree.”

“We are going out to see the tree.”

Before the Boy-Next-Door could ask any questions, the Small Girl’s mother appeared with her finger on her lips and said: “Sh-sh,” and then she began to recite in a hushed voice,

“Hickory-Dickory-Dock——”

Then there was a little cry and the sound of dancing feet, and the Small Girl in a red dressing-gown came flying in.

“Oh, Mother, Mother, the mouse is on the clock. The mouse is on the clock.”

Well, it seemed to the Boy-Next-Door that he had never seen anything so exciting as the things that followed. The chocolate mouse went up the clock and under the chair—and would have had its tail cut off except that the Small Girl begged to save it.

“I want to keep it as it is, Mother.”

And playing this game as if it were the most important thing in the whole wide world were the Small Girl’s mother and the Small Girl’s father, all laughing and flushed, and chanting the quaint old words to the quaint old music.

The Boy-Next-Door held his breath for fear he would wake up from this entrancing dream and find himself in his own big house, alone in his puffy bed, or eating breakfast with his stodgy parents who had never played with him in his life. He found himself laughing too, and flushed and happy, and trying to sing in his funny boy’s voice,

“Heigh-o, says Anthony Rowley!”

The Small Girl absolutely refused to eat the mouse. “He’s my darling Christmas mouse, Mother.”

So her mother said, “Well, I’ll put him on the clock again, where Pussy-Purr-up can’t get him while we are out.”

“Oh, are we going out?” said the Small Girl, round-eyed.

“Yes.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find Christmas.”

That was all the Small Girl’s mother would tell. So they had breakfast, and everything tasted perfectly delicious to the Boy-Next-Door. But first they bowed their heads, and the Small Girl’s father said,

“Dear Christ-Child, on this Christmas morning, bless these children, and help us all to keep our hearts young and full of love for Thee.”

The Boy-Next-Door, when he lifted his head, had a funny feeling as if he wanted to cry, and yet it was a lovely feeling, all warm and comfortable.

For breakfast they each had a great baked apple, and great slices of sweet bread and butter, and great glasses of milk, and as soon as they had finished, away they went, out of the door and down into the wood back of the house, and when they were deep in the wood, the Small Girl’s father took out of his pocket a little flute and began to play, and he played thin piping tunes that went flitting around among the trees, and the Small Girl hummed the tunes, and her mother hummed the tunes until it sounded like singing bees, and their feet fairly danced, and the boy found himself humming and dancing with them.

Then suddenly the piping ceased, and a hush fell over the wood. It was so still that they could almost hear each other breathe—so still that when a light flamed suddenly in that open space it burned without a flicker.

The light came from a red candle that was set in the top of a small living tree. It was the only light on the tree, but it showed the snowy balls, and the small red fairies whose coats had silver buttons.

“It’s our tree, my darling,” he heard the Small Girl’s mother saying.

Suddenly it seemed to the boy that his heart would burst in his breast.

He wanted some one to speak to him like that. The Small Girl sat high on her father’s shoulder, and her father held her mother’s hand. It was like a chain of gold, their holding hands like that and loving each other——

The boy reached out and touched the woman’s hand. She looked down at him and drew him close. He felt warmed and comforted. The red candle burning there in the darkness was like some sacred fire of friendship. He wished that it would never go out, that he might stand there watching it, with his small cold hand in the clasp of the Small Girl’s mother.

It was late when the Boy-Next-Door got back to his own big house. But he had not been missed. Everybody was up, and everybody was angry. The Daughter-in-Law had declared the night before that she would not stay another day beneath that roof, and off she had gone with her young husband, and her little girl, who was to have had the pink doll on the tree.

“And good riddance,” said the Next-Door-Neighbor.

But she ate no breakfast, and she went out to the kitchen and worked with her maids to get the dinner ready, and there were covers laid for nine instead of twelve.

And the Next-Door-Neighbor kept saying, “Good riddance—good riddance,” and not once did she say, “A Merry Christmas.”

But the Boy-Next-Door held something in his heart that was warm and glowing like the candle in the forest, and so he came to his mother and said,

“May I have the pink doll?”

She spoke frowningly. “What does a boy want of a doll?”

“I’d like to give it to the little girl next door.”

“Do you think I buy dolls to give away in charity?”

“Well, they gave me a Christmas present.”

“What did they give you?”

He opened his hand and showed a little flute tied with gay red ribbon. He lifted it to his lips and blew on it, a thin piping tune——

“Oh, that,” said his mother scornfully. “Why, that’s nothing but a reed from the pond!”

But the boy knew it was more than that. It was a magic pipe that made you dance, and made your heart warm and happy.

So he said again, “I’d like to give her the doll,” and he reached out his little hand and touched his mother’s—and his eyes were wistful.

His mother’s own eyes softened—she had lost one son that day—and she said, “Oh, well, do as you please,” and went back to the kitchen.

The Boy-Next-Door ran into the great room and took the doll from the tree, and wrapped her in paper, and flew out of the door and down the brick walk and straight into the little house.

When the door was opened, he saw that his friends were just sitting down to dinner—and there was the beefsteak pie all brown and piping hot, with a wreath of holly, and the Small Girl was saying,

“And the onions were silver, and the carrots were gold——”

The Boy-Next-Door went up to the Small Girl and said,

“I’ve brought you a present.”

With his eyes all lighted up, he took off the paper in which it was wrapped, and there was the doll, in rosy frills, with eyes that opened and shut, and shoes and stockings, and curly hair that was bobbed and beautiful.

And the Small Girl, in a whirlwind of happiness, said, “Is it really my doll?”

And the Boy-Next-Door felt very shy and happy, and he said, “Yes.”

And the Small Girl’s mother said, “It was a beautiful thing to do,” and she bent and kissed him.

Again that bursting feeling came into the boy’s heart and he lifted his face to hers and said, “May I come sometimes and be your boy?”

And she said, “Yes.”

And when at last he went away, she stood in the door and watched him, such a little lad, who knew so little of loving. And because she knew so much of love, her eyes filled to overflowing.

But presently she wiped the tears away and went back to the table. And she smiled at the Small Girl and at the Small Girl’s father.

“And the potatoes were ivory,” she said. “Oh, who would ask for turkey, when they can have a pie like this?”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] By permission of the author and “Good Housekeeping.”

CHRISTMAS ON THE SINGING RIVER[2]

Jefferson Lee Harbour

There was always a crowd in waiting when the stage-coach arrived in the shabby little mining-camp of Singing River. As a rule, the crowd assembled on the long, wide platform in front of the post-office, which was also the stage-office, the hotel, the general store, and the center from which radiated the social life of the camp. Above the post-office was a small and dingy hall lighted with dripping tallow candles; and such public amusements or entertainments as there were in Singing River were given in this hall. The platform in front of the building was the favorite “loafing-place” of the miners. The arrival of the stage-coach was the connecting-link between Singing River and the great outside world from which the little mining-camp was so far removed. The nearest railroad station was one hundred miles distant, and there was no town within fifteen miles any larger than Singing River, which was but a little hamlet of log-cabins, tents, and slab shanties far up the mountainside above the little Singing River in the rocky gulch below. The Singing River was a narrow and shallow stream; but its crystal-clear waters surged in foamy wavelets around moss-covered boulders and went singing on so merrily that there was perpetual music in even the darkest and gloomiest parts of the gulch. But there was ice over the river for seven months of the year, and then nothing was to be heard but the dreary sound of the wind as it went moaning or shrieking up and down the long, dark cañon.

The winters were long and bitter in Singing River. Snow began to fly as early as the last of September, and it still lay deep in the gulches and in the narrow, rocky streets of the camp while the wild flowers were blooming in the far-distant valleys.

But on the December day when this story opens, the stage arrived a full hour in advance of the usual time, and only a few of the men of the camp were at the post-office when Dave Hixon, the stage-driver, drew rein before it, amid the gently falling snow. There were no passengers on the outside seats, and no inside occupants were to be seen. Apparently the big stage was empty.

“Light load this trip, Dave,” said big Jim Hart, the postmaster, as he came out to get the limp and unpromising-looking mail-bag.

“I should say so,” replied Dave, as he took off his wide-brimmed felt hat and slapped it against the side of the coach to rid it of the snow that had fallen upon it.

“I reckon travel is about done for this season over the Shoshone trail, an’ they’ll soon stop sendin’ the coach up here even once a week, an’ then we’ll be clean shut off from everywhere. No passengers this trip—eh?”

“Only two, an’ there’s so little of them that I reckon they’ve rattled round like peas in a pod inside there.”

Then Dave leaned far downward and, twisting himself around, called out to some one within the stage:

“Hello, there, youngsters! You all right?”

A shrill, childish voice replied: “Yes, sir.”

“Well, you’d better crawl out o’ that an’ git in where it’s warmer, an’ git some o’ Ma’am Hickey’s hot supper. Hey, Ma’am Hickey, I’ve fetched you a kind of a queer cargo!”

This last remark was addressed to a large, round-faced, motherly-looking woman who had come to the door of the hotel part of the building with her apron over her head.

“What’s that you say, Dave?” she called out loudly and heartily.

“I say I’ve fetched you a kind of a queer cargo. You just come out an’ see if I hain’t.”

He jumped down from his high driver’s seat and flung open the stage door as Ma’am Hickey came over to the edge of the roadway. Reaching into the coach, Dave picked up what appeared to be a round bundle on the back seat, and set it out in the snow with a buffalo robe around it. The robe fell to the ground, and there was revealed to the amazed bystanders a girl of about nine years with big dark eyes that looked calmly and yet appealingly at the staring group. The next moment Dave had set a yellow-haired boy of about five years down beside the girl.

“There you air!” said Dave, the stage-driver. “Got ’commodations for this lady an’ gent, Ma’am Hickey?”

“Well, I’ll make ’commodations for ’em, if I have to turn you out o’ your bed to do it,” said Ma’am Hickey, as she dropped to her knees before the little boy and took him into her arms, saying as she did so:

“Why, bless your heart an’ soul, little feller! I declare if it don’t feel sweet to git a child into my arms once more! An’ whose boy air you, anyhow?”

“Papa’s,” replied the boy, shyly, with a slight quivering of his lips and an attempt to release himself from Ma’am Hickey’s embrace.

“An’ where is papa, honey?”

“Here.”

Ma’am Hickey looked around toward the men as if expecting some of them to come forward and claim the child; but they too were looking around inquiringly as the crowd grew in numbers, attracted by the news of the arrival of the stage. Noting the boy’s quivering lips and half-frightened look in the presence of all those strangers, his sister stepped toward him and patted his head gently with her mittened hand, saying as she did so:

“There, there; don’t you cry, Freddy. Sister will take care of you; yes, she will.”

“Where did you little folks come from?” asked Ma’am Hickey, rising to her feet with the little boy in her arms.

“From Iowa, ma’am.”

“Ioway!” exclaimed Ma’am Hickey. “You don’t ever mean to tell me that you have come all the way from Ioway to this place all by your lone selves?”

The girl nodded her head and said:

“Yes, we did. We had a letter to the conductors on the trains telling them where we were going, and we got along all right; didn’t we, Freddy?”

The little boy nodded his head solemnly, too much awed by his strange surroundings to speak.

“Well, if that don’t beat anything I ever heard of!” exclaimed Ma’am Hickey. “If I’d been your ma you wouldn’t’ve done it!”

The little girl kept looking into the faces of the men who crowded about them, and said:

“I don’t see my papa anywhere. He said that he would be here when the stage got here with us; but I don’t see him at all.”

“What is your papa’s name, deary?”

“Richard Miller.”

The men looked at each other blankly. Some of them opened and closed their mouths without uttering a sound. Big “Missouri Dan” uttered an exclamation under his breath. Ma’am Hickey held up one finger warningly. Then she stooped and kissed the little girl on the brow, and said gently:

“You come right into the house with me, little folks. I’ll get you a real nice hot supper, an’ then I think you’d best go right to bed after your long ride.”

When the cabin door had closed behind them, Big Dan said to the miners around him:

“Well, if this ain’t what I call a state of affairs! To think of them poor little tots trailin’ ’way out here from back in Ioway only to find their daddy a day in his grave! Cur’us how things turns out!”

“What’s to be done?” asked a long, lank, red-whiskered man called “Cap.”

“Shore enough,” drawled out an elderly man who had been chewing the end of his long gray mustache reflectively.

“I move that we go over to my shack an’ talk the matter over,” said Big Dan; and, without waiting for his motion to be voted upon, he started toward his cabin, a small log affair a short distance around the rocky road. The men around the post-office followed Big Dan, and, when they were in his cabin, seated on benches and nail-kegs or sprawling on buffalo robes in front of the fire in the big open fire-place, one of the men said:

“What does all this mean, anyhow? You know that I’ve just come down from Mount Baldy, an’ all this is Greek to me.”

“Well, it’s just this-a-way,” replied Dan. “Three days ago a man come into camp on foot from over towards Roarin’ Fork. He was so sick when he got here he could hardly speak, an’ ’bout all we got outo’ him was that his name was Miller. Pneumonia had set in mighty hard, an’ in less than two hours after he got here he couldn’t speak at all, an’ he didn’t live twelve hours. We laid him under that little clump o’ pines down near the bend in the Singin’ River not ten hours ago; an’ now here in comes the stage with that boy an’ gal, ev’dently the prop’ty o’ this same Miller, who ain’t here to meet ’em, an’ who won’t ever meet ’em in this world. It goes without sayin’ that they ain’t got no ma. If they had, she’d never let ’em come trailin’ off out here all by theirselves. It’s mighty tough on ’em.”

“That’s right,” agreed the man called Cap. “I’m old an’ tough as ever they make ’em, but I ain’t fergot my own childhood so fur as not to ’preciate just how them pore little young uns will feel when they reelize the sitooation. I feel fer ’em.”

“So do I,” said a stalwart fellow of about thirty-five years. “I’ve got a couple o’ little folks o’ my own back East, an’ that boy reminds me a sight o’ my own little chap.”

The men were still discussing the strange and sad occurrence, and the question of the future of the children was still unsettled, when the door of the cabin opened and Ma’am Hickey appeared. Her eyes were red and her voice was unsteady as she said:

“I just run over to say one thing, boys, an’ that’s this: Don’t one of you dast to breathe a word to them pore little darlin’s about where their pa is until after Christmas. They’re not to know that they are orphans until after that time. Their ma died last spring, an’ their pa sent for ’em to come out here to him. It’s a mighty rough place to fetch ’em to, but the little girl says that an aunt of hers was to come on from California an’ be with ’em this winter, an’ their pa wrote that he would likely go on to California in the spring—pore man! He’s gone on now to a country that’s furder away than that!”

She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand before adding:

“It jest about broke my heart to hear them two pore little things talkin’ about Christmas, an’ wonderin’ what their pa would have for ’em, while I was undressin’ ’em for bed. An’ I made up my mind that they shouldn’t know a thing about what has happened until after Christmas; an’, what’s more, some o’ you men kin jest stretch your long legs hoofin’ it over to Crystal City to git ’em some toys an’ things to make good my promise to ’em that if they hung up their stockin’s Christmas eve they’d find ’em full next mornin’. Now you boys remember that mum is the word in regard to their pa. Leave it to me to pacify ’em in regard to his not comin’ for ’em. They’re the cunnin’est little things I ever saw, an’ it’s jest too terrible that this trouble has had to befall ’em!”

When good Ma’am Hickey had gone back to the hotel, Big Dan slapped his great rough palms together and said:

“I tell you what, boys! Let’s give them two little unfortinists a jolly good Christmas! I’m fairly sp’ilin’ for somethin’ to do, an’ I’ll hoof it over to Crystal City an’ git a lot o’ Christmas gimcracks for ’em.”

“I’ll keep you company,” said Joe Burke, the man who had two little ones of his own back East. “Travelin’ on snow-shoes over the mountain passes at this time o’ the year is ruther dangerous, an’ it’s not best to start out on a trip alone. Then I guess I know more about what would please the youngsters than you would, Dan.”

“I ain’t ever took occasion to mention it before, but I happen to know a little about what children like, my own self, seein’ as I have had two o’ my own,” replied Big Dan. “They both died the same week. It happened nearly forty years ago, but these two little wayfarers stragglin’ into camp this way brings it all back to me.”

No one in the camp had ever heard Big Dan speak so solemnly, and there was silence in the room when he added:

“I reckon I know enough about children to know that a big doll with these here open-and-shet kind o’ eyes allus takes the fancy of a little gal, an’ that a boy allus likes somethin’ that’ll make a racket. But I’ll be glad o’ your comp’ny, Joe.”

Ma’am Hickey appeared again before the conference came to an end.

“They’re cuddled up in bed in each other’s arms, cheek to cheek, the pore little dears,” she said. “I pacified ’em in regard to their pa without tellin’ any actual fib, an’ they went to sleep content. The little boy’s tongue went like a trip-hammer when he finally got it unloosened, and he jabbered away fast enough. But most he talked about was Christmas. He’s set his heart on a steam-engine that will go ‘choo, choo, choo,’ an’ if you boys can find such a thing in Crystal City, you buy it an’ fetch it along with you, an’ I’ll foot the bill. The little girl is doll-crazy, like most little girls, so you must get her one, or more than one. An’ of course you’ll lay in plenty o’ candy; an’ if you can lug home a turkey or two on your backs I’ll get up a Christmas supper for ’em to eat after we’ve had the tree.”

“The tree?” said one of the men, inquiringly.

“Yes, sir; the tree! Of course them little folks must have a tree. They say they want one, an’ why shouldn’t they have it, with the finest Christmas trees in the world right at hand here in the mountains?”

“Where you goin’ to have the tree, I’d like to know?” said a burly miner.

“In the hall over the post-office.”

“Well, if you ain’t plannin’ a reg’lar jamboree!”

“Course I am!” replied Ma’am Hickey. “Got any objections?”

“Better keep ’em to yourself if you have,” said Big Dan. “For what Ma’am Hickey an’ them two little youngsters says—goes.”

“That settles it,” said Ma’am Hickey, with a laugh.

Crystal City was a long distance from Singing River, and the mountain trails were hard and dangerous to travel at that time of the year. The stage would not make another trip until after Christmas, and it might be a month before it returned after it left the camp.

Big Dan and Joe Burke set off at daybreak the morning after the arrival of the two little wayfarers. The men had “chipped in” for the purchase of “gimcracks” for the tree, and they had been so generous that Big Dan said just before he started for Crystal City:

“We’ll have to have the biggest pine we kin git for the tree. You chaps have it all set up in the hall by the time we git back.”

“You sure you got that list o’ things I wrote down for you?” asked Ma’am Hickey. “Men ain’t got any kind of a mem’ry when it comes to shoppin’.”

“I got the list right here in this pocket,” replied Dan, patting his broad chest. “If we have good luck we’ll be back by noon day after to-morrow, an’ that night is Christmas eve, so you’ll want the tree all ready. Did the little folks sleep good?”

“They never stirred; but once the little boy laughed out in his sleep an’ said somethin’ about a steam-engine. Both of the children are sleepin’ yet.”

An hour later the children were up and were eating their breakfast in Ma’am Hickey’s cozy kitchen, which was also the dining-room of the hotel.

“Will my papa come to-day?” asked Freddy, as he helped himself to a hot doughnut.

“Don’t worry none about your papa, deary,” Ma’am Hickey said. “We’ll see to you all right. Let’s talk about Christmas.”

“I never talked so much about Christmas in all the born days of my life as I talked about it in them two days,” said Ma’am Hickey, afterward. “It was the only way I could git their minds off their pa.”

Ma’am Hickey’s account of the Christmas tree at Singing River is so much more interesting than any account I could give of it, that I think it best to let her tell about it in her own way:

“You see, Big Dan an’ Joe Burke got back all right the middle of the afternoon the day before Christmas. They looked like a pair o’ pack peddlers, an’ they were about fagged out, for they had had a hard time of it pullin’ up over the mountain trails in a snow-storm. Joe said he didn’t think he could have dragged himself another mile for love nor money. He had two big turkeys on his back besides a great lot of other things.

“Well, the men in the camp had been busy, too. They had cut a big pine an’ set it up in the hall over the post-office, an’ the way they had dec’rated the hall with evergreen was beautiful. You couldn’t see an inch of the ugly bare logs nor of the bare rafters. They set to an’ scrubbed the floor an’ washed the winders, an’ strung up a lot o’ red, white and blue buntin’ I happened to have in the house, an’ I tell you the little old hall did look scrumptious. I kep’ the children in the kitchen with me, where I was makin’ pies an’ cake an’ doughnuts most o’ the time. I give ’em dough to muss with, an’ let ’em scrape the cake-dishes, an’ tried to keep ’em interested all the time, so they wouldn’t ask about their pa.