CHRISTMAS IN
STORYLAND

EDITED BY

MAUD VAN BUREN

Librarian Free Public Library
Owatonna, Minnesota

AND

KATHARINE ISABEL BEMIS

Co-editor “Thrift and Success,” “Stories of
Patriotism,” “Special Day Pageants,” etc.

THE CENTURY CO.
New York & London

Copyright, 1927, by
The Century Co.

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

PREFATORY NOTE

This anthology grew out of a real need. It has been a happy undertaking to assemble in one volume so rich and varied a collection of juvenile Christmas stories for use in the home, the school, and the library.

The editors of this volume hope that boys and girls will count the hours golden spent in reading “Christmas in Storyland.”

NOTE OF APPRECIATION

The editors of this volume desire to express their deep appreciation for the kindness and courtesy of authors and publishers who have granted permission to reprint stories bearing their copyright.

CONTENTS

CHRISTMAS IN STORYLAND

THE MAGIC CHRISTMAS GIFT[1]

Frances Margaret Fox

It was late autumn in the north woods, and Beatrice and Josephine were thinking about Christmas. They liked to think about Christmas: they liked to talk about it and to sing Christmas songs and to play Christmas games. Those two little girls had been known to play the game of Santa Claus filling Christmas stockings on the Fourth of July; and it was such fun they did not care who laughed.

Beatrice was seven years old and Josephine was nine that particular autumn day when they climbed to the top of the front gate posts to talk it over. There was no gate in front of their log cabin, only an opening where a gate would some day swing on hinges and fasten with a click. The gate posts were made of big, round logs of cedar, and were almost two feet taller than the top of the fence. There was a path leading from the gateway to the front door of the log cabin, and behind the cabin, and surrounding it on three sides, were the evergreen woods. In front of the cabin was a wide clearing belonging to the railway.

From early spring until late in the autumn the little girls were in the habit of climbing on the gate posts to watch the trains go by.

“I suppose if we had lots of money,” said Beatrice from the top of her gate post, “I suppose we could go to Marquette and buy Christmas presents for the whole family!”

“But most of all for mother!” added Josephine, happily kicking her feet.

“What should we get mother if we had money and could go traveling?” Beatrice inquired.

“Well,” answered Josephine, “if we ever have a ride on the cars, and if we ever go to Marquette with father and our pockets full of money, we’d buy,—we’d buy,—I don’t know what and you don’t know what!”

At that, the two little girls laughed and laughed until they almost fell off the gate posts; they liked to sit on the gate posts and laugh. For a while they talked about the Christmas presents they should like to make.

“But there should be something special for our mother,” insisted Josephine.

“Oh,” answered Beatrice, as she happily kicked her feet against her gate post, “I guess we’ll have to give mother the same old promise we give her every Christmas, that she will have all the year two little girls, oh, such good little girls, to help take care of babies and tidy up the cabin, tra la-la, tra la-la-la!”

After that, until the afternoon train whistled, the merry little girls kept choosing gifts for all the family, but most of all for mother. But the minute the train whistled, Beatrice suggested a new game.

“When the train starts puff-puff from the station just round the curve over there,” said she, “and the wheels begin to turn round slowly, and the cars come slowly, rumble-rumble, you turn square round facing the train this way, just like me, and you sing with me this song I am just thinking up, and we’ll try Christmas magic, like this:

“White magic,

Christmas magic,

Send our mother a Christmas gift!

“Gold magic,

Christmas magic,

Send our mother a Christmas gift!”

By the time the passenger train was opposite the little log cabin, the laughing children were gazing straight toward it, singing over and over to the rumble of the wheels:

“White magic,

Christmas magic,

Send our mother a Christmas gift!

“Gold magic,

Christmas magic,

Send our mother a Christmas gift!”

Of course those two little girls away off in the upper peninsula of Michigan, miles and miles from any town, did not expect a magic Christmas gift for their mother; they simply had a good time, and forgot all about their game as soon as it was over and they had climbed down from their gate posts to go to the pasture after the cows.

But the day before Christmas, when the little cabin was bursting with Christmas joy and secrets, the postmaster from the settlement called to see Beatrice and Josephine.... He said he wished to speak with them alone. There was only one room in the cabin, one big, clean, cheerful room, and so the little girls climbed into the postmaster’s sleigh and drove with him beyond sight of the house. Then he said “Whoa!” to his horses, and without another word he untied a big, flat parcel that looked like a picture in a frame; and it was a picture in a frame— a big picture of two merry-looking little girls, each seated on a gate post in front of a log-cabin home that had evergreen woods behind it and a clearing in front.

It was a long time before either child could speak; then Josephine whispered, “How did it happen?”

“A lady on a passing train who is a stranger to us all,” the postmaster answered, “took a snapshot of you two, because you looked so happy. Then she had the picture enlarged and framed and sent it to me to give to you, so that you might give it to your mother for Christmas. She said she was sure I would know who you were by the picture; so, as I thought you would like a big Christmas surprise for your mother, I asked to see you alone. Now we’ll drive back to the house.”

At last Beatrice found her voice; but “Did you ever!” was all she said, and “Did you ever!” was all Josephine said, until they remembered to thank the postmaster for his kindness.

On Christmas Eve the little girls could keep their secret no longer, and solemnly presented their mother with the magic gift.

Mother cried. Tears of joy rolled down her face when she saw it.

“I never before had a picture of any of you children,” said she, “and I never expected to, because we live so far from a photographer. And this is so beautiful! Such happy faces! Oh, it seems too good to be true! It would not have happened if you were not such good little girls, always thinking of your mother!”

The next day two joyous little girls danced about the cabin, singing:

“White magic,

Christmas magic,

Brought our mother a Christmas gift!

“Gold magic,

Christmas magic,

Brought our mother a Christmas gift!”

And the two little faces in the picture smiled down upon the happy family cheerfully, then and ever after.

[1] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 21, 1916. Reprinted by special permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”

THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS[2]

Edith Houghton Hooker

Everybody’s hands were quite full of little pin-pricks from the holly leaves. Alan and David and little Alice had all been helping with the Christmas greens, and at last the wreaths were securely fastened on tiny tacks in the windows, and sprays of holly peeped festively out from behind each picture. There was a large red paper bell hanging from the chandelier in the hall for Santa Claus to ring when he came in, and beside it a sprig of mistletoe, so there would be no embarrassment about kissing him in case he should be caught.

It was Christmas eve, and we all gathered around the fire to rest after our labors and to speculate about the prospects for the morrow. “Suppose he doesn’t come,” surmised David, “or suppose he would bring us only switches!” The thought was terrifying.

“It all depends on what you deserve,” I answered. “Santa Claus has a way, you know, of finding out just what each child really ought to get.”

“Well,” said Alan, the skeptic, “there are some who say there isn’t any Santa Claus—that he’s just a story made up by older people to amuse the children. I never knew of any one who’d seen him.”

Alice gasped. “You will get only switches, Alan, if you say such things,” she warned him.

“There are people who deny everything that’s good and true,” I took the conversation over, “but their lack of faith hurts no one as much as themselves. Would you like to hear about the old man who denied there was a Santa Claus and to learn what happened to him?”

“Please, please!” they all cried, and I began the story:

******

Once upon a time there was an old man whose name was Mr. Grouch, and he had lived so many years that he could hardly count them. He was little, and thin, and bent over, and wrinkled, and he had a scraggly little beard and cross, snapping eyes. He used to carry a big stick that he would shake at the boys when they laughed at him, and he never had a smile for anybody. He lived all alone with one crabbed old man-servant in a vast house, and no one even dared to ring the doorbell.

One Christmas eve I was coming down the street taking gifts around to some friends, and my mind was full of Christmas. There was a new fall of snow on the ground and the sleighbells were jingling. Even the busy shopkeepers seemed to be in the Christmas spirit. Banks of fir-trees stood on the corners, and every now and then I passed some one proudly carrying home a tree over his shoulder. All of a sudden, whom should I see coming toward me but old Mr. Grouch, looking crosser than ever. He was shaking his stick at the Christmas trees and scowling at the fat turkeys, and for a moment I was half afraid to speak to him. Still it seemed too bad not to give the old man the season’s greetings, so I called out as cheerily as I could—“A Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Grouch!”

He turned on me, coming quite close and shaking his big stick in my face, so that he frightened me. “A Merry Nonsense!” he snarled, biting the words off short. “You should go home and attend to your business, not go running around wasting your own time and other people’s. This Merry Christmasing is all nonsense, I tell you, fit only for children and simpletons. There’s no such person as Santa Claus! It’s all a myth concocted by idle folk to fool the children.”

I stood quite still, rooted to the spot, in terror lest Santa Claus should see me in such bad company.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Mr. Grouch!” I finally brought out. “It’s wicked to deny the spirit of Christmas.”

“Wicked or not wicked,” he retorted, “I say it again—A Merry Nonsense to you and all your kind!”

He looked so fierce that I hastened on my way without another word, and as I turned the corner, I still heard him muttering—“A Merry Nonsense! A Merry Nonsense!”

On he went homeward to his great dreary house, and there he found a frugal supper laid out by the old man-servant. He ate without appetite and then went upstairs. Then, after stuffing cotton in his ears and closing both the windows and the shutters to keep out the music of the bells and Christmas crackers, he climbed into his large four-poster bed, and pulling his nightcap down over his head, he went fast asleep.

How long he slept, he never knew, but suddenly he awoke hearing a strange sound. “Plump!” It was over near the fireplace, and there was a great rush of falling soot and plaster.

Mr. Grouch sat up quickly, scratched a match, and lighted his bedside candle. He lifted it high and scanned the room, peering out over the bed-clothes like a strange gnome in his pointed nightcap. He stared at the fireplace, and there—what do you think he saw? He could scarcely believe his eyes—and yet, sure enough, it was Santa Claus, dressed all in ermine and scarlet velvet, red cheeks glowing from the cold, his white beard glistening with snowflakes. There he stood chuckling softly and rubbing his hands together, the jolliest possible twinkle in his kind blue eyes.

“A Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Grouch,” he said in a deep hearty voice.

Mr. Grouch trembled so that the candle wax dripped on his hand. “A Merry Christmas, Sir,” he said, his voice sounding queer and squeaky.

“Now, Mr. Grouch,” said Santa Claus, smiling broadly, “that doesn’t sound natural from you. Why don’t you say ‘A Merry Nonsense’? You don’t believe in Santa Claus, and I know it, and I’ve come here this evening to give you back your faith—as a Christmas present. Put that candle down; get out of bed and into your clothes while I count three. My reindeer will be tired waiting.”

Then you should have seen Mr. Grouch scramble. He popped his thin legs into his trousers and laced up his boots with shaking fingers; then he pulled on his greatcoat and wound his long knitted muffler round his neck just as Santa Claus said three!

“You’ve forgotten your hat,” Santa Claus reminded him, chuckling. And sure enough, there he stood, the funniest figure you can imagine, still with his pointed nightcap on his head. He tore off his cap and placed his old beaver in its stead just as Santa Claus gave him a great boost that sent him flying up the chimney. Santa followed close after, and Mr. Grouch could hear him puffing and panting, and digging his boots into the side of the chimney as he came up behind him.

On top of the house it was all singularly quiet and peaceful. There was snow everywhere, on all the roofs as far as the eye could reach, and above was the limitless heaven with the calm stars shining out.

Santa Claus stretched his arm toward the East. “It was there,” he said, “before I was born, that the wise men saw the Star of Bethlehem.” His voice was so full and deep that the old man trembled. He looked out over the great city and saw in a thousand homes the candles burning for Christmas. A group of singers, strolling by in the street, stopped and began to sing a Christmas carol. Suddenly the bells rang out from churches far and near. It was midnight, they were pealing the glad tidings.

“We must be off,” said Santa Claus; “we are already late; we must be going.”

Mr. Grouch noticed now for the first time a wonderful little sleigh drawn by eight reindeer harnessed in pairs together. In it lay Santa Claus’s great pack, bursting with toys, and candy, and all sorts of joy for the children. One or two switches which Mr. Grouch saw sticking out on the top gave him a sense of uneasiness. “Get in, my man, get in!” commanded Santa Claus, and they leaped into the sleigh. The reindeer pawed the snow and snorted; then Santa Claus gave them the word and away they went. Over the housetops and over the trees, on—on—like a wind through the heavens. The old man clutched his hat down close on his head and shook with fear as he saw the great city glide by beneath them. Past the great houses they went and never drew rein. “They’re rich there,” said Santa Claus; “they have more than they need. We won’t stop; they’re untrue to the Spirit of Christmas.”

After a time they came to a part of the town where the houses were all small and wretched-looking. “These are my boys and girls,” said Santa, as he drew up on the roof of a particularly sorry-looking little dwelling. The reindeer shook their great horns and their bells jingled. The old man looked doubtfully at Santa Claus and then at the little chimney.

“Can we get down?” he asked fearfully.

“It’s the size of their hearts, not the size of their chimneys, that makes the difference,” answered Santa Claus. “I’ll go first and you follow.”

He stepped in the chimney and down he went, and then Mr. Grouch stepped in and down he went, also. The fire was out, and they found themselves in a tiny little room all cold and wintry. Two little stockings were hanging by the hearth, long and lank and empty, and in a bed near by, two little children were sleeping. They were smiling happily as they slept, dreaming of Christmas morning. Before the empty fireplace a woman was sitting, dressed all in black. She was slight and small, and around her thin shoulders she had drawn a shawl to protect herself from the cold. Here there was no holly, no wreaths in the windows, nothing at all to suggest Christmas except the unfilled stockings. The little mother had her eyes fixed on the dead ashes, and her thoughts could not have been happy for tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Oh, the poor children!” she whispered to herself, with something very like a sob, “what will they do in the morning?” She hid her face in her hands and began to weep bitterly; and it was just at this juncture that Santa Claus and Mr. Grouch came down the chimney.

“Her husband died two months ago,” whispered Santa Claus to Mr. Grouch, “and she has nothing in the house for Christmas,—no toys, no Christmas turkey, no nuts and raisins, nothing at all to fill those hungry stockings.” A large tear rolled down his cheek. Mr. Grouch sniffed and looked uneasily at the sleeping children.

“Now,” said Santa Claus, “watch and see what happens.”

While the little widow sobbed on, he took one thing after another out of his wonderful pack—nuts, raisins, candy canes, a beautiful great doll with yellow curls and blue eyes that went to sleep, a little railway-train, a top, a small tea-set, a doll’s chair, and finally, several pieces of nice warm clothing. Then he proceeded to fill the stockings with remarkable speed. When they were finished, the doll was peeping out of one, and the little engine out of the other. Mr. Grouch thought it was all over; but no, Santa Claus reached far down into his pack once more and brought out a beautiful Christmas basket. The fat legs of a turkey were standing out amid cranberries, and sweet potatoes, and oranges, and apples, and every other sort of good thing you can imagine.

Santa Claus placed the basket under the stockings, and then poked Mr. Grouch in the ribs so hard that it made him jump. “Now,” said he, “watch; for she’ll be looking up.”

And sure enough, in a moment the little widow sighed and raised her eyes. Then you should have been there to see her. Her poor little face grew quite pink with joy, she gasped, and her breath came fast with bewilderment. She rubbed her eyes with her thin hands; she couldn’t believe it was not a dream. Then she gave a little cry, just between a sob and a laugh, and fell on her knees before the basket.

She poked the fat turkey and felt deftly between all the other things until she knew exactly what was in the basket. “We’ll have a beautiful Christmas dinner, after all,” she said, “even a turkey!” She didn’t take a thing out of the stockings—just peeped in and felt softly down the long knobby legs. “I’ll leave them for the children just as he packed them, the dear saint!” she murmured to herself. She went over to the children and kissed each one softly; they smiled and wriggled cosily in their sleep. Then she looked over again at the wonderful hearthside—it seemed to Mr. Grouch that she looked straight at him, though of course she couldn’t see him as both he and Santa Claus had on caps of darkness. Her face was shining with a wonderful light of love and joy. Her eyes beamed like two stars, and the room seemed to be filled with a kind of glory. “It’s the blessed spirit of Christmas,” she whispered brokenly, “come to cheer my fatherless little ones and me.” Then she knelt down by her little bed, and it was plain that she was praying.

Santa Claus nodded triumphantly at Mr. Grouch, shaking off another big tear, and Mr. Grouch returned the look tremulously. He drew a large red handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped both eyes before speaking.

“Couldn’t we take off our caps of darkness,” he finally whispered, “and wish her a Merry Christmas?”

“A Merry Nonsense!” said Santa Claus, laughing until his fat sides shook; “no—we’re not allowed to be seen. ’Sh-h! it’s time to go up the chimney.”

Up they went into the dark night where the reindeer were waiting for them. Into the sleigh they jumped and off they started, and, as the wind whistled by them, Mr. Grouch said: “Santa Claus, I feel I owe you an apology. When I saw her face—”

Santa Claus interrupted him: “If you’re ready to admit you were wrong, go out to-morrow and wish every one a Merry Christmas.”

Far, far away they went, out over the rolling sea till they came to a ship which had had to sail out from port just three days before Christmas. Down into the forecastle they went, where the sailors were sadly thinking of their homes, and spread cheer around until each man wished the other a Merry Christmas.

All the long night they sped over the great world leaving joy behind them. They visited the children’s hospitals, where little boys and girls were lying awake, weeping for their mothers, and they quieted them and touched them with joy, and they slept, forgetful of their pain and sorrow. They visited sinful men in prison and softened their hearts, and they stopped at the homes of the rich and bade them remember their poorer brothers.

It was a night to dream of, such as no one else but Santa Claus can ever know again, but at last the pink glow of morning showed in the eastern sky.

“It’s time to be getting home,” said Santa Claus. “We can be seen if we’re out when the day is dawning.”

In a moment they had landed safely on Mr. Grouch’s roof.

“Good-by,” said Santa Claus, as he politely helped his passenger to alight and to shake off the snow and start down the chimney, “and remember, you are never to say you don’t believe in Santa Claus again!”

“Never in all this world!” said Mr. Grouch, in heartfelt tones. “Long live the spirit of Christmas!” He took off his hat and bowed in an old-fashioned, ceremonious manner just before the reindeer leaped into the air and started in the direction of the North Pole.

Mr. Grouch must have slid down the chimney and gone to bed after that, but in the morning he had forgotten all about that part of the adventure.

When the sun was high, the old man-servant knocked at the door and reminded him that breakfast was waiting. Mr. Grouch woke with a start. “A Merry Christmas to you, Andrew,” he shouted.

The old servant ran almost all the way downstairs with never a word. He thought his master must be mad, for he had never heard him give that greeting before in all his thirty years of service.

******

On Christmas morning I went out to take some toys, to the crippled children’s hospital, and there, coming down the street, whom should I see but old Mr. Grouch, a gayly decorated little Christmas tree over his shoulder, the pockets of his greatcoat bulging with toys and candy, and behind him, trooping merrily along, an endless chain of boys and girls, each with a toy and a bag of candy.

I stood stock-still with surprise and waited for the procession to come up.

“A Merry Christmas to you!” shouted Mr. Grouch, his face glowing from the crisp air, and all the children called out too, “A Merry Christmas!”

“We’re going to take this tree to some fatherless children,” he said: “would you like to come along with us?”

When I found my voice, I explained my errand and, quick as a wink, Mr. Grouch said they would stop at the hospital too, on the way to the other children. So on we went, all together, and everybody smiled and beamed and echoed our joy as soon as they saw us.

It must have been merely my imagination, but Mr. Grouch’s voice sounded to me just like Santa Claus’s as he wished everybody “Merry Christmas!”

He spent the whole day going round from one poor family to another, taking them toys and good cheer and leaving joy everywhere behind him.

Now the most curious part of the story is yet to come, for, would you believe it, Mr. Grouch has grown quite fat and jolly as time has gone by, until now, if you saw him, except for his black coat you would think he was Santa Claus. He has round red cheeks and a shining white beard, and his eyes are no longer cross and snapping; they beam upon every one the whole year round as if they were always saying, “I wish you a Merry Christmas!”

All of which goes to prove that Santa Claus is just as real as we think him, for each one of us can show by our own deeds and words the reality of the Spirit of Christmas.

******

I stopped.

“Is that all?” asked Alice.

“Yes,” I answered, “the story is finished.”

“And now do you believe in Santa Claus?” said David, looking hard at Alan.

“Yes,” answered the boy, drawing a long breath. “Let’s go up to the play-room and get some of our toys together to take to the hospital children tomorrow. We’ll do it for the sake of the Spirit of Christmas.”

[2] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”

A MONTANA CHRISTMAS[3]

John Clair Minot

David and Florence Payson live with their parents on a ranch in Montana. The nearest neighbor is a mile away and the nearest town nearly twenty miles; but that does not mean that they are so much out of the world as city children may imagine.

Most city children—and most country children, too, for that matter—count themselves fortunate to have one Christmas a year; but last year David and Florence Payson had two Christmases, and, moreover, they are planning a double Christmas again this year. The double Christmas came about in a very simple way, and it gave them by far the happiest holiday season that they had ever known.

The first of their two Christmases—and perhaps some of us would call it their real Christmas—came on Christmas Eve. There was a tree before the fireplace in the cheery living room, and it was loaded with good things that Mr. Payson had brought from town a few days before. Flashing tinsel and rippling streamers; bright flags and sprigs of crimson holly; golden fruit and candy of all kinds and colors; toys, toys, toys; books and pictures; things to wear and things to eat; and then more toys—all these made the tree very beautiful and wonderful to David and Florence when at last the living-room doors were opened and they were free to rush in. What a happy Christmas Eve they had then! In all the wide land there were perhaps no children who had a merrier time round their tree that night than David and Florence Payson had in the big living room of their lonely ranch house.

They took very few of the presents from the tree that evening. It was enough to admire them, and to dance round and round the tree in search of the treasures hidden among the branches. When the next morning came they were shouting “Merry Christmas!” before their parents were awake, and were at the tree as soon as it was light enough to see.

At breakfast David suddenly asked, “Does everyone have Christmas?”

“Everyone?” repeated Mr. Payson. “Well, I’m afraid some have a good deal more Christmas than others.”

David looked thoughtful. “Do you suppose that family in the log cabin over behind the bluff has any Christmas at all?”

“Perhaps not,” admitted Mr. Payson, and Mrs. Payson suddenly had the air of a person who all at once remembers something very important.

David looked hard at his plate, and then he said:

“Perhaps we ought to take Christmas over to them. We have so much that we can spare a little, can’t we?”

“Of course we can, David,” said his mother promptly. “I’ll fill a big basket with good things, and you and your father can carry it right over.”

But before the basket was filled, a very natural thought came to Florence.

“How can it be Christmas to them without a tree?” she asked.

“They shall have a tree,” said Mr. Payson. “Come, David, we’ll get one right now.”

David and his father found an axe and hurried off to a clump of small pines that grew near the river; there Mr. Payson cut down the most shapely one he could find. When they returned with it, Mrs. Payson and Florence had two baskets ready instead of one. Into the first basket they had put food and clothing. Into the second they had put some of the ornaments and holly that had decorated their own tree, and also a generous part of the fruit, candy and toys.

“Now we’ll be Santa Claus & Co.,” said Mr. Payson. “David, you and Florence can ride old Diamond and drag the tree. I’ve tied a rope to it. I’ll go ahead on General with the baskets.”

That was the way the strange procession set out. There was a light snow on the ground, but not enough to make travel hard, and the two miles were soon crossed. General was faster than Diamond, and a little while before the children reached the cabin they met their father returning.

“I’ve left the baskets on the brow of the hill,” he said. “You can easily drag them down to the door. You two are really Santa Claus & Co., you know.”

So, suddenly and without any warning whatever, Christmas came to the log cabin. The family there had staked out a claim the summer before, and they had little more than the land itself. There were no signs of any holiday celebration anywhere about the shabby little place. It was indeed an amazed man that opened the door to the children’s knock.

“How do you do?” said David. “We’ve brought Christmas!”

“Brought what?” the man said uncertainly.

“We’ve brought Christmas,” repeated David, and he pointed to the tree and to the two big baskets that he and Florence had dragged down the slope to the door.

As he spoke, a woman joined the man at the door; three little children were clinging to her skirts.

“Christmas!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands. “Is this Christmas Day? I declare, we’d lost track of the days altogether! Why, you blessed angels, where did you come from?”

“We’re not blessed angels,” said Florence. “We’re Santa Claus & Co., and we live on the Payson ranch over on the river.”

“Well, well!” said the man. He began to understand what it all meant. “Come right in. I’ll tie the horse.”

David and Florence stamped the snow off and went inside, dragging their gifts. The cabin was so small that they had to cut off the top of the tree before they could stand it up in the room. Then they all joined in hanging up the decorations and the gifts. The three children had said scarcely a word at first, but they grew noisy with happiness as the tree slowly began to display its wonderful fruit before their eyes. Perhaps it was the most beautiful Christmas Day that ever came to three little folk who had not even known that it was Christmas until nearly noon. And when the big parcels of clothing were taken from the tree and opened one by one there were tears of happiness in the grown people’s eyes.

Late that afternoon David and Florence mounted Diamond, waved good-by and rode back to the ranch.

“Which Christmas celebration was the better?” asked their mother, when they had told the story of their visit to the log cabin.

“Both were wonderful,” said David, “but somehow we were even happier there than here.”

“I suppose it was because the first was a getting Christmas and the second was a giving Christmas,” said Florence.

And in that sage remark Florence showed where the richest happiness of the Christmas season lies.

[3] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 12, 1918. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”

THE SECRET CHRISTMAS TREE[4]

Elsie Singmaster

In the kitchen of the little house on the mountain-side there was only one sound, the whirring of a sewing-machine. The kitchen was a pleasant place. There was a glowing fire in the stove, a brightly striped rag carpet on the floor, and a red cloth on the table. In three of the four deeply embrasured windows were potted geraniums. By the fourth stood the machine which whirred so busily.

It was Christmas eve, and if a little shawl and sunbonnet and a little boy’s overcoat hanging on pegs behind the door were any sign, there were children in the house. But there was no sign of Christmas; there were no stockings hung before the fire, there was no tree, there were no presents. The mother who turned the machine was making men’s shirts of coarse fabric. To her right on a table lay piles of separate portions of shirts—sleeves, fronts, bands, cuffs; on the floor to her left, a great heap of finished garments. Her bent head was motionless; she was able to shift the material upon which she was working from one side to the other without moving her shoulders or lifting her eyes, so that she seemed to work upon an unending seam. She had set herself the finishing of a certain number of dozen before the New Year, and she had her task almost finished, though it was only Christmas eve.

By the table sat an old man. He had a bright face and blue eyes; one would have said he had still a good deal of the energy and strength of his youth. He was reading the Christmas story in the Bible, but his eyes strayed often from the page, whose contents he knew by heart, to the figure by the machine. Once when the left hand swept to the floor a finished garment he started from his chair. But the right hand was already gathering together the pieces of another, and he sank back.

When the shrill little clock on the mantel struck eleven and the deft hand gathered up still another garment, the old man tiptoed to the door and opened it. He went across the yard and there entered a little shop and struck a match. Then he exclaimed in joy over the product of his own hands.

“It’s the handsomest I ever seen!” said he.

Almost filling the little shop, its proud head bent, its wide arms spread benignantly, stood a Christmas tree, gorgeous, glittering. Each tiny twig was tipped with a white ball; among the branches hung thick clusters of golden fruit. There was no other color; the old gentleman had, it was clear, fine taste in Christmas trees.

Beneath the tree was a village. Into green moss were stuck little tree-like sprigs of pine; scattered about were miniature houses. Here a little horse carved out of wood drew a cart; here a flock of sheep wandered. There was a mill beside a glassy pond—a mill whose wheel, set in the brook in summer-time, would really turn. On one side of the garden stood a full-sized sled, upon it a chess-board, both hand-made, but neatly finished; upon the other side a doll’s cradle with a little squirrel skin cut neatly for a cover, and two necklaces, one of rose hips and one of gourd seeds. Before the garden lay another group of presents—a neatly carved spool-holder and a little pile of skins for muff or tippet.

It was a beautiful sight even to one who had had no hand in the making. But now suddenly the old man’s enthusiasm seemed to fail. He shook his head solemnly and went back to the house.

“I’ll have to tell her soon,” said he. “I’ll have to tell her now.”

Then the clock on the mantel struck twelve, the machine stopped, and the worker got stiffly to her feet. She was a tall, strong person, with a sad, preoccupied face. It was difficult to believe that she was the daughter of the little blue-eyed old man. At once he, too, rose and laid his book on the table. He looked up at the tall figure as though he were a little afraid of it.

“Susan,” said he, “are you tired?”

“Yes,” answered Susan.

“Susan,” the old man began with a little gasp, “I wish you’d—” He looked longingly toward the door which led out toward the little shop.

“You wish I’d what, gran’pap?”

The old man’s courage failed completely.

“I wish you’d go to bed, Susan.”

“I am going,” answered Susan. “Good night, gran’pap.”

When the last sound of Susan’s step had died away, gran’pap put coal on the fire and blew out the light.

“Oh, my! oh my!” said he. “What will she say when she finds it out?”

Then, slowly, forgetting that the lamp burned in the little shop across the yard, he climbed the stairs.

It was almost three months since the subject of Christmas had been broached in the little house. Then, one pleasant October afternoon, when the children left the main road and turned in at the by-road which led toward home, they found gran’pap sitting on the fence. He missed the children, who, dinner-pail and books in hand, walked two miles to the schoolhouse before half-past eight in the morning and did not return until half-past four in the afternoon. Thomas could have covered the distance much more speedily, but little Eliza could not walk fast. Now in October, the sun was already near its setting.

Gran’pap had a knife in his hand and was whittling something very tiny. When the children came in sight, he put both knife and handiwork into his pocket. He greeted them with a cheerful shout, and they smiled at him and came up slowly. Thomas and Eliza took their pleasures very soberly. Though gran’pap had lived with them since spring, they were not yet accustomed to his levity, fascinating as it was.

Eliza took his hand and trotted in a satisfied way beside him. She was a fat little girl, and her old-fashioned clothes made her look like a demure person of middle age. Thomas stepped along on the other side, trying to set each foot as far ahead of the other as gran’pap did.

“Well,” said gran’pap, “here we are!”

“And what,” said Thomas, with a happy skip and a wave of the dinner-pail, “what are we going to do to-night?”

Gran’pap sniffed the sharp air, which promised frost.

“Wait till you hear the chestnuts rattlin’ Saturday!” said he. “I have poles ready for beatin’ ’em, and I made each of you a pair of mittens for hullin’ ’em.”

Saturday’s pleasure, while delectable, was still too far away and too uncertain for Thomas.

“But to-night, gran’pap, what about to-night?”

“To-night,” said gran’pap, solemnly, having approached the greater joy through the less, “to-night we make our plans for Christmas!”

“For Christmas?” said Thomas and Eliza together.

“Why, you act as though you never seen or heard of Christmas!” mocked the old man. “As though you were heathen!”

“We haven’t seen Christmas,” said the little girl.

“I did once,” corrected Thomas. “There was a tree with bright gold things on it and lights. We had it in the house. I guess ’Lizie couldn’t remember; she was very little.” He drew closer to the old man and spoke in a low tone, “He was here still.”

“But last Christmas and the Christmas before. You had a tree then?”

“No,” insisted the little boy.

“Why, there’s trees in plenty!” cried gran’pap. “But perhaps,” added he, hurriedly, “perhaps she couldn’t get any one to cut it for her. But you had presents!”

“The Snyder children had a present,” said little Eliza. “It was a sled, Sandy Claus brought it.”

“But you had presents,” insisted gran’pap.

“No,” said Thomas and Eliza together.

“I guess she was very busy,” said gran’pap, with a frown. Then face and voice brightened. “But this year I’m on hand to cut the tree and I’m on hand to trim the tree.”

The children looked up at him. It was clear that they had not entire faith in gran’pap’s powers.

“And presents,” continued gran’pap. “If you could have your choice of presents, what would you like to have?”

“I would like a gun,” said Thomas.

“I would like—” Little Eliza gave a long, long sigh—“I would like a locket. I saw one in a picture.”

“I do not know what you will get,” said the old man, “but you will get something.”

Then gran’pap hurried his own steps and theirs.

“She’ll be lookin’ for us, children. Mooley’s to be milked and wood’s to be fetched.”

Further progress was swift, for the road descended sharply. Under the shelter of a small cliff-like elevation stood the little house, startlingly white in the thickening darkness. It was a lonely place, entirely out of sight of other houses. Though it was protected from the coldest of the winter winds, it was not out of reach of their mournful sound.

From the kitchen window a bright light shone. Susan lit the lamp by her machine early. They could see her head and shoulders plainly as she bent over her work. At sight of her gran’pap and the children became silent.

“She’s always busy,” said gran’pap, after a moment. “She’s wonderful, she is.”

Thomas and Eliza made no answer. They had had no experience with a mother who was not perpetually busy. Gran’pap began to whistle, as though to warn her of their presence, and she lifted her head and looked out into the dusk. Her face, now as always intensely grave and preoccupied, brightened a little. The company of a grown person must have been a blessing in this quiet spot. For three years Susan had lived here alone with her children.

Gran’pap did not go at once into the house, but took from the bench beside the door a large milk-pail and went to the barn. The children followed him, and stood just inside the door, listening to the milk rattling into the pail. Gran’pap talked to Mooley, complimenting her upon her sleek coat and her beautiful eyes, upon her gentleness, and upon the abundance of her milk. When he had finished, he and the children went into the house together. Thomas took off his cap and Eliza her shawl and sunbonnet, and gran’pap hung them up on the high pegs. Then he looked sorrowfully at the figure before the sewing-machine.

“Ain’t you stopping yet, Susan?”

“I must make one more,” came the answer from the bent head. “The man comes to fetch them to-morrow.”

“But not till afternoon, Susan, and see all you have done!”

Susan made no answer. Stepping quietly, gran’pap poured the milk into crocks, and carried the crocks into the cellar. When he returned, he gave the fire a little shake and began to get supper. He set the table and cut the potatoes and meat for stew, and put the stew on the stove. As he sliced the onion he made queer grimaces to amuse Thomas and Eliza. When a savory odor began to rise, the figure at the machine turned.

“You needn’t ’a’ done that, gran’pap!”

“Oh, yes, Susan. Now when you’re done, supper’ll be ready.”

The machine whirred a little faster, the hands moved a little more swiftly. The sleeves of a shirt were added to the body, the band was put in place. Once Susan sighed, but so quickly did the whirring sound begin once more that the sigh reached the ears of no one but herself.

The two children sat, meanwhile, upon the settle, their school-books in their hands. But they did not study. They pondered upon what gran’pap had said. Gran’pap had brought many miracles to pass. It was possible that he would bring this heavenly one to pass also. Sometimes they whispered to each other.

When the whirring machine stopped and the mother pushed back her chair, gran’pap announced the feast ready. Susan carried the lamp from the machine to the table. She looked wretchedly tired. She rubbed her hand across her forehead, and when she sat down at the table she shielded her eyes from the light.

For once the children did not see that she was tired, for once they burst without thought into speech. Gran’pap’s promise had intoxicated them.

“Gran’pap says we will have a Christmas,” said Thomas, before he had lifted his spoon.

“With a big tree. He will cut it.”

“And with presents,” said Eliza.

“I would like a gun,” said Thomas.

“And I a locket,” said Eliza.

The mother shivered. She put her hands again to her forehead and closed her eyes.

“No,” said she. “There will be no Christmas.”

“But, Susan—”

Susan looked straight at her father. Her answer was final, but it was not rude; it sounded cruel, but the old man was neither hurt nor offended.

“This is my house, father. There can be no tree and no presents. I cannot stand a tree, and I have no money for presents.”

The old man uttered a single “But”—then he said no more. The faces of Thomas and Eliza dropped, but they said nothing. After a while they looked furtively at their grandfather, as though to see how this correcting of his plans affected him. When they saw that tears dropped from his eyes, they looked down upon their plates.

But grandfather was not long sad. He helped Susan to clear the table, then he sat down with the children. When they had finished their sums and had learned their spelling lesson and had read—toes on the stripe in the carpet, backs straight, books held in a prescribed manner—their reading lessons, he drew animals for them and cut rows of soldiers for Thomas and babies for Eliza. Their mother folded the shirts she had finished, laid fresh work on the machine for the morning, and sewed for an hour by hand on a dress for Eliza. Then she bade the children go to bed.

“Are you going to sit up, gran’pap?” she asked, gently.

“A little,” said gran’pap.

“Good-night,” said Susan.

Gran’pap sat by the table for a long time, his head on his hand. Gradually the expression of his face changed from sadness to a grim yet tender determination.

“We will see,” said he aloud.

Then he read a chapter in his Bible and went to bed.

On Saturday gran’pap and the children went chestnutting. Their luck was amazing. After enough chestnuts had been reserved to supply the family’s most extensive needs, there were ten quarts to be sold. With the money they bought ten spools of thread for Susan.

“You’ll get more for your work if you don’t have to pay your money for thread,” said gran’pap.

Susan gave a little gasp. One who did not know her might have thought that she was about to cry. But Susan never cried.

“You oughtn’t to have spent your money for me,” she said.

If gran’pap was disappointed or grieved because Susan had said that the children could have no Christmas, he did not show it. He kept the wood-box full, he drove Mooley along the roadside to find a little late grass, and he heard the children say their lessons. When he was not thus occupied, he was in his little shop across the yard. Thither he had brought from his old home a jig-saw, a small turning lathe, and sundry other carpenter tools. He had here a little stove, and here on stormy days he worked. On pleasant days he made repairs to the house and barn, so that they should be winter-tight.

“The squirrels have thick coats,” said he. “Look out for cold weather!”

As a matter of fact, gran’pap disregarded entirely his daughter’s prohibition. When the children were at school and late at night, gran’pap was at work. He carved the animals for the garden and made the little houses and the cradle and the chessboard, and he gilded walnuts and hickory nuts to hang upon the tree, and popped the corn to make the little balls for the finishing of each branch. It was a long task; gran’pap often sat up half the night. Sometimes he worked in hope, sometimes in despair.

“When she sees it in its grandeur, she will feel different,” said he when he was hopeful.

“Trouble’s got fixed on her mind,” said he when he despaired. “Perhaps she can’t change any more.”

“But I’ll try”—this was the invariable conclusion of grandfather’s meditations. “For the sake of her and these children, I’ll try.”

Several times gran’pap was almost caught. The odor of popcorn was sniffed by Thomas and Eliza, returning a little earlier than usual from school, and a large supply had to be handed over to them. A spot of gilding on gran’pap’s coat was explained with difficulty. For the last days after the great tree had been dragged into the shop and set up gran’pap was in constant fear.

“On Christmas eve, after those children are in bed, I’ll take her over,” planned gran’pap. “I’ll have a light burning. When she sees the tree, she’ll feel different.”

But now Christmas eve was past and Susan had not been led to the little shop. Susan had gone to her room and gran’pap had gone to his and Christmas morning was almost at hand. Gran’pap had never been so miserable.

“She’ll never forgive me,” said he, as he lay down upon his bed and looked up at the stars. “Oh, dear! oh dear!”

At two o’clock gran’pap woke, conscious of a disturbance of mind. He lay for a moment thinking of Susan, then he realized that it was another uneasiness which had disturbed him.

“I left that light burning!” said he, as he sprang out of bed.

He dressed quickly, and went down the stairs into the kitchen. To his consternation the door stood ajar.

“Burglars!” said gran’pap. Then gran’pap stood still. The shop was on the side of Susan’s room; he saw in the dim firelight that Susan’s shawl was gone from its hook.

“Oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap, as he made his way across the yard.

Then he came to another abrupt pause in his progress. He heard a sound, a strange sound, the sound of crying. He tiptoed closer to the door of the shop. Within sat Susan upon a low bench, her head bent low, her hands across her face. He could see her shoulders heave, he could hear the pitiful sound of her sobbing.

Gran’pap was in despair. He did not know what he should do, whether he should go forward or back. It was evident at least that his plan had not been successful.

“She’s never cried before,” said he.

Then, seeing Susan rise, he took a middle course and stepped into the shadow of the little building. Susan did not give another glance at the beautiful tree with its out-stretched arms; she went across the yard, still crying, and into the house.

“She even forgot to lock the door,” said gran’pap, as he went into the shop.

He stood for a moment and looked at the tree.

“We can keep the door locked,” said he, mournfully. “I can give ’em the things another time. Perhaps she would let me give ’em each one thing this morning.”

Then gran’pap heard a stir, the sound of a footstep, the rustle of approaching skirts. He turned and faced the door.

“Susan!” said he.

It was Susan come back, Susan with a burden in her arms. She looked at her father with a start. Her face was different. It was suddenly clear that she had been a beautiful girl. She laid her burden upon the little bench.

“Here is a little rifle that was his father’s,” said she. “And here is a little chain and locket that was mine. You put them under the tree, gran’pap.”

“Oh, Susan!” said the old man.

But Susan was already at the door. There she turned and looked back. Again she was crying, but she was smiling, too. It was plain that for Susan the worst of grief was past.

“Merry Christmas, gran’pap!” said she. “You’d better go to bed.”

“Same to you!” faltered gran’pap.

Then he took the little rifle and the chain and locket in his hands and hugged them to his breast.

“Oh my! oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap. “What will those children do!”

[4] By permission of the author and the “Outlook.”

HOW OLD MR. LONG-TAIL BECAME A
SANTA CLAUS[5]

Harrison Cady

“No, sir-ree, you don’t catch me giving anything to Christmas charity. No, sir-ree! It’s all nonsense anyway,” said old Mr. Long-Tail as he slammed his door shut with a great bang right in the face of a startled snowbird who had called to solicit a contribution for the Christmas fund for the poor and needy.

Then with a frown he turned, drawing his old padded dressing gown more closely about him, and hobbled over to his large easy-chair before the blazing fire. Seating himself among its cushions he proceeded to pour out a steaming bowl of broth from a copper pot and to help himself to a bit of toast from a trivet before the fire.

“Ha, ha!” he squeaked. “This is pretty snug,” and his lips curled into a satisfied smile as he glanced over to where the boisterous snowflakes were dashing against the window pane.

“Who-o-o! Who-o-o!” whistled the cold North Wind as it rattled the shutters.

“Crackety-crackety,” answered back the leaping flames in the grate with a merry shower of sparks.

Yes, Mr. Long-Tail was snug—very, very snug. His comfortable little house fairly glowed with warmth, and its pantry shelves sagged under their weight of good things. So, on this cold winter’s day, the Day-Before-Christmas, he of all the many forest folk could afford to scoff and shoo away unwelcome callers. For why should he worry about the needy and the cold? His shelves were full and his fire was warm. Besides, did he not have many storehouses filled to overflowing?

But many there were in the great world who were not as free from worry as Mr. Long-Tail. Many days of heavy storms and cruel winds had drifted the snow and covered fields and forests alike with a thick white mantle which, freezing, had made it almost impossible for many little creatures to reach their hidden stores or to find a stray berry.

For weeks past they had been watching and waiting in the hope of better weather. Christmas was drawing near, and they had planned a grand celebration around a great fir tree which grew on a lofty knoll at the very edge of the forest. They had planned to trim it from top to bottom with long garlands of holly, while myriads of blazing candles would glisten and sparkle as they shed their light upon boughs heavily laden with presents.

Then one day came Bad Weather, and with him a great blizzard which howled and shrieked and added huge drifts of snow. The little forest people looked out from their windows to see the blizzard imps dancing in glee, and as days went by they slowly gave up hope of the great Christmas celebration. Many tiny creatures watched their storehouses of provisions gradually disappear under the snow, and each day saw the list of the needy increase.