Part I STORIES CHILDREN CAN READ

LITTLE FOLKS’ CHRISTMAS STORIES AND PLAYS

CHRISTMAS AT THE HOLLOW TREE INN[1] ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE

Once upon a time, when the Robin, and Turtle, and Squirrel, and Jack Rabbit had all gone home for the winter, nobody was left in the Hollow Tree except the ’Coon and the ’Possum and the old black Crow. Of course the others used to come back and visit them pretty often, and Mr. Dog, too, now that he had got to be good friends with all the Deep Woods people, and they thought a great deal of him when they got to know him better. Mr. Dog told them a lot of things they had never heard of before, things that he’d learned at Mr. Man’s house, and maybe that’s one reason why they got to liking him so well.

He told them about Santa Claus, for one thing, and how the old fellow came down the chimney on Christmas Eve to bring presents to Mr. Man and his children, who always hung up their stockings for them, and Mr. Dog said that once he had hung up his stocking, too, and got a nice bone in it, that was so good he had buried and dug it up again as much as six times before spring. He said that Santa Claus always came to Mr. Man’s house, and that whenever the children hung up their stockings they were always sure to get something in them.

Well, the Hollow Tree people had never heard of Santa Claus. They knew about Christmas, of course, because everybody, even the cows and sheep, knows about that; but they had never heard of Santa Claus. You see, Santa Claus only comes to Mr. Man’s house, but they didn’t know that, either, so they thought if they just hung up their stockings he’d come there, too, and that’s what they made up their minds to do. They talked about it a great deal together, and Mr. ’Possum looked over all his stockings to pick out the biggest one he had, and Mr. Crow he made himself a new pair on purpose. Mr. ’Coon said he never knew Mr. Crow to make himself such big stockings before, but Mr. Crow said he was getting old and needed things bigger, and when he loaned one of his new stockings to Mr. ’Coon, Mr. ’Coon said, “That’s so,” and that he guessed they were about right after all. They didn’t tell anybody about it at first, but by and by they told Mr. Dog what they were going to do, and when Mr. Dog heard it he wanted to laugh right out. You see, he knew Santa Claus never went anywhere except to Mr. Man’s house, and he thought it would be a great joke on the Hollow Tree people when they hung up their stockings and didn’t get anything.

But by and by Mr. Dog thought about something else. He thought it would be too bad, too, for them to be disappointed that way. You see, Mr. Dog liked them all now, and when he had thought about that a minute he made up his mind to do something. And this is what it was—he made up his mind to play Santa Claus!

He knew just how Santa Claus looked, ’cause he’d seen lots of his pictures at Mr. Man’s house, and he thought it would be great fun to dress up that way and take a bag of presents to the Hollow Tree while they were all asleep and fill up the stockings of the ’Coon and ’Possum and the old black Crow. But first he had to be sure of some way of getting in, so he said to them he didn’t see how they could expect Santa Claus, their chimneys were so small, and Mr. Crow said they could leave their latchstring out downstairs, which was just what Mr. Dog wanted. Then they said they were going to have all the folks that had spent the summer with them over for Christmas dinner and to see the presents they had got in their stockings. They told Mr. Dog to drop over, too, if he could get away, and Mr. Dog said he would, and went off laughing to himself, and ran all the way home because he felt so pleased at what he was going to do.

Well, he had to work pretty hard, I tell you, to get things ready. It wasn’t so hard to get the presents as it was to rig up his Santa Claus dress. He found some long wool out in Mr. Man’s barn for his white whiskers, and he put some that wasn’t so long on the edges of his overcoat and boot tops and around an old hat he had. Then he borrowed a big sack he found out there, too, and fixed it up to swing over his back, just as he had seen Santa Claus do in the picture. He had a lot of nice things to take along. Three tender young chickens he’d borrowed from Mr. Man, for one thing, and then he bought some new neckties for the Hollow Tree folks all around, and a big striped candy cane for each one, because candy canes always looked well sticking out of a stocking. Besides all that, he had a new pipe for each, and a package of tobacco. You see, Mr. Dog lived with Mr. Man, and didn’t ever have to buy much for himself, so he had always saved his money. He had even more things than that, but I can’t remember just now what they were; and when he started out, all dressed up like Santa Claus, I tell you his bag was pretty heavy, and he almost wished before he got there that he hadn’t started with quite so much.

It got heavier and heavier all the way, and he was glad enough to get there and find the latchstring out. He set his bag down to rest a minute before climbing the stairs, and then opened the doors softly and listened. He didn’t hear a thing except Mr. Crow and Mr. ’Coon and Mr. ’Possum breathing pretty low, and he knew they might wake up any minute, and he wouldn’t have been caught there in the midst of things for a good deal. So he slipped up just as easy as anything, and when he got up in the big parlor room he almost had to laugh right out loud, for there were the stockings sure enough, all hung up in a row, and a card with a name on it over each one telling whom it belonged to.

Then he listened again, and all at once he jumped and held his breath, for he heard Mr. ’Possum say something. But Mr. ’Possum was only talking in his sleep, and saying, “I’ll take another piece, please,” and Mr. Dog knew he was dreaming about the mince pie he’d had for supper.

So, then he opened his bag and filled the stockings. He put in mixed candy and nuts and little things first, and then the pipes and tobacco and candy canes, so they’d show at the top, and hung a nice dressed chicken outside. I tell you, they looked fine! It almost made Mr. Dog wish he had a stocking of his own there to fill, and he forgot all about them waking up, and sat down in a chair to look at the stockings. It was a nice rocking chair, and over in a dark corner where they wouldn’t be apt to see him, even if one of them did wake up and stick his head out of his room, so Mr. Dog felt pretty safe now, anyway. He rocked softly, and looked and looked at the nice stockings, and thought how pleased they’d be in the morning, and how tired he was. You’ve heard about people being as tired as a dog; and that’s just how Mr. Dog felt. He was so tired he didn’t feel a bit like starting home, and by and by—he never did know how it happened—but by and by Mr. Dog went sound asleep right there in his chair, with all his Santa Claus clothes on.

And there he sat, with his empty bag in his hand and the nice full stockings in front of him all night long. Even when it came morning and began to get light Mr. Dog didn’t know it; he just slept right on, he was that tired. Then pretty soon the door of Mr. ’Possum’s room opened and he poked out his head. And just then the door of Mr. ’Coon’s room opened and he poked out his head. Then the door of the old black Crow opened and out poked his head. They all looked toward the stockings, and they didn’t see Mr. Dog, or even each other, at all. They saw their stockings, though, and Mr. ’Coon said all at once:

“Oh, there’s something in my stocking!”

And then Mr. Crow says: “Oh, there’s something in my stocking, too!”

And Mr. ’Possum says: “Oh, there’s something in all our stockings!”

And with that they gave a great hurrah all together, and rushed out and grabbed their stockings and turned around just in time to see Mr. Dog jump right straight up out of his chair, for he did not know where he was the least bit in the world.

“Oh, there’s Santa Claus himself!” they all shouted together, and made a rush for their rooms, for they were scared almost to death. But it all dawned on Mr. Dog in a second, and he commenced to laugh and hurrah to think what a joke it was on everybody. And when they heard Mr. Dog laugh they knew him right away, and they all came up and looked at him, and he had to tell just what he’d done and everything; so they emptied out their stockings on the floor and ate some of the presents and looked at the others, until they almost forgot about breakfast, just as children do on Christmas morning.

Then Mr. Crow said, all at once, that he’d make a little coffee, and that Mr. Dog must stay and have some, and by and by they made him promise to spend the day with them and be there when the Robin and the Squirrel and Mr. Turtle and Jack Rabbit came, which he did.

And it was snowing hard outside, which made it a nicer Christmas than if it hadn’t been, and when all the others came they brought presents, too. And when they saw Mr. Dog dressed up as Santa Claus and heard how he’d gone to sleep and been caught, they laughed and laughed. And it snowed so hard that they had to stay all night, and after dinner they sat around the fire and told stories. And they had to stay the next night, too, and all that Christmas week. And I wish I could tell you all that happened that week, but I can’t, because I haven’t time. But it was the very nicest Christmas that ever was in the Hollow Tree, or in the Big Deep Woods anywhere.

THE PROMISE[2] MAUD LINDSAY

There was once a harper who played such beautiful music and sang such beautiful songs that his fame spread throughout the whole land; and at last the king heard of him and sent messengers to bring him to the palace.

“I will neither eat nor sleep till I have seen your face and heard the sound of your harp.” This was the message the king sent to the harper.

The messengers said it over and over until they knew it by heart, and when they reached the harper’s house they called:

“Hail, harper! Come out and listen, for we have something to tell you that will make you glad.”

But when the harper heard the king’s message he was sad, for he had a wife and a child and a little brown dog; and he was sorry to leave them and they were sorry to have him go.

“Stay with us,” they begged; but the harper said:

“I must go, for it would be discourtesy to disappoint the king; but as sure as holly berries are red and pine is green, I will come back by Christmas Day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding, and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside.”

And when he had promised this he hung his harp upon his back and went away with the messengers to the king’s palace.

When he got there the king welcomed him with joy, and many things were done in his honor. He slept on a bed of softest down and ate from a plate of gold at the king’s own table; and when he sang everybody and everything, from the king himself to the mouse in the palace pantry, stood still to listen.

No matter what he was doing, however, feasting or resting, singing or listening to praises, he never forgot the promise that he had made to his wife and his child and his little brown dog, and when the day before Christmas came, he took his harp in his hand and went to tell the king good-by.

Now the king was loath to have the harper leave him, and he said to him: “I will give you a horse as white as milk, as glossy as satin, and as fleet as a deer, if you will stay to play and sing before my throne on Christmas Day.”

But the harper answered, “I cannot stay, for I have a wife and a child and a little brown dog; and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas Day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside.”

Then the king said, “If you will stay to play and sing before my throne on Christmas Day, I will give to you a wonderful tree that summer or winter is never bare; and silver and gold will fall for you whenever you shake this little tree.”

But the harper said, “I must not stay, for my wife and my child and my little brown dog are waiting for me, and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas Day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside.”

Then the king said, “If you will stay on Christmas Day one tune to play and one song to sing, I will give you a velvet robe to wear, and you may sit beside me here with a ring on your finger and a crown on your head.”

But the harper answered, “I will not stay, for my wife and my child and my little brown dog are watching for me; and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas Day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding, and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside.” And he wrapped his old cloak about him, and hung his harp upon his back, and went out from the king’s palace without another word.

He had not gone far when the little white snowflakes came fluttering down from the skies.

But the harper said, “The snow may fall, but I must go, for I have a wife and a child and a little brown dog; and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas Day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside.”

Then the snow fell thick and the snow fell fast. The hills and the valleys, the hedges and hollows were white. The paths were all hidden, and there were drifts like mountains on the king’s highway. The harper stumbled and the harper fell, but he would not turn back; and as he traveled he met the wind.

sang the wind, but the harper would not heed.

“Snows may fall and winds may blow, but I must go on,” he said, “for I have a wife and a child and a little brown dog; and I have promised them to be at home by Christmas Day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside.”

Then the wind blew an icy blast. The snow froze on the ground and the water froze in the rivers. The harper’s breath froze in the air, and icicles as long as the king’s sword hung from the rocks by the king’s highway. The harper shivered and the harper shook, but he would not turn back; and by and by he came to the forest that lay between him and his home.

The trees of the forest were creaking and bending in the wind, and every one of them seemed to say:

But the harper would not stop. “Snows may fall, winds may blow, and night may come, but I have promised to be at home by Christmas Day to eat my share of the Christmas pudding and sing the Christmas songs by my own fireside. I must go on.”

And on he went till the last glimmer of daylight faded, and there was darkness everywhere. But the harper was not afraid of the dark.

“If I cannot see I can sing,” said he, and he sang in the forest joyously:

The snow ceased its falling, the wind ceased its blowing, the trees of the forest bowed down to listen, and lo! dear children, as he sang the darkness turned to wondrous light, and close at hand the harper saw the open doorway of his home.

The wife and the child and the little brown dog were watching and waiting, and they welcomed the harper with great joy. The holly berries were red in the Christmas wreaths; their Christmas tree was a young green pine; the Christmas pudding was full of plums; and the harper was happier than a king as he sat by his own fireside to sing:

A BOY’S VISIT TO SANTA CLAUS[3] RICHARD THOMAS WYCHE

Once upon a time there was a little boy who talked a great deal about Santa Claus. He talked to his father, his mother, his brother and sisters, until it was Santa Claus at the breakfast table, Santa Claus at dinner, and Santa Claus at supper. This little boy had been told that far away in the Northland lived Santa Claus. He was sitting by the fire one day, watching the embers glow, and seeing castles in the glowing embers. “There is Santa Claus’s house,” he said, “the great building covered with snow. Why can’t I go to see him?”

The little boy had worked and had saved some money. He took the money and went down to the depot, bought a ticket, and before his father or mother knew about it was gone to see Santa Claus. He traveled a long time on the train, and by and by reached the end of the railroad. He could go no farther on the train, for there was a great wide ocean, but people crossed the ocean and so must the little boy, or at least a part of it, in order to reach Santa Claus’s land. There was a great ship lying in port soon to sail over the seas, and along with many people who went aboard the ship, went the little boy. Soon every sail was spread and out from the port went the ship, leaving far behind them the town.

The ship sailed and sailed a long time, and finally land came in sight. They had reached an island lying somewhere far out in the Mid seas. Some of the people went ashore, and so did the little boy. But what a funny land it was to the little boy! All the people were little people. The grown men were not taller than the little boy, and they rode little ponies that were not larger than dogs. Then the little boy asked, “What land is this? Does Santa Claus live here?” And they said, “No.

And so one day the little boy found a ship that was going to sail to the Northland, and in this ship he went. The ship sailed and sailed a long time until it finally came to where the sea was all frozen over, to the land of icebergs and snow fields. The ship could go no farther, so what do you suppose the little boy did then? He was in the land of the reindeer, and over the snow fields he went in search of Santa Claus.

One day, as he was traveling over the snow fields to find Santa Claus’s house, he saw not far away what at first seemed to be a hill, but soon he saw that it was not a hill, but a house covered with ice and snow. “That must be Santa Claus’s house,” he said. Soon the little boy was standing in front of the great building whose towers seemed to reach the sky. Up the shining steps he went and soon he was standing in front of the door. The little boy saw no doorbell and so he knocked on the door. No one answered, and then louder he knocked again. Still no one answered. He began to feel afraid; perhaps this was the house of a giant. If Santa Claus lived there, he might be angry with him for coming, but once more he knocked. And then he heard a noise far down at the other end of the hall. Some one was coming. Then suddenly the latch went “click,” and the door stood wide open, and who do you suppose was there? Santa Claus? No; a little boy with blue eyes and a bright, sweet face. Then the little boy said, “Good morning. Does Santa Claus live here?” And the other little boy said, “Yes. Come in, come in. I am Santa Claus’s little boy.” He took him by the hand and said, “I am very glad to see you.”

Then the two little boys walked down the long hallway, doors on this side and doors on that, until they came to the last door on the left-hand side. On this door Santa Claus’s little boy knocked, and a great voice said, “Come in.” He opened the door and walked in, and who do you suppose was there? Santa Claus? Yes, there was Santa Claus himself; a great, big, fat man sitting by the fire, with long, white beard, blue eyes, and the merriest, cheeriest face you ever saw. Then Santa Claus’s little boy said, “Father, here is a little boy who has come to see you.” Santa Claus looked down over his spectacles and said, “Well, how are you? I am mighty glad to see you. Yes, yes, I know him. I have been to his house on many a night and filled up his stocking. How are Elizabeth and Louise and Katherine?” Over on the other side of the fireplace sat Mrs. Santa Claus. She was a grandmother-looking woman, with white hair and gold-rimmed spectacles. She was sitting by the fire knitting; she put her arms around the little boy and kissed him.

Then the two little boys sat down in front of the fire and talked together. By and by, Santa Claus’s little boy said to the other little boy, “Don’t you want to go over the building and see what we have in the different rooms? This building has a thousand rooms.” And the little boy said, “Who-o-o-oe.” And Santa Claus’s little boy said, “Yes, and something different in every room.”

Then they went into a large room, and what do you suppose was in there? Nothing but doll babies; some with long dresses and some with short; some with black eyes and some with blue. Then into another room they went, and it was full of toys, wagons and horses; another room was full of story books; another room was a candy kitchen where Santa Claus made candy; another room was a workshop where Santa Claus made toys for the children. Then they went into a long, large room, the largest of them all, and in this room were a great many tables. On these tables were suits, cloaks and hats, and shoes and stockings for the children.

The little boy wanted to know what they did with so many clothes, and Santa Claus’s little boy said, “We take these to the little children who have no father or mother to make them clothes.” And so they went through all the rooms of the great building, except one, which was away upstairs in the corner. What was in this room no one would tell the little boy, nor would they take him into the room. And the little boy wondered what was in the room.

The little boy stayed at Santa Claus’s house several days, and he had a splendid time. Some days the two little boys would slide down the hill on a sled, some days they would hitch up the reindeer and go sleighing, some days they would go into the candy kitchen and help Santa Claus make candy, or into the workshop and help him make toys.

But one day something happened. Santa Claus came to the little boy and said, “I am going away to-day for a little while; my wife and my little boy are going with me. Now,” he said, “you can go with us or you can stay here and keep house for us while we are gone.” The little boy thought to himself that Santa Claus had been so good to him that he would stay and keep house while Santa Claus was away. So he said he would stay, and then Santa Claus gave him a great bunch of keys and said, “Now you can go into all the rooms and play, but you must not go into that room upstairs in the corner.” The little boy said, “All right,” and with that Santa Claus, his wife, and his little boy went down the steps, got into the sleigh, wrapped themselves up in furs, popped the whip, and away they went! The little boy stood and watched them until they disappeared behind the snow hills.

Then he turned and went back into the house. He felt like a little man in that great house all by himself. From room to room he went. He went into the game room and rolled the balls. Some of the balls were so large that they were as high as the little boy’s head. They were of rubber, and if you would drop one from the top of the house it would bounce clear back to the top. The little boy went into the candy kitchen and ate some of the candy. He went into the workshop and worked on some toys, then into the library and read some of the books, then into the parlor and banged on the piano.

But after a while, the little boy was tired, and he said, “I wish Santa Claus would hurry and come back.” He was lonely. And so he thought he would go up on the housetop and look out to see if he could see Santa Claus coming home. Up the steps he went. When he reached the top, there was another flight. Up these he went and still another flight; up, up, he went until it seemed he had gone a thousand steps. But, finally, he came out on top.

The little boy stood there with his hand on the railing and looked out, but all he could see were the snow fields, white and glistening. Santa Claus was not in sight. He could see the track over the snow that the sleigh had made, but that was all.

Then down the steps he came, and it just happened that he came by the room that Santa Claus told him he must not go into. As he passed, he stopped in front of the door and said to himself, “I wonder what they have in that room, and why they did not want me to go in?” He took hold of the knob and gave it a turn, but the door was locked. Then he shut one eye and peeped through the keyhole, but he could see nothing; it was all dark. Then he put his mouth at the keyhole and blew through it, but he could hear nothing. Then he put his nose there and smelled, but he could smell nothing. “I wonder what they have in the room!” he said. “I believe I will see just for fun which one of these keys will fit in the lock.”

The little boy had in his hand the great bunch of keys. He tried one key and that would not fit, then he tried another and another and another, and kept on until he came to the last key. “Now,” he said to himself, “if this key does not fit I am going.” He tried it, and it was the only key on the bunch that would fit. “Now,” he said, “I shall not go into the room, but I will just turn the key and see if it will unlock the lock. It may fit in the lock and then not unlock the lock.” He turned the key slowly and the latch went “click, click,” and the door flew wide open. What do you suppose was in the room? It was all dark; the little boy could see nothing. He had his hand on the knob and it seemed to him that his hand was caught between the knob and key, and somehow, as the door opened, it pulled him in. When he stepped into the room, he felt a breeze blowing and, more than that, as he stepped down he found the room did not have any bottom; just a dark hole.

Well, as the little boy stepped over into the room, he felt himself falling, away down, down, down yonder. He shut his eyes, expecting every moment to strike something and be killed. But, before he did, some one caught him by the shoulders and shook him and said, “Wake up! Wake up!” He opened his eyes, and where do you suppose the little boy was? At home. It was Christmas morning, and his father was calling him to get up. The sun was shining across his little bed. He looked toward the fireplace, and there all the stockings were hanging full. The little boy had been to see Santa Claus, but he went by that wonderful way we call “Dreamland.”

THE CHRISTMAS KINGS RUTH SAWYER

When the Christ Child was born in Bethlehem of Judea, long years ago, three kings rode out of the East on their camels bearing gifts to him. They followed the Star, until at last they came to the manger where he lay—a little, newborn baby. Kneeling down, they put their gifts beside him: gold, frankincense, and myrrh; they kissed the hem of the little, white mantle that he wore, and blessed him. Then the kings rode away to the East again; but before ever they went they whispered a promise to the Christ Child.

And the promise? You shall hear it as the kings gave it to the Christ Child, long years ago.

“As long as there be children on the earth, on every Christmas Eve we three kings shall ride on camels—even as we rode to thee this night; and even as we bore thee gifts so shall we bear gifts to every child in memory of thee, thou holy Babe of Bethlehem.”

In Spain they have remembered what the Christmas kings promised; and when Christmas Eve comes, each child puts his sapatico—his little shoe—between the gratings of the window that they may know a child is in that house, and leave a gift.

Often the shoe is filled with grass for the camels; and a plate of dates and figs is left beside it; for the children know the kings have far to go and may be hungry.

At day’s end bands of children march out of the city gates—going to meet the kings. But always it grows dark before they come. The children are afraid upon the lonely road and hurry back to their homes; where the good madres hear them say one prayer to the Nene Jesu, as they call the Christ Child, and then put them to bed to dream of the Christmas kings.

Long, long ago, there lived in Spain, in the crowded part of a great city, an old woman called Doña Josefa. The street in which she lived was little and narrow; so narrow that if you leaned out of the window of Doña Josefa’s house you could touch with your fingertips the house across the way; and when you looked above your head the sky seemed but a string of blue—tying the houses all together. The sun never found its way into this little street.

The people who lived here were very poor, as you may guess; Doña Josefa was poor, likewise. But in one thing she was very rich; she knew more stories than there were feast days in the year—and that is a great many. Whenever there came a moment free from work; when Doña Josefa had no water to fetch from the public well, nor gold to stitch upon the altar cloth for the Church of Santa Maria del Rosario; then she would run out of her house into the street and call:

“Niños, niñas, come quickly! Here is a story waiting for you.”

And the children would come flying—like the gray palomas when corn is thrown for them in the Plaza. Ah, how many children there were in that little street! There were José and Miguel, and the niños of Enrique, the cobbler,—Alfredito and Juana and Esperanza,—and the little twin sisters of Pancho, the peddler; and Angela, Maria Teresa, Pedro, Edita, and many more. Last of all there were Manuel and Rosita. They had no father; and their mother was a lavandera who stood all day on the banks of the river outside the city, washing clothes.

When Doña Josefa had called the children from all the doorways and the dark corners, she would sit down in the middle of the street and gather them about her. This was safe, because the street was far too narrow to allow a horse or wagon to pass through. Sometimes a donkey would slowly pick its way along, or a stupid goat come searching for things to eat; but that was all.

It happened on the day before Christmas that Doña Josefa had finished her work, and sat as usual with the children about her.

“To-day you shall have a Christmas story,” she said; and then she told them of the three kings and the promise they had made the Christ Child.

“And is it so—do the kings bring presents to the children now?” Miguel asked.

Doña Josefa nodded her head: “Yes.”

“Then why have they never left us one? The three kings never pass this street on Christmas Eve; why is it, Doña?”

“Perhaps it is because we have no shoes to hold their gifts,” said Angela.

And this is true. The poor children of Spain go barefooted; and often never have a pair of shoes till they grow up.

Manuel had listened silently to the others; but now he pulled the sleeve of Doña Josefa’s gown with coaxing fingers: “I know why it is the kings bring no gifts to us. See—the street—it is too small, their camels could not pass between the doorsteps here. The kings must ride where the streets are broad and smooth and clean; where their long mantles will not be soiled and torn, and the camels will not stumble. It is the children in the great streets—the children of the rich—who find presents in their sapaticos on Christmas morning. Is it not so, Doña Josefa?”

And Miguel cried: “Does Manuel speak true; is it only the children of the rich?”

“Ah, chiquito mio, it should not be so! When the promise was given to the Nene Jesu, there in Bethlehem, they said, ‘to every child,’—yes, every little child.”

“But it is not strange they should forget us here,” Manuel insisted. “The little street is hidden in the shadow of the great ones.”

Then Rosita spoke, clasping her hands together with great eagerness: “I know; it is because we have no shoes, that is why the kings never stop. Perhaps Enrique would lend us the shoes he is mending—just for one night. If we had shoes the kings would surely see that there are little children in the street, and leave a gift for each of us. Come, let us ask Enrique!”

“Madre de Dios, it is a blessed thought!” cried all; and like the flock of gray palomas they swept down the street to the farthest end, where Enrique hammered and stitched away all day on the shoes of the rich children.

Manuel stayed behind with Doña Josefa. When the last pair of little brown feet had disappeared inside the sapateria he said softly:

“If some one could go out and meet the kings—to tell them of this little street, and how the niños here have never had a Christmas gift, do you not think they might ride hither to-night?”

Doña Josefa shook her head doubtfully. “If that were possible,—but never have I heard of any one who met the kings on Christmas Eve.”

All day in the city people hurried to and fro. In the great streets flags waved from the housetops; and wreaths of laurel, or garlands of heliotrope and mariposa hung above the open doorways and in the windows. Sweetmeat sellers were crying their wares; and the Keeper-of-the-City lighted flaming torches to hang upon the gates and city walls. Everywhere was merrymaking and gladness; for not only was this Christmas Eve, but the King of Spain was coming to keep his holiday within the city. Some whispered that he was riding from the north, and with him rode his cousins, the kings of France and Lombardy; and with them were a great following of nobles, knights, and minstrels. Others said, the kings rode all alone—it was their wish.

As the sun was turning the cathedral spires to shafts of gold, bands of children, hand in hand, marched out of the city. They took the road that led toward the setting sun, thinking it was the East; and said among themselves: “See, yonder is the way the kings will ride.”

“I have brought a basket of figs,” cried one.

“I have dates in a new panuela,” cried another.

“And I,” cried a third, “I have brought a sack of sweet limes, they are so cooling.”

Thus each in turn showed some small gift that he was bringing for the kings. And while they chatted together, one child began to sing the sweet Nativity Hymn. In a moment others joined until the still night air rang with their happy voices.

Behind the little hills the sun went down leaving a million sparks of light upon the road.

“Yonder come the kings!” the children cried. “See, the splendor of their shining crowns and how the jewels sparkle on their mantles! They may be angry if they find us out so late; come, let us run home before they see us.”

The children turned. Back to the city gates they ran; back to their homes, to the good madres watching for them and their own white beds ready for them.

But one they left behind them on the road: a little, bare-limbed boy whose name was Manuel. He watched until the children had disappeared within the gates, and then he turned again toward the setting sun.

“I have no gift for the kings,” he thought, “but there is fresh, green grass beside the way, that I can gather for the camels.”

He stopped; pulled his hands full, and stuffed it in the front of the little blue vestido that he wore. He followed the road for a long way until heavy sleep came to his eyes.

“How still it is upon the road! God has blown out his light and soon it will be dark. I wish I were with the others, safe within the city; for the dark is full of fearsome things when one is all alone.... Mamita will be coming home soon and bringing supper for Rosita and me. Perhaps, to-night, there will be an almond dulce or pan de gloria,—perhaps.... I wonder will Rosita not forget the little prayer I told her to be always saying. My feet hurt with the many stones; the night wind blows cold; I am weary, and my feet stumble with me.... Oh, Nene Jesu, listen! I also make the prayer: ‘Send the three kings before Manuel is too weary and afraid!’ ”

A few more steps he took upon the road; and then, as a reed is blown down by the wind, Manuel swayed, unknowingly for a moment, and slowly sank upon the ground, fast asleep.

How long he slept, I cannot tell you; but a hand on his shoulder wakened him. Quickly he opened his eyes, wondering, and saw—yes, he saw the three kings! Tall and splendid they looked in the starlight; their mantles shimmered with myriad gems. One stood above Manuel, asking what he did upon the road at that late hour.

He rose to his feet—thrusting his hand inside the shirt for the grass he had gathered: “It is for the camels, señor; I have no other gift. But you—you ride horses this Christmas Eve!”

“Yes, we ride horses; what is that to you?”

“Pardon, señores, nothing. The three kings can ride horses if they wish; only—we were told you rode on camels from the East.”

“What does the child want?” The voice was kind but it sounded impatient; as though the one who spoke had work waiting to be done, and was anxious to be about it.

Manuel heard and felt all this, wondering, “What if there is not time for them to come, or gifts enough!” He laid an eager, pleading hand upon one king’s mantle. “I can hold the horses for you if you will come this once. It is a little street and hard to find, señores; I thought, perhaps, you would leave a present—just one little present—for the children there. You told the Christ Child you would give to every child, don’t you remember? There are many of us, señores, who have never had a gift—a Christmas gift.”

“Do you know who we are?”

Manuel answered joyfully: “Oh, yes, Excelencias, you are the Three Christmas Kings, riding from Bethlehem. Will you come with me?”

The kings spoke with one accord: “Verily, we will.”

One lifted Manuel on his horse; and silently they rode into the city. The Keeper slumbered at the gates; the streets were empty. On, past the houses that were garlanded they went unseen, and on through the great streets; until they came to the little street at last. The kings dismounted. They gave their bridles into Manuel’s hand; and then, gathering up their precious mantles of silk and rich brocade, they passed down the little street. With eyes that scarce believed what they saw, Manuel watched them go from house to house; saw them stop and feel for the shoes between the gratings—the shoes loaned by Enrique the cobbler; and saw them fill each one with shining goldpieces.

In the morning Manuel told the story to the children as they went to spend one golden doblón for toys and candy and sugared cakes. And a gift they bought for Doña Josefa, too: a little figure of the Holy Mother with the Christ Child in her arms.

And so, the promise made in Bethlehem was made again, and to a little child; and it was kept. For many, many years—long after Manuel was grown and had niños of his own—the kings remembered the little street, and brought their gifts there every Christmas Eve.

THE CHRISTMAS CAKE[4] MAUD LINDSAY

It was a joyful day for the McMulligan children when Mrs. McMulligan made the Christmas cake. There were raisins to seed and eggs to beat, and pans to scrape, and every one of the children, from the oldest to the youngest, helped to stir the batter when the good things were mixed together.

said Mrs. McMulligan, as she poured the batter into the cake pan.

The Baker who lived at the corner was to bake the Christmas cake, so Joseph, the oldest boy, made haste to carry it to him. All the other children followed him, and together they went, oh, so carefully, out of the front door, down the sidewalk, straight to the shop where the Baker was waiting for them.

The Baker’s face was so round and so jolly that the McMulligan children thought he must look like Santa Claus. He could bake the whitest bread and the lightest cake, and as soon as the children spied him they began to call:

The little round clock hung on the wall above the oven. Its face was so bright, and its tick was so merry, and it was busy night and day telling the Baker when to sleep and when to eat and when to do his baking. When the McMulligan children looked at it, it was just striking ten, and it seemed to them very plainly to say:

The oven was ready, and the Baker made haste to put the cake in.

Then the McMulligan children ran home to tell their mother what he had said, and the Baker went on with his work. It was the day before Christmas, and a great many people came to his shop to buy pies and cakes, but no matter how busy he was waiting on them, he never forgot the McMulligans’ cake, and every time he looked at the clock, it reminded him to peep into the oven.

So well did he watch it, and so carefully did he bake it, that the cake was done on the stroke of one, just as he had promised, and he had scarcely taken it out of the oven when the shop door flew open; and in came the McMulligan children, every one of them saying:

When they saw it they thought it was the nicest, brownest, spiciest cake that was ever baked in a Baker’s oven. The Baker himself said it was a beautiful cake, and if you had been at the McMulligans’ on Christmas Day, I am sure you would have thought so too.

Joseph carried it home, walking very slowly and carefully, and all the other children followed him, out of the Baker’s shop, down the sidewalk, straight home where Mrs. McMulligan was waiting for them. She was smiling at them from the window, and when they spied her they all began to call:

THE DOLL’S WISH ANNA E. SKINNER

The children liked the tiny shop around the corner better than any of the stores on the main street of the town. It was a doll shop! No wonder the little boys and girls loved to look in the show window. There they saw all kinds of dolls,—rubber babies, fat kewpies with roguish eyes, doll soldiers, tiny Japanese ladies dressed in flowered silk kimonos, little Eskimo boys in pointed hoods and woolly coats, Dutch dolls in wooden shoes and snow-white caps, brown-eyed dolls with rich dark hair, blue-eyed dolls with golden curls.

Nothing could look lovelier than the little shop at Christmas time when the ground was white with snow. Then many of the dolls wore their gayest dresses, and when the lights were turned on, the little show window sparkled like fairyland.

One night, at about twelve o’clock, a brown-haired doll with bright dark eyes said, “Oh! how glad I am the lights are turned out at last! I’m sure at least five hundred people stopped in front of this window to-day.”

“It has been a long day,” said the soldier boy who stood near her. “Even a soldier gets tired once in a while.”

“It is only a few days now until Christmas. I do wonder where we shall all be this time next week,” whispered a wide-eyed kewpie.

“Well, I hope I shall be in a pleasant, beautiful home,” said a lovely doll, smoothing out her pale blue silk dress. “A lady who wore a rich fur coat looked at me a long while this morning.”

“Some of us are sure to go to rich homes. You and I are worth a good deal of money. Indeed, there is only one doll in the show window more expensive than we are,” answered the golden-haired maiden in white lace.

“I suppose you mean the large doll dressed in pink satin?”

“Yes; I heard several children call her the most beautiful doll of all.”

“Did you notice the shabby looking little girl who stood before the window a long time this morning?” asked the doll in blue.

“I did!” answered the soldier boy. “She carried a cunning looking little dog in her arms. If I should go where that silky-haired dog lives my soldier clothes would be ruined in about ten minutes.”

“Well, I should be very unhappy, I’m sure, in that little girl’s home. She must be very poor.”

“I liked her sweet face very much,” said the most beautiful doll, who was dressed in pink satin. “She was very kind to the little dog.”

“A cozy place is my choice,” said the lass who wore wooden shoes. “I hope I shall live where everything is kept warm and cheerful.”

“Yes, that is really where you belong, I suppose,” said the Eskimo boy. “These clothes will be too warm if I am taken to one of those houses where the rooms are all as hot as a summer’s day.”

“Where should you like to go?” asked the little Dutch maiden.

The Eskimo boy thought for a moment, and then said, “I hope I shall live with some romping boy who will take me with him when he makes a snow man. That would be jolly!”

“Oh, do you think so?” asked the tiny doll dressed in green gauze.

“That I do,” he answered. “I’m from the north, where there is nothing but ice and snow.”

“I would rather stand here in the show window than on a parlor mantel,” pouted little Kewpie.

“Never mind, dear,” said the Japanese doll, “I think you are to go to a lovely little girl. I saw one looking at you this afternoon, and she clapped her hands with delight when she saw you.”

“Where do you think you will go?” asked Kewpie.

“I’m afraid that I shall be chosen for some queer little person. You see my style is quite different from that of other dolls. I hope I shall be allowed to wear kimonos. They are very comfortable.”

“Perhaps you will be added to some one’s collection of dolls from all nations,” said the soldier boy.

“Oh, I hope not,” spoke up the most beautiful doll of all. “If you were one of a large collection I’m sure you wouldn’t be loved very much, because collections are kept chiefly for show.”

“You haven’t told us yet where you would like to go,” said the doll in white lace. “No doubt some very rich person will buy you. I heard the shopkeeper say that you are the costliest doll of all. We are all wondering where you would like to go.”

“I am longing to go to some little girl who will love me with all her heart,” said the most beautiful doll. “I don’t care how humble the home is where I live, but I want to be loved.”

“How strange!” was the answer.

“I hope we shall all be satisfied,” said Kewpie, yawning.

“We shall soon know,” sighed the soldier boy. “Good night to all!”

“Good night! Good night!”

A hard snowstorm did not keep the people away from the doll shop the next morning.

Among those that crowded the store was an old gentleman with a fine, generous face.

“Show me a pretty doll,” he said.

“There are some beauties in the window, sir,” answered the shopkeeper. “Come and look at them.”

“I’ll take the large one dressed in pink,” said the gentleman. “I’m going to send it to a dear little girl who did me a great kindness. My little dog strayed a long distance from home. She found him, and carried him to me. I’m sure her kind heart will love a doll.”

In the afternoon an old gentleman knocked at the door of a very humble home and said, “I have brought a gift to the little girl who took the trouble to carry my lost dog home to me. Please give it to her on Christmas Day.”

And so the most beautiful doll’s wish came true.

THE CHRISTMAS SPRUCE TREE (Norwegian Legend) ANNA VON RYDINGSVÄRD

Among the tall trees in the forest grew a little spruce tree. It was no taller than a man, and that is very short for a tree.

The other trees near it grew so tall and had such large branches that the poor little tree could not grow at all.

She liked to listen when the other trees were talking, but it often made her sad.

“I am king of the forest,” said the oak. “Look at my huge trunk and my branches. How they reach up toward heaven! I furnish planks for men from which they build their ships. Then I defy the storm on the ocean as I do the thunder in the forest.”

“And I go with you over the foaming waves,” said the tall straight pine. “I hold up the flapping sails when the ships fly over the ocean.”

“And we warm the houses when winter comes and the cold north wind drives the snow before him,” said the birches.

“We have the same work to do,” said a tall fir tree, and she bowed gracefully, drooping her branches toward the ground.

The little spruce tree heard the other trees talking about their work in the world. This made her sad, and she thought, “What work can I do? What will become of me?”

But she could not think of any way in which she could be useful. She decided to ask the other trees in the forest.

So she asked the oak, the pine, and the fir, but they were so proud and stately they did not even hear her.

Then she asked the beautiful white birch that stood near by. “You have no work to do,” said the birch, “because you can never grow large enough. Perhaps you might be a Christmas tree, but that is all.”

“What is a Christmas tree?” asked the little spruce.

“I do not know exactly,” replied the birch. “Sometimes when the days are short and cold, and the ground is covered with snow, men come out here into the forest. They look at all the little spruce trees and choose the prettiest, saying, ‘This will do for a Christmas tree.’ Then they chop it down and carry it away. What they do with it I cannot tell.”

The little spruce asked the rabbit that hopped over the snow, and the owls that slept in the pines, and the squirrels that came to find nuts and acorns.

But no one knew more than the birch tree. No one could tell what men did with the Christmas trees.

Then the little spruce tree wept because she had no work to do and could not be of any use in the world.

The tears hardened into clear, round drops, which we call gum.

At last a boy came into the forest with an ax in his hand. He looked the little tree all over. “Perhaps this will do for a Christmas tree,” he said. So he chopped it down, laid it on a sled, and dragged it home.

The next day the boy sold the tree, and it was taken into a large room and dressed up with popcorn and gilded nuts and candles. Packages of all sizes and shapes, and tiny bags filled with candy, were tied on its branches.

The tree was trembling with the excitement, but she stood as still as she could. “What if I should drop some of this fruit,” she thought.

When it began to grow dark, every one left the room and the tree was alone. It began to feel lonely and to think sad thoughts.

Soon the door opened and a lady came in. She lighted all the candles.

How light and glowing it was then!

The tree had never even dreamed of anything so beautiful!

Then the children came and danced about the tree, singing a Christmas song. The father played on his violin, and the baby sat in her mother’s arms, smiling and cooing.

“Now I know what I was made for,” thought the spruce tree; “I was intended to give joy to the little ones, because I, myself, am so small and humble.”

A LITTLE ROMAN SHEPHERD[5] CAROLINE SHERWIN BAILEY

His name was Bruno and he lived a long, long way from here on the Roman Campagna. His house was a pointed hut thatched with straw, and back of it was the fold where the sheep lived, and then, for miles and miles, there was no other living thing for a little boy to see. There was no one to play with; there was nothing for a little boy to do but tend the sheep and milk the goats and wish, oh, so hard, that he might go on that long Appian Way to the gate of St. Sebastian and to Rome, on the other side.

Piccola had told him about Rome. Piccola’s father bought wool and sold it to the traders at Rome. Twice a year Piccola and her father came out to the Campagna at shearing time. The father haggled over the lira he must pay Bruno’s father. Piccola and Bruno sat under an olive tree, their hands tightly clasped, as Piccola told Bruno of Rome.

“You should see it at the festa of Christmas,” she exclaimed. “Every shop is full of lights in the evening and the flower carts stand at all the corners. There is a manger and Babe in the chapel and,” Piccola’s voice was rich with wonder, “there is a box that talks in a shop on the Corso.”

“I don’t believe you; how could it talk? What makes it talk?” Bruno asked; but this Piccola could not tell.

“It talks—that is all I know,” she said, “and it sings,” and she might have told more but her father came and she must say good-by to Bruno. In a moment he could see nothing of Piccola but the flash of her little scarlet and green skirt and the blue cornflower she wore in her black braids. Then there was only a cloud of dust to hide the yellow cart wheels, and Piccola was gone—to Rome where there was a box that would talk and sing.

There came long, sweet, all-alike days for Bruno and the sheep. The wheat grew yellow and heavy to breaking with sweetness and Bruno watched the harvesters. The olives ripened, and the grapes, and the figs. Then the sun set earlier, and the nights were chilly with frost, and Bruno and his father put warm cloaks made of skin over their blue smocks.

“It is near the festa of Christmas,” said Bruno one day. “I have never been to Rome. Will you take me there to hear the talking box on the Corso, father? It both speaks and sings.”

“No,” Bruno’s father was quick in his reply, being a hard man after many lonely years. “The ewe lambs are ailing, and I cannot leave them. And there are no singing boxes in Rome.”

So Bruno followed the old sheep and the lambs to their grassy hill and helped to drive them home at night until it was the eve of the Christmas festa. On this eve, he locked the gate of the fold and turned to go into the hut. His father would be dozing, perhaps, for the cold dusk had crept over the great Campagna and one star shone out in the purple sky. It hung, pointing, over Rome. As Bruno looked up at it, he heard a sound of far-away bells. They might be the bells of Rome. Oh, beautiful Rome, with its gay, bright streets, and its flower carts, and its magic box that could sing and turn loneliness into music!

Bruno pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. His bare feet flashed over the fields of dry grass and wheat stubble. He found the old Appian Road and raced along it in the path of starlight. He was running away. He was going to Rome. For an hour he ran.

He had gone so far and so fast, and his ears rang so with the singing Christmas bells that, at first, he did not hear it—the bleating of a foolish little ewe lamb. Then it came again, and Bruno stopped. The lamb lay under a bunch of dried brown stalks, its flesh torn by thistles and its eyes dull with fear because it had lost its mother.

“Stupid! Why did you run away? I can’t take you home!” Bruno stamped one little brown foot, “I’m going to Rome for Christmas, do you hear? I won’t take you home—” but as he spoke, he stooped down and lifted the trembling, fearful little creature in his arms and turned back toward the fold.

The star path stretched at Bruno’s back now. Ahead were black shadows, and a biting wind whirled small stones that cut his face and made mocking sounds as it scurried through the ruined arches of the aqueduct. He lost the road, and stiff cactus thorns cut his slim ankles. The lamb was heavier with each step. He wouldn’t cry; no Roman lad cries, his father had told him; but he couldn’t find his way. The little shepherd boy dropped to the ground. He could hear the Christmas bells; no, it was a clear, sweet voice coming from a polished wood box that sang him to sleep.

When he opened his heavy eyelids, Piccola’s dancing eyes met his. What a gay little Christmas sprite she looked in her warm crimson hood and cloak! Bruno, himself, lay in his father’s arms and Piccola’s father was lifting the strayed lamb into the two-wheeled yellow cart, a lantern in one hand.

“We had to go to Albano with wool, and on the way back I begged father to stop for you, Bruno, to go back to Rome for Christmas. We couldn’t find you. Your father came with us to look for you, and the lamb told us where you were.”

“My brave little Roman lad!” It was Bruno’s father who stroked his head with long, thin fingers. “We will return with the lamb to the fold and find warm milk for you. Then you may go to Rome for the festa with the little signorina.”

“And we’re going to buy a box that talks,” added Piccola, happily.

“And sings!” smiled back Bruno as he looked toward the Christmas star and the gate of St. Sebastian.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE IN THE NURSERY[6] RICHARD WATSON GILDER

THE STARS AND THE CHILD ANDREA HOFER PROUDFOOT

Long, long ago—so long that even the old gray hills have forgotten—the beautiful stars in the sky used to sing together very early every morning, before any of the little people of the world were up. Their songs were made of light, and were so clear and strong that the whole heaven would shine when they sang.

One morning, as the stars sang and listened to each other, they heard beautiful music coming swiftly toward them. It was so much louder and sweeter than their own that they all stopped and listened and wondered. It came from far above them, from out the very deepest blue of the sky. It was a new star, and it sang an entirely new song that no one had ever heard before.

“Hark, hark!” the stars cried. “Let us hear what it is saying.”

And the beautiful star sang it over and over again, and its song told of a lovely Babe that had come on earth—a Babe so beautiful that it was the joy of the whole world. Yes, so beautiful that when you looked at it you saw real light streaming from its face.

Every little child in the world has light in its face if we but know how to see it; but this little one had so very much that its mother wondered as she looked down upon her lap and saw it there. And there were shepherds there to look at the Babe, and many other people saw it and could not understand.

But the one beautiful star knew—yes, it knew all about it; and what do you think it knew? Why, that this Child was God’s own Child, and was so good and loving that the whole world when it heard of it would want to know how to be so, too.

This one beautiful star traveled on and on, telling all the way what it knew of the Child, and its light fairly danced through the sky, and hung over the very place where the little one lay.

THE STRANGER CHILD[7] FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT (Translated from the German by Frances Jenkins Olcott)

’Twas Christmas Eve and, birdlike over the snow, flew a little stranger child. It ran along the sparkling ground. Its face beamed with gladness. It listened to the merry chimes of the Christmas bells and clapped its hands for joy.

It frolicked in the bright beams of light that fell from a cottage window, and, peeping in, saw the Christmas tree hung full of shining light and glittering gifts, and it watched the little children play about the tree.

“Oh, where,” cried the little stranger child, “where is my candles’ light? And why is there no tree for me, nor pretty toys? Once in my house my dear mother decked my tree! Oh, little children, may I not come in to see your tree and play with you?”

Then with frail hand the stranger child knocked on the window and the door, but no one heard the sound. Then down in the cold, white snow the little one sat, and wept.

“O Christ Child, the children’s Friend, I have no one to love me! Oh, why hast thou forgotten to send me a little tree with lights on every bough?”

And the little stranger child, with cold hands, drew its white cloak closer around its silken hair and pretty eyes so clear and blue.

Then came another pilgrim child. He held in His hand a shining light, and in a sweet, mild voice, like gentle music, he soothed the little stranger child.

“I am the Christmas Friend. Once I was a little child. Just now I heard your pleadings, and have come to deck a tree for you more beautiful than any tree ever before seen. Here in the open air is your Christmas tree, my little flower.” And the little stranger child looked up—far up—into the deep, deep sky, and saw there a glorious tree. Stars hung among its branches, and angels sang songs of joy around it.

And the little child smiled with joy, and troops of radiant beings descended and lifted the little one in their arms. They bore him to the Christ Child’s house, which is sweeter far than any home that earth can give.

THE STAR SONG ROBERT HERRICK

I

II

III

Star

THE VISIT OF THE WISHING MAN[8] JAY T. STOCKING

It was Christmas night at Castle Havenough in the Land of Nothing Strange. It had been a day of gifts and guests, and now the king and queen had gone to a great dinner in the banquet hall, and the young prince and princess were left alone to spend the rest of the day as they chose. A great fire blazed in the fireplace. It cracked and roared and chuckled as the young prince and princess threw in pitchy sprays of evergreen. The Christmas tree across the room, bespangled with tinsel and tassels and sheen, now glowed in the light of the fireplace and gleamed and twinkled and sparkled as if every twig were set with rubies and diamonds. The floor, the chairs, the table—everything—were heaped high with gifts, for this young prince and princess had received everything that they had wished for. And it was almost always so,—whatever they wished for, they received. It seems strange to us, indeed, that this young prince and princess were not always or altogether happy. But it was not strange at all in the Land of Nothing Strange.

Before the king went out to the great banquet, he called the prince and princess to his side and putting his arms about their slender shoulders, said, “My children, I hope you have had a happy day and have received everything that you desire. If not, I promise you that if you can agree exactly on what you wish, and will tell me, if money can purchase it, it shall be yours.”

“But cannot money purchase everything, father?”

“No, my son, not quite everything.”

“But if money cannot purchase it, father?”

“Then, princess, I will try and get it for you in some other way.”

“And if you cannot?”

“Well—then I will tell the Wishing Man.”

And with that he was off. But not until he had told them that since this was Christmas Day they might stay up just as late as they wished.

Just as late as they wished! Why, this was the very best Christmas gift of all! Because not even princes and princesses, you know, can sit up always, or often, just as late as they wish.

Just as late as they wished! What in the world would they do? Why, everything, of course, in all that time. But first of all they must decide whether there was anything more that they wished and whether they could agree upon their wish.

So they threw themselves upon the floor at full length before the fire, upon the great white bearskin with the head that snarled and showed his long, gleaming, harmless teeth as if he would eat just one more thing. With their chins resting upon their hands, and their elbows on the floor, and the fire throwing lights and shadows on their faces, they lay and talked.

“You wish first,” said the prince, who had not quite made up his mind what he wished, and wanted time to think. “You are the younger, and you are a girl. What do you wish?”

“Well, I wish that all the snow were sugar and all the mud were chocolate. Don’t you?”

“No, of course not. Why, you couldn’t coast! The runners would stick, and if you ran and fell upon your sled you would go heels over head, and like as not you would break your neck. Besides, there wouldn’t be any sugar in summer, and there would be no chocolate except when it rained.”

“I never thought of that,” said the princess. “What do you wish?”

“I wish that—that—my Christmas stocking were as tall as this house and I had to take a ladder to get up to it and another ladder to get down into it. Don’t you?”

“Why, no, of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Why, because the Christmas stocking is just the same size as all your other stockings, and if your Christmas stocking were as big as the house, all your other stockings would be as big as the house, and you never could get one on; and if you did get it on it would go clear over your head.”

“That’s so,” said the prince; “I never thought of that. Well, what do you wish?”

“Well, I wish—that every day was Christmas, and there wasn’t any school. Don’t you?”

“No! If there wasn’t any school, you’d be a dunce. And who wants to be a dunce? I’ll tell you what I wish.”

“What?”

“I wish that every day was just as nice as Christmas, but different. Different, you know, but just as nice. That’s what I wish.”

“So do I.”

And so they agreed upon their wish,—that every day should be like Christmas—different, but just as nice. And they would tell that wish to their father in the morning.

“But do you suppose that money can purchase it, prince?”

“I don’t know. I—I’m afraid it can’t. But father said he would tell the Wishing Man. I wonder what he looks like; I should like to see him.”

“So should I.”

Just then there was a commotion in the fireplace. It sounded as if the wood had fallen forward on the andirons. And so it had. But something else had happened. On the backlog, which was blazing fiercely, there sat a funnier little man than you would see in going around the world. He was red from the top of his cap to the tip of his boot; his coat, which was flung over his little red wings, was red. His face was red, but perhaps that was just a reflection from the coals of the fire. You would think that he would have burned up or that he would have jumped out of the fireplace in a hurry. But he didn’t do anything of the sort. It seems very strange, but it was not strange at all in the Land of Nothing Strange. As he sat there upon that blazing backlog, his hands upon his knees, with the flames leaping around him, and his feet resting down in the red-hot coals, you would have said that this was the most comfortable seat that he had ever found in all his life.

“Well?” the little man drawled.

“Well?” drawled the prince and princess, as they drew back on their elbows and sat up in amazement.

“Well? I’m here.”

“Who’s here?” asked the prince.

“Why, I am here. You said you would like to see what I looked like, and so I have come. I’m here.”

“Are you the Wishing Man?” asked the princess.

“That’s my name.” And then he broke into a snatch of a song:

They told him that they had decided to wish that every day should be just as nice as Christmas—different, but, then, just as nice.

“That is a good wish,” said the Wishing Man. “I hope that you will get it, but you never can tell.”

“You never can tell! Arn’t you the Wishing Man? Don’t you know? Don’t you give folks their wishes?”

“Oh, no! I am not wise enough for that. The Angel of Blessings does that. I merely go through the world and carry to him all the wishes that I hear people make.”

“How do you carry them?” asked the prince.

“Oh, right here,” and he pointed to a little jeweled box that he had at his belt. “Right here. You see I have a padlock on it and I never lose a wish.”

“Are you the only wishing man in the world?” asked the princess.

“Oh, bless my soul, no! If I were, do you think I would have time to sit here on this nice cool seat and chat with you? There are a great many of us, but we all look just alike, we are all dressed just alike, and we are all twins.”

That seems strange, but it was not strange at all in the Land of Nothing Strange.

“My country is the country of Wonder Why. I come here every morning, and I stay till I have my little box full of wishes, and then I take it back. By the way, I see that it is full now, and your wish is right on top. Would you like to go with me to see the Angel of Blessings? Those who talk with him are most apt to have their wishes granted. Many folks do not get their wishes just because they do not seem to understand how to get them. Would you like to go with me?”

“Is it very far?” asked the prince. “Could we get back before bedtime?”

“Oh, yes, with time to spare.”

“Shouldn’t we be cold?” asked the princess.

“No, we would fly very fast, and we shouldn’t have time to shiver more than once before we got there. Come, then, get on my back,” and he tucked his red coat between his little red wings, which he shook out, and made ready to fly.

“Now part your hair in the middle so you won’t be any heavier on one side than on the other. Step right in here; the fire won’t hurt you. Now, prince, put your right arm around my neck like this, and hold on to my left wing with your left hand,—so, and princess, put your left arm around my neck and hold on to my right wing with your right hand,—so. Now, ready.”

Up they went, and off they went, through the frosty air, faster than the fastest aëroplane. Below them lay the beautiful white snow; above them hung the beautiful white stars. They had just shivered once and were nearly ready to shiver again when the Wishing Man folded his red wings and they landed upon the doorstep of the golden palace, Overhead, in the Land of Wonder Why.

The Wishing Man took them by the hand, one on either side, walked up the white marble steps, opened the great doors, which swung at a touch, and stepped inside. This was the palace, Overhead. Anybody could see that this was the House of Wishes. Why, there was everything here that anybody had ever wished for or ever could wish for. Down the side here at the right there were great possessions. There were carloads of gold heaped up, and carloads of silver heaped up, and there were houses—every kind of house—and there were farms that reached away just as far as the sun shone, and there were gardens in which there was every kind of flower that anybody had ever seen grow in any place in the world. Over on the other side were things to wear and things to eat; there were gowns and furs and hats and suits, and beyond these there were bricks of ice cream as big as ice cakes,—just for one! And plum puddings as big as your head,—just for one! And whole mince pies that you could eat and never see anything afterward. Before them, across the room, were the very best things of life, the very best of all, just plain something to eat, happy days and sleepy nights, and good friends,—just the things that men like most. These things that I have mentioned were simply what you could see right in the first rows, but behind these things at the right and left and over in front,—there is nobody who ever lived who could tell you all that was there, because, as I have told you, there was everything that anybody had ever wished for, and everything that anybody could ever wish for.

Now, right in the center of the hall, to which a golden carpet ran, there was a platform, and upon the platform a great white desk, bright as the moon, and at the desk, clothed in white, sat the Angel of Blessings. At the right of the Angel of Blessings stood his messengers. He called them pages. The line was sometimes short and sometimes long. They wore no uniform. Some were rich and some were poor, some had beautiful clothes and some had ragged clothes, but the face of every one shone like a star, and it was their duty to carry blessings and wishes to people who had got their wish.

Upon that golden carpet, that ran from the door to the platform, the little red Wishing Men were continually passing each other as they came up to the desk to leave their wishes and went out again to listen for more. All day, all night, they came and went, came and went, and all day and all night the Angel of Blessings, clad in white, at the great white desk, opened the wishes and read them. Sometimes he shook his head sorrowfully, and even frowned; sometimes he smiled and nodded! When he frowned or looked sorrowful it meant that the wish was lost, and he dropped it into the huge waste-basket at his left and it fell to the bottom of the earth. But when he smiled and nodded, it meant that the wish was granted, and he handed it to one of his pages waiting at the right, who fell upon one knee, took the wish, and carried it to the wisher.

The Wishing Man took the prince and the princess by the hand, walked along the golden carpet to the great white desk upon the platform, and announced the visitors to the Angel of Blessings: “Prince and Princess Havenough from the Land of Nothing Strange.” Then the prince and princess, who, of course, had been trained in court, made their most beautiful bow, but spoke no word until the Angel of Blessings had spoken to them. The Wishing Man laid upon the desk the wish which they had made and which he had carried in his little golden casket, and then he retired with many a bow until the Angel should summon him again.

“Prince and Princess Havenough,” said the Angel as he read the wish and smiled, “it is a good wish. It will be granted, on one condition—that you will be my pages, carry my blessings, and take the wishes which I send to those who have their wishes granted. Will you be my pages?”

“Must one go very far, Mr. Angel?” asked the prince, “because we are small; we have never traveled far; we don’t know where many places are.”

“Oh, not at all, prince,” said the Angel; “merely to the Land of Nothing Strange—to your home, to your friends, to your acquaintances. Will you be my pages?”

“We will, Mr. Angel,” and they bowed.

“Then stand here at my right. I may have some commissions for you now. Let me look at these wishes which have just been brought to me. Here is a wish from a little boy in the Land of Nothing Strange, not far from Castle Havenough. He wishes that he had a pair of skates; he hasn’t any; all his friends have some.”

“He may have a pair of mine,” said the prince. “I will take them to him.”

“Good!” said the Angel; “his wish is granted.” And he handed the wish to the prince with the name and the address of the wisher.

“Let me see; here is a wish from a little girl in the Land of Nothing Strange, not far from Castle Havenough. She wishes that she had a doll. She asked Santa Claus for one last night and he didn’t bring it to-day. He must have forgotten it. She wants one very much.”

“She may have one of mine! I have very many,” said the princess.

“Good!” said the Angel; “it is granted.”

And he handed the wish to the princess, with the name and the address of the wisher.

“Here is another,” said the Angel. “It is from the teachers and the servants of Castle Havenough. They wish that they were happier,—that the prince and the princess were somewhat more thoughtful and kind. Shall their wish be granted?”

“We will try, Mr. Angel.”

“Good! And here is one from the royal house. I see the seal. Why, it is from the King and Queen of the Land of Nothing Strange. ‘We wish that our son and daughter were more dutiful, thoughtful, loving, and kind.’ Shall the wish be granted, pages?”

“We will try, Mr. Angel.”

“Good! That is enough for to-night. To-morrow I shall have some more blessings for you to carry. Every day I will send you some, so long as you are in my service. And I promise you that every day will be as happy as Christmas,—different, but just as nice. Wait a minute.” And then he wrote something on a card and handed it to them,—he called it their

Then he pressed a little golden button, and the Wishing Man came and took the prince and princess by the hand and led them down the golden carpet to the great door, and in less time than it takes to tell you they were back again, and down again upon the skin of the great white bear, which still lay snarling and showing his teeth at the flickering fire.

The Wishing Man wanted to be off, but the prince and princess asked him so eagerly to sing again that he finally consented to sing what he had sung before,—“Just by way of encore,” he said:

And then he was gone.

It may be that it was a very long, tiresome journey to the palace; it may be that the cold had made the prince and princess very sleepy; it may have been due to something else. At any rate, when the servants came at ten o’clock and opened the door softly, the prince and princess lay fast asleep before the fire, which was burning very low, and the clock was tick-tock, tick-tocking very loud indeed.

What the prince and princess told the king in the morning, how long they were pages of the Angel of Blessings, how many people they carried blessings to, I cannot tell; I never heard. But this I know: that night, and for many days after, the servants and the teachers said that it seemed to them the prince and princess were kinder than usual, and the king and the queen not long after were heard to say they never in their lives had seen the prince and princess so loving and so happy.

KRISS KRINGLE[9] THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM ELEANOR L. SKINNER

The radiant star in the East had done its work. It had guided the shepherds and the Wise Men to the manger where the heavenly Child lay in Mary’s arms. The people, who had watched its light with solemn wonder, and had whispered to each other about its beauty and meaning, had gone to rest. Suddenly in the eastern sky there was a breaking up of the glorious light into millions of shining points. A shower of silver and gold fell to the earth.

An old man with a long white beard saw the wonder. “The star in the East has gone!” he sighed. “The glory of the skies has vanished!”

Morning dawned. Happy little children ran to the fields to gather flowers. The sunny meadows glistened with hundreds of little star-like blossoms.

“How beautiful!” cried the children, clapping their little hands for joy. “Let us gather some flowers, and take a gift to the Mother and little Babe.”

They filled their arms with the starry blossoms and started to the manger. On their way they met the old man with the long white beard. He stopped for a moment and looked at the happy children. A strange light came into his eyes; he bowed his head and whispered, “The star of Bethlehem has burst into blossoms! The glory of the skies has come to abide on earth!”

NUTCRACKER AND MOUSE KING EDWARD THEODOR WILLIAM HOFFMANN

It was Christmas Eve. Marie and Fritz sat cuddled together in a corner of the back parlor, for they had not been permitted during the whole day to go even into the small drawing room, much less into the best drawing room into which it opened. The deep evening twilight had come and they began to feel almost afraid. Seeing that no Christmas candles were brought in, Fritz whispered to his sister Marie, who was just seven, that he had heard rattlings and rustlings going on all day in the closed room, as well as distant hammerings, and that not long before, a little dark looking man with a big box under his arm had gone slipping and creeping across the floor. He well knew that this little man was no other than Godpapa Drosselmeier. At this news Marie clapped her little hands for gladness and cried:

“Oh, I do wonder what pretty things Godpapa Drosselmeier has been making for us this time!”

Godpapa Drosselmeier was anything but a nice looking man. He was little and lean, with a great many wrinkles on his face, a big patch of black plaster over his right eye, and not a hair on his head. He wore a fine white wig, made of glass. But he was a very, very clever man, for he knew and understood all about clocks and watches, and could make them himself. So when one of the beautiful clocks in Fritz and Marie’s home was out of sorts and couldn’t sing, Godpapa Drosselmeier would come, take off his glass periwig and his little yellow coat, put on a blue apron, and begin to stick sharp-pointed instruments into the inside of the clock. Of course, whenever he came he always brought something delightful in his pockets for Marie and Fritz—perhaps a little man who could roll his eyes and make bows and scrapes, most comic to behold, or a box out of which a little bird would jump. But for Christmas time he had invariably prepared some especially wonderful invention.