Part II STORIES TO READ AND TELL TO CHILDREN

SELECTION FROM THE BIBLE LUKE II, 8-20

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

THE FINDING OF THE TREASURE[11] MARY STEWART

A bright-faced boy stood in the center of a group of ragged children, telling them a story. Behind them were the forlorn shacks of a mining camp, built of odd boards of different colors with tar paper or bits of tin for the roofs. A fluttering line of untidy wash was the only sign of life about the place, for the men were away working in the mines and the women—there were only ten of them in the camp of fifty men—were busy indoors.

It was a desolate scene, but the children seemed to have forgotten it. They were gazing spellbound at the lad in their midst, their minds so full of the picture he was describing that the snowy fields before them and the miserable camp behind them seemed miles away. Instead, they saw what the boy saw as he looked straight before him, gazing into space with a light upon his face as if he were beholding the radiant scene of which he spoke.

“There were angels,” he was saying in a clear, thrilling voice, “hundreds of them, all with glistening wings and faces as light as the sunshine. They made the dark night as bright as day, and when the shepherds saw them they were frightened. But the angels said, ‘Fear not,’ and told them to go to a stable in the city near by, where, lying in a manger, they would find a baby King. So the shepherds hurried up the steep path to the city, carrying the lambs in their arms, and the sky echoed with the angels’ song. It was the gladdest night in the whole world.”

“But that is not all!” cried the children. “Tell us about the wonderful star and the men on camels.”

“Listen,” said the story-teller, although every child was already listening with all his might, “listen to what I am going to tell you to-day. It is the most marvelous thing you have ever heard. In ten days Christmas will be here, although the folks at the camp are so busy and lonesome they have forgotten it. But when I asked my mother how we could ever have a Christmas tree in this far-away place like we used to at home, she said that perhaps”—here the lad, Carl, paused a moment, and again he gazed into the distance, his face glowing, “perhaps,” he continued mysteriously, “the glorious star would shine again here to guide, not the wise men on camels, but us—the children—to the birthplace of a little baby!”

“Shall we see the angels too?” questioned a girl, her voice trembling with excitement. “Will the dark sky be bright and full of singing like you said?” demanded another, and “Will the shepherds be there? And the camels? And the men with precious gifts?” asked others.

“Perhaps so,” answered Carl; he did not know, he only knew that they must watch every night now for a new glorious star. Of course that would be the beginning of it all, the beginning of the most wonderful Christmas that had happened since the angels sang to the shepherds on the plains of Bethlehem.

A shrill whistle blew, the call for supper, and the children ran back over the snowy path to the big shack where the men met for meals. They were all seated, talking angrily, when the children entered. One of the men, a leader among them, had just read aloud a letter from the owner of the mine. Such a small amount of gold had been found, the letter said, that unless more was discovered within ten days, the mine would be closed. Also, as the miners had been working on part shares, their wages would be very small, barely enough to pay for their trips back to their homes. A murmur of anger and ugly threats ran around the room. The men had traveled to this desolate spot with the dream of going back rich for life and now, after months of hard, dangerous labor, they would return poorer than when they came. Before the eyes of many of them arose pictures of bare homes where their families were struggling bravely against illness and poverty, counting the days until the miners returned with pockets full of gold.

“As beggars we will never go back!” cried one man. “Better blow up the mine with us in it than see our children starve!” cried another, and then the children, whose fathers were the few who had brought their families with them, rushed into the room, their faces bright with the great hope in their hearts. “Ten days from now will be Christmas!” cried one little lad. “And something wonderful will happen then!” cried another. The men turned upon them savagely. “If any child talks of Christmas again, I’ll give him a licking that will make him forget the day,” exclaimed one man, and another growled, “Ten days from now we’ll all be beggars. Is that what you call ‘something wonderful’ happening?”

To the children, Carl’s story began to seem an idle dream. How could a baby King, a glorious Christ Child, come to this miserable spot, or an angel’s song ring through a camp where, as the night went on, the noise of fighting and swearing echoed more and more wildly?

With a despairing hope of still finding the gold within ten days, the miners went out to their work morning after morning before dawn, and evening after evening they returned, utterly discouraged. It was small wonder that their faces grew rough and fierce and the children crept fearfully out of their way. Their own fathers were even more wretched than the others, for the small wages would not pay the return trip of a whole family and, after ten days were over, they could not live on with no food in that desolate camp. Starvation stared them in the face, and the coming of Christmas meant nothing to them.

Only Carl’s mother thought of it sometimes with a sad little smile, and when Carl questioned her about the star and the baby of whose coming she had spoken, she said softly, “When the Christ Child came His mother also had no clothes in which to dress Him.” Then Carl saw tears shining in her eyes and he dared not question her further, although the one thought in his mind day and night was the coming of the young King.

Late every afternoon the children met beside a group of snow-laden fir trees behind the shacks, and once there, the gloom and terror of the camp slipped from them. The snow-covered mountains glittered in the distance, and Carl told them again and again of the shepherds and the angels.

Then late one evening, while the children watched in breathless excitement, a radiant, glowing star shone forth in the evening sky. It was the same star, they all firmly believed, which had led the wise men so many years ago, and at first they thought with Carl that it had come again to lead them to the cradle of the King. All that night they lay awake on their hard cots, quivering with excitement as they listened for the music of the angels’ song. But only the wrangling of the men echoed through the darkness, and again the children’s bright dreams were overshadowed by the gloom in the lives around them. Still each day they had their hour of happiness beside the ice-hung fir trees, while the star shone forth, and Carl told them of his hopes. Never for a moment did he doubt that the star would lead them to the blessed birthplace, and as the days went by he added other thoughts to his picture.

“When the wise men came they brought presents for Him,” he said one afternoon, “bags of gold, the kind our fathers are looking for, and for which they say they have risked and ruined their lives. Perhaps—perhaps—” his voice was trembling now with the wonder of his hope, “when the Christ Child comes, He may bring to the miners some of the gold the wise men brought to Him!”

The thought was so marvelous that the children planned to tell the men about it, but when they looked up into those grim, lowering faces their hearts failed them and they went quietly to bed.

So nine days slipped by, and the afternoon before Christmas came. The next day, if no gold had been found, the mine would be closed, and the miners went to work that morning in deadly silence, hopeless despair written upon their faces. The snow had fallen heavily all night, and during the day a few flakes still drifted from the gray, leaden sky. The shacks were cold and cheerless and the women, as depressed now as the men, moved heavily about their tasks. Only Carl’s mother was not with them, and deep in their own misery no one gave her a thought. The children were huddled in one corner under a ragged bed quilt, while Carl, by the magic of his faith and words, brought color to their cheeks and light to their eyes.

“This is the day He will come,” the lad was whispering. “My mother went out into the snow this morning and before she went she kissed me and said, ‘The little baby is coming to-day, my son, and where is the home ready to receive him?’ I don’t know just what she meant, for of course the angels will be waiting to take care of the little King.”

“But if it is snowing, how can we see the star?” asked the children, and as if in answer to their question the sun came out brilliantly. Like a fairyland of silver and powdered diamonds the world shone in its mantle of snow and ice, and into it rushed the children, flying over the fields, eager, joyous, expectant. Quickly the short afternoon passed, the sun set in a glory of rose and gold, and then again to the watching children appeared the splendid evening star upon which all their hopes and dreams were centered. It was bigger and brighter than ever before, but it didn’t move as the children had been sure it would, and for a moment a puzzled silence fell upon the group. Then Carl, who had been as bewildered as the others, laughed outright. “Look!” he exclaimed joyously, pointing to the old barn beyond the fir trees, where the few camp animals were kept. “It doesn’t move because it is here! See, there, right below the star, is the stable. We thought, just as the wise men did, that the star would take us to a palace, but perhaps again the little King is lying in a manger!”

For a moment it all seemed too wonderful to be true. Could the King be there already, lying in the old stable, waiting for them? Then suddenly to the children everything seemed possible. With the glorious star shining in the glowing sky above them, the glittering mountains behind them, and Carl’s triumphant voice calling them to follow, faith in the King’s coming seemed only natural. With hearts as full of joy as the shepherds’ on the Bethlehem plains, the children climbed up the snowy path to the little stable, through whose windows there already shone a golden light. Was it the light from the angels’ wings or was it—could it be—the glory which shone around the Christ Child Himself?

Very quietly and reverently the awestruck children opened the door and stepped inside. What did they see?

Nothing at first. Their eyes were blinded by the light of a great fire which burned in the rude stone fireplace, a fire kindled with evergreen branches so that the room was full of the fragrance of Christmas trees. “This is the odor of the frankincense and myrrh,” whispered one child. “He must have brought it with Him for us.” Then, as their eyes grew accustomed to the brilliant light, they saw in one dim corner the old donkey which drew heavy loads for the miners. Beside him stood one cow, a couple of sheep, and on the rafters over their heads perched a pair of blue pigeons. The children had seen them all before, often, but in the light of the fire, with the star shining above them, the simple animals, the same as those which had surrounded the Christ on the first Christmas, seemed as miraculous as a host of angels. And then, at last, they saw the One for whom they were seeking!

The cow’s manger had been pulled out beside the blazing fire and in it, warm and cozy and wrapped in swaddling bands, lay a tiny, beautiful baby. With a gasp of wonder the children knelt in the straw before him. Around his head was no circle of marvelous glory, but his sweet blue eyes opened, big and shining in his tiny face, and to the children he seemed indeed the baby King of whom they had dreamed. Beside him on the straw lay a woman wrapped in a dark cloak. Even Carl did not at first recognize her as his mother. She had crept off that morning to the one peaceful spot in the camp, where her husband had built the great fire for her, and there, with the peaceful animals around him, the little baby boy had been born.

“The Christ Child has come to us,” whispered one child blissfully. “The little King is here!” said others softly. “He has brought the fragrance the wise men gave Him,” murmured another. “And the joy of Christmas He has brought to us all to last forever,” said Carl in his sweet voice. Overwhelmed with the beauty and wonder of the scene, they had forgotten the longed-for gift of gold, and then the door swung open and the children saw Carl’s father enter and step across the room to the mother on the hay. His face shone with the glory in which the whole world seemed to be bathed. Was it only the light of the sunset and the blazing fire? Ah, no, his voice rang with gladness as he exclaimed, “Wife, they have found the gold; the mine will give treasure to us all!”

The children clasped their hands in blissful content. They had known it would come with the coming of the little King,—gold for the desperate men, peace for the tired women, happiness for them all,—and it had come true even more wonderfully than they had dreamed.

The star shone through the window in the loft, the last rays of the sunset turned the snow to gold, and within, in the light of the fire, the children knelt, gazing rapturously at the little newborn baby in the manger. So the miners found them. They were returning to the camp jubilant over the newly discovered gold; it would make them all rich, and they planned to celebrate by a night of riotous drinking. But on the way to the shacks they passed the stable. It was strange to see it lighted at this hour, and one man turned aside to see what was happening there. As he stood looking silently through the window another joined him, and another, until the whole crowd stood outside, gazing through the windows, silent and abashed. The kneeling children, the baby in the manger, the star above them, what did it all mean?

“It is Christmas Eve,” murmured one man. “That must be the big Carl’s kid,” said another, “but even the blessed Lord Jesus Himself couldn’t have looked any sweeter.”

“Gifts of gold,” said the man who was the leader of the gang, and his clear voice reached every miner’s ears, “gifts of gold, if I remember rightly, were brought once to the Christ on His first birthday. It’s His birthday to-night, though none of us remembered it, and now the gifts of gold have come to us. Who knows whether they have not come from Him, the Lord whom we had forgotten?”

There was silence again, and then as night fell and the stars shone out over that peaceful scene, there entered into the heart of every man, woman, and child there the spirit of the Christ Child.

Later, when the children understood that the baby was Carl’s little brother, the wonder was none the less. Possibly they felt the great truth, that the Christ Child is born in every baby who comes into the world, or perhaps they simply felt the glory of His presence, as the men and women around them lost their harsh and gloomy ways and became joyful, tender, compassionate. For from that Christmas Eve until the mine had been worked, and the men had scattered happily to their homes, the camp was a different place. The drinking and fighting ceased, and the men played with the children, shyly at first and then merrily, thinking of “those other kids at home.” The women sang over their tasks, and if the music was not as heavenly as the angels’ song, it was full of cheer and peace and good will. And so to the children the camp became truly a place in which, on that marvelous Christmas Eve, the Christ Child had been born.

THE MEANING OF THE STAR[12] EMMA G. SEBRING

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.... And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary, his mother, and fell down, and worshiped him; and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, frankincense, and myrrh.—Matthew ii, 1-4; 9-11.

In every life there is need of a star, the star of an ideal, which shall go before, leading the way until it comes and stands where the Christ is. They who see such a star shall rejoice with exceeding great joy, as they who look upon a heavenly vision. They who follow such a star to the goal where it leads, shall there offer the precious gift of an ennobled and sanctified life.

WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT MARGARET DELAND

THE GREAT WALLED COUNTRY[13] RAYMOND MacDONALD ALDEN

Away at the northern end of the world, farther than men have ever gone with their ships or their sleds, and where most people suppose that there is nothing but ice and snow, is a land full of children, called The Great Walled Country. This name is given because all around the country is a great wall, hundreds of feet thick and hundreds of feet high. It is made of ice, and never melts, winter or summer, and of course it is for this reason that more people have not discovered the place.

The land, as I said, is filled with children, for nobody who lives there ever grows up. The king and the queen, the princes and the courtiers, may be as old as you please, but they are children for all that. They play a great deal of the time with dolls and tin soldiers, and every night at seven o’clock have a bowl of bread and milk and go to bed. But they make excellent rulers, and the other children are well pleased with the government.

There are all sorts of curious things about the way they live in The Great Walled Country, but this story is only of their Christmas season. One can imagine what a fine thing their Christmas must be, so near the North Pole, with ice and snow everywhere; but this is not all. Grandfather Christmas lives just on the north side of the country, so that his house leans against the great wall and would tip over if it were not for its support. Grandfather Christmas is his name in The Great Walled Country; no doubt we should call him Santa Claus here. At any rate, he is the same person, and, best of all the children in the world, he loves the children behind the great wall of ice.

One very pleasant thing about having Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor is that in The Great Walled Country they never have to buy their Christmas presents. Every year, on the day before Christmas, before he makes up his bundles for the rest of the world Grandfather Christmas goes into a great forest of Christmas trees, that grows just back of the palace of the king of The Great Walled Country, and fills the trees with candy and books and toys and all sorts of good things. So when night comes, all the children wrap up snugly, while the children in all other lands are waiting in their beds, and go to the forest to gather gifts for their friends. Each one goes by himself so that none of his friends can see what he has gathered; and no one ever thinks of such a thing as taking a present for himself. The forest is so big that there is room for every one to wander about without meeting the people from whom he has secrets, and there are always enough nice things to go around.

So Christmas time is a great holiday in that land, as it is in all the best places in the world. They have been celebrating it in this way for hundreds of years, and since Grandfather Christmas does not seem to grow old any faster than the children, they will probably do so for hundreds of years to come.

But there was once a time, so many years ago that they would have forgotten all about it if the story were not written in their Big Book and read to them every year, when the children in The Great Walled Country had a very strange Christmas. There came a visitor to the land. He was an old man, and was the first stranger for very many years that had succeeded in getting over the wall. He looked so wise, and was so much interested in what he saw and heard, that the king invited him to the palace, and he was treated with every possible honor.

When this old man had inquired about their Christmas celebration, and was told how they carried it on every year, he listened gravely and then, looking wiser than ever, he said to the king:

“That is all very well, but I should think that children who have Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor could find a better and easier way. You tell me that you all go out on Christmas Eve to gather presents to give to one another the next morning. Why take so much trouble, and act in such a roundabout way? Why not go out together, and every one get his own presents? That would save the trouble of dividing them again, and every one would be better satisfied, for he could pick out just what he wanted for himself. No one can tell what you want as well as you can.”

This seemed to the king a very wise saying, and he called all his courtiers and counselors about him to hear it. The wise stranger talked further about his plan, and when he had finished they all agreed that they had been very foolish never to have thought of this simple way of getting their Christmas gifts.

“If we do this,” they said, “no one can ever complain of what he has, or wish that some one had taken more pains to find what he wanted. We will make a proclamation, and always after this follow the new plan.”

So the proclamation was made, and the plan seemed as wise to the children of the country as it had to the king and the counselors. Every one had at some time been a little disappointed with his Christmas gifts; now there would be no danger of that.

On Christmas Eve they always had a meeting at the palace, and sang carols until the time for going to the forest. When the clock struck ten every one said, “I wish you a Merry Christmas!” to the person nearest him, and then they separated to go their ways to the forest. On this particular night it seemed to the king that the music was not quite so merry as usual, and that when the children spoke to one another their eyes did not shine as gladly as he had noticed them in other years; but there could be no good reason for this, since every one was expecting a better time than usual. So he thought no more of it.

There was only one person at the palace that night who was not pleased with the new proclamation about the Christmas gifts. This was a little boy named Inge, who lived not far from the palace with his sister. Now his sister was a cripple, and had to sit all day looking out of the window from her chair; and Inge took care of her, and tried to make her life happy from morning till night. He had always gone to the forest on Christmas Eve and returned with his arms and pockets loaded with pretty things for his sister, which would keep her amused all the coming year. And although she was not able to go after presents for her brother, he did not mind that at all, especially as he had other friends who never forgot to divide their good things with him.

But now, said Inge to himself, what would his sister do? For the king had ordered that no one should gather any presents except for himself, or any more than he could carry away at once. All of Inge’s friends were busy planning what they would pick for themselves, but the poor crippled child could not go a step toward the forest. After thinking about it a long time, Inge decided that it would not be wrong, if, instead of taking gifts for himself, he took them altogether for his sister. This he would be very glad to do; for what did a boy who could run about and play in the snow care for presents, compared with a little girl who could only sit still and watch others having a good time? Inge did not ask the advice of any one, for he was a little afraid others would tell him he must not do it; but he silently made up his mind not to obey the proclamation.

And now the chimes had struck ten, and the children were making their way toward the forest, in starlight that was so bright that it almost showed their shadows on the sparkling snow. As soon as they came to the edge of the forest, they separated, each one going by himself in the old way, though now there was really no reason why they should have secrets from one another.

Ten minutes later, if you had been in the forest, you might have seen the children standing in dismay, with tears on their faces, and exclaiming that there had never been such a Christmas Eve before. For as they looked eagerly about them to the low-bending branches of the evergreen trees, they saw nothing hanging from them that could not be seen every day in the year. High and low they searched, wandering farther into the forest than ever before, lest Grandfather Christmas might have chosen a new place this year for hanging his presents; but still no presents appeared. The king called his counselors about him, and asked them if they knew whether anything of this kind had happened before, but they could tell him nothing. So no one could guess whether Grandfather Christmas had forgotten them, or whether some dreadful accident had kept him away.

As the children were trooping out of the forest, after hours of weary searching, some of them came upon little Inge, who carried over his shoulder a bag that seemed to be full to overflowing. When he saw them looking at him, he cried:

“Are they not beautiful things? I think Grandfather Christmas was never so good to us before.”

“Why, what do you mean?” cried the children. “There are no presents in the forest!”

“No presents!” Inge said. “I have my bag full of them.” But he did not offer to show them, because he did not want the children to see that they were all for his little sister instead of for himself.

Then the children begged him to tell them in what part of the forest he had found his presents, and he turned back and pointed them to the place where he had been. “I left many more behind than I brought away,” he said. “There they are! I can see some of the things shining on the trees even from here.”

But when the children followed his footprints in the snow to the place where he had been, they still saw nothing on the trees, and thought that Inge must be walking in his sleep, and dreaming that he had found presents. Perhaps he had filled his bag with the cones from the evergreen trees.

On Christmas Day there was sadness all through The Great Walled Country. But those who came to the house of Inge and his sister saw plenty of books and dolls and beautiful toys piled up about the little cripple’s chair, and when they asked where these things came from, they were told, “Why, from the Christmas-tree forest.” And they shook their heads, not knowing what it could mean.

The king held a council in the palace, and appointed a committee of his most faithful courtiers to visit Grandfather Christmas, and see if they could find what was the matter. In a day or two more the committee set out on their journey.

They had very hard work to climb the great wall of ice that lay between their country and the place where Grandfather Christmas lived, but at last they reached the top. And when they came to the other side of the wall they were looking down into the top of his chimney. It was not hard to go down this chimney into the house, and when they reached the bottom of it they found themselves in the very room where Grandfather Christmas lay sound asleep.

It was hard enough to waken him, for he always slept one hundred days after his Christmas work was over, and it was only by turning the hands of the clock around two hundred times that the committee could do anything. When the clock had struck twelve times two hundred hours, Grandfather Christmas thought it was time for his nap to be over, and he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, sir!” cried the prince who was in charge of the committee, “we have come from the king of The Great Walled Country, who has sent us to ask why you forgot us this Christmas, and left no presents in the forest.”

“No presents!” said Grandfather Christmas. “I never forgot anything. The presents were there. You did not see them, that’s all.”

But the children told him that they had searched long and carefully, and in the whole forest there had not been found a thing that could be called a Christmas gift.

“Indeed!” said Grandfather Christmas. “And did little Inge, the boy with the crippled sister, find none?”

Then the committee was silent, for they had heard of the gifts at Inge’s house, and did not know what to say about them.

“You had better go home,” said Grandfather Christmas, who now began to realize that he had been awakened too soon, “and let me finish my nap. The presents were there, but they were never intended for children who were looking only for themselves. I am not surprised that you could not see them. Remember, that not everything that wise travelers tell you is wise.” And he turned over and went to sleep again.

The committee returned silently to The Great Walled Country, and told the king what they had heard. The king did not tell all the children of the land what Grandfather Christmas had said, but, when the next December came, he made another proclamation bidding every one to seek gifts for others, in the old way, in the Christmas-tree forest. So that is what they have been doing ever since; and in order that they may not forget what happened, in case any one should ever ask for another change they have read to them every year from their Big Book the story of the time when they had no Christmas gifts.

GOING TO MEET CHRISTMAS[14] EDMUND VANCE COOKE

“Papa,” said the Man Mite, “can you hear Christmas?”

“Can you hear Christmas?” repeated his papa. “Why, I suppose so, in a sort of way. You can hear bells chiming and little boys drumming and little girls blowing horns and people laughing and everybody saying, ‘Merry Christmas!’ I suppose that’s hearing Christmas, isn’t it?”

“But I mean can you hear it before it’s here?” asked the Man Mite.

“No, I think not,” answered papa.

“Well, if you can’t hear it, how can you tell it’s coming? Can you see it coming?”

“Oh,” answered his papa, “I see what you mean now. Well, how can you tell to-morrow is coming? Can you smell it?”

The Man Mite laughed. “Such a silly papa! To-morrow has to come so that to-day can be yesterday. You ’splained that to me once yourself.”

“Yes? Well, Christmas has to come so that next Christmas can be last Christmas.”

“Oh, papa,” cried the Man Mite, “you forgot about this Christmas, but please don’t tell me when this Christmas is coming, because I want it to surprise me. I want it to sneak right up and get here when I don’t know it.”

“All right,” laughed papa, “I shan’t tell, and you can go to bed every night for a week hoping that the next day will be Christmas.”

Which was exactly what the Man Mite did, and for a night or two it was very exciting, but toward the end of the week he began to grow tired of it. It was all very well to go to bed hoping that the next day would be Christmas, but to wake up every morning, and ask, “Where is Christmas?” only to be answered with “Christmas is coming!” was very disappointing.

One night his papa and mamma insisted that he go to bed earlier than usual, so he was very wide awake for a while, and lay there wondering how he could hurry up Christmas. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine how Christmas looked dilly-dallying along the way, as (he remembered with shame) he himself did sometimes when he was sent upon an errand, instead of hastening, as Christmas and a little boy ought to do.

“Christmas is coming! Christmas is coming!” he repeated to himself, “and if it doesn’t hurry and hurry up—if it doesn’t hurry and hurry up, I’ll go to meet it!”

That was a new idea, and the Man Mite lingered on it lovingly. Go to meet it! Why not?

Just how he got himself dressed and out of the house he never distinctly remembered. He afterwards said that he was in such a hurry he didn’t have time to remember, but that doesn’t sound quite reasonable, does it?

He also says, however, that he remembers running for a long time as fast as he could go. When he stopped to take breath and to look around he found he was in a strange part of the city and there was nobody in the street in any direction. He was lost!

The Man Mite remembered that his papa told him that if ever he was lost he should ask a policeman, but there wasn’t a policeman or anybody else in sight. On the corner, though, was a patrol box, and the Man Mite had seen the policeman telephone to the station from the box, so he thought he would do the same thing. As he was trying to open the door he was startled to hear a voice inside exclaim, “Christmas is coming!”

“Which way is it coming, please?” asked the Man Mite, and off popped the top and up popped a Jack-in-the-box with his arms extended.

“Thank you,” said the Man Mite, and hastened away in the direction the Jack-in-the-box had pointed. Presently he saw a toy trolley car going in the same direction. “Hello!” he said, “where is that car going?”

“Going to meet Christmas,” answered the trolley car; “get inside.”

“Thank you,” answered the Man Mite, “you’re most too small for me to get inside of, but I can sit on top.”

He did so, and the car took him to the end of the line, and he was his own conductor and collected his own fare from himself. When the car stopped, it was at the end of a street which ran up against a steep bluff with no elevator or path to help a little boy to get to its top. The Man Mite wondered how he was ever going to get past that bluff, when he saw a climbing-monkey-on-a-string. One end of his string was attached to the top of the bluff and the other was fastened to the ground below.

“Hello,” said the monkey, “Christmas is coming, and if you want to go to meet it, you would better crawl up my string. I’ll show you how.”

“Oh, I can’t,” said the Man Mite.

“Can’t!” mocked the monkey. “I’m only a tin monkey and I can do it. It’s easy.”

He went up the string hand-over-hand and foot-over-foot, and the Man Mite followed. Much to his surprise, he reached the top without any difficulty, and there he found a toy train of cars, a toy automobile, and a wooden wagon.

“All aboard for the Christmas Limited!” said the little iron brakeman.

“Automobile Air-Line to Santaclausville!” said the tin chauffeur.

“Fast express going to meet Christmas!” cried the tongue of the wagon, and the Man Mite noticed that the wagon did have “Express” printed on both its sides.

Now, although the Man Mite would have liked to go on the train or the auto, there was so much more room in the wooden wagon that he got into it, and was surprised that it soon left its companions far behind. It sped along merrily, and its tongue kept up a continuous running talk as well, until it came to the ocean, where a toy boat was floating.

“All aboard for Christmas!” said the captain.

“But your boat is too small, and besides there’s not a board in it; it’s tin,” answered the Man Mite.

“Well, throw us a line and we’ll tow you,” said the captain.

As the Man Mite had no line, he let him take the tongue of the wagon, and the captain stood at the stern of the boat and hung on.

Though the boat was so small, it pulled the Man Mite through the water in a surprising manner, and the wooden wagon floated and kept the Man Mite dry, but not a word could he get out of it, which was quite a contrast to its manner when on land.

The weather kept getting colder and colder; presently the boat was stuck fast in the ice. Of course the wagon was also frozen tight, and the captain let go of the “line” as he called it.

“There!” cried the wagon angrily. “I knew what you’d bring us into.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so if you knew so much?” said the captain.

“Say so! Could you say so if somebody was pulling you along by the tongue?” demanded the wagon.

The captain replied and the wagon retorted, and the quarrel was becoming very unpleasant, when along came a pair of skates without anybody on them.

“Boat ahoy! Wagon ahoy! Boy ahoy!” cried the skates. “Christmas is coming!”

“Take me along to meet it, please?” asked the Man Mite, and in another moment he was on the skates and skating faster and easier than he had ever skated in his life before. He skated for a long time, and passed fields where plum puddings were growing like pumpkins, trees where candy boys hung like pears, and snowdrifts which upon closer acquaintance proved to be huge frosted cakes. Curiously enough, fields and trees and drifts were all moving and cried out, “We’re going to meet Christmas!”

After what seemed to him a long time, much to his surprise and joy he met a boy, seemingly of his own age. The Man Mite was almost sure he had seen his face before, and yet, when he came to look at him again, he was surer still that he hadn’t, for certainly he had never seen a boy with a fur cap, fur coat, fur boots, and fur trousers! He noticed, too, that while the boy’s face was round and chubby, his hair was white; not merely tow-headed, like Willie Perkins’s, and Pete Judson’s, but pure white.

“Hello!” said the stranger. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Man Mite. What’s yours?”

“Santy.”

“Santy? What a funny name. Santy what?”

“Santy Claus.”

“Santy Claus?” cried the Man Mite. “You can’t be Santy Claus. He’s a man, and you’re just a little boy like I am.”

“Ho! you’re thinkin’ of my father,” answered the boy.

“Your father!” cried the Man Mite, more astonished than ever. Somehow, he had never thought of the possibility of Santy Claus being a father.

“Have you got a mother, too?” he asked, after a moment.

“Yep. Had one ever since I was born. Ain’t you?”

“Of course,” answered the Man Mite, “but I never heard of Mrs. Santy Claus.”

“Never heard of your mother neither,” answered Santy, Jr.

“Say, now, ain’t you fooling me? Are you honestly Santy Claus’s little boy?”

“Say yourself,” answered the other, “doesn’t your father remember when he was little he had a Santy Claus?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t your father’s father have a Santy Claus?”

“I s’pose so.”

“Well, do you suppose it’s the same Santy Claus? Somebody’s got to keep the business goin’.”

“And will you be Santy Claus—the real Santy Claus—when you grow up?” asked the Man Mite.

“Oh, I s’pose so,” answered the other, carelessly.

“You s’pose so! Don’t you want to be?”

“Naw; I want to be the conductor on a dog train. Say, they made the run this year in three months an’ two days. Wasn’t that flyin’?”

It really didn’t seem fast to the Man Mite, so he said: “How far is it?”

“From Arctic C. to Aurora B.”

“What do you mean by Arctic C. and Aurora B.?”

“Arctic Circle to Aurora Borealis, of course. That run was an excursion, too. We always go to the Aurora B. for the Fourth. Fine fireworks there.”

“The Fourth? Do you celebrate the Fourth?”

“O’ course.”

“But you’re not Americans, are you?”

“No; that’s the worst of it. We got to celebrate everything, holidays and saints days and kings’ and queens’ birthdays, and the whole bunch. That’s because we belong to all nations.”

“Christmas is the best, isn’t it?” smiled the Man Mite.

“Worst o’ the lot,” said Santy Jr., shortly.

“Why, what makes you think so?” cried the Man Mite.

“ ‘Cause dad’s always away on Christmas and we’ve cleared everything out of the house to the last ginger-snap to put in folks’ stockings and it’s the middle of the night and everybody’s tired, just like I am now, and wants to go to bed.”

“Middle of the night? What do you mean?”

“Middle of the north-pole night. If it wasn’t for Christmas we could go to bed about half-past October and sleep until a quarter of May, but ma thinks we ought to help pa and then wait up till he comes home. My, but I’m sleepy! Ain’t you?”

“Yes,” owned the Man Mite, “a little.”

“Well, come on and sleep with me. Your mother won’t mind. You can get up about a quarter past April and get home early.”

While they were speaking, Santy, Jr., was leading the way into the house and to his room. The two boys lay down together on a bed of bearskins, and the Man Mite said, sleepily: “Say, will you please tell me something?”

“Uh-huh,” said Santy.

“What makes your hair white?”

“What makes a polar bear’s hair white? What makes an arctic fox’s hair white? What makes an arctic hare’s hair white? Why, hello! there’s dad coming back!”

“Coming back from where?”

“Why, from Christmas, of course. You do ask the funniest questions. I believe you’re asleep. Your eyes are shut and you talk so stupid.”

The Mite Man rubbed his eyes with both hands and strove to open them. Then he heard a voice cry, “Papa! papa!” but instead of its being the voice of Santy, Jr., as he expected, it was the voice of his brother Ben. Then somebody kissed him and called “Merry Christmas!”

“Oh, papa,” said the Man Mite as he opened his eyes, “is it this Christmas or next Christmas?”

He did not stop for an answer to his question. With a shout of joy he sprang out of bed and darted upon a pair of skates, a toy steamboat, a wooden wagon marked “Express.” on both sides, and a toy trolley car which was big enough for him to sit upon the roof.

A LEGEND OF SAINT BONIFACE ELEANOR L. SKINNER

On a wild winter night about twelve hundred years ago the great English missionary Saint Boniface and a score of faithful followers were traveling through the gloomy forest in a lonely region of Hesse, Germany. They made their way painfully and slowly, for they were obliged to cut a path through the tangled thicket and great twisted branches. The little band had come into the wilderness to share the message of the Prince of Peace with hordes of barbarous savages who believed in witches and werewolves, worshiped false idols, and made sacrifices to pagan gods. In their passionate joy to bring the glad tidings of the gospel, these apostles willingly endured blinding snowstorms and cruel hunger, courageously risked death from wild beasts and murderous savages.

Since noon these faithful Christians had fought their way through the forest. The morning they had spent at Geismar, where Saint Boniface took into Christ’s fold almost three hundred pagans. In simplest words the great apostle urged the rude barbarians to give up their false idols and bloody sacrifices. He told them the thrilling story of Christ’s birth, death, and resurrection, and the wonderful promise of the Kingdom of Peace. The savages stood listening in breathless silence. Slowly they caught a glimpse of the light of truth, came timidly forward, and knelt at the rude altar where Saint Boniface stood.

“Dost thou think the people of the wilderness will hold to the new faith, father?” asked one of the followers.

“I hope so, lad,” answered Saint Boniface. “We must try to keep watch over them. Again and again they must hear the wonderful story. It is hard, indeed, for these pagans to turn from their false idols and worship an all-loving, merciful Father. We must watch and pray.”

“When shall we come again to Geismar, father?” asked the youth.

“It will be a year before our band can return to this region. In the meantime, I hope to send other missionaries here,” answered the great apostle.

“Dost thou think we are near the monastery, father?” asked the footsore youth.

“I believe we are. If we do not reach it in another hour we must light a fire and lie down under the trees. Courage, lad! This has been a fruitful journey. May the converts hold fast to the glory of Christ!”

A year passed quickly. Saint Boniface and his helpers were again working among the wild children of the forest. Often the great apostle’s heart sank when he heard that some of the converts were worshiping their false idols again. A few remained stanch and true to the new faith; others hopelessly confused the old superstitious ideas with the gospel of love and service.

“Thou art not discouraged, father?” whispered the youth, who noticed that Saint Boniface was lost in thought.

“Discouraged? Never!” answered the apostle with flashing eyes. “I am deciding how to strike the next blow at their cruel superstitions.”

In a few moments Saint Boniface said: “Let us stop here for a little while. My plan is made. To-night is the pagan yuletide. Several tribes will gather around the thunder-oak of Geismar to offer sacrifices. The priests declare that nothing but human blood will appease the wrath of Thor. Many wavering converts will be there. Come, we will destroy once for all the sacred monarch of the forest. We will show the poor benighted people that the worship of Thor is nothing but a shadow. Our axes are sharp; our arms are strong. God is with us. Come!”

With new inspiration the Christian band pushed on. An hour’s hard struggle brought them to the thunder-oak, which stood on a broad low hill near Geismar. There they saw several hundred pagans standing in a semicircle around the gigantic oak. Near the sacred tree burned a dull red fire, and in the light of the flickering blaze the Christians saw an old priest and a little, fair-haired boy.

“It is as I feared,” whispered Saint Boniface. “They are ready to make human sacrifice. Forward!”

In a moment all eyes were fixed on the little band of Christians that advanced toward the priest. Some of the pagans recognized the apostle before whom they had knelt one year ago.

“Friends,” said Saint Boniface, holding up the cross, “again we come to bring the message of peace from the All-Father. Thor is dead! With our axes we will prove to you that the god of thunder is powerless before the God of Love.”

Saint Boniface and a helper, with their wood axes in their hands, stepped up to the great tree. With powerful blows they cut deep gashes into its sides. Suddenly a mighty whirling wind passed over the forest. Thor’s oak shuddered, swayed, and fell; it crashed to the ground, and split into four huge pieces.

“The God of Love is mightier than the God of thunder!” declared Saint Boniface with bowed head. “Christ hath conquered Thor.”

In deepest silence the tribes stood gazing at the ruined oak. By the side of one of the huge pieces stood a beautiful little fir tree, unharmed by the storm. Saint Boniface raised his voice and cried, “My friends of the forest, show your faith in the true God by building a chapel out of this fallen timber.” In a few moments he added: “And behold this little fir tree, with its green leaves and beautiful spire pointing to the stars. It is an emblem of joy and peace, and life-everlasting. Go no more into the dark forest to make sacrifices of blood; take this little tree into your homes and on Christ’s blessed birthday gather around it with joyous songs and loving gifts. Call it the tree of the Christ Child.”

They took up the little fir tree and carried it to the village. Once more, as they circled about the tree of the Christ Child, Saint Boniface in simple words told them the wonderful story of peace on earth, good will toward men.

COSETTE’S CHRISTMAS EVE VICTOR HUGO (Translated by Alma J. Foster) I

A long time ago Montfermeil was a peaceful and charming little village in the woods, away from the main roads, and on the way to nowhere.

There the people lived frugally and happily their simple peasant life. Only water was hard to get, because the hill was high. It was necessary to go a long way for it. Indeed, it was hard for each family to get enough for use.

This was the terror of little Cosette.

Cosette was a little girl who had been left by her mother several years before in the care of an innkeeper and his wife named Thénardier. She had proved very useful to these people in two ways. They were regularly paid by the mother for her care, and they used her as a servant. Thus it was that it was Cosette’s task to fetch water when needed. As she was terribly afraid of going at night to the spring, she took good care to have plenty of water in the house at all times.

Christmas of the year 1823 had been particularly fine at Montfermeil. There had been neither hail nor snow.

This Christmas Eve several men were sitting around a table in the lower hall of the inn. Cosette was in her usual place on the crosspiece of the kitchen table near the chimney. She was in rags, she had wooden shoes on her little bare feet, and she was knitting stockings by the light of the fire. These stockings were to be worn by the innkeeper’s little daughters.

Cosette was dreaming sad dreams; although she was only eight years old she had suffered so much that she felt like an old woman. She was thinking that it was night, dark night, and that she had had to fill so many pitchers that day for the many guests in the inn, that the water tank was quite empty. She took comfort, however, when she remembered that people drank very little water at night. There were many thirsty ones, of course, but they wanted wine.

From time to time one of the guests would look out into the street and exclaim, “It’s as black as an oven! Only a cat could find its way to-night without a lantern.” Then Cosette trembled.

Suddenly a peddler who was staying at the inn entered, and said in a hard voice, “My horse has had no water to drink.”

Cosette came out from under the table.

“Oh, yes, sir,” she said, “the horse has had water, a whole pailful, for I gave it to him myself, and I talked to him, too.”

“Come, now,” said the peddler, “it can’t be true that my horse has had enough water.”

Cosette slipped back to her place under the table.

“Indeed, if that’s so,” said Madame Thénardier, “if the horse has not had enough water, he must drink.”

Then looking about the room, she said, “Well, where is Cosette?”

She stooped, and saw the child hidden at the other end of the table almost under the men’s feet.

“Are you going to come, or no?” cried she.

Cosette crept out of the little hole in which she had hidden herself.

“Now, get something for the horse to drink.”

“But there isn’t any water,” said Cosette feebly.

The woman opened wide the door leading to the street.

“Very well; go and get some.”

Then she fumbled in a drawer where were a few coins, and some peppers and onions.

“Here, you little toad,” added she, “on your way home get a loaf of bread. Here is the money.”

Cosette had a little side pocket in her apron. She took the piece of silver without a word, and put it into the pocket. Then she stood quite still, the pail in her hand, and the open door before her.

“Get along with you!” cried the woman.

Cosette went out. The door was closed behind her.

Cosette went along the crooked and deserted streets on that side of the town. As long as there were houses or even high walls on both sides of her, she walked bravely enough. From time to time she caught sight of a lighted candle through a crack in the shutters; there were light, and life, and people, and this comforted her. However, the farther she went the more slowly she walked. When she had passed the corner of the last house, Cosette stopped. To pass the last shop had been hard, but to pass the last house,—this was impossible. She turned firmly back. Scarcely had she walked a hundred steps when she stopped again. The thought of Madame Thénardier stopped her. Before her stood the picture of the angry woman; behind her all the phantoms of the night and of the wood. Suddenly she turned again to the path to the spring, and started to run. Even while running she felt like crying. The chill of the night and of the forest encompassed her.

There were only seven or eight minutes from the edge of the woods to the spring. Cosette knew the path only too well, having been over it many times every day. She dared not glance either right or left for fear of seeing things in the branches or the bushes. At last she reached the spring.

Cosette did not stop to take breath. It was fearfully dark, but she was used to this spring. She felt with her left hand in the darkness for a young oak that hung over it, by which she used to support herself, found the branch, caught hold of it, and plunged the pail into the water. While doing this, she could not see that her pocket had emptied itself into the spring. The silver coin had fallen into the water; Cosette did not notice it. She drew up the pail almost full, and rested it on the grass. She shut her eyes, then opened them again, not knowing why. Then she counted aloud, one, two, three, and up to ten, and when she had finished she began again. Then she felt the cold in her hands, which she had wet in dipping the water. Suddenly she saw the pail before her. She seized the handle with both hands. It was hard to lift. She had to stop many times to rest, then she walked on with her head bent forward. The weight of the pail stiffened her little arms. All this was taking place in the heart of a wood, at night, in winter, far from every human eye, and this was a child only eight years old. Now and then she would cry aloud, “Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!”

Suddenly she felt that the pail was no longer heavy. A hand which seemed immense had seized the handle and lifted it with power. She looked up. A large form, dark and straight, was walking beside her in the gloom. It was a man who had come behind her, whom she had not heard. This man, without a word, had taken hold of the pail she was carrying.

There are instincts for all the meetings of life. The child felt no fear.

The man spoke to her. His voice was grave and almost a whisper.

“Little one, it is very heavy for you, this thing you are carrying.”

Cosette looked up and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Give it to me,” replied the man. “I am going to carry it.”

Cosette let go of the pail. The man walked beside her.

“It is heavy indeed!” he said between his teeth. Then he asked, “Little one, how old are you?”

“Eight years, sir.”

The man waited a moment before speaking, then said quickly, “You haven’t then any mother?”

“I don’t know,” said the child. Before the man could say any more she added, “I don’t think so. The others have one; but I haven’t any.” After a silence, she said again, “I don’t believe I ever had one.”

The man stopped; he placed the pail on the ground, stooped over, and put his hands on the child’s shoulders, trying to see her face in the darkness.

“What is your name?” said he.

“Cosette.”

The man seemed to feel an electric shock. He looked at her again, then he took his hands from her shoulders, raised the pail, and began to walk again.

After a moment he asked, “Little one, where do you live?”

“At Montfermeil, if you know it?”

Again there was a pause, then he began again: “Who is it, then, who has sent you at this hour to bring water from this wood?”

“It’s Madame Thénardier.”

“What does she do, your Madame Thénardier?”

“She takes care of me,” said the child. “She keeps the inn.”

“The inn?” said the man. “Well, I am going to sleep there to-night. Show me the way.”

“We are going there now,” said the child.

The man was walking quite fast. Cosette followed him without any trouble. She wasn’t tired any more. Every now and then she looked up at this man with a wonderful peace and trust.

Several minutes passed thus. Then the man began again.

“Hasn’t Madame Thénardier any servant?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you the only one?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was another pause. Then Cosette raised her voice.

“That is, there are two little girls.”

“What little girls?”

“Ponine and Zelma.”

“Who are Ponine and Zelma?”

“They are Madame Thénardier’s little girls.”

“And what do they do, these little ones?”

“Oh,” said the child, “they have pretty dolls. They play and amuse themselves.”

“And you?”

“I? I work.”

“All day long?”

The child raised her large eyes full of tears, that were hidden by the night, and answered softly, “Yes, sir.”

Then she went on after a moment of silence, “Sometimes, when I have done my work, and they are willing, I play a little.”

“What do you play?”

“As I can. They leave me alone. But I have not many toys. I have only a little lead sword not larger than that.” The child showed her little finger.

They were now nearing the village; Cosette led the stranger through the street. They passed the baker’s, but Cosette never even thought of the bread that she was to buy.

As they came near the inn, Cosette touched his arm timidly.

“What is it, little one?”

“Here we are, very near the house.”

An instant later they were at the door of the inn.

Cosette could not resist one last look at a big doll standing in the window of the toy shop; then she knocked.

The door opened. Madame Thénardier stood there, a candle in her hand.

“Ah! it’s you! You have taken time enough! You must have been having a fine time.”

“Madame,” said Cosette trembling, “here is a gentleman who has come to stay.”

Madame Thénardier changed very quickly her cross looks for her pleasing grin, and looked eagerly at the newcomer.

“This is the gentleman?” said she.

“Yes, Madame,” answered the man as he touched his cap.

Rich travelers are not so polite. This gesture, and the view of the clothes and the bundle of the stranger, which the woman took in with a quick glance, made her change her pleasant grin for her cross looks again. Then she said dryly, “Come in, fellow.”

The “fellow” came in. The woman took another glance at him, looked carefully at his coat, which was very shabby, and at his hat, which was quite battered, then turned up her nose and winked her eyes at her husband, who was sitting with the other men. Then he answered with a movement of his finger on the lips which said as plainly as words, “Very poor.”

Then the woman cried at once: “Ah, my good fellow, I am very sorry, but I have no room for you.”

“Put me anywhere you like,” said the man, “in the barn or the stable. I will pay as if I had a room.”

“Two francs?”[15]

“Yes, two francs.”

“Very well.”

Meanwhile, the man, having left his bundle and stick on a bench, had taken his seat at a table, where Cosette had hurried to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The peddler who had asked for the water had gone himself to take it to the horse. Cosette had taken her place under the kitchen table with her knitting.

The stranger, who had hardly touched the wine that he had poured out, was looking at the child with strange attention.

Cosette was homely. Happy, she might have been pretty. Now, she was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but one would have guessed her hardly six. The whole figure of this child—her manner, her way of moving, the sound of her voice, the stammering speech, her look, her silence, her least gesture—expressed one single idea, fear.

This fear was so great that on reaching the inn, wet as she was, Cosette had not dared to dry herself at the fire, but had gone quietly to work.

The stranger did not take his eyes away from Cosette.

Suddenly Madame Thénardier cried, “Well now, where is the bread?”

Cosette, as she always did when her mistress raised her voice, came quickly from under the table.

She had entirely forgotten the bread. She did, alas! what many children do when frightened; she lied.

“Madame, the baker shop was closed.”

“I will find out to-morrow if this is so,” said the woman, “and if you are lying I will make you pay for it. Meanwhile, give me the money.” Cosette put her hand into her apron pocket. The money was not there.

“Look here! Do you hear me?” said her mistress.

Cosette turned her pocket out. There was nothing there. What could have become of the money?

“Have you lost it, the money,” screamed the woman, “or do you want to steal it from me?”

Meanwhile the stranger had fumbled in his vest pocket without being noticed by any one. Cosette was crouching in the corner of the chimney.

“Pardon me, Madame,” said the man, “but just a moment ago I saw something bright roll on the floor. Perhaps it was the money.”

At the same time, he stooped down and seemed to be searching the floor.

“Exactly so; here it is,” said he, rising. And he handed the woman a piece of money.

“Yes, that is it,” said she.

It was not the money, for this coin was larger, but the woman thought it all the better for that. She put it into her pocket, and contented herself with a fierce look at the child, saying, “See that this does not happen again!”

Cosette went back again into what the woman called her “kennel.”

“By the way, do you wish supper?” said she to the stranger.

He did not reply. He seemed to be thinking deeply.

“What sort of man is this?” she said between her teeth. “He is humbly poor. He has not a cent for supper. I hope he will pay me for his lodging.”

Just then a door opened and Eponine and Azelma came in.

They were really two pretty and charming little girls, one with golden-brown curls, the other with long black braids falling down her back. When they entered, their mother said in a scolding tone which nevertheless was full of adoration: “Ah! here you are, you two!” Then drawing them on her lap one after the other, smoothing their hair, tying their ribbons, she at last gave each a little love pat, saying, “Aren’t they well dressed now?”

They went and sat down near the corner of the chimney. They had a doll which they turned and turned again on their knees with all sorts of happy prattling. From time to time Cosette raised her eyes from her knitting and looked at them sadly.

The doll of the two sisters was very faded, and quite old and broken, but it did not seem any the less lovely to Cosette who, in all her life, had never owned a doll, a real doll, to use a term that all children will understand.

Suddenly the woman, who was passing back and forth in the room, noticed that Cosette was distracted and that instead of working she was interested in the little ones who were playing.

“Ah! I have caught you!” cried she. “That’s how you work!”

The stranger, without leaving his chair, turned to the woman. “Madame,” said he, smiling almost timidly, “let the little one play a bit.”

She replied sharply: “She must work if she wants to eat. I don’t feed her to do nothing.”

“What is she making then?” said the stranger, with the soft voice which was such a contrast to his shabby clothes, and his big, broad shoulders.

“Stockings, if you please, stockings for my little girls, who have none and who will soon be barefooted.”

The man looked at Cosette’s poor little red feet and went on: “When will she finish this pair of stockings?”

“She will take three or four days more, the idle thing.”

“And how much will they be worth when they are done?”

The woman looked at him with scorn.

“At least thirty sous,” she said.

“Would you sell them for five francs?” said the man.

“Mercy on us!” cried out, with a hoarse laugh, one of the guests who was listening. “Five francs? You bet your life! Five francs!”

Monsieur Thénardier thought it was time for him to say something.

“Yes, sir, if this is your fancy, you may have the stockings for five francs. We never refuse travelers anything.”

“You must pay it right down,” said the woman, in her short and commanding way.

“I buy this pair of stockings,” answered the man, as he drew five francs from his pocket and laid them on the table, “and I pay for them.”

Then he turned to Cosette.

“Now your work belongs to me. Play, my little one.”

Cosette now laid down her knitting, but she had not left her place. Cosette always moved as little as possible. She had taken from a box behind her a few old rags and a little lead sword, and Cosette had made herself a doll with the sword.

Meanwhile the guests at the table were singing their songs more and more loudly. Cosette, under the table, was looking at the fire which was shining in her fixed eyes; she had begun to rock the sort of doll she had made, and as she rocked it back and forth she sang.

All at once Cosette stopped. She had turned and caught sight of the doll that the children had left for the cat, and which was lying on the floor near the table.

Then she let fall her little sword-doll which only half pleased her, and turned her eyes slowly around the room. The woman was talking to her husband and counting money, the girls were playing with the cat, the travelers were eating and singing, and not one of them was looking at her. She did not have a moment to lose. She crawled out from under the table on her hands and knees, looked again to see that no one was watching, then slipped quickly over to the doll, and seized it. An instant later she was in her place, seated, quiet, and turned so that the doll was in shadow. This happiness of playing with a doll was so rare for her that she was wild with joy.

Not a soul had seen her except the stranger, who was now eating a simple supper. Her joy lasted almost a quarter of an hour.

But in spite of all her care, Cosette did not see that one leg of the doll was sticking out, and that the fire from the chimney lighted it brightly. This red and shining leg coming out of the shadow suddenly struck the eye of Azelma, who said to Eponine: “Look there, sister.”

The two little girls stopped, amazed. Cosette had dared take their doll!

Eponine got up, and without leaving the cat, ran over to her mother, and began to pull her skirt.

“Let me alone,” said the mother. “What do you want?”

“Mother,” said the child, “look there.” And she pointed her finger at Cosette.

The woman cried in a voice hoarse with anger, “Cosette!”

Cosette shivered as if the earth had trembled under her. She turned around.

“Cosette!” repeated the woman.

Cosette took the doll and laid it on the floor with a sort of reverence mingled with despair. Then, without taking her eyes away from it, she joined her hands and burst into tears.

In the meantime the stranger had risen. “What is the matter?” said he to the woman.

“Don’t you see?” said she, pointing with her finger at the proof of the crime outstretched at Cosette’s feet.

“Well, what of that?” replied the man.

“This little wretch has dared to lay her hands on the children’s doll!”

“All this noise about that?” said the man. “Why should she not play with this doll?”

“She has touched it with her dirty hands!”

At this Cosette sobbed more than ever.

“Keep still, won’t you!” cried the woman.

The man went straight to the street door, opened it, and went out. In a few minutes the door opened again and the man entered, carrying in his arms the wonderful doll of which we have spoken. He laid it down before Cosette, saying, “Take it, little one; this is for you.”

It seemed that during the hour he had been there, in the midst of his musing he had noticed the toy shop, so brilliantly lighted that it could be easily seen through the hall window.

Cosette raised her eyes. She had looked upon the man coming to her with this doll as she would have looked upon the sun; she heard the unusual words, “This is for you”; she looked at him; she looked at the doll; then she backed slowly away, and went and hid herself on the floor under the other table in the corner of the wall.

“Well, now, Cosette,” said the woman in a voice that she tried to make soft, “why don’t you take your doll?”

Cosette had not the courage to creep out of her hole.

“My little Cosette,” said the woman, in a caressing tone, “take it. It is yours.”

Cosette looked at the doll almost in terror. Her face was still wet with tears, but her eyes began to glow, like the skies at early dawn, with strange rays of joy. What she felt at that moment was a little like what she would have felt if some one had suddenly said to her: “Little one, you are queen of France.” It seemed to her that if she touched this doll, thunder would come out of it.

At last she came near it, and murmured timidly as she looked at the woman: “May I take it, then?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the woman; “it is yours. The gentleman has given it to you.”

“Is it true, sir? Is it really true, that this lovely lady is mine?”

Suddenly she turned and seized the doll with delight. “I’ll call you Catherine!” she cried.

That was a queer sight when the rags of little Cosette touched and covered up the doll’s pink ribbons and silk.

“Madame,” said she, “may I put her on a chair?”

“Yes, my dear,” said the woman.

She placed Catherine on a chair, then seated herself on the floor in front of her, and kept perfectly quiet, without one word, in an attitude of devotion.

“Play now, Cosette,” said the stranger.

“Yes, I am playing,” said the child.

The woman now hastened to send her children to bed, then she begged permission to send Cosette, too.

Cosette went to bed, taking her Catherine with her.

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A WOOD SLED WASHINGTON GLADDEN

“Keeps coming right down, don’t it, Bill?”

Bill could not deny it, and did not wish to admit it; therefore, he said nothing.

What was coming down was the snow. It had been falling, thicker and faster, since a little after daylight, and now it was nearly dark. Stumps of trees and gate posts were capped with great white masses of it; here and there a path, cleared up to the back door of a farmhouse, showed on either hand a high bank of it fluted with broom or shovel.

The boy, whose observation about its coming down I have just recorded, was Master Winfield Scott Burnham. He was a slender boy, with a pale face, dark eyes and brown hair, and he sat pressing his face against the pane of a car window, looking with rather a rueful countenance upon the fast-falling snow. The young gentleman sitting opposite to him, whom he made bold to address as Bill, was his big brother, a junior in college, who had long been Win’s hero; and he was worthy to be the hero of any small boy, for he was not only strong and swift and expert in all kinds of muscular sports, but he was too much of a man ever to treat small boys, even though they might be his own brothers, roughly or contemptuously.

Just across the aisle, on the other side of the car, sat Win’s eldest sister, Grace, who was a sophomore at Smith College; and fronting her on the reversed seat was Win’s younger brother, Philip Sheridan.

The reason why these Burnhams happened to be traveling together was this: The Christmas vacation had come, and William and Grace were on their way to their home in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. The two small boys, whose school at home had closed a week earlier than the colleges, had been visiting their cousins in Hartford for a few days; and it was arranged that William should come over from Amherst and join Grace at Northampton, and that the two should wait at Springfield for the little boys, who were to be put on the northern train at Hartford by their uncle. But the trains on all the roads had been greatly delayed by the snow, and it was four o’clock before the noon express, with the Burnhams on board, left Springfield for the west. The darkness was closing in, and the wind was rising, and William had already expressed some fear of a snow-blockade upon the mountain. This remark had made Win rather sober, and he had been watching the snow and listening to the wind with an anxious face.

“How long shall we be going to Pittsfield?” he asked his brother.

“There’s no telling,” answered Will. “We ought to get there in two hours, but at this rate it will be four, at the shortest.”

“That will make it eight o’clock,” sighed Win. “I’m afraid the Christmas tree will all be unloaded before that time.”

“Yes, my boy; I’m sorry, but you might as well make up your mind to that.”

Win started across the car. This disappointment was too big for one. He must share it with Phil.

“Hold on, General!” said William in a low tone. “What’s the good of telling him? Let him be easy in his mind as long as he can.”

Win sat down in silence. Phil was telling his sister great stories of the Hartford visit, and his gleeful tones resounded through the car. Grace was laughing at his big talk, and they seemed to be making a merry time of it. But the train had just stopped at Westfield, and there was difficulty in starting. The wind howled ominously, and great gusts of snow came flying down from the roof of the passenger house against the windows of the car. Presently, the two engines that were drawing the train backed up a little to get a good start, and then plunged into the snow.

“Ch—h! Ch—h! ch—ch! Ch-h-h-h-h-!”

The wheels were slipping upon the track, and the train suddenly came to a halt.

Back again they went, a little farther, for another start; and this time the two engines, like “two hearts that beat as one,” cleared the course, and the train went slowly on up the grade. Grace and Phil had stopped talking, and they now came across, and joined their brothers.

“Aren’t you afraid there may be trouble on the mountain, Will?” asked Grace.

“Shouldn’t wonder,” said that gentleman, shortly.

“But, Will, what in the world should we do if we should happen to be blockaded?”

“Sit still and wait till we were shoveled out, I suppose. You see, we couldn’t go on afoot very well.”

“Going to be snowed up! That’s tiptop!” cried Phil. The boy’s love of adventure had crowded out all thoughts of the festival to which they were hastening. “I read in the paper about a train that was snowed up three or four days on the Pacific road, and the passengers had jolly times; the station wasn’t very far off, and they got enough to eat and drink, and they had all sorts of shows on the train.”

“But I’d rather see the show at the Christmas tree to-night,” said Win, “than any show we’ll see on this old train. Wouldn’t you, Bill?”

“Perhaps so,” answered Bill. It was evident that he had reasons of his own for not wishing to be absent from the festival.

Meantime, the train was plowing along. Now and then it came to a halt in a cut which the snow had filled, but a small party of shovelers that had come on board at Westfield usually succeeded, after a short delay, in clearing the track. Still the progress was very slow. A full hour and a half was consumed between Springfield and Russell, and it was almost seven o’clock when the train stopped at Chester.

The boys were pretty hungry by this time, and the prospect of spending the night in a snowbank was much less attractive, even to Phil, than it had been two hours before. At Chester, where there was a long halt, the passengers—of whom there were not many—nearly all got out and refreshed themselves. A couple of sandwiches, a piece of custard pie, a big, round doughnut, and a glass of good milk considerably increased Phil’s courage and greatly comforted Win, so that they returned to the car ready to encounter with equal mind the perils of the night.

The snow had ceased to fall, but the wind was still blowing. Two or three more shovelers came on board, and, thus reënforced, the train pushed on. But it was slow work; the grade was getting heavier and the drifts were deeper every mile. But Middlefield was passed and Becket was left behind, and at nine o’clock the train was slowly toiling up toward the summit at Washington, when, suddenly, it came to a halt, and a long blast was blown by the whistles of both engines. Shortly, a brakeman came through the train, and, taking one of the red lanterns from the rear of the last car, hurried down the track with it.

“Where is he going with that lantern?” asked Phil.

“He is going back a little way,” said Will. “The lantern is a signal to keep other trains from running into us. That means that we are to stay here for some time. I’ll go out and see what’s up.”

Presently he returned with a sober face, and looking very cold.

“Well, what is it?” they all asked.

“Oh, nothing; there’s a freight train in the cut just ahead of us, with two of its cars off the track, and the cut’s about half full of snow. If our Christmas goose isn’t cooked already, there’ll be plenty of time to have it cooked before we get out of this.”

“Is it that deep cut just below the Washington station?” asked Grace.

“The same,” answered Will; “and it’s as likely a place to spend Christmas in as you could find anywhere in western Massachusetts.”

“Can’t they dig out the snow?” cried Win.

“Oh, yes,” said the big brother; “but it’s not an easy thing to do; it’s got to be done with shovels, and it will take a long time.”

“How long?” asked Grace, ruefully.

“Nobody knows. But we shall be obliged to wait for more shovelers and wreckers to come up from Springfield, and I shouldn’t wonder at all if we stayed here twenty-four hours.”

“Can’t you telegraph to father?”

“I’m sorry to say I cannot. I asked about that, but the station man says the lines are down. No; there’s nothing to do but bunk down for the night as well as we can, and wait till deliverance comes. We’re in a regular fix and no mistake, and we’ve just got to make the best of it,” replied Will.

Just then the rear door of the car opened and a figure appeared that had not been seen hitherto upon the train. It was that of a stalwart man, perhaps fifty-five years old, with long white hair and beard, ruddy cheeks, and bright gray eyes. He wore a gray fur cap and a long gray overcoat, and looked enough like—Somebody that we are all thinking of about Christmas time to have been that Somebody’s twin brother.

“Good evenin’, friends!” he said, in a very jolly tone, as he shut the car door behind him. “Pleased to receive a call from so many on ye. Merry Christmas to ye all! ’T ain’t often that I kin welcome such a big Christmas party as this to my place!”

The good nature of the farmer was irresistible. The passengers all laughed.

“I believe you,” said a traveling salesman in a sealskin cap; “and the sooner you bid us good riddance the better we shall like it.”

“And you needn’t mind about wishing us many happy returns either,” said a black-whiskered man in a plaid ulster. “If we ever get away from here, you won’t see us again soon!”

“What place is this?” inquired a gray-haired lady, who sat just in front of the Burnhams.

“Washin’ton’s what they call it,” said the jolly farmer. “Pop’lar name enough; but the place don’t seem to be over pop’lar jest now with some on ye.” And he laughed a big, jolly laugh.

“Is it, like our capital, a ‘city of magnificent distances’?” inquired the man in the ulster.

“I reckon it is. It’s consid’able of a distance from everywhere else on airth. But it’s nigher to heaven ’n any other place hereabouts.”

“What is raised on this hill?” inquired the traveling salesman.

“Wind, mostly. Is that article in your line?”

The laugh was on the salesman, but he enjoyed it as well as any of them. A bit of a girl about three years old, tugging a flaxen-haired doll under one arm, here came sidling down the aisle of the car.

“Ith oo Thanty Kauth?” she said, lifting her great, solemn black eyes to the farmer’s face. The laugh was on him now; and he joined in it uproariously.

“Not jest exackly, my little gal,” he said, as he lifted her up in his arms; “but you’ve come purty nigh it. Sandy Ross is what they call me.”

“Has oo dot a thleigh and a waindeer?” persisted the little maiden.

“No; but I’ve got a first-rate wood sled,—pair o’ bobs, with a wood rack on ’t—’n’ ez slick a span o’ Canadian ponies ez ever you see!”

The farmer stroked the dark hair of the little girl with his great, hard hand, and she snuggled down on his shoulder as if he had been her grandfather.

The Burnhams had been joining in the merriment, though they had taken no part in the conversation. But when the little girl climbed down from the arms of Sandy Ross, Will arose and beckoned him to a vacant seat.

“How far from here do you live, Mr. Ross?”

“Right up the bank thar. That’s my house, with a light in the winder.”

It was a comfortable looking white farmhouse, with a sloping roof in the rear and a big chimney in the middle.

“Now, Mr. Ross, I live in Pittsfield, and I want mightily to get there before noon to-morrow. I don’t believe this train will get there before to-morrow night. Could you take my sister and those two little chaps and me, and carry us all home early to-morrow morning on your wood sled, providing it isn’t too cold to undertake the journey?”

“Let’s see. Well, yes; I calc’late I could. I was a-thinkin’ ’bout goin’ over to Pittsfield t’morrer with a little jag o’ wood, ’n’ I reckon live critters like you won’t be no more trouble, ho! ho! The snow ain’t no gret depth; ’t ain’t nigh’s deep on t’ other side o’ the mountain ez ’t is on this side. There’ll be drifts now ’n’ then, but the fences is down, so that we kin turn inter the fields ’n’ go round ’em.”

“How long will it take you to drive over?”

“Let’s see. ’T ain’t over fifteen or sixteen mile. I reckon I can make it in three to four hours.”

“Well, sir, if you’ll get us over there safely before noon, I’ll give you five dollars.”

“All right; that’s enough; tew much, I guess. But see here, my friends; jest bring the young lady ’n’ the little chaps up to my house ’n’ spend the night there, all on ye. Then we can hev an airly breakfast, ’n’ start fair when we get good ’n’ ready.”

In less than five minutes the Burnhams, with bags and bundles, were following Sandy Ross to the door of the car.

This was the last that our travelers saw of their fellow passengers on the Western Express. Late the next afternoon the train rolled into Pittsfield station, but the Burnhams were busy elsewhere about that time.

It was but a few steps from the train to Sandy Ross’s house. William carried his sister through the deepest snow, and the boys trudged along with the bundles, highly pleased with the prospect of an adventure in a farmhouse. Good Mrs. Ross was as blithe and hearty as her husband, and she soon made the young folks feel quite at home.

To Miss Grace “the spar’ room,” as Mrs. Ross called it, was assigned, while Will and the two boys found a sleeping place in the attic. The dim tallow candle that lighted them to bed disclosed all sorts of curious things. In one comer, facing each other, were two old, tall clocks that had long ceased ticking, and now stood with folded hands and silent pendulums, resting from their labors. An old chest of drawers, that would have been a prize for hunters of the antique, was near the clocks; braids of yellow seed-corn hung from the rafters, and at one end of the great room stood the handloom on which the mother of Mrs. Ross had been wont to weave cloth for the garments of her household. It was an heirloom, in the literal sense. The boys thought that this garret would have been a grand place to ransack; but they were too well bred to go prying about, and contented themselves with admiring what was before their eyes. It was not long before they were sound asleep in their snug nest of feathers; and when they waked the next morning breakfast was ready, and Farmer Ross and brother Will had made all the preparations for the journey. To the excellent farmer’s breakfast of juicy ham and eggs, genuine country sausages, and delicious buckwheat cakes with maple sirup, they all did full justice.

“It does me good to see boys eat,” said the kind farmer’s wife; “they do enjoy it so”; and tears were in her eyes as she thought of the hungry boys that used to sit around this table. Farmer Ross and his wife were alone in the world. Two of their sons were sleeping in unmarked graves at Chancellorsville; the other had died when he was a baby. But they were not selfish people; they had learned to bear sorrow, and therefore their sorrow had not made them morose and miserable; it had only made them more kind and tender hearted.

Breakfast over, the wood sled came round to the door, and Mr. Ross looked in a moment to say a last word to his wife.

“You’d better make two or three pailfuls o’ strong coffee, mother, ’n’ bile three or four dozen aigs, ’n’ heat up a big batch o’ them air mince pies. The folks down here on the train ’ll be mighty hungry this mornin’, ’n’ I’ve been down ’n’ told ’em to come up here in ’bout half an hour, ’n’ git what they want. Don’t charge ’em nothin’; let ’em pay what they’ve a min’ ter. P’raps some on ’em hain’t nothin’ to pay with, ’n’ they’ll need it jest as much as the rest. We mustn’t let folks starve that git storm-stayed right at our front door. And now, all aboard for Pittsfield!”