Part 1
CHRISTMAS IN STORYLAND
EDITED BY
MAUD VAN BUREN
_Librarian Free Public Library Owatonna, Minnesota_
AND
KATHARINE ISABEL BEMIS
_Co-editor “Thrift and Success,” “Stories of Patriotism,” “Special Day Pageants,” etc._
[Illustration]
THE CENTURY CO. _New York & London_
Copyright, 1927, by THE CENTURY CO.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
PREFATORY NOTE
This anthology grew out of a real need. It has been a happy undertaking to assemble in one volume so rich and varied a collection of juvenile Christmas stories for use in the home, the school, and the library.
The editors of this volume hope that boys and girls will count the hours golden spent in reading “Christmas in Storyland.”
NOTE OF APPRECIATION
The editors of this volume desire to express their deep appreciation for the kindness and courtesy of authors and publishers who have granted permission to reprint stories bearing their copyright.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE MAGIC CHRISTMAS GIFT 3 _Frances Margaret Fox_
THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS 8 _Edith Houghton Hooker_
A MONTANA CHRISTMAS 21 _John Clair Minot_
THE SECRET CHRISTMAS TREE 26 _Elsie Singmaster_
HOW OLD MR. LONG-TAIL BECAME A SANTA CLAUS 41 _Harrison Cady_
THE STORY OF THE FIELD OF ANGELS 49 _Florence Morse Kingsley_
SHOPPING WITH GRANDMOTHER MINTON 56 _Daisy Crabbe Curtis_
A MISLAID UNCLE 65 _E. Vinton Blake_
BUNNY FACE AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS 83 _Gertrude A. Kay_
THE CHRISTMAS TREE 105 _Mary Austin_
CHRISTMAS LUCK 117 _Albert Bigelow Paine_
A NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS 129 _Temple Bailey_
DAME QUIMP’S QUEST 141 _Ellen Manly_
WHEN CHRISTMAS CAME AGAIN 151 _Beulah Marie Dix_
THE KING OF THE CHRISTMAS FEAST 163 _Elaine Sterne_
NANCY’S SOUTHERN CHRISTMAS 181 _Harriet Prescott Spofford_
A BOOK FOR JERRY 191 _Sarah Addington_
THE BISHOP AND THE CARDINAL 209 _George Madden Martin_
A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD 221 _A German legend for Christmas Eve as told by Elizabeth Harrison_
SANDY’S CHRISTMAS 228 _Thomas Travis_
THE LITTLE FIR-TREE 239 _Carolyn Wells_
SIR CLEGES 245 _George Philip Krapp_
CHRISTMAS NIGHT 258 _Selma Lagerlöf_
A QUEER CHRISTMAS 262 _Marian Willard_
A CHRISTMAS FOR TONY 268 _Zona Gale_
THE UNWELCOME GIFT 290 _Julia Burket_
THE STRANGE STORY OF MR. DOG AND MR. BEAR 306 _Mabel Fuller Blodgett_
A BURNT FORK SANTA CLAUS 315 _Elinore Pruitt Stewart_
CHRISTMAS IN STORYLAND
THE MAGIC CHRISTMAS GIFT[1]
_Frances Margaret Fox_
It was late autumn in the north woods, and Beatrice and Josephine were thinking about Christmas. They liked to think about Christmas: they liked to talk about it and to sing Christmas songs and to play Christmas games. Those two little girls had been known to play the game of Santa Claus filling Christmas stockings on the Fourth of July; and it was such fun they did not care who laughed.
Beatrice was seven years old and Josephine was nine that particular autumn day when they climbed to the top of the front gate posts to talk it over. There was no gate in front of their log cabin, only an opening where a gate would some day swing on hinges and fasten with a click. The gate posts were made of big, round logs of cedar, and were almost two feet taller than the top of the fence. There was a path leading from the gateway to the front door of the log cabin, and behind the cabin, and surrounding it on three sides, were the evergreen woods. In front of the cabin was a wide clearing belonging to the railway.
From early spring until late in the autumn the little girls were in the habit of climbing on the gate posts to watch the trains go by.
“I suppose if we had lots of money,” said Beatrice from the top of her gate post, “I suppose we could go to Marquette and buy Christmas presents for the whole family!”
“But most of all for mother!” added Josephine, happily kicking her feet.
“What should we get mother if we had money and could go traveling?” Beatrice inquired.
“Well,” answered Josephine, “if we ever have a ride on the cars, and if we ever go to Marquette with father and our pockets full of money, we’d buy,--we’d buy,--I don’t know what and you don’t know what!”
At that, the two little girls laughed and laughed until they almost fell off the gate posts; they liked to sit on the gate posts and laugh. For a while they talked about the Christmas presents they should like to make.
“But there should be something special for our mother,” insisted Josephine.
“Oh,” answered Beatrice, as she happily kicked her feet against her gate post, “I guess we’ll have to give mother the same old promise we give her every Christmas, that she will have all the year two little girls, oh, such good little girls, to help take care of babies and tidy up the cabin, tra la-la, tra la-la-la!”
After that, until the afternoon train whistled, the merry little girls kept choosing gifts for all the family, but most of all for mother. But the minute the train whistled, Beatrice suggested a new game.
“When the train starts puff-puff from the station just round the curve over there,” said she, “and the wheels begin to turn round slowly, and the cars come slowly, rumble-rumble, you turn square round facing the train this way, just like me, and you sing with me this song I am just thinking up, and we’ll try Christmas magic, like this:
“White magic, Christmas magic, Send our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic, Christmas magic, Send our mother a Christmas gift!”
By the time the passenger train was opposite the little log cabin, the laughing children were gazing straight toward it, singing over and over to the rumble of the wheels:
“White magic, Christmas magic, Send our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic, Christmas magic, Send our mother a Christmas gift!”
Of course those two little girls away off in the upper peninsula of Michigan, miles and miles from any town, did not expect a magic Christmas gift for their mother; they simply had a good time, and forgot all about their game as soon as it was over and they had climbed down from their gate posts to go to the pasture after the cows.
But the day before Christmas, when the little cabin was bursting with Christmas joy and secrets, the postmaster from the settlement called to see Beatrice and Josephine.... He said he wished to speak with them alone. There was only one room in the cabin, one big, clean, cheerful room, and so the little girls climbed into the postmaster’s sleigh and drove with him beyond sight of the house. Then he said “Whoa!” to his horses, and without another word he untied a big, flat parcel that looked like a picture in a frame; and it was a picture in a frame-- a big picture of two merry-looking little girls, each seated on a gate post in front of a log-cabin home that had evergreen woods behind it and a clearing in front.
It was a long time before either child could speak; then Josephine whispered, “How did it happen?”
“A lady on a passing train who is a stranger to us all,” the postmaster answered, “took a snapshot of you two, because you looked so happy. Then she had the picture enlarged and framed and sent it to me to give to you, so that you might give it to your mother for Christmas. She said she was sure I would know who you were by the picture; so, as I thought you would like a big Christmas surprise for your mother, I asked to see you alone. Now we’ll drive back to the house.”
At last Beatrice found her voice; but “Did you ever!” was all she said, and “Did you ever!” was all Josephine said, until they remembered to thank the postmaster for his kindness.
On Christmas Eve the little girls could keep their secret no longer, and solemnly presented their mother with the magic gift.
Mother cried. Tears of joy rolled down her face when she saw it.
“I never before had a picture of any of you children,” said she, “and I never expected to, because we live so far from a photographer. And this is so beautiful! Such happy faces! Oh, it seems too good to be true! It would not have happened if you were not such good little girls, always thinking of your mother!”
The next day two joyous little girls danced about the cabin, singing:
“White magic, Christmas magic, Brought our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic, Christmas magic, Brought our mother a Christmas gift!”
And the two little faces in the picture smiled down upon the happy family cheerfully, then and ever after.
[1] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 21, 1916. Reprinted by special permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”
THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS[2]
_Edith Houghton Hooker_
Everybody’s hands were quite full of little pin-pricks from the holly leaves. Alan and David and little Alice had all been helping with the Christmas greens, and at last the wreaths were securely fastened on tiny tacks in the windows, and sprays of holly peeped festively out from behind each picture. There was a large red paper bell hanging from the chandelier in the hall for Santa Claus to ring when he came in, and beside it a sprig of mistletoe, so there would be no embarrassment about kissing him in case he should be caught.
It was Christmas eve, and we all gathered around the fire to rest after our labors and to speculate about the prospects for the morrow. “Suppose he doesn’t come,” surmised David, “or suppose he would bring us only switches!” The thought was terrifying.
“It all depends on what you deserve,” I answered. “Santa Claus has a way, you know, of finding out just what each child really ought to get.”
“Well,” said Alan, the skeptic, “there are some who say there isn’t any Santa Claus--that he’s just a story made up by older people to amuse the children. I never knew of any one who’d seen him.”
Alice gasped. “You will get only switches, Alan, if you say such things,” she warned him.
“There are people who deny everything that’s good and true,” I took the conversation over, “but their lack of faith hurts no one as much as themselves. Would you like to hear about the old man who denied there was a Santa Claus and to learn what happened to him?”
“Please, please!” they all cried, and I began the story:
* * * * *
Once upon a time there was an old man whose name was Mr. Grouch, and he had lived so many years that he could hardly count them. He was little, and thin, and bent over, and wrinkled, and he had a scraggly little beard and cross, snapping eyes. He used to carry a big stick that he would shake at the boys when they laughed at him, and he never had a smile for anybody. He lived all alone with one crabbed old man-servant in a vast house, and no one even dared to ring the doorbell.
One Christmas eve I was coming down the street taking gifts around to some friends, and my mind was full of Christmas. There was a new fall of snow on the ground and the sleighbells were jingling. Even the busy shopkeepers seemed to be in the Christmas spirit. Banks of fir-trees stood on the corners, and every now and then I passed some one proudly carrying home a tree over his shoulder. All of a sudden, whom should I see coming toward me but old Mr. Grouch, looking crosser than ever. He was shaking his stick at the Christmas trees and scowling at the fat turkeys, and for a moment I was half afraid to speak to him. Still it seemed too bad not to give the old man the season’s greetings, so I called out as cheerily as I could--“A Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Grouch!”
He turned on me, coming quite close and shaking his big stick in my face, so that he frightened me. “A Merry Nonsense!” he snarled, biting the words off short. “You should go home and attend to your business, not go running around wasting your own time and other people’s. This Merry Christmasing is all nonsense, I tell you, fit only for children and simpletons. There’s no such person as Santa Claus! It’s all a myth concocted by idle folk to fool the children.”
I stood quite still, rooted to the spot, in terror lest Santa Claus should see me in such bad company.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Mr. Grouch!” I finally brought out. “It’s wicked to deny the spirit of Christmas.”
“Wicked or not wicked,” he retorted, “I say it again--A Merry Nonsense to you and all your kind!”
He looked so fierce that I hastened on my way without another word, and as I turned the corner, I still heard him muttering--“A Merry Nonsense! A Merry Nonsense!”
On he went homeward to his great dreary house, and there he found a frugal supper laid out by the old man-servant. He ate without appetite and then went upstairs. Then, after stuffing cotton in his ears and closing both the windows and the shutters to keep out the music of the bells and Christmas crackers, he climbed into his large four-poster bed, and pulling his nightcap down over his head, he went fast asleep.
How long he slept, he never knew, but suddenly he awoke hearing a strange sound. “_Plump!_” It was over near the fireplace, and there was a great rush of falling soot and plaster.
Mr. Grouch sat up quickly, scratched a match, and lighted his bedside candle. He lifted it high and scanned the room, peering out over the bed-clothes like a strange gnome in his pointed nightcap. He stared at the fireplace, and there--what do you think he saw? He could scarcely believe his eyes--and yet, sure enough, it was Santa Claus, dressed all in ermine and scarlet velvet, red cheeks glowing from the cold, his white beard glistening with snowflakes. There he stood chuckling softly and rubbing his hands together, the jolliest possible twinkle in his kind blue eyes.
“A Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Grouch,” he said in a deep hearty voice.
Mr. Grouch trembled so that the candle wax dripped on his hand. “A Merry Christmas, Sir,” he said, his voice sounding queer and squeaky.
“Now, Mr. Grouch,” said Santa Claus, smiling broadly, “that doesn’t sound natural from you. Why don’t you say ‘A Merry Nonsense’? You don’t believe in Santa Claus, and I know it, and I’ve come here this evening to give you back your faith--as a Christmas present. Put that candle down; get out of bed and into your clothes while I count three. My reindeer will be tired waiting.”
Then you should have seen Mr. Grouch scramble. He popped his thin legs into his trousers and laced up his boots with shaking fingers; then he pulled on his greatcoat and wound his long knitted muffler round his neck just as Santa Claus said three!
“You’ve forgotten your hat,” Santa Claus reminded him, chuckling. And sure enough, there he stood, the funniest figure you can imagine, still with his pointed nightcap on his head. He tore off his cap and placed his old beaver in its stead just as Santa Claus gave him a great boost that sent him flying up the chimney. Santa followed close after, and Mr. Grouch could hear him puffing and panting, and digging his boots into the side of the chimney as he came up behind him.
On top of the house it was all singularly quiet and peaceful. There was snow everywhere, on all the roofs as far as the eye could reach, and above was the limitless heaven with the calm stars shining out.
Santa Claus stretched his arm toward the East. “It was there,” he said, “before I was born, that the wise men saw the Star of Bethlehem.” His voice was so full and deep that the old man trembled. He looked out over the great city and saw in a thousand homes the candles burning for Christmas. A group of singers, strolling by in the street, stopped and began to sing a Christmas carol. Suddenly the bells rang out from churches far and near. It was midnight, they were pealing the glad tidings.
“We must be off,” said Santa Claus; “we are already late; we must be going.”
Mr. Grouch noticed now for the first time a wonderful little sleigh drawn by eight reindeer harnessed in pairs together. In it lay Santa Claus’s great pack, bursting with toys, and candy, and all sorts of joy for the children. One or two switches which Mr. Grouch saw sticking out on the top gave him a sense of uneasiness. “Get in, my man, get in!” commanded Santa Claus, and they leaped into the sleigh. The reindeer pawed the snow and snorted; then Santa Claus gave them the word and away they went. Over the housetops and over the trees, on--on--like a wind through the heavens. The old man clutched his hat down close on his head and shook with fear as he saw the great city glide by beneath them. Past the great houses they went and never drew rein. “They’re rich there,” said Santa Claus; “they have more than they need. We won’t stop; they’re untrue to the Spirit of Christmas.”
After a time they came to a part of the town where the houses were all small and wretched-looking. “These are my boys and girls,” said Santa, as he drew up on the roof of a particularly sorry-looking little dwelling. The reindeer shook their great horns and their bells jingled. The old man looked doubtfully at Santa Claus and then at the little chimney.
“Can we get down?” he asked fearfully.
“It’s the size of their hearts, not the size of their chimneys, that makes the difference,” answered Santa Claus. “I’ll go first and you follow.”
He stepped in the chimney and down he went, and then Mr. Grouch stepped in and down he went, also. The fire was out, and they found themselves in a tiny little room all cold and wintry. Two little stockings were hanging by the hearth, long and lank and empty, and in a bed near by, two little children were sleeping. They were smiling happily as they slept, dreaming of Christmas morning. Before the empty fireplace a woman was sitting, dressed all in black. She was slight and small, and around her thin shoulders she had drawn a shawl to protect herself from the cold. Here there was no holly, no wreaths in the windows, nothing at all to suggest Christmas except the unfilled stockings. The little mother had her eyes fixed on the dead ashes, and her thoughts could not have been happy for tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Oh, the poor children!” she whispered to herself, with something very like a sob, “what will they do in the morning?” She hid her face in her hands and began to weep bitterly; and it was just at this juncture that Santa Claus and Mr. Grouch came down the chimney.
“Her husband died two months ago,” whispered Santa Claus to Mr. Grouch, “and she has nothing in the house for Christmas,--no toys, no Christmas turkey, no nuts and raisins, nothing at all to fill those hungry stockings.” A large tear rolled down his cheek. Mr. Grouch sniffed and looked uneasily at the sleeping children.
“Now,” said Santa Claus, “watch and see what happens.”
While the little widow sobbed on, he took one thing after another out of his wonderful pack--nuts, raisins, candy canes, a beautiful great doll with yellow curls and blue eyes that went to sleep, a little railway-train, a top, a small tea-set, a doll’s chair, and finally, several pieces of nice warm clothing. Then he proceeded to fill the stockings with remarkable speed. When they were finished, the doll was peeping out of one, and the little engine out of the other. Mr. Grouch thought it was all over; but no, Santa Claus reached far down into his pack once more and brought out a beautiful Christmas basket. The fat legs of a turkey were standing out amid cranberries, and sweet potatoes, and oranges, and apples, and every other sort of good thing you can imagine.
Santa Claus placed the basket under the stockings, and then poked Mr. Grouch in the ribs so hard that it made him jump. “Now,” said he, “watch; for she’ll be looking up.”
And sure enough, in a moment the little widow sighed and raised her eyes. Then you should have been there to see her. Her poor little face grew quite pink with joy, she gasped, and her breath came fast with bewilderment. She rubbed her eyes with her thin hands; she couldn’t believe it was not a dream. Then she gave a little cry, just between a sob and a laugh, and fell on her knees before the basket.
She poked the fat turkey and felt deftly between all the other things until she knew exactly what was in the basket. “We’ll have a beautiful Christmas dinner, after all,” she said, “even a turkey!” She didn’t take a thing out of the stockings--just peeped in and felt softly down the long knobby legs. “I’ll leave them for the children just as he packed them, the dear saint!” she murmured to herself. She went over to the children and kissed each one softly; they smiled and wriggled cosily in their sleep. Then she looked over again at the wonderful hearthside--it seemed to Mr. Grouch that she looked straight at him, though of course she couldn’t see him as both he and Santa Claus had on caps of darkness. Her face was shining with a wonderful light of love and joy. Her eyes beamed like two stars, and the room seemed to be filled with a kind of glory. “It’s the blessed spirit of Christmas,” she whispered brokenly, “come to cheer my fatherless little ones and me.” Then she knelt down by her little bed, and it was plain that she was praying.
Santa Claus nodded triumphantly at Mr. Grouch, shaking off another big tear, and Mr. Grouch returned the look tremulously. He drew a large red handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped both eyes before speaking.
“Couldn’t we take off our caps of darkness,” he finally whispered, “and wish her a Merry Christmas?”
“A Merry Nonsense!” said Santa Claus, laughing until his fat sides shook; “no--we’re not allowed to be seen. ’_Sh-h!_ it’s time to go up the chimney.”
Up they went into the dark night where the reindeer were waiting for them. Into the sleigh they jumped and off they started, and, as the wind whistled by them, Mr. Grouch said: “Santa Claus, I feel I owe you an apology. When I saw her face--”
Santa Claus interrupted him: “If you’re ready to admit you were wrong, go out to-morrow and wish every one a Merry Christmas.”
Far, far away they went, out over the rolling sea till they came to a ship which had had to sail out from port just three days before Christmas. Down into the forecastle they went, where the sailors were sadly thinking of their homes, and spread cheer around until each man wished the other a Merry Christmas.