Part 14

“Bishop Herbert at the telephone. Yes?” said he, and his voice was deep and genial and sonorous.

“He is telling you that he is hungry, please,” said a voice, small and anxious.

“Who is hungry? Who is this speaking?”

“The cardinal-bird on your window-sill. This is Gwinie.”

“Why should he be telling me? And who is Gwinie? And how does she know a cardinal-bird is on my window-sill and hungry?”

“I can see him there. I live across from you at the asylum. He is hungry because I can’t come over and put crumbs on his bird-tray; and it’s snowed three days now.”

“Where is his bird-tray? And why can’t you come?”

“It’s there by the spruce-tree. You can see it from your window. It’s a tray on a stake in the ground. The other bishop kept it full. I can’t come over and fill it the way I’ve been doing because I’ve got the measles.”

“Is that so?” said the bishop. “So have I. Is there anybody over there who can come and fill it? You cannot expect me to ask Mrs. Dyer to wade out there in a blizzard. And old Aunt Sally would go under in the drifts.”

“The doctor told us you had measles,” said Gwinie. “You took them first; then we did. He’s just gone. He said I might come to the telephone and call up, and tell whoever answered about the cardinal. He said he didn’t want to have my measles worried in. We’ve all got them. There isn’t anybody who can come. Tim, he’s never got home from town. We’ve put crumbs out, but the birds don’t know it, and the snow keeps covering the crumbs up. We haven’t any tray over here.”

“H’m!” said the bishop. “And how can I put crumbs on the sills of French windows? They open outward, you know. What? Hold on there, Gwinie!”

“I have to go. Miss Lowry, she’s called three times. But I’ll think.”

The bishop hung up his receiver, and returned to the window to survey the situation in the light of what he had just learned. The cardinal had advanced boldly on the sill, and now hopped back and forth on it, with his bright eye fixed on the occupant of the room.

The jays and sapsuckers were on the spirea together, and a dozen small, crested birds with brown backs and slate-colored breasts were flitting anxiously about the spruce-tree. Across the open space, at an asylum window, was a little girl, flattening her nose against the pane. She was wrapped in a heavy blanket, and she wore a shade!

Was it Gwinie? She saw him. The flattened nose drew back, and its owner waved a hand. It _was_ Gwinie. Suddenly she turned, as if something had compelled her attention in the room behind her. And then she disappeared. The bishop felt a pang of loneliness.

Ten minutes passed while he wondered what he could do. He put the question to the cardinal himself on the sill: How could either of them ask fat little old Aunt Sally to wade out through the big drifts to that tray? Then the telephone rang again.

“It’s Gwinie. Miss Lowry says I may speak one minute. It’s about Mr. Blythe. He takes the orders from the asylum for Santy Claus every year. We tell him what we want most, and he puts it down, and we get it. This year the doctor had to take the orders for him because of the measles. So I asked the doctor to-day, if he saw Mr. Blythe, to get him to ask Santy to see to the birds till I get over the measles. And Mr. Blythe just called up to say he will telephone Santy direct, himself, about tending to them.”

It is to be presumed that when “Santy” received the message, he acted promptly. No doubt he knew as well as Gwinie did--although the bishop did not know--that even in the South a starving cardinal compelled to endure the rigors of a night with the thermometer at zero would be a little scarlet corpse on the snow by morning. Before the early dusk quite closed in, the grocer’s delivery boy appeared in the bishop’s side yard. He took off his cap to the dignitary at the window, tramped knee-deep out to the bird-tray, and emptied his pockets and the contents of a paper bag on the tray. Then he lifted his cap again to the figure at the window, and departed.

The door of the bishop’s room opened, and Mrs. Dyer appeared, followed by Aunt Sally, who bore the patient’s supper. The women stirred the open fire, brushed the hearth, drew the curtains, and lighted the lamp. They pulled the table up near the blaze, laid the white cloth upon it, and arranged the contents of the tray.

“Creamed oysters, beefsteak, rolls, waffles, coffee, quince preserves? Good gracious, Mrs. Dyer, do I, a patient, dare to eat all that? Very well, then, since my friend the cardinal has his supper also, outside. But you do not know about that. And, one moment, Mrs. Dyer, before you and Aunt Sally go; who is Mr. Blythe?”

“He goes by heah ev’y mornin’ to the trolley. He’s one o’ those heah pink-colored young men,” said Aunt Sally.

“He’s a general favorite,” said Mrs. Dyer. “He lives with an aunt up on the hill.”

“He sells money at one o’ these heah banks. The bishop he bought his’n f’om him. Got it ev’y Sat’day reg’lar foh to pay us’en off all roun’.”

“He thinks a great deal of Christmas,” said Mrs. Dyer. “I hear he is as disappointed as the children at the asylum that there will be no tree this year because of the measles.”

Thanks to Mr. Blythe’s fortunate telephone connection, Santa Claus continued his useful work. When the bishop got up the next day--none too early, to be sure--more snow had fallen, but the tray was swept clean of it and heaped with a fresh meal; and the birds had gathered round in dozens. Moreover, on the spruce-tree above the tray hung a placard; it was white, with large black letters, and it was visible to both sets of windows that looked upon the yard:

To His Grace The Cardinal, And Other Tenants. Please Take Notice. This Tree is Preëmpted For The Christmas Season.

S. CLAUS.

The cold weather held; that evening the grocer’s boy appeared again, and once more emptied his pockets and a paper bag on the birds’ tray. And the next morning Santy or one of his emissaries had again swept the tray and refilled it. On the snow-draped and trailing spruce hung a second placard. It was more elaborately printed than the first one had been, and touches of holiday scarlet relieved the black of its letters.

In the asylum, a dozen small faces now appeared at the windows where one small child had flattened her nose against the pane two days before. The children were all wrapped in blankets, and wore green shades over their eyes. This is what they read on the placard:

To His Grace The Cardinal, And His Friends, Near And Far. Please Take Notice. Gifts will be Ready for Distribution from this Tree To-morrow, Christmas Day in the Morning.

S. CLAUS.

The presents _were_ ready for distribution when that blessed morning dawned, snow-bound and cold and still. There were many stories circulated as to how and when the work had been done.

One story was that among the agents whom S. Claus had found it necessary to call upon for aid in the work were the grocer’s boy and Mr. Blythe.

Some persons said that it could not have been done without the help of the hook and ladder from the engine-house two miles away. Others were convinced that unofficial ladders and orchard-pruning implements had done it.

Whatever the truth of the matter is, the orphan asylum certainly knew nothing about it, for that was wrapped in measles, and could not have peeped. As for the bishop, not for worlds would he have done such a thing.

However, Mr. S. Claus and his friends did achieve it, and when Christmas day dawned, clear and crisp and cold, the bishop and the asylum and Mrs. Dyer and Aunt Sally gazed out upon a transformed spruce-tree.

Everything was on it that should be on a tree for hungry birds--and more. For besides cranberries in strings, pop-corn in festoons, grain in gold and scarlet cornucopias, ginger-bread men, red apples, tallow candles, half loaves of bread, biscuits, there were many things that were there not to be eaten, but to make a glitter.

His grace the cardinal, a scarlet splash against the winter blue sky, was poised upon the very topmost black tip of the glorious old evergreen. And not only the two jays, but a dozen other handsome and noisy jays, as well as the speckled sapsuckers and many smaller birds, hung in mid-air about the branches, rapt and almost motionless. As the vested choir from the choir-room that adjoined the asylum crossed the yard through the brick cloister for the seven-o’clock service at the little church, they sang with hearty voices:

“O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth! And praises sing to God, the King, And peace to men on earth.”

The bishop and Gwinie and the many little children of the asylum, all warmly wrapped in big blankets, gazed out on the scene through their frosty windows; and among those marching in the choir through the cloister were Mr. Blythe and the grocer’s boy, robed and beaming, and singing most heartily of all.

[17] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 12, 1912. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”

A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD[18]

A German legend for Christmas Eve as told by _Elizabeth Harrison_

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, on the night before Christmas, a little child was wandering all alone through the streets of a great city. There were many people on the street, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, uncles and aunts, and even gray-haired grandfathers and grandmothers, all of whom were hurrying home with bundles of presents for each other and for their little ones. Fine carriages rolled by, express wagons rattled past, even old carts were pressed into service, and all things seemed in a hurry and glad with expectation of the coming Christmas morning.

From some of the windows bright lights were already beginning to stream until it was almost as bright as day. But the little child seemed to have no home, and wandered about listlessly from street to street. No one took any notice of him except perhaps Jack Frost, who bit his bare toes and made the ends of his fingers tingle. The north wind, too, seemed to notice the child, for it blew against him and pierced his ragged garments through and through, causing him to shiver with cold. Home after home he passed, looking with longing eyes through the windows, in upon the glad, happy children, most of whom were helping to trim the Christmas trees for the coming morrow.

“Surely,” said the child to himself, “where there is so much gladness and happiness, some of it may be for me.” So with timid steps he approached a large and handsome house. Through the windows, he could see a tall and stately Christmas tree already lighted. Many presents hung upon it. Its green boughs were trimmed with gold and silver ornaments. Slowly he climbed up the broad steps and gently rapped at the door. It was opened by a large man-servant. He had a kindly face, although his voice was deep and gruff. He looked at the little child for a moment, then sadly shook his head and said, “Go down off the steps. There is no room here for such as you.” He looked sorry as he spoke; possibly he remembered his own little ones at home, and was glad that they were not out in this cold and bitter night. Through the open door a bright light shone, and the warm air, filled with fragrance of the Christmas pine, rushed out from the inner room and greeted the little wanderer with a kiss. As the child turned back into the cold and darkness, he wondered why the footman had spoken thus, for surely, thought he, those little children would love to have another companion join them in their joyous Christmas festival. But the little children inside did not even know that he had knocked at the door.

The street grew colder and darker as the child passed on. He went sadly forward, saying to himself, “Is there no one in all this great city who will share the Christmas with me?” Farther and farther down the street he wandered, to where the homes were not so large and beautiful. There seemed to be little children inside of nearly all the houses. They were dancing and frolicking about. Christmas trees could be seen in nearly every window, with beautiful dolls and trumpets and picture-books and balls and tops and other dainty toys hung upon them. In one window the child noticed a little lamb made of soft white wool. Around its neck was tied a red ribbon. It had evidently been hung on the tree for one of the children. The little stranger stopped before this window and looked long and earnestly at the beautiful things inside, but most of all was he drawn toward the white lamb. At last creeping up to the window-pane, he gently tapped upon it. A little girl came to the window and looked out into the dark street where the snow had begun to fall. She saw the child, but she only frowned and shook her head and said, “Go away and come some other time. We are too busy to take care of you now.” Back into the dark, cold streets he turned again. The wind was whirling past him and seemed to say, “Hurry on, hurry on, we have no time to stop. ’Tis Christmas Eve and everybody is in a hurry to-night.”

Again and again the little child rapped softly at door or window-pane. At each place he was refused admission. One mother feared he might have some ugly disease which her darlings would catch; another father said he had only enough for his own children and none to spare for beggars. Still another told him to go home where he belonged, and not to trouble other folks.

The hours passed; later grew the night, and colder grew the wind, and darker seemed the street. Farther and farther the little one wandered. There was scarcely any one left upon the street by this time, and the few who remained did not seem to see the child, when suddenly ahead of him there appeared a bright, single ray of light. It shone through the darkness into the child’s eyes. He looked up smilingly and said, “I will go where the small light beckons, perhaps they will share their Christmas with me.”

Hurrying past all the other houses, he soon reached the end of the street and went straight up to the window from which the light was streaming. It was a poor, little, low house, but the child cared not for that. The light seemed still to call him in. From what do you suppose the light came? Nothing but a tallow candle which had been placed in an old cup with a broken handle, in the window, as a glad token of Christmas Eve. There was neither curtain nor shade to the small, square window and as the little child looked in he saw standing upon a neat wooden table a branch of a Christmas tree. The room was plainly furnished but it was very clean. Near the fireplace sat a lovely faced mother with a little two-year-old on her knee and an older child beside her. The two children were looking into their mother’s face and listening to a story. She must have been telling them a Christmas story, I think. A few bright coals were burning in the fireplace, and all seemed light and warm within.

The little wanderer crept closer and closer to the window-pane. So sweet was the mother’s face, so loving seemed the little children, that at last he took courage and tapped gently, very gently on the door. The mother stopped talking, the little children looked up. “What was that, mother?” asked the little girl at her side. “I think it was some one tapping on the door,” replied the mother. “Run as quickly as you can and open it, dear, for it is a bitter cold night to keep any one waiting in this storm.” “Oh, mother, I think it was the bough of the tree tapping against the window-pane,” said the little girl. “Do please go on with our story.” Again the little wanderer tapped upon the door. “My child, my child,” exclaimed the mother, rising, “that certainly was a rap on the door. Run quickly and open it. No one must be left out in the cold on our beautiful Christmas Eve.”

The child ran to the door and threw it wide open. The mother saw the ragged stranger standing without, cold and shivering, with bare head and almost bare feet. She held out both hands and drew him into the warm, bright room. “You poor, dear child,” was all she said, and putting her arms around him, she drew him close to her breast. “He is very cold, my children,” she exclaimed. “We must warm him.” “And,” added the little girl, “we must love him and give him some of our Christmas, too.” “Yes,” said the mother, “but first let us warm him.”

The mother sat down by the fire with the little child on her lap, and her own little one warmed his half-frozen hands in theirs. The mother smoothed his tangled curls, and, bending low over his head, kissed the child’s face. She gathered the three little ones in her arms and the candle and the fire light shone over them. For a moment the room was very still. By and by the little girl said softly, to her mother, “May we not light the Christmas tree, and let him see how beautiful it looks?” “Yes,” said the mother. With that she seated the child on a low stool beside the fire, and went herself to fetch the few simple ornaments which from year to year she had saved for her children’s Christmas tree. They were soon so busy that they did not notice the room had filled with a strange and brilliant light. They turned and looked at the spot where the little wanderer sat. His ragged clothes had changed to garments white and beautiful; his tangled curls seemed like a halo of golden light about his head; but most glorious of all was his face, which shone with a light so dazzling that they could scarcely look upon it.

In silent wonder they gazed at the child. Their little room seemed to grow larger and larger, until it was as wide as the whole world, the roof of their low house seemed to expand and rise, until it reached the sky.

With a sweet and gentle smile the wonderful child looked upon them for a moment, and then slowly rose and floated through the air, above the tree-tops, beyond the church spire, higher even than the clouds themselves, until he appeared to them to be a shining star in the sky above. At last he disappeared from sight. The astonished children turned in hushed awe to their mother, and said in a whisper, “Oh, mother, it was the Christ-Child, was it not?” And the mother answered in a low tone, “Yes.”

And it is said, dear children, that each Christmas Eve the little Christ-Child wanders through some town or village, and those who receive him and take him into their homes and hearts have given to them this marvellous vision which is denied to others.

[18] Reprinted by permission of Elizabeth Harrison and Francis M. Arnold.

SANDY’S CHRISTMAS[19]

_Thomas Travis_

There were three of them, plodding wearily through the snow, a man, a woman, and a boy about six years old. The man and the woman seemed gloomy, sad, and walked along silently till, with a deep sigh, the man spoke: “It’s too bad, too bad, Mother, the storm coming up like this. If it had only held off a couple of hours more, we’d have made town all right. But as it is--well, what’ll we do?” And he looked wearily at the snow-covered mountains and the trackless waste of snow. He shivered as his cold face brushed a laden bush that dabbed his bare neck with icy snow. “It’s bitter cold, isn’t it, Mother? And if I’m not mistaken, the storm’s only just beginning.”

The mother was too tired to answer. They had walked this way all day.

“If it had only held off a couple of hours,” the man repeated gloomily, “we’d have made the town all right. And there’s a job for me there. We’d have had a good Christmas, after all.”

“Oh well, Daddy,” said little Sandy, sturdily, “maybe the storm’ll stop soon and somebody come along and give us a ride. Wouldn’t it be fun if we could have a real sleigh-ride--at Christmas?”

But nobody came along the bleak waste, as they still plodded on. And the storm did not stop. It blew up stronger and stronger before a bitter northeast wind that sent whirling clouds of icy snow against their faces and sifted it down their necks, till they were wet and half frozen. It was only about four in the afternoon; but the wind had now risen to a howling storm that made the great trees rock and groan and scream in answer to the snoring of the white gale, and forced the three to bend almost double to force their way against it.

They were all three tired, miserably tired, and hungry and cold. The snow-laden swirls covered them till they looked like walking ghosts. Little Sandy’s feet ached dreadfully; but he was a sturdy lad, and as he walked, he kept chattering out all sorts of questions, just to keep his mind off his cold feet. He didn’t care whether his questions were answered or not--he just talked.

A big crow came swirling down the gale, veered in the shelter of a clump of pines, set his black wings, and, with a doleful caw, settled on one of the lower branches. Another did the same, and another, the three crows snuggling up to each other with a soft chuckle that said, just as plain as plain could be: “Boy, but it’s cold! And it’s going to be a cold night for old Jim Crow. Better be looking up a bed now, before it gets too dark. It’s a hummer, this gale is, a hummer!”

And the father felt just about the same. “We’d better look for some sort of a shelter, Mother,” he said; “we can’t make town to-night. We’ll be frozen stiff. Just my luck! Out of work since Thanksgiving; get a letter that there’s a good job here for me if I can make it by Christmas--and here’s this snow!” And he peered through the blinding storm to where the city lights showed once in a while deep down in the valley.

“But look, Dad!” Sandy shouted; “look! There’s just the place for us.” And he pointed down in a hollow, where a little log-cabin lay pushed into a thick clump of tall evergreens.