Part 15

Snow was drifted over the roof and over the trail to the door, as they entered and looked around. In fact, it had no door, only the place for one. It had two windows, but only one had glass in it. And it had neither fireplace nor stove--only a square of logs filled in with sand, for the fire, and a hole in the roof to let the smoke out.

“Just my luck!” said the father; “just my luck!” And he shivered again as the bitter wind swirled a cloud of icy snow through the door and window.

But Sandy piped up: “Well, anyhow, it’s better than nothing. And besides, I think it’s just fine. We can camp here and be all right. Come on, let’s make a warm fire.” For his feet ached now so badly he could scarcely keep the tears back.

They hunted around, found an old lantern, and lit it, for it was now dark. And the gale had helped them somewhat, after all. For they found great dry branches of the fragrant pine, broken off by the wind, piled in heaps--some of it splintered to shreds under the twisting of the gale.

Soon a roaring fire was going. But the wind, howling through the doorway and the window, made it pretty hard to get warm.

“Just my kind of luck!” grumbled the father.

But Sandy said: “Supposin’ we get some of those little trees, those pine and spruce, and pack them in the door and window. That will keep the wind out, and make us snug as a bug in a rug. Come on.”

So they packed the window and the door with spruce-trees broken off and stuck in the deep drift. Father sighed a bit with satisfaction, and Mother sat down with a weary smile, thrusting her hands out to the blaze as she looked tenderly at the boy.

“Fine Christmas, isn’t it?” grunted the father, again; “fine Christmas! Look at the icicles hanging on that spruce. Look at the snow powdering the tree, and that right in the room with us. Fine Christmas!”

“Sure it’s fine,” said Sandy, sturdily. “I think it’s finer than a boughten tree. It’s a real Christmas tree, and it’s got real icicles, not glass ones. And it’s got real snow for powder. All we want is some birds and stars and things on it, and there wouldn’t be a better Christmas tree anywhere. Mother and Daddy, you rest. I’ll go out here and get a good stack of wood,--that’ll keep the fire going,--and then we’ll have something to eat and we’ll be fine.” So, stamping his cold feet, he squeezed through the blocked door and crept out under the great pines.

Now what with the dense evergreens and the log-cabin, it was comparatively quiet and calm there under the pines. And Sandy got his first glimpse of how the wild creatures live through a storm. The lower branches of the pines were crowded with crows, jays, and other feathered waifs of the storm. They were doing their best to keep warm, and having a hard time of it in that bitter gale.

You know, these wild birds must sleep out in all kinds of weather. You know, too, that most birds’ feet can cling to a bough even when they are asleep. Also, you know that feather coats are warmer even than fur. And these birds, huddled together for shelter, picking out the thickest parts of the low boughs, snuggled down in the roaring gale and tucked their heads under their wings, crouching down low so that their feather overcoats could cover them from head to feet.

But perhaps you may not know that there is one weak point about this feather overcoat. They can not entirely cover up in it. There is just one spot at the eye which they can not cover. That too, perhaps, is to shield them. They keep one eye out, literally, for the fox and the owl and the hawk. But on a bitter night like this, there is another trouble. If it gets too cold, that one spot, meant for a lookout, will freeze. And often after a bitter winter gale you will find crows and jays and snowbirds blinded by the cold. They have changed positions, put one eye, and then the other under, but been able to keep neither warm. That one bit, exposed, acts just as if you were all tucked in blankets, except one toe. You can keep changing the toe, but in bitter weather, very bitter, that toe will freeze. So with the birds that roost. They have no nest; they do not crawl into some hole. They roost in fear of their enemies, and sometimes pay the terrible penalty for that one hole in their feather blanket.

That’s why sometimes you hear a “thump” on your window on a very cold winter night, and the next morning, find a poor quail or grouse or jay or crow cold, freezing, half-blind already. He had seen the glow of your fire dimly and flown to it--for safety.

And that was what was happening when Sandy crept out to get more firewood. This was a record blizzard--a bitter, freezing, zero night. And the birds were doing their level best to keep their eyes warm. They did not even notice Sandy as he crept near and watched. Some meadow-larks and quail had crouched under the snow-covered bushes at the foot of the pines, and they were bunched together, all heads out and all trying to keep their eyes from freezing. Sandy saw it and felt sorry for them. He was trying to keep his own feet from freezing, and knew how it felt. But he could not help the birds.

He could see the glow of the fire through the spruce-blocked door and window. It shone cheerily through the one window with glass. And hastily Sandy gathered some wood and came back inside. Then they ate their supper, Sandy saving the crumbs for the birds.

The blizzard grew worse and worse. The great trees rocked and groaned and cracked till Sandy thought they would break off short and tumble on the shaking cabin. Some of them did split, with a boom like thunder, and fell with a muffled thud in the deep snow. Then came faint twitterings and dismayed caws. The birds were having a hard time out there.

There came a thud against the single pane, and Sandy lifted the sash to take in two quail that had flown against the glass in their attempt to come into the warm room. But the crows were wiser than the quail. They came farther down through the twigs and roosted on the branches. They showed the others the way to the warm room. Then came some snowbirds, their black-and-white feathers all fluffed out with frost; and meadow-larks, quail, and grouse, all perching on the tree in the window; all grateful for the warm refuge in that terrible blizzard. Even a couple of rabbits came hopping through the open door and crouched panting from the gale.

So Sandy and Father and Mother sat over the fire, trying hard to keep warm. Mother was so tired she soon fell asleep, her head resting on Sandy’s lap. They sat late, very late--almost to midnight. And then came a wonderful thing--the storm stopped almost suddenly. The stars came out; the northern lights began to glow and burn like melted opals, like soft fires, all colors, in the sky. It was Christmas eve, and the churchbells in the valley began to ring out Christmas carols--

It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old.

Faintly the bells rang, faint and far across the snow.

So Sandy did not hear the approach of anybody till there came a hail at the door. Pulling away the spruce that blocked it, Sandy was surprised to see a great, burly man enter, with a sheep under one arm and half a dozen panting after him.

“Saw your firelight, neighbor,” he said. “Just out trying to save my sheep in the storm. Thought I’d never make it. But here we are.” And shepherd and sheep crowded into the room.

“Come right along,” said the father. “It’s a bitter night. Seems as if the cold grew worse since the wind dropped. Come on in and sit down by the fire. Fine Christmas, eh?”

The man with the sheep sat down, throwing off his pack and using it as a chair. Puffing and blowing, pulling icicles from his beard, he rumbled: “Fine Christmas, you say? Well now, I’m glad of a place to be in out of the cold. This looks fine enough to me. Thought I’d never make it.” And he continued combing the ice from his beard and mustache. “Fine Christmas when I thought it was going to be a case of freeze and lose all the sheep, and then get them safe into a nice snug place like this. This is fine Christmas luck!”

“Sure it’s fine,” laughed Sandy, whose feet were now warm again. “And just look! If that isn’t the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.” And he pointed to the tree in the window.

It really was wonderful. Back of the tree blazed a big star, just as if it hung on the topmost twig. Scores of others twinkled through the evergreen boughs. The northern lights crackled and shone mysteriously; and against the lit sky they could see the birds crouching--crows, iridescent, jays, gaudy blue, meadow-larks, with breasts dipped in gold, quail, grouse, and snowbirds in lovely markings and shadings, all perched on the tree, chuckling and crooning as though come there specially to decorate it. Great icicles hung down glittering in the low glow of the fire; and over all, the powdered snow glittered like diamonds.

“It’s a fine Christmas tree, and I’m going to hang my stockings on it when I go to bed.”

“Much good it’ll do you, Sandy,” grinned his father; “no Christmas, no Santa this time.” Then, turning to the shepherd, he explained grumpily, “Out of work; goin’ for a job; caught in this storm; stony broke--at Christmas time.”

“Hard lines,” said the shepherd, soberly; “but that’s a fine boy you have. Seems a bright youngster and just as chipper as can be.”

“Anyhow,” said Sandy, as he curled in his blanket before the fire, “I’ve hung up my stockings. Maybe good old Santa will remember me after all.”

He really didn’t expect anything, you know; but still he was a cheery soul. And as he slept, he dreamed--dreamed a big, strong, genial Santa came and filled his stockings with the nicest things--dreamed, and mumbled in his sleep, “Well, anyhow, it’s a good Christmas, after all.”

But the others just slept--Father and Mother too sad and tired even to dream, till they were roused in the early dawn of Christmas by a wild yell from Sandy. There he stood in his blanket, hauling out gift after gift from his stockings, from the twigs of the trees, and even some from beneath the tree.

He never knew how they got there. But Sandy’s father told me that the shepherd had them all in his pack, bringing them home for his own family Christmas tree. But the storm that stopped Sandy’s father, stopped him too. And seeing Sandy so sturdy and brave in the cold and night, he thought he would give the presents to him and then buy others, since he couldn’t get home in time for Christmas eve.

But Sandy never knew how they came. His eyes simply grew big and shining in his six-year-old face. His squeals of joy rang through the cabin, till even the sheep huddled together a little nervously and watched him with shy eyes. The birds of the tree chuckled and flew out into the new dawn of Christmas day. The shepherd’s sleigh came along and gave them all a lift to town. And Father got his new job!

As the party separated in town, the shepherd took little Sandy in his big strong arms as the boy said: “Well, we had a merry Christmas, didn’t we? I think it was fine.”

And the shepherd gave him an extra hug as he answered: “Sandy, you have the best Christmas gift of all. A Merry Christmas comes from inside a man, from his happy and live soul, from his brave spirit. The boy that has a gift like that doesn’t need anything else. He’ll have a Merry Christmas anywhere.”

Sandy didn’t entirely understand. He just shook hands cheerily with the shepherd, waved an arm to the sheep, now huddled cosily in the straw of the sled, picked up his bundle, and walked on with a grin of joy.

“And anyhow,” he said that night, as he heard his father telling about the terrible Christmas eve they had had, “anyhow, we had a real tree and real birds and real stars and real snow powder and real sheep and--a real shepherd! I think it was just the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.”

[19] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.

THE LITTLE FIR-TREE[20]

_Carolyn Wells_

Longer ago than you ever heard of, and farther away than you ever dreamed, the great Tree-master went out to make the trees.

Now the making of trees was a most important matter, and the Tree-master put his whole mind to it. He made all sorts of trees to use for building houses and making things to furnish the houses. Oak, maple, elm, ash, mahogany, rosewood, and many more, as you well know.

Then he made all sorts of trees to bear food: fruits, nuts, olives, and queer things like breadfruit and cocoanuts.

And he made lovely trees just to look pretty. He made dogwood, magnolia, horse-chestnut, and holly.

Then the Tree-master gave each tree its orders about blooming blossoms and bearing fruit, and at last the Tree-master thought his work was about done, and he turned to go away.

“Oh, please, sir,” said an anxious little voice, “aren’t you going to give me anything nice to do?”

“Who is speaking?” growled the Tree-master, in a voice of thunder.

“It’s only I,” and a very trembly tone reached his ear. “I’m a little fir-tree, and I’m neither beautiful nor useful.”

“You’re good enough,” said the Tree-master, as he glanced at the poor little thing. “Behave yourself, and no one will notice you.”

But they did notice her. The springtime came, and all the fruit-trees put on their beautiful blossom-frocks, and they jeered at the forlorn little fir-tree.

“Ho!” said the apple-tree, “look at my pink and white garb. Is it not exquisite? Don’t you wish you could be dressed like this?”

The poor little fir-tree looked on with longing eyes, but she was too crushed to reply.

“And see mine!” vaunted the peach-tree. “Was there ever such a perfect shade of color as I wear? How it is set off by my green leaves!”

The little fir-tree, though tempted to envy them, had a generous heart, and she said, “Your clothes are indeed beautiful, O Apple-tree and Peach-tree! I never saw more delicate and lovely coloring. Indeed, I wish I might dress like that! I have my old dull needles!”

“And see me!” cried the cherry-tree; “after all, there’s nothing more beautiful than my pure white with touches of feathery green.”

“True, true,” agreed the little fir-tree. “The colors are all so lovely, I scarce know which to choose.”

The fruit-trees tossed their blossomy branches, and showers of dainty petals fell all around.

“Oh!” cried the little fir-tree, enraptured, “I never saw anything so wonderful! If only I had been made like that!”

But the fruit-trees paid little heed to the fir-tree’s lament, they were so busy admiring themselves and flaunting their glories to the breeze.

Then the wood trees broke into their soft spring greens.

“Look at me!” said a young maple, proudly; “is not my pale yellowy green as lovely as the pink and white of the fruit-trees?”

And gazing at the delicate shade of the tiny leaves, the little fir-tree admitted that it was.

“Oh,” she said, with a deep sigh, “if I could have that soft light green to wear, I wouldn’t ask for pink blossoms! But how I hate my old dull needles!”

The oaks and elms put out their young green also, and the feathery willows down by the brook waved young withes like fairy wands.

As every fresh beauty unfolded, the poor little fir-tree wept anew and wished the Tree-master had given her the like. But so engrossed were the trees in watching their own decorations that they paid small heed to the sad little fir-tree.

And then summer came. The fir-tree felt sure new beauties would come to the trees, and she almost hoped some wonderful change might come to her. But she watched and waited in vain.

The others, though! Ah, how they reveled in their happiness!

The fruit-trees fairly laughed aloud under their happiness of fruit! Saucy red cherries, crimson velvet peaches, mellow golden apples, dewy purple plums, everywhere a riot of color, fragrance, and sweetness!

How they boasted!

“Ah, little fir-tree,” they said: “what would you give for glories like these?”

And the poor, forlorn little fir-tree shook with sorrow to her very heart as she replied, “Ah, if I might be like that!”

“Too bad,” said the peaches, carelessly, and they went about their business, which was to hold their soft cheeks up toward the sun that he might kiss them till they blushed.

“Yes, too bad!” chattered the pears, not heeding what they were saying, as they swayed gently on their stems while they slowly ripened to a golden and rosy glow.

The poor little fir-tree shuddered at their cruel indifference, which was even harder to bear than their outright scorn.

And the shade-trees were just as bad.

And then autumn came. Oh, the triumphs of the trees then! The wonderful flaming banners of scarlet and gold that they flung out to dazzle all nature! The rich depths of bronze and crimson that lurked mysteriously in their thick foliage!

The little fir-tree marveled. “Is there no end to their magnificence?” she thought: “must I ever see more and more of these wonders that I may not share?”

And the poor little thing wept until her needles lay in a pool all around her feet. The willows down by the brook saw her and they wept in sympathy. The little fir-tree saw the weeping willows and she was grateful for their kind thought, but so saddened was she that she only wept more needles to the ground.

And the nut-trees! They shook their nuts in her very face, and taunted her afresh with her uselessness and her lack of beauty.

The little fir-tree thought she would die.

And then the Tree-master came walking around. “Hey, hey, what’s this?” he exclaimed, as he saw the sadness of the little fir-tree.

In a burst of woe, the fir-tree told him all her trials and sorrows.

“Oh, pooh, pooh,” said the old Tree-master, who was really most kind-hearted, “have you forgotten this? All through the winter the other trees will be shivering and shaking in bare boughs. They will have no beauty and they will be sad and forlorn. You will be green and handsome, and then you can ask them why they look so ugly and downcast.”

The fir-tree cheered up a little, for though not vindictive, she had been so scorned by the other trees that she was glad to look pretty in the winter when they were forlorn and bare.

And yet, somehow, she felt it was not enough. To be sure she was green and glossy and shapely, and all the other trees looked really ugly, but she had no gay-colored blossoms and no rich fruits or nuts.

The kind old Tree-master laughed when he heard this. He was not so busy now, and he could listen to the troubles of his little fir-tree.

“Ho! ho!” he said; “so you want fruit and flowers, do you? Well, I rather guess we can fix that! Hereafter you shall bear wonderful fruit and flowers and nuts every winter, when the other trees are impatiently waiting for spring. And the blossoms and fruits you show shall far, far excel anything they have ever flaunted in your face!”

The little fir-tree could scarcely believe this good news. But it was true.

The Tree-master ordered that she should be the Christmas Tree!

And so, every winter, the fir-tree blossoms out in marvelous blooms of color and gold! Her branches are hung with wondrous fruits such as never grew on a summer tree! Nuts are there, and more holly berries than the holly-tree herself ever showed! And high above, crowning the glorified little fir-tree, the Christmas star sheds its rays in a blessing never bestowed on any other tree!

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

SIR CLEGES[21]

_George Philip Krapp_

In the days of Uther, the father of King Arthur, there lived a knight in England who was a member of the famous Round Table, and his name was Sir Cleges. Of all his knights none was dearer to King Uther than Sir Cleges. There was nothing strange in this, for everybody loved Sir Cleges, both because he was brave and good and cheerful, and, above all, because he was so generous. No poor man ever came to Sir Cleges in vain. He was always ready to help those upon whom sickness or the waste of war or any other misfortune had fallen, and far and wide he was known as the poor man’s friend. And not only was Sir Cleges known for his charity to the poor, but he was famous also for his generosity toward those of his own rank and station in life. His hall and his chambers were always filled with guests, and his tables were always spread for those who were hungry. There was no lack of the very best food and drink in Sir Cleges’ house, and when good food and drink are to be found, you may be sure there will be plenty of friends to enjoy them.

Thus Sir Cleges and his fair wife, the Lady Clarys, kept open house with the most generous hospitality. Most of all at Christmas-time there were great feasting and merriment in Sir Cleges’ castle. From every corner of England the knights and their ladies gathered there, and so cheerful and kind were Sir Cleges and Lady Clarys, and so abundant was the fare provided for all comers, that you might have searched all through King Uther’s kingdom and not have found any Christmas feasting happier or more cheerful than that under Sir Cleges’ roof.

Thus for many years Sir Cleges lived in this generous fashion, and never thought of his money except as a means whereby he could help the needy or give pleasure to his friends. But there is always an end even to the longest purse, and, as time went on and as Sir Cleges’ friends grew more numerous, it took more and more to entertain them. All the money he had, Sir Cleges spent freely; and when his money was gone, he sold his cattle and other goods to keep up his household. But this was soon used, and after that Sir Cleges’ lands went the same way as his money and his cattle. As long as he had a penny left, said Sir Cleges, no friend should know the lack of it. But at last, when Sir Cleges had nothing more to sell and nothing in which the swarm of friends who had gathered about him could find their pleasure and profit, then straightway they heartlessly left him.