Part 18

The maid looked at her perplexedly. Small and pretty persons in shabby brown with nice voices and the ways of a lady did not often come knocking at this door demanding to see the mistress, and not by name.

“I don’t think--” the maid began doubtfully.

“Tell her that I shall not keep her,” said Mother Margaret clearly. “But I must see her. Tell her that I do not know her, but that I am her neighbor, across the court.

Then the maid gave way. There is something about that word “neighbor” that is a talisman. With, “I’ll see,” the maid ushered her in. She stood weakly in the small and pretty reception-room while the maid went to call her mistress. Then there came a step, and a voice.

Mother Margaret hardly looked at this woman. She saw someone in gray, with a practical face of concern; then she saw nothing but direct and rather pleasant eyes looking into hers.

“Madam,” said Mother Margaret, simply, “you have out on your fire-escape a little Christmas tree. Christmas isn’t till day after to-morrow. To-morrow, for a little while, could you lend me that tree?”

“Lend you--” repeated the woman, uncertainly.

“I live just back of you,” Mother Margaret went on breathlessly. “I saw the tree. I thought--if you could lend it to me a little while to-morrow--oh, just as it is! and just till you get ready to trim it. I could bring it back quite promptly. Nothing should happen to it. And I could fix it up--just for a little while. My--my little boy never has seen a tree trimmed,” she added.

“My dear!” said the woman.

This, Mother Margaret thought, would be the exclamation at the impossibility of doing anything so wild. She looked miserably down at the floor. And so she did not see someone else come into the room, until a soft quick step was close beside her.

“Why,” this newcomer said, “Mother! This is a friend of mine!”

Then Mother Margaret looked up, straight into the eyes of the pleasant-faced woman of the library.

“Oh!” cried Mother Margaret. “Oh!” And for a moment said no more. “I never knew I was going to ask this of you--when you’ve done so much!” she cried at last.

She turned to the older woman in mute apology. And she was actually filled with wonder when she saw that the eyes of the older woman were shining with tears.

They went into the little living-room and talked it over, how it could be managed. The two women saw--because they looked with the heart--that there must be no thought of the gift of another tree. It must be just as Mother Margaret had suggested. The tree must be lent for a part of to-morrow and returned in time for them to trim it on Christmas Eve.

“For the Dear Child,” said Mother Margaret; and then blushed beautifully. “Tony and I call her that,” she said.

“With that, they called the Dear Child to the room. The white-capped maid was putting her to bed, and brought her in, partly undressed, with surprisingly fat legs and arms and surprisingly thick curls.

“Honey,” the older woman said, “a little boy lives across the court. This is his mama.”

The Dear Child opened wide eyes.

“I know that little bit o’ boy,” she announced. “He--he--he--lives in the bed!”

“Yes,” Mother Margaret said sorrowfully, “he lives in the bed.”

“Say him a kiss,” the Dear Child said sleepily, and was carried back to her undressing.

So then it was arranged that when the maid was free, she should come bringing the Christmas tree round to the door of Mother Margaret’s flat.

“I could carry it,” Mother Margaret insisted.

But no, it must be, it seemed, exactly as they said. Mother Margaret must be there to have left the outer door ajar, and to amuse the little boy and keep his attention while the tree was put into the other room. She must pin a handkerchief on the open door so that there should be no mistake. And then on no account must she leave the little boy when she heard the tree set in the other room, or else he would hear, and wonder. Would she do all this, exactly as they told her to?

There was no thanking them. Perhaps Mother Margaret’s broken words, though, were better thanks than any perfect utterance.

She ran home, through a maze of lights and windows which danced and nodded and all but held out their hands. It is strange and sorrowful, at Christmas time, how much more, if you are going to have Christmas joy, the lights and windows seem to mean Christmas than if you are going to have none.

When she went in she saw that Tony had fallen asleep. His little pillow was still bunched, hard and round, on her own and on the folded quilt. And his face was still turned toward the Window Across.

She sat down to wait. She would not wake him. Until after the maid had been there with the tree, she would not even risk lighting the gas and working at the flowers. She sat almost an hour in the dusk. The outer door of the other room was standing faithfully ajar, with a handkerchief pinned to a panel, and the light there burning low. She could have been sure that she would hear the lightest step in the next room; and then, since Anthony was asleep, she meant to disregard their injunctions and slip to the door for a word of gratitude for the maid. But when she fancied that she heard a sound, and caught a shadow, and when she had hurried to the door, she stood mute and hardly breathing in her wonderment. No one was there--save indeed a presence. And the presence was the tree, standing neatly erect in its small, green box--and hung from top to base with popcorn and tinsel and ornaments which, even in that dim light, glittered like angels and like stars.

Mother Margaret went in and sat down on her little bed, and looked at the wonder of it. And before she knew that it might possibly happen to her she had hidden her face in her hands and was sobbing.

A stir from Anthony sent her back to his room. He was moving in the little bed “where he lived,” and Mother Margaret wiped her eyes and lighted the gas, and wondered how she could keep the happy news.

She went to him to arrange his pillow. He opened his eyes and smiled--as all his life long he had never failed to smile when first he opened his eyes and saw her. Then, at some memory, the eyes flew wide.

“Is to-morrow Christmas, Mama?”

Without just the combination of events which had set her head whirling, Mother Margaret would never have answered as she did.

“Yes, darling. To-morrow is Christmas.”

His face lighted, “_Is_ it?” he cried. “Is it tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said again, “to-morrow.”

“Will the s’prise be when I wake up?”

“Yes,” she said, “the surprise will be when you wake up.”

He smiled again, and drifted off to sleep. As she smoothed the tumbled covers, the old grip and terror came to her at sight of the little wasted body. The momentary qualm which she had felt died away. Why should he not believe that it was Christmas Day? She knew the heart of a child, knew that the day makes all the difference. Tony should think that he had one Christmas, in any case!

It was past one o’clock when she finished the last of the roses. Tony was sleeping heavily. She turned down the gas and went to work.

The bed, left from the days of her housekeeping, had a high, slender white frame, meant to hold a canopy. From this down to the foot posts ran two cords carrying roses, and roses ran along the foot rail. Working slowly and quietly, she brought the tree from the other room to stand by his side. She had not yet had time to examine the ornaments--she and Tony could do that together. His stocking, the poor little disused stocking, with the big red apple and the orange, she tied to a bough reaching toward the little boy, like a friendly hand. The library books were spread open at pages of bright pictures. The chart of colored birds was pinned to the wall. The sprig of holly was fastened to the coverlet. At the last moment, from scraps of her green tissue, she had fashioned a semblance of holly wreath, with a bit of red paper twisted here and there for berries. She slipped behind the bed, and hung the wreath in the window. When, in the “little hours,” she crept to her own bed, she was without fatigue.

She woke at dawn, and was dressed and back in his room before he had opened his eyes. She lighted the gas, and then she kissed him.

“Merry Christmas, Tony!” she cried.

He struggled up, lovely with sleep. And in upon his dreams came the lines of the roses, and the soft greenness and beauty and brightness of the tree. He sat up, his head thrown back, an expression of almost angelic wonder in his believing face. And he was, with all his joy, a practical little Tony.

“W-w-where’d you get that?” he cried. “Oh, Mama! Mama! Mama!”

And there was something in his cry that opened Mother Margaret’s heart like a flower.

A child before its _first_ Christmas tree, that is an experience apart. Tony was mute. Tony was shouting. Tony was leaning forward to touch things. Tony was leaning far back to win the effect of the whole. Tony was absolutely and unutterably happy.

So was Mother Margaret--for a while. Then Tony said an unexpected thing.

“Think,” he said, “that little Jesus was born to-day. Really, truly to-day.”

Mother Margaret looked at him.

“They cannot tell surely, which day, you know, son,” she said uncertainly.

“Oh, it was to-day!” Tony told her positively. “I know it was to-day.”

Then, when he took in his hands the library picture book, there was the story of Bethlehem of Judea, and she must read it to him, and he listened as if he were hearing it for the first time.

“It was this morning!” he said over dreamily. “The Star in the East was this morning, Mother Margaret. It seems true, now I’ve seen my tree,” he added quaintly.

He seemed possessed with the idea of “to-dayness.”

“Think,” he said again, “all little boys is got a tree now. Right now. And me, too!”

It was a long, enchanted day; and she waited until the final possible moment to close it.

“Tonykins,” she said at last, “now the roses have to come down while Mama puts them into a box and takes them to their own family. And while she’s gone, you can lie here and look at the tree, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said Anthony, “an’--an’ it’ll talk to me!”

Unquestionably the tree talked to Tony. But the amazing thing was that it also talked to his mother, on her way down to the factory.

No sooner was she on the street from the happy holiday humor of their room than she was faced accusingly by the bustle and clamor of the streets on “the night before Christmas.” Everyone was intent on something outside himself. Everyone, Mother Margaret thought, would have known it was Christmas, if he had not been told.

_All save Tony._ Her heart smote her when she thought of that. For Tony in the little bed where he “lived,” all the blessedness and peace of tomorrow had descended to-day, and he had lived them faithfully. And on Christmas morning, on Star of Bethlehem morning for all the rest of the world, it would all be past for him; when for all the rest of the world it would be dawning....

Christmas dinner they ate together on Christmas Eve, there at Tony’s bedside, with a royal feast of one thing extra, spread on a little sewing table set in the shadow of the tree.

“Now, dear,” said Mother Margaret when they had finished, “the twenty-four hours is almost up, and the fairy is going to come for the tree. You’re sure you won’t mind--aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes, Mother!” Tony’s eyes were fastened on the tree as if he feared it might vanish if he looked away.

“And you are going to feel more glad that you had it than sorry to see it go?”

“Oh, yes, Mother!”

Tony’s eyes were still on the tree.

“I wish,” he said, “I wish Christmas was to-morrow, too. I like to feel like I feel when it’s Christmas.”

She sat beside him, silent, when outside the door came the tread and tap which they were both expecting. And somewhat to her bewilderment Mother Margaret admitted four visitors. There was the kindly, practical woman; and the librarian with the pleasant eyes; and the maid with the Dear Child in her arms.

She set the Dear Child down, and the Dear Child ran to Tony’s bed, and in her hands was a box.

“Little boy!” she shouted. “See what! See what!”

She laid something beside him. And when, trembling a little with the wonder of it, Tony had unwound this, there lay his longed-for clay and some unbelievable modeling tools. Mother Margaret’s eyes flew to the librarian. And the look of the two women met and clung, with something living in the faces of them both. And so it came about that when the maid drew the little tree from the room, Tony hardly knew.

They went away with happy greetings, and waving hands, and promises to meet again.

“I--I--I--bring you my kitty and my fimbel!” shouted the Dear Child kissing her hand. “That other day,” she added importantly.

An hour later Tony opened his eyes sleepily.

“Make a great big racket, Mother Margaret!” he surprisingly demanded.

“Why, dear?” she asked.

“’Cause if I go to sleep, then it won’t be Christmas any more,” said Tony, and drifted off with his smile still on his face.

Christmas morning, the true Christmas morning, came with a white mantle and a bright face. Mother Margaret woke to hear the city one tumbling peal of early bells. She sprang up and threw on her dressing gown, with her pretty hair falling about her shoulders, and ran to Tony’s room. He was still asleep. Resolutely, and even joyously, she stooped and kissed him.

“Tony, dear!” she said--but there was something like a sob in her voice. “Wake up! It’s Christmas morning!”

His eyes flew open, and stared straight into her eyes.

“It’s Christmas morning,” she repeated tremulously.

A look of pain came to his face.

“Did I dream my tree?” he asked.

“No!” she cried, “no, dear. You did have your tree. Mother told you yesterday was Christmas because we could just have the tree that day--and she wanted you to have all the fun--_all_ of it, Tony--” She broke down, and buried her face in his warm neck.

Something of the solemnity and old wisdom born in a child when a grown person apologizes, or explains, or in any wise treats him as an equal, came growing in Tony’s face. But this was over-shadowed now, by a dawning joy.

“Mother!” he cried. “Truly? Truly, is it Christmas _again_?”

“Not again,” she said. “But it’s Christmas.”

He sat up, and threw his arms about her.

“Oh, I’m glad--I’m glad!” he cried. “Why, Mother. Then _it wasn’t just the tree that made us happy, was it_?”

She held him close. And as they sat in each other’s arms, in the bare room, with no tree, no roses, and even the clay for a moment forgotten, there came overwhelmingly to the woman, and dimly to the child, the precious understanding that Christmas is a spirit. And the spirit was with them, and made a third presence in their sudden, indefinable joyousness.

Tony drew a little away, and laughed up at her.

“Mother Margaret!” he cried. “It’s Christmas--it’s Christmas!”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, dear. Don’t you hear the bells?”

Tony shook his head. “We don’t need the bells, Mother,” he said. “Why, Mother Margaret!” he cried, “maybe now we can get the feeling every day!”

[24] Copyright by Crowell Publishing Company, 1915. Reprinted by special permission of the author.

THE UNWELCOME GIFT[25]

_Julia Burket_

Snyge, the woodsman, walked briskly through the gates of the park which surrounded the royal palace. On his arm hung a small basket covered with a white cloth. In the basket were some cranberry tarts which his wife was sending to her aunt, an old woman who stirred the royal soup-kettle.

As Snyge walked along the winding road the sun shone and sparkled brightly on the snow; and the roofs of the palace, which glistened through the tree-tops, did not seem nearly so awe-inspiring as they did on other days. On approaching the rear of the palace he heard a great deal of loud hammering, which sounded odd on the quiet of the winter afternoon. He hastened his steps and opened the door of the kitchen.

Along one side of the brick-floored room there stretched a long wooden table. Before the table was a settle, and on this were seated a scullery-maid, two butlers, four maids, and three small footmen; all dressed in the olive livery of the king’s household and all busily cracking nuts.

They made such a racket and commotion that Snyge was obliged to walk the entire length of the room before he could attract the attention of Mother Jorgan, who was stirring away at the soup with her back to the door.

“What is the meaning of all this noise?” he shouted in the old woman’s ear.

At the unexpected sound of his voice she gave a start, and would have dropped the pot-stick if a little boy, who was seated on a high stool behind the kettle, had not caught it.

After Mother Jorgan had recovered from her surprise she told the woodsman that they were cracking nuts for the Christmas feast. They should all have been done the day before, but the scullery-maid had forgotten and the baker was now mixing up the fruit-cake; so they had been forced to set every one to work who was not already busy, in order that the nuts should be ready in time.

While Mother Jorgan was muttering away in her shrill, cackling voice, Snyge had been staring ahead of him at the small boy on the stool. There was really no reason why any one should look at poor little Bebelle. He was by far the ugliest and most insignificant-looking person in the room. Hunched up on his stool in the dark shadows behind the kettle, he looked more like some odious goblin than a little boy. His thick black hair made a fitting frame for his pinched face. His nose was long and crooked; his eyes were very large and very black; and his pathetic little mouth, although tender and childish, made his face seem all the homelier by contrast. In his hand he held a stick upon which, with infinite labor, he was carving something.

However, Snyge, who said little, but saw a great deal, when Mother Jorgan had finished, pointed his finger at him and said, “Who is that?”

“I am Bebelle,” said the child in a thin, but rather sweet, voice.

“And what is that you have there in your hand?”

“That,” said the old woman, “is the scepter he is making for the king’s Christmas present.” And turning her back to the kettle, she looked significantly at Snyge and tapped her forehead. “Tell Snyge about your present, Bebelle, and perhaps he will give you a better stick of wood.”

But the child held the stick close and answered fearfully: “Oh, no, thank you, Mother Jorgan! No, thank you! this will do very well for what I want. But I will tell the man what I know of it.”

At these words one of the small footmen, who had stopped swinging his hammer for a moment in order to eat a walnut, nudged his neighbor, and they both picked up their bowls of nuts and squatted down on the floor in front of the kettle. And the maid who dusted the royal throne, and was just then going through the kitchen, saw the pages and joined the little group.

“We will now have some fun,” one of them whispered to her.

Bebelle, who was unaware of his audience on the other side of the kettle, turning towards Snyge, began his tale.

“You see,” he said, “although I am lame and stupid and of no use to any one, the good king allows me to stay here in his kitchen. I sit here all day behind the kettle; and when Mother Jorgan has something else she must do, she allows me to stir the soup. Each day I have a crust of bread and bowl of froth from the top of the soup, and at night the baker allows me to lie behind the great oven. You see, I should be happy, for I have done nothing to deserve this easy lot. But sometimes I am very discontented. I was feeling that way one evening, and, as I was alone in the kitchen, I climbed up there on the table to look out of the casement. It was a lovely night, with all the stars shining, and as I stood there thinking how ashamed I should be to be unhappy when so much splendor was about me, I saw before me a beautiful hand reaching up on the other side of the sill. It clasped a stick of wood and a piece of paper. The hand laid them on the window-ledge, and I heard a voice like music say, “These are for you, Bebelle.’”

Here there was a great nudging and giggling on the part of his unseen audience, and the little maid called out, “Where is the paper now?”

Bebelle leaned far out over the kettle, and, seeing the maid’s duster on the floor, turned again to Snyge and said: “They often come to hear me tell about it. The paper blew into the fire,” he explained, and went on: “I was very much frightened and wanted to climb down from the window and leave them there, but at last I found courage to look at the paper. On it were these words: _Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness, Devotion, Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_. I stood there a long time, and at last I thought how fine it would be to make a new scepter for a Christmas present to the king, and to carve these words upon it. They are pretty words and have a pleasant sound. I have never heard the wonderful voice again, but I feel that this is what it would have me do.”

“Now tell about how the words come,” demanded one of the footmen.

But Bebelle would only say, “I am at the end of ‘_Patience_’ now, and, if you do not mind, I will start to carve again. You see, there is very little time left until Christmas.”

As Bebelle concluded, his small audience broke up. The maid returned to her dusting, the footmen took their bowls and hammers back to the table, and Mother Jorgan, giving the pot-stick to little Bebelle, went to the door with Snyge.