Part 19

With the return of the footmen, the noise was even more deafening than before. The fruit-cake was all mixed but the nuts, and the baker stood over the small regiment of workers, every now and then rapping up some lagging one with a cuff on the ears. Mother Jorgan was obliged fairly to shriek the rest of the conversation; or rather her part of it, for Snyge said very little.

“Yes, it is true. Bebelle has been carving at the old stick for weeks. He is very happy. But he is a stupid dolt. The king does not even know that he lives here in the kitchen. If he did, it would all be at an end with little Bebelle.”

“And about the hand?” asked the woodsman.

“That? Oh, well, I don’t know. No one here believes it. But I couldn’t say. It may be. But I know this much: I have seen the words come. When he was at ‘_Mercy_,’ a few weeks ago, one of the huntsmen brought him a little half-dead squirrel for his supper. But the foolish child warmed it and set it free. When he went back to his carving, ‘Mercy’ was there on the stick. That has been the way with them all. I know, for I have seen it with my sharp old eyes.”

Snyge gave her the basket and went out into the dusk. He had stayed long past his time.

In a little while the noise in the kitchen ceased. The nuts were all finished and put in the waiting cake, and the room was quiet but for the crackling of the fire and the chatter of the servants.

“‘_Patience_’ is very hard,” said little Bebelle to Mother Jorgan. “I get along very well for a while, but just as I have almost finished, the letters seem to fly back again. It is very funny.

“Listen, Mother Jorgan! Some one is coming. It is Shreve of the Fields.” His face was lit up until it seemed almost pretty, and his hands trembled at his carving.

In a moment there was a low, mysterious bird-note. Some one drew back the bolts, and youth incarnate stood framed in the dark oaken doorway. Shreve of the Fields swayed there, his slim, vibrant figure outlined against the sparkling snow without. Pushed back from his thick dark curls he wore a bag-like cap of brilliant red. Over the shoulder of his tattered jacket was flung a brown sack, and in his hands he held a torn net. The lovely poise of his proud young head, the startling beauty of his face, the wonder of his gay, mysterious eyes, were all so intense that one looked again and again, awed, troubled, stupefied, unable to understand such glorious beauty. It was like some vague lovely dream that one had been forced by the very intensity of its sweetness to cast from his thoughts, now recurring to the mind. Even the servants felt it, and they looked again and again at the not unfamiliar sight of the radiant youth. And Shreve, unable, as always, to understand this blind desire to pierce the mystery of his beauty, crossed the room with swift, free steps and approached Bebelle.

“I have brought you this net to mend,” he said, and his voice was low and wonderfully sweet. “I use it to catch the poor starving hares; and then I feed them. I will wait if you are not too long.”

“Oh, I’ll do it gladly,” responded the child; “and I’ll try to hasten as much as I can.”

He put the unfinished scepter in his threadbare little blouse, and bent carefully over the net.

It had now grown dark, and one of the pages went about the room with a taper lighting the candles in the greater pewter sticks. One by one the butlers and footmen came in to eat their evening meal before they should serve the royal dinner. All was light, and laughter and good-natured raillery in the kitchen.

Shreve walked restlessly up and down the long room. Each time he passed the oven he would snatch a loaf and put it in his sack. “For my birds,” he would say with his dazzling smile to the baker. Each time he neared the soup-kettle he stopped and watched little Bebelle’s swift-moving fingers. Without looking up, the child would answer his unspoken question, “In a little while, Shreve, I shall have finished it.”

As the graceful, glowing figure moved about the room all the youths stared at him and the maidens glanced more shyly from under their long lashes. But Shreve’s thoughts were on the world outside and the mending of the net. However, when they spoke to him, he always answered sweetly in his lovely, winning voice.

“How are your friends, O Shreve?” said Mother Jorgan.

“They are well. Only it is cold in the mountains, and the beasts freeze; and the woods and fields are bare, so my birds want food. But wait, old woman; some day I shall know all of nature’s secrets, and then winter cannot harm my people.”

The servants now came up to the kettle to get their bowls of soup, and Shreve of the Fields stood in the corner and watched them silently.

At last Bebelle crept down from his stool, and slowly moved toward Shreve.

“Here is your net, Shreve,” he said.

The beautiful youth took the net and held it before him. He tugged at it, but the mended threads held as firmly as the others.

“This is nicely done, Bebelle. When I come at Christmas I will bring you some fairy moss. How is your scepter?” he asked a little shyly.

“Oh, it is almost finished. I am on ‘_Patience_’ now.”

Bebelle pulled the stick from his blouse, and as Shreve of the Fields bent over it, he saw that “_Patience_” was finished.

* * * * *

It was the eve of Christmas, and all the great castle was in a merry bustle and a wild confusion. From the little scullery-maid, who was giving the pots and pans a final scouring, to the queen herself, who was being fitted with a new crown, not a soul in the palace was idle.

The great hall was all green, and red, and white; pine, and holly, and mistletoe. The white pillars were twined with ivy and laurel; from the rafters hung great clusters of mistletoe; and the walls were banked with leaves and red berries. On each side of the royal dais stood a shining, glistening Christmas-tree; and the galleries were hung low with Christmas greens.

It was not long until the king and queen ascended their royal thrones, the queen happy because the new crown was very becoming, and the king that there was a grand feast in prospect.

The royal court assembled with laughter and gay words and smiling faces; and of them all the princess Faunia was the most admired. Tall and slim and beautiful, as the princess should be, with the dainty grace of a young fawn and the proud young way of one, she stood by the dais with a dark, handsome prince. Each time he spoke to her, although his words were laughing, she knew that he loved her; and each time he looked at her, his gay eyes said what his lips dared not speak. The princess, like every one else in the room, was very, very happy.

In the kitchen below sat Bebelle, carving the last word upon his gift for the king. His face was very pale; it looked even thinner than usual. His great black eyes burned feverishly, and his hands worked swiftly upon the word “_Love_.”

“I must not be late! I must not be late!” he said over and over again.

Most of the servants had left the kitchen and were sitting in the gallery of the hall above, watching the royal pageant.

However, there was a little girl left in the room, who had to remain behind in order to keep the fire going in the great fireplace.

“When will you give the king his gift?” she asked Bebelle.

“When all the others have given theirs and Shreve of the Fields alone is left he will give the king his beautiful raven, and then he will say, ‘There is still another, O King, who has a gift for you.’ Mother Jorgan has promised to let me go with her up the stairs, and when Shreve says this, then I will walk into the room and give the king his scepter.”

“Shreve of the Fields may forget,” said the little girl, shrewdly; “he thinks only of his birds and beasts, of others he has no thought. Old Jason, the butler, says he has no soul.”

“Oh, yes, he has!” said Bebelle. “He is wild and timid like his animals, though, and is afraid to show it. He has told me how some nights he lies in his cave with his animals and longs for a human friend. But you know, Sana, he is so beautiful and so different from every one else that no one can be friends with him. But look what he gave me! It is fairy moss, and Shreve says that if I carry it, I shall be brave enough to walk through the great hall to the king and not be ashamed of my ugly face.

Bebelle held up a little patch of silvery moss, the drops of dew sparkling like diamonds upon it.

“Oh!” said the child, in awed wonder. “It is so beautiful! And do you think it really has such power?”

“Why, yes, of course; Shreve told me so.”

“Ah!” sighed little Sana, “if I only had a tiny bit, I would not be so afraid of the butler when he scolds me.”

Bebelle carefully tore the moss in half and gave Sana part of it.

“I must go back to my carving now,” he said, as the child tried to thank him.

“And I to my fire. Oh, Bebelle! Look! Look!” cried Sana. “The fire has gone out while I have been talking to you!”

“I will make you another.”

When Mother Jorgan came in, the fire was again burning brightly.

“Are you ready, Bebelle?” she asked, her voice trembling with excitement. “Shreve is giving the king his raven.”

“No, dear Mother Jorgan, I have mended the fire for Sana instead.”

“You foolish boy!” and she tore the stick from his hand. “Why, of course it is done! Is ‘_Love_’ not there as plainly as the other words? Come, we must make haste or we shall be too late.”

As the two reached the door of the hall Shreve of the Fields was standing before the royal dais, his proud lovely head thrown back and one graceful arm stretched forth toward the king. On the tip of his finger there perched a beautiful raven, all glossy black streaked with purple, and as quiet as if it were still in the forest. As these two of the woods stood there in their perfect, unaffected beauty everything else about the gay court seemed curiously dwarfed and cheapened.

“O King,” he said, in his sweet, thrilling voice, “here is a gift for you!”

As the raven flew from his hand to the king the courtiers crowded around the radiant youth; and Mother Jorgan, in the doorway outside, whispered to Bebelle: “Child, he has said nothing of you. If you still wish to do this dreadful thing, you must enter unannounced.”

And so, with his scepter held closely in one arm, the child bravely walked into the gay throng.

As he neared the throne the courtiers drew back on either side; and standing before the royal dais, Bebelle said simply, “My King, I have made you a new scepter for a Christmas gift.”

All about the throne lay precious and costly gifts; gold and tapestries, silver and precious stones. On the arm of the king’s chair perched the beautiful raven, and in the queen’s hand was a necklace of diamonds, and rare aquamarines. Before them stood a child, strange and grotesque, holding in his hand a rough piece of fire-wood.

“I have made you a new scepter,” he had said.

“Child,” said the king, and his voice was not unkind, “this is not the time for you to appear before us.” And he motioned a page to lead Bebelle from the room.

There was a painful silence as the child crept slowly from the bright hall, one hand still clasping the rejected gift. The queen signed for the fiddlers to begin their playing. The princess Faunia, who was standing with the noble prince under the balcony, remarked that such things were enough to spoil one’s Christmas. The prince comforted her, and said if he had his will, nothing should ever happen to mar a single moment of her entire life. The princess was even happier than before. The queen told the king, who looked a little worried, that such things naturally happen in such great households, and that, with the serving of the royal banquet, things would be restored to their former gaiety. This last suggestion comforted the king mightily; and, indeed, before the page had even announced the banquet everything was as gay and merry as it had been an hour before.

In the bright warm kitchen there was dance and song, and every one there was happy, too.

That is, all but little Bebelle. He lay beside the oven, still holding tightly to the scepter, saying nothing.

Mother Jorgan brought him a bowl of hot soup. He thanked her pitifully, but would not touch it. Now and then one of the servants would come to him and shyly, but kindly, ask him to come and have some of the wassail. Shreve came down from the feast above. The baker gave him thirteen loaves for his birds, and he stopped to speak to Bebelle.

“I am sorry, Bebelle,” he said, in his timid, winning way. “But I had no chance to speak of you. It was a shame that the king refused your gift. But come, do not be sad. Every one is sorry, and things will not be made better by lying there.”

But Bebelle did not answer. The tears sprang to Shreve’s beautiful, mysterious eyes.

“Would you like to come and sleep in my cave to-night?”

Bebelle gave a little gasp.

“Oh, Shreve,” he said, “that is the greatest thing in the world that could happen to me! But somehow I feel as if that could not be--to-night.”

So Shreve of the Fields went a little sadly out into the starry night.

It grew later. Slowly and reluctantly the servants left the warm, friendly kitchen. Many stopped to speak kindly to the silent child, who lay huddled in his corner.

At last, though, they had all left but a little page, who put out the candles and skipped fearfully from the room. All was silent and dark.

The child lay there a long time.

Slowly and sweetly, through the still night a voice softly floated.

“Bebelle, little Bebelle!” it said; “come to the door.”

The child trembled, but did not get up.

Once again came the low, mellow voice: “Bebelle, I am waiting for you. Come, open the door.”

As if in a dream he crept across the floor. Slowly he slid back the great bolts and lifted the door latch.

There in the snowy dooryard was a glorious vision. A figure that glowed and glistened against the snow like the fire and light of a thousand diamonds. Over the head was a veil like lacy frost. From the scintillating robes stretched a beautiful white hand.

“Come with me,” said the voice, “and I will make you a great ruler.”

Bebelle shrank back against the heavy door.

“Oh, no!” he cried, “I am not fit to be a ruler. I am ugly and poor, and of no use to any one in the world.”

The vision reached out and took the scepter which Bebelle still clasped to his breast.

As the firm white hand grasped it the rough wood turned to shining gold and the letters carved upon it were set with pearls, and rubies, and sapphires, and other precious stones.

“These words that you have carved upon the scepter,” said the high, thrilling voice, “_Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness, Devotion, Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_--these are the attributes of a king. Only he who carves his own scepter, with these words upon it, only he is fit to wield it. Again I summon you to come with me and I will make you ruler of a great kingdom.”

And into the white night the child followed the steps of the vision.

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

THE STRANGE STORY OF MR. DOG AND MR. BEAR[26]

_Mabel Fuller Blodgett_

(For very little folk)

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

Mr. Bear was looking forward to the first real snowstorm because Mr. Dog had made a fine double-runner, and they were both planning for little housework, and a lot of coasting. Mr. Bear’s fur suit was just the thing for winter sports, but Mr. Dog had been obliged to go to the village and buy himself a sweater. It was bright crimson and was very becoming. Mr. Dog, who loved fine clothes, had also purchased a scarlet and white skating cap, with a tassel that hung down over one ear in a most engaging manner. So both Mr. Dog and Mr. Bear could hardly wait for cold weather to set in, and they spent a great deal of time running out to the porch and looking at the thermometer that hung there. When they were not doing that, they were reading the weather reports in the newspapers, or watching the clouds, and at last they were rewarded late one afternoon by the sight of large feathery flakes of snow lazily floating downward from a cold gray sky. But alas! there was to be no coasting for either of them, for many days to come.

Mr. Bear, who had not been feeling like himself for some time, came down with the mumps the very next morning, and Mr. Dog had his paws full with cooking, and nursing, and bedmaking, and carrying up trays to the invalid.

Now I suppose you never saw a bear with the mumps! It is a sorry sight, I assure you, and the cottage was a sad place now with only the doctor’s visits for company and Mr. Bear in the dreadfulest state with his poor neck so swollen that none of his collars would fit him--he had lately, to please Mr. Dog, taken to wearing them. For daily use a red bandana handkerchief became the only thing possible. Well, Mr. Dog was a pretty fair nurse, though he did bring Mr. Bear some lemonade the first day, and, if you’ve ever had mumps, you will know how Mr. Bear felt after he got a real good taste. But Mr. Dog was more careful after that and never so much as said “pickles” or brought Mr. Bear anything that was sour or puckery, so they got along quite nicely.

Still, there was a lot of time for thinking, and Mr. Bear, looking wistfully out on the snowy landscape, began to plan for Christmas. He decided that he would surprise Mr. Dog, and the surprise would take the form of a Christmas tree. There were plenty of dear little firs growing about near by, each one holding up its tiny branches as if begging for the honor of being chosen, and Mr. Bear knew Mr. Dog, who was something of a carpenter, was just dying to have a complete tool-chest, and he thought what a fine present that would be and how beautifully the awl and saws and other tools would glitter, hung from the branches in the light of the Christmas candles.

Mr. Bear would also see that Mr. Dog had a wonderful big bone, the best in the market, and tied with scarlet ribbon and holly, and a bottle of perfumery, and oh, yes! a dozen handkerchiefs with colored borders. Mr. Bear had to get his notebook down and write the things as fast as he remembered them, and the best of it was Mr. Bear was determined, firmly determined, that Mr. Dog should know nothing whatever about the whole matter.

Now the funny part of it was that Mr. Dog had been thinking also, and the end of his reflections were pretty much what Mr. Bear’s had been. He would give Mr. Bear a Christmas tree and _Mr. Bear should know nothing whatever about it_.

Mr. Dog was so excited that one day he put salt instead of sugar into the pudding and never knew the difference till he and Mr. Bear sat down to dessert together. By this time Mr. Bear was better, and soon he was well enough to go coasting, which means that he was well enough to do anything at all that he wanted to.

His actions began to puzzle Mr. Dog. In the first place, Mr. Bear began to make a lot of mysterious trips to the village, and then he was always getting a lot of catalogues, which he was careful to keep locked up. One day Mr. Dog found him measuring the height of the parlor ceiling, and he looked very much embarrassed when asked what he was doing; and yet Mr. Dog hadn’t the slightest idea of what was going on. You see, he was so full of his own plans to surprise Mr. Bear that it never crossed his mind that Mr. Bear might have secret holiday plans of his own. Mr. Dog was chiefly concerned that Mr. Bear shouldn’t find out what _he_ was doing, and, as he was much more careful than poor, dear, blundering Mr. Bear, he never gave his friend the slightest idea of what was in his mind.

After a lot of thinking, Mr. Dog decided to cut the prettiest little Christmas tree you ever saw, that he had found near by in the forest. He would trim it with popcorn and cranberries and little candles, and he would give Mr. Bear a half dozen jars of the finest honey, because Mr. Bear loved honey best of anything, and a big blueberry pie tied up with scarlet ribbon and holly, for Mr. Bear liked blueberry pie next best, and a muffler, a beautiful warm plaid muffler, because Mr. Bear wasn’t stylish but loved to be comfortable. Oh, yes, and a white and gold book for the parlor table. Mr. Dog didn’t care at all what was inside the book, but he wanted a very handsome cover. It would look awfully well under the best lamp, and as the only book in the house was a cook-book, Mr. Dog felt it would lend quite an air to the whole cottage, and was, in a way, really needed. To do all this would take every penny Mr. Dog had earned, but Mr. Dog did not grudge a single cent of his hoard.

Mr. Bear didn’t tell anybody of his plan, and Mr. Dog didn’t tell anybody either. They both gave very good reasons for refusing a number of invitations that they received for Christmas parties; Mr. Bear, looking very wise, said he felt rather old for romping about, just a quiet evening in slippers at home for him; and Mr. Dog said what with the mumps and all he was so behindhand with his work that he thought he would rather spend a quiet day at home, with slippers and a comfortable chair before the fire in the evening.

But what were they going to do about Christmas, their friends asked.