Part 2

All the long night they sped over the great world leaving joy behind them. They visited the children’s hospitals, where little boys and girls were lying awake, weeping for their mothers, and they quieted them and touched them with joy, and they slept, forgetful of their pain and sorrow. They visited sinful men in prison and softened their hearts, and they stopped at the homes of the rich and bade them remember their poorer brothers.

It was a night to dream of, such as no one else but Santa Claus can ever know again, but at last the pink glow of morning showed in the eastern sky.

“It’s time to be getting home,” said Santa Claus. “We can be seen if we’re out when the day is dawning.”

In a moment they had landed safely on Mr. Grouch’s roof.

“Good-by,” said Santa Claus, as he politely helped his passenger to alight and to shake off the snow and start down the chimney, “and remember, you are never to say you don’t believe in Santa Claus again!”

“Never in all this world!” said Mr. Grouch, in heartfelt tones. “Long live the spirit of Christmas!” He took off his hat and bowed in an old-fashioned, ceremonious manner just before the reindeer leaped into the air and started in the direction of the North Pole.

Mr. Grouch must have slid down the chimney and gone to bed after that, but in the morning he had forgotten all about that part of the adventure.

When the sun was high, the old man-servant knocked at the door and reminded him that breakfast was waiting. Mr. Grouch woke with a start. “A Merry Christmas to you, Andrew,” he shouted.

The old servant ran almost all the way downstairs with never a word. He thought his master must be mad, for he had never heard him give that greeting before in all his thirty years of service.

* * * * *

On Christmas morning I went out to take some toys, to the crippled children’s hospital, and there, coming down the street, whom should I see but old Mr. Grouch, a gayly decorated little Christmas tree over his shoulder, the pockets of his greatcoat bulging with toys and candy, and behind him, trooping merrily along, an endless chain of boys and girls, each with a toy and a bag of candy.

I stood stock-still with surprise and waited for the procession to come up.

“A Merry Christmas to you!” shouted Mr. Grouch, his face glowing from the crisp air, and all the children called out too, “A Merry Christmas!”

“We’re going to take this tree to some fatherless children,” he said: “would you like to come along with us?”

When I found my voice, I explained my errand and, quick as a wink, Mr. Grouch said they would stop at the hospital too, on the way to the other children. So on we went, all together, and everybody smiled and beamed and echoed our joy as soon as they saw us.

It must have been merely my imagination, but Mr. Grouch’s voice sounded to me just like Santa Claus’s as he wished everybody “Merry Christmas!”

He spent the whole day going round from one poor family to another, taking them toys and good cheer and leaving joy everywhere behind him.

Now the most curious part of the story is yet to come, for, would you believe it, Mr. Grouch has grown quite fat and jolly as time has gone by, until now, if you saw him, except for his black coat you would think he was Santa Claus. He has round red cheeks and a shining white beard, and his eyes are no longer cross and snapping; they beam upon every one the whole year round as if they were always saying, “I wish you a Merry Christmas!”

All of which goes to prove that Santa Claus is just as real as we think him, for each one of us can show by our own deeds and words the reality of the Spirit of Christmas.

* * * * *

I stopped.

“Is that all?” asked Alice.

“Yes,” I answered, “the story is finished.”

“And now do you believe in Santa Claus?” said David, looking hard at Alan.

“Yes,” answered the boy, drawing a long breath. “Let’s go up to the play-room and get some of our toys together to take to the hospital children tomorrow. We’ll do it for the sake of the Spirit of Christmas.”

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

A MONTANA CHRISTMAS[3]

_John Clair Minot_

David and Florence Payson live with their parents on a ranch in Montana. The nearest neighbor is a mile away and the nearest town nearly twenty miles; but that does not mean that they are so much out of the world as city children may imagine.

Most city children--and most country children, too, for that matter--count themselves fortunate to have one Christmas a year; but last year David and Florence Payson had two Christmases, and, moreover, they are planning a double Christmas again this year. The double Christmas came about in a very simple way, and it gave them by far the happiest holiday season that they had ever known.

The first of their two Christmases--and perhaps some of us would call it their real Christmas--came on Christmas Eve. There was a tree before the fireplace in the cheery living room, and it was loaded with good things that Mr. Payson had brought from town a few days before. Flashing tinsel and rippling streamers; bright flags and sprigs of crimson holly; golden fruit and candy of all kinds and colors; toys, toys, toys; books and pictures; things to wear and things to eat; and then more toys--all these made the tree very beautiful and wonderful to David and Florence when at last the living-room doors were opened and they were free to rush in. What a happy Christmas Eve they had then! In all the wide land there were perhaps no children who had a merrier time round their tree that night than David and Florence Payson had in the big living room of their lonely ranch house.

They took very few of the presents from the tree that evening. It was enough to admire them, and to dance round and round the tree in search of the treasures hidden among the branches. When the next morning came they were shouting “Merry Christmas!” before their parents were awake, and were at the tree as soon as it was light enough to see.

At breakfast David suddenly asked, “Does everyone have Christmas?”

“Everyone?” repeated Mr. Payson. “Well, I’m afraid some have a good deal more Christmas than others.”

David looked thoughtful. “Do you suppose that family in the log cabin over behind the bluff has any Christmas at all?”

“Perhaps not,” admitted Mr. Payson, and Mrs. Payson suddenly had the air of a person who all at once remembers something very important.

David looked hard at his plate, and then he said:

“Perhaps we ought to take Christmas over to them. We have so much that we can spare a little, can’t we?”

“Of course we can, David,” said his mother promptly. “I’ll fill a big basket with good things, and you and your father can carry it right over.”

But before the basket was filled, a very natural thought came to Florence.

“How can it be Christmas to them without a tree?” she asked.

“They shall have a tree,” said Mr. Payson. “Come, David, we’ll get one right now.”

David and his father found an axe and hurried off to a clump of small pines that grew near the river; there Mr. Payson cut down the most shapely one he could find. When they returned with it, Mrs. Payson and Florence had two baskets ready instead of one. Into the first basket they had put food and clothing. Into the second they had put some of the ornaments and holly that had decorated their own tree, and also a generous part of the fruit, candy and toys.

“Now we’ll be Santa Claus & Co.,” said Mr. Payson. “David, you and Florence can ride old Diamond and drag the tree. I’ve tied a rope to it. I’ll go ahead on General with the baskets.”

That was the way the strange procession set out. There was a light snow on the ground, but not enough to make travel hard, and the two miles were soon crossed. General was faster than Diamond, and a little while before the children reached the cabin they met their father returning.

“I’ve left the baskets on the brow of the hill,” he said. “You can easily drag them down to the door. You two are really Santa Claus & Co., you know.”

So, suddenly and without any warning whatever, Christmas came to the log cabin. The family there had staked out a claim the summer before, and they had little more than the land itself. There were no signs of any holiday celebration anywhere about the shabby little place. It was indeed an amazed man that opened the door to the children’s knock.

“How do you do?” said David. “We’ve brought Christmas!”

“Brought what?” the man said uncertainly.

“We’ve brought Christmas,” repeated David, and he pointed to the tree and to the two big baskets that he and Florence had dragged down the slope to the door.

As he spoke, a woman joined the man at the door; three little children were clinging to her skirts.

“Christmas!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands. “Is this Christmas Day? I declare, we’d lost track of the days altogether! Why, you blessed angels, where did you come from?”

“We’re not blessed angels,” said Florence. “We’re Santa Claus & Co., and we live on the Payson ranch over on the river.”

“Well, well!” said the man. He began to understand what it all meant. “Come right in. I’ll tie the horse.”

David and Florence stamped the snow off and went inside, dragging their gifts. The cabin was so small that they had to cut off the top of the tree before they could stand it up in the room. Then they all joined in hanging up the decorations and the gifts. The three children had said scarcely a word at first, but they grew noisy with happiness as the tree slowly began to display its wonderful fruit before their eyes. Perhaps it was the most beautiful Christmas Day that ever came to three little folk who had not even known that it _was_ Christmas until nearly noon. And when the big parcels of clothing were taken from the tree and opened one by one there were tears of happiness in the grown people’s eyes.

Late that afternoon David and Florence mounted Diamond, waved good-by and rode back to the ranch.

“Which Christmas celebration was the better?” asked their mother, when they had told the story of their visit to the log cabin.

“Both were wonderful,” said David, “but somehow we were even happier there than here.”

“I suppose it was because the first was a getting Christmas and the second was a giving Christmas,” said Florence.

And in that sage remark Florence showed where the richest happiness of the Christmas season lies.

[3] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 12, 1918. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”

THE SECRET CHRISTMAS TREE[4]

_Elsie Singmaster_

In the kitchen of the little house on the mountain-side there was only one sound, the whirring of a sewing-machine. The kitchen was a pleasant place. There was a glowing fire in the stove, a brightly striped rag carpet on the floor, and a red cloth on the table. In three of the four deeply embrasured windows were potted geraniums. By the fourth stood the machine which whirred so busily.

It was Christmas eve, and if a little shawl and sunbonnet and a little boy’s overcoat hanging on pegs behind the door were any sign, there were children in the house. But there was no sign of Christmas; there were no stockings hung before the fire, there was no tree, there were no presents. The mother who turned the machine was making men’s shirts of coarse fabric. To her right on a table lay piles of separate portions of shirts--sleeves, fronts, bands, cuffs; on the floor to her left, a great heap of finished garments. Her bent head was motionless; she was able to shift the material upon which she was working from one side to the other without moving her shoulders or lifting her eyes, so that she seemed to work upon an unending seam. She had set herself the finishing of a certain number of dozen before the New Year, and she had her task almost finished, though it was only Christmas eve.

By the table sat an old man. He had a bright face and blue eyes; one would have said he had still a good deal of the energy and strength of his youth. He was reading the Christmas story in the Bible, but his eyes strayed often from the page, whose contents he knew by heart, to the figure by the machine. Once when the left hand swept to the floor a finished garment he started from his chair. But the right hand was already gathering together the pieces of another, and he sank back.

When the shrill little clock on the mantel struck eleven and the deft hand gathered up still another garment, the old man tiptoed to the door and opened it. He went across the yard and there entered a little shop and struck a match. Then he exclaimed in joy over the product of his own hands.

“It’s the handsomest I ever seen!” said he.

Almost filling the little shop, its proud head bent, its wide arms spread benignantly, stood a Christmas tree, gorgeous, glittering. Each tiny twig was tipped with a white ball; among the branches hung thick clusters of golden fruit. There was no other color; the old gentleman had, it was clear, fine taste in Christmas trees.

Beneath the tree was a village. Into green moss were stuck little tree-like sprigs of pine; scattered about were miniature houses. Here a little horse carved out of wood drew a cart; here a flock of sheep wandered. There was a mill beside a glassy pond--a mill whose wheel, set in the brook in summer-time, would really turn. On one side of the garden stood a full-sized sled, upon it a chess-board, both hand-made, but neatly finished; upon the other side a doll’s cradle with a little squirrel skin cut neatly for a cover, and two necklaces, one of rose hips and one of gourd seeds. Before the garden lay another group of presents--a neatly carved spool-holder and a little pile of skins for muff or tippet.

It was a beautiful sight even to one who had had no hand in the making. But now suddenly the old man’s enthusiasm seemed to fail. He shook his head solemnly and went back to the house.

“I’ll have to tell her soon,” said he. “I’ll have to tell her now.”

Then the clock on the mantel struck twelve, the machine stopped, and the worker got stiffly to her feet. She was a tall, strong person, with a sad, preoccupied face. It was difficult to believe that she was the daughter of the little blue-eyed old man. At once he, too, rose and laid his book on the table. He looked up at the tall figure as though he were a little afraid of it.

“Susan,” said he, “are you tired?”

“Yes,” answered Susan.

“Susan,” the old man began with a little gasp, “I wish you’d--” He looked longingly toward the door which led out toward the little shop.

“You wish I’d what, gran’pap?”

The old man’s courage failed completely.

“I wish you’d go to bed, Susan.”

“I am going,” answered Susan. “Good night, gran’pap.”

When the last sound of Susan’s step had died away, gran’pap put coal on the fire and blew out the light.

“Oh, my! oh my!” said he. “What will she say when she finds it out?”

Then, slowly, forgetting that the lamp burned in the little shop across the yard, he climbed the stairs.

It was almost three months since the subject of Christmas had been broached in the little house. Then, one pleasant October afternoon, when the children left the main road and turned in at the by-road which led toward home, they found gran’pap sitting on the fence. He missed the children, who, dinner-pail and books in hand, walked two miles to the schoolhouse before half-past eight in the morning and did not return until half-past four in the afternoon. Thomas could have covered the distance much more speedily, but little Eliza could not walk fast. Now in October, the sun was already near its setting.

Gran’pap had a knife in his hand and was whittling something very tiny. When the children came in sight, he put both knife and handiwork into his pocket. He greeted them with a cheerful shout, and they smiled at him and came up slowly. Thomas and Eliza took their pleasures very soberly. Though gran’pap had lived with them since spring, they were not yet accustomed to his levity, fascinating as it was.

Eliza took his hand and trotted in a satisfied way beside him. She was a fat little girl, and her old-fashioned clothes made her look like a demure person of middle age. Thomas stepped along on the other side, trying to set each foot as far ahead of the other as gran’pap did.

“Well,” said gran’pap, “here we are!”

“And what,” said Thomas, with a happy skip and a wave of the dinner-pail, “what are we going to do to-night?”

Gran’pap sniffed the sharp air, which promised frost.

“Wait till you hear the chestnuts rattlin’ Saturday!” said he. “I have poles ready for beatin’ ’em, and I made each of you a pair of mittens for hullin’ ’em.”

Saturday’s pleasure, while delectable, was still too far away and too uncertain for Thomas.

“But to-night, gran’pap, what about to-night?”

“To-night,” said gran’pap, solemnly, having approached the greater joy through the less, “to-night we make our plans for Christmas!”

“For Christmas?” said Thomas and Eliza together.

“Why, you act as though you never seen or heard of Christmas!” mocked the old man. “As though you were heathen!”

“We haven’t seen Christmas,” said the little girl.

“I did once,” corrected Thomas. “There was a tree with bright gold things on it and lights. We had it in the house. I guess ’Lizie couldn’t remember; she was very little.” He drew closer to the old man and spoke in a low tone, “He was here still.”

“But last Christmas and the Christmas before. You had a tree then?”

“No,” insisted the little boy.

“Why, there’s trees in plenty!” cried gran’pap. “But perhaps,” added he, hurriedly, “perhaps she couldn’t get any one to cut it for her. But you had presents!”

“The Snyder children had a present,” said little Eliza. “It was a sled, Sandy Claus brought it.”

“But _you_ had presents,” insisted gran’pap.

“No,” said Thomas and Eliza together.

“I guess she was very busy,” said gran’pap, with a frown. Then face and voice brightened. “But this year I’m on hand to cut the tree and I’m on hand to trim the tree.”

The children looked up at him. It was clear that they had not entire faith in gran’pap’s powers.

“And presents,” continued gran’pap. “If you could have your choice of presents, what would you like to have?”

“I would like a gun,” said Thomas.

“I would like--” Little Eliza gave a long, long sigh--“I would like a locket. I saw one in a picture.”

“I do not know what you will get,” said the old man, “but you will get something.”

Then gran’pap hurried his own steps and theirs.

“She’ll be lookin’ for us, children. Mooley’s to be milked and wood’s to be fetched.”

Further progress was swift, for the road descended sharply. Under the shelter of a small cliff-like elevation stood the little house, startlingly white in the thickening darkness. It was a lonely place, entirely out of sight of other houses. Though it was protected from the coldest of the winter winds, it was not out of reach of their mournful sound.

From the kitchen window a bright light shone. Susan lit the lamp by her machine early. They could see her head and shoulders plainly as she bent over her work. At sight of her gran’pap and the children became silent.

“She’s always busy,” said gran’pap, after a moment. “She’s wonderful, she is.”

Thomas and Eliza made no answer. They had had no experience with a mother who was not perpetually busy. Gran’pap began to whistle, as though to warn her of their presence, and she lifted her head and looked out into the dusk. Her face, now as always intensely grave and preoccupied, brightened a little. The company of a grown person must have been a blessing in this quiet spot. For three years Susan had lived here alone with her children.

Gran’pap did not go at once into the house, but took from the bench beside the door a large milk-pail and went to the barn. The children followed him, and stood just inside the door, listening to the milk rattling into the pail. Gran’pap talked to Mooley, complimenting her upon her sleek coat and her beautiful eyes, upon her gentleness, and upon the abundance of her milk. When he had finished, he and the children went into the house together. Thomas took off his cap and Eliza her shawl and sunbonnet, and gran’pap hung them up on the high pegs. Then he looked sorrowfully at the figure before the sewing-machine.

“Ain’t you stopping yet, Susan?”

“I must make one more,” came the answer from the bent head. “The man comes to fetch them to-morrow.”

“But not till afternoon, Susan, and see all you have done!”

Susan made no answer. Stepping quietly, gran’pap poured the milk into crocks, and carried the crocks into the cellar. When he returned, he gave the fire a little shake and began to get supper. He set the table and cut the potatoes and meat for stew, and put the stew on the stove. As he sliced the onion he made queer grimaces to amuse Thomas and Eliza. When a savory odor began to rise, the figure at the machine turned.

“You needn’t ’a’ done that, gran’pap!”

“Oh, yes, Susan. Now when you’re done, supper’ll be ready.”

The machine whirred a little faster, the hands moved a little more swiftly. The sleeves of a shirt were added to the body, the band was put in place. Once Susan sighed, but so quickly did the whirring sound begin once more that the sigh reached the ears of no one but herself.

The two children sat, meanwhile, upon the settle, their school-books in their hands. But they did not study. They pondered upon what gran’pap had said. Gran’pap had brought many miracles to pass. It was possible that he would bring this heavenly one to pass also. Sometimes they whispered to each other.

When the whirring machine stopped and the mother pushed back her chair, gran’pap announced the feast ready. Susan carried the lamp from the machine to the table. She looked wretchedly tired. She rubbed her hand across her forehead, and when she sat down at the table she shielded her eyes from the light.

For once the children did not see that she was tired, for once they burst without thought into speech. Gran’pap’s promise had intoxicated them.

“Gran’pap says we will have a Christmas,” said Thomas, before he had lifted his spoon.

“With a big tree. He will cut it.”