Part 3

“And with presents,” said Eliza.

“I would like a gun,” said Thomas.

“And I a locket,” said Eliza.

The mother shivered. She put her hands again to her forehead and closed her eyes.

“No,” said she. “There will be no Christmas.”

“But, Susan--”

Susan looked straight at her father. Her answer was final, but it was not rude; it sounded cruel, but the old man was neither hurt nor offended.

“This is my house, father. There can be no tree and no presents. I cannot stand a tree, and I have no money for presents.”

The old man uttered a single “But”--then he said no more. The faces of Thomas and Eliza dropped, but they said nothing. After a while they looked furtively at their grandfather, as though to see how this correcting of his plans affected him. When they saw that tears dropped from his eyes, they looked down upon their plates.

But grandfather was not long sad. He helped Susan to clear the table, then he sat down with the children. When they had finished their sums and had learned their spelling lesson and had read--toes on the stripe in the carpet, backs straight, books held in a prescribed manner--their reading lessons, he drew animals for them and cut rows of soldiers for Thomas and babies for Eliza. Their mother folded the shirts she had finished, laid fresh work on the machine for the morning, and sewed for an hour by hand on a dress for Eliza. Then she bade the children go to bed.

“Are you going to sit up, gran’pap?” she asked, gently.

“A little,” said gran’pap.

“Good-night,” said Susan.

Gran’pap sat by the table for a long time, his head on his hand. Gradually the expression of his face changed from sadness to a grim yet tender determination.

“We will see,” said he aloud.

Then he read a chapter in his Bible and went to bed.

On Saturday gran’pap and the children went chestnutting. Their luck was amazing. After enough chestnuts had been reserved to supply the family’s most extensive needs, there were ten quarts to be sold. With the money they bought ten spools of thread for Susan.

“You’ll get more for your work if you don’t have to pay your money for thread,” said gran’pap.

Susan gave a little gasp. One who did not know her might have thought that she was about to cry. But Susan never cried.

“You oughtn’t to have spent your money for me,” she said.

If gran’pap was disappointed or grieved because Susan had said that the children could have no Christmas, he did not show it. He kept the wood-box full, he drove Mooley along the roadside to find a little late grass, and he heard the children say their lessons. When he was not thus occupied, he was in his little shop across the yard. Thither he had brought from his old home a jig-saw, a small turning lathe, and sundry other carpenter tools. He had here a little stove, and here on stormy days he worked. On pleasant days he made repairs to the house and barn, so that they should be winter-tight.

“The squirrels have thick coats,” said he. “Look out for cold weather!”

As a matter of fact, gran’pap disregarded entirely his daughter’s prohibition. When the children were at school and late at night, gran’pap was at work. He carved the animals for the garden and made the little houses and the cradle and the chessboard, and he gilded walnuts and hickory nuts to hang upon the tree, and popped the corn to make the little balls for the finishing of each branch. It was a long task; gran’pap often sat up half the night. Sometimes he worked in hope, sometimes in despair.

“When she sees it in its grandeur, she will feel different,” said he when he was hopeful.

“Trouble’s got fixed on her mind,” said he when he despaired. “Perhaps she can’t change any more.”

“But I’ll try”--this was the invariable conclusion of grandfather’s meditations. “For the sake of her and these children, I’ll try.”

Several times gran’pap was almost caught. The odor of popcorn was sniffed by Thomas and Eliza, returning a little earlier than usual from school, and a large supply had to be handed over to them. A spot of gilding on gran’pap’s coat was explained with difficulty. For the last days after the great tree had been dragged into the shop and set up gran’pap was in constant fear.

“On Christmas eve, after those children are in bed, I’ll take her over,” planned gran’pap. “I’ll have a light burning. When she sees the tree, she’ll feel different.”

But now Christmas eve was past and Susan had not been led to the little shop. Susan had gone to her room and gran’pap had gone to his and Christmas morning was almost at hand. Gran’pap had never been so miserable.

“She’ll never forgive me,” said he, as he lay down upon his bed and looked up at the stars. “Oh, dear! oh dear!”

At two o’clock gran’pap woke, conscious of a disturbance of mind. He lay for a moment thinking of Susan, then he realized that it was another uneasiness which had disturbed him.

“I left that light burning!” said he, as he sprang out of bed.

He dressed quickly, and went down the stairs into the kitchen. To his consternation the door stood ajar.

“Burglars!” said gran’pap. Then gran’pap stood still. The shop was on the side of Susan’s room; he saw in the dim firelight that Susan’s shawl was gone from its hook.

“Oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap, as he made his way across the yard.

Then he came to another abrupt pause in his progress. He heard a sound, a strange sound, the sound of crying. He tiptoed closer to the door of the shop. Within sat Susan upon a low bench, her head bent low, her hands across her face. He could see her shoulders heave, he could hear the pitiful sound of her sobbing.

Gran’pap was in despair. He did not know what he should do, whether he should go forward or back. It was evident at least that his plan had not been successful.

“She’s never cried before,” said he.

Then, seeing Susan rise, he took a middle course and stepped into the shadow of the little building. Susan did not give another glance at the beautiful tree with its out-stretched arms; she went across the yard, still crying, and into the house.

“She even forgot to lock the door,” said gran’pap, as he went into the shop.

He stood for a moment and looked at the tree.

“We can keep the door locked,” said he, mournfully. “I can give ’em the things another time. Perhaps she would let me give ’em each one thing this morning.”

Then gran’pap heard a stir, the sound of a footstep, the rustle of approaching skirts. He turned and faced the door.

“Susan!” said he.

It was Susan come back, Susan with a burden in her arms. She looked at her father with a start. Her face was different. It was suddenly clear that she had been a beautiful girl. She laid her burden upon the little bench.

“Here is a little rifle that was his father’s,” said she. “And here is a little chain and locket that was mine. You put them under the tree, gran’pap.”

“Oh, Susan!” said the old man.

But Susan was already at the door. There she turned and looked back. Again she was crying, but she was smiling, too. It was plain that for Susan the worst of grief was past.

“Merry Christmas, gran’pap!” said she. “You’d better go to bed.”

“Same to you!” faltered gran’pap.

Then he took the little rifle and the chain and locket in his hands and hugged them to his breast.

“Oh my! oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap. “What will those children do!”

[4] By permission of the author and the “Outlook.”

HOW OLD MR. LONG-TAIL BECAME A SANTA CLAUS[5]

_Harrison Cady_

“No, sir-ree, you don’t catch me giving anything to Christmas charity. No, sir-ree! It’s all nonsense anyway,” said old Mr. Long-Tail as he slammed his door shut with a great bang right in the face of a startled snowbird who had called to solicit a contribution for the Christmas fund for the poor and needy.

Then with a frown he turned, drawing his old padded dressing gown more closely about him, and hobbled over to his large easy-chair before the blazing fire. Seating himself among its cushions he proceeded to pour out a steaming bowl of broth from a copper pot and to help himself to a bit of toast from a trivet before the fire.

“Ha, ha!” he squeaked. “This is pretty snug,” and his lips curled into a satisfied smile as he glanced over to where the boisterous snowflakes were dashing against the window pane.

“Who-o-o! Who-o-o!” whistled the cold North Wind as it rattled the shutters.

“Crackety-crackety,” answered back the leaping flames in the grate with a merry shower of sparks.

Yes, Mr. Long-Tail was snug--very, very snug. His comfortable little house fairly glowed with warmth, and its pantry shelves sagged under their weight of good things. So, on this cold winter’s day, the Day-Before-Christmas, he of all the many forest folk could afford to scoff and shoo away unwelcome callers. For why should he worry about the needy and the cold? His shelves were full and his fire was warm. Besides, did he not have many storehouses filled to overflowing?

But many there were in the great world who were not as free from worry as Mr. Long-Tail. Many days of heavy storms and cruel winds had drifted the snow and covered fields and forests alike with a thick white mantle which, freezing, had made it almost impossible for many little creatures to reach their hidden stores or to find a stray berry.

For weeks past they had been watching and waiting in the hope of better weather. Christmas was drawing near, and they had planned a grand celebration around a great fir tree which grew on a lofty knoll at the very edge of the forest. They had planned to trim it from top to bottom with long garlands of holly, while myriads of blazing candles would glisten and sparkle as they shed their light upon boughs heavily laden with presents.

Then one day came Bad Weather, and with him a great blizzard which howled and shrieked and added huge drifts of snow. The little forest people looked out from their windows to see the blizzard imps dancing in glee, and as days went by they slowly gave up hope of the great Christmas celebration. Many tiny creatures watched their storehouses of provisions gradually disappear under the snow, and each day saw the list of the needy increase.

So the Day-Before-Christmas found every little eye carrying a look of worry and every little voice sobbed: “We can do but little for this Christmas, and that only for the very poor,” all but old Mr. Long-Tail. His eyes held no look of worry. He was in a class by himself, for, as sometimes happens, not any of his storehouses were buried and every snowflake that fell before his door seemed to be instantly whisked away by the North Wind.

And so he sat before his fire and drank his broth and wheezed in his most disagreeable voice: “Christmas! Bah! I’ll have none of it!”

For to explain: Old Mr. Long-Tail was a rat, and a very miserly one at that. In fact, he traced his pedigree directly back to the great family of Miser Rats, who had a habit of gathering hoards of curious things and tucking them away in funny little storehouses where one could find everything from an old button to a bit of brightly colored glass, along with queer dried roots and vegetables. Old Mr. Long-Tail had lived a long time and, as he had likewise inherited the family traits, his storehouses were many.

So he sat all alone the Day-Before-Christmas, buried in his great armchair, and thought only of how very comfortable he was--he, the very richest creature in the great forest. But old Mr. Long-Tail was not happy, for with all his great riches there was one thing more he longed for--that was a certain kind of yellow corn, and that corn was hidden away in a certain corn bin in a certain old barn a goodly distance away.

“Ah! If I only had a little of that fine corn for my Christmas dinner,” sighed old Mr. Long-Tail, for secretly he did intend to celebrate Christmas Day, but all by himself.

Finally he went to the window and peered out. “Whew! It’s a pretty rough day, but I believe I might make it,” he exclaimed as he drew on his big coat and wound his woolen scarf about his neck. Then he threw an empty sack over his shoulder and, buckling on a pair of snowshoes, headed straight for that distant barn.

Reaching it after a very long and difficult trip, he removed his snowshoes and crawled under the old building until he came to a convenient crack in the floor, and raising himself carefully he crept noiselessly within. Everything was silent and deserted except for the groaning of the wind about the eaves. Mr. Long-Tail lost no time in getting across the floor to a large wooden bin beside the wall, and he sped quickly along its side until he came to an opening, and then, with a hurried look over his shoulder, he stepped inside--not inside the bin, but right into a large box trap, the cover of which dropped with a thunderous clap, and old Mr. Long-Tail found himself a prisoner.

It was all so sudden and unexpected that it quite took his breath away. He tried to find a way of escape, but there was no escape for old Mr. Long-Tail. Exhausted, he crouched down and moaned, “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I’m caught! I’m caught!” and his falling tears went splash as they fell on the floor of his prison.

Yes, he was caught, and caught so well that unless something unforeseen happened he was doomed to spend his Christmas Day in that box trap. Poor old Mr. Long-Tail, who had planned to celebrate all alone with a delicious feast!

One hour passed; then another; then many more followed, and Mr. Long-Tail commenced to feel cold and hungry--yes, hungry right in that terrible trap in that well-filled corn bin. He shivered and shivered until the old box trap fairly made the corn rattle.

“Hush! Hush! What’s that?” whispered one little snowbird to another as they huddled under the eaves of the old barn. “I hear sumfin.”

Just then old Mr. Long-Tail gave a low moan.

“Whew!--Someone is in distress,” cried the little snowbirds together as they cocked their heads to one side and listened.

Again came a moan.

“Whew! Some poor soul is in distress and we must help him.”

And those two little snowbirds spread their wings and went whirling down to a window sill, and finding a broken pane they poked their heads in and listened until they heard the sob again.

Then they both peeped loudly: “Who’s there?”

Faintly from the bin came a plaintive cry: “Help! Help! It’s me, poor Mr. Long-Tail.”

The two little snowbirds without hesitation flew right into the old barn and commenced to investigate.

“It’s old Mr. Long-Tail all right,” said one as he spied the tip of the rat’s tail protruding from the end of the box. “Oh! So you are the crabbed old fellow who shooed us away from your door this morning,” said the other upon recognizing Mr. Long-Tail’s voice.

Mr. Long-Tail sobbed: “Set me free, and anything I own is yours.”

“We are going to set you free all right,” cried the little birds, “but we don’t want anything of yours. No, sir. We only accept presents from willing givers, and just to show you, we are going to return good for evil.” And straightway they began to dig those yellow ears of corn from under the old box trap. Suddenly it fell on its side and the cover opened enough for Mr. Long-Tail to slip out. He didn’t stop, and he didn’t even thank those little snowbirds for saving his life. No. He only ran just as fast as his legs would carry him straight for his home.

“My! That was a narrow escape,” he puffed as he bolted his heavy door. “You don’t catch me leaving this snug little house again”; and he stirred the fire and dropped down into his big easy-chair.

For a long, long time he sat and looked into the crackling flames as they danced and leaped up the chimney. Then gradually old Mr. Long-Tail commenced to see strange shapes. Curious visions appeared--visions new and strange; and along with them came troubling thoughts, and, do all he could, he couldn’t shut them out.

As the flames danced they shaped themselves into weird pictures of huddled creatures bent with cold and hunger, as they drew their cloaks about them. He could hear the roar of the winter tempest; he saw lines of empty stockings and heard plaintive calls for food. Then he saw a score of rich storehouses filled to overflowing, with doors heavily barred, while before them walked a grotesque figure, and that figure was turning away groups of starving forest folk. And, last of all, he saw two tiny snowbirds helping someone out of a trap, someone who whined and whimpered and cried: “Help! Help! It’s me, poor Mr. Long-Tail.”

This was too much for him. He jumped suddenly to his feet and cried: “That’s me, a mean old miser, who does nothing for anyone but himself. The poor and needy I turn away, and I don’t even thank those who save my life--me, poor old Miser Long-Tail.”

Ashamed and humbled he sat down again and remained motionless for a long, long time. Then, with a sudden cry of joy, he jumped to his feet and looked at the clock.

“Hurrah! There’s yet time. There are still a few hours left,” he cried as he drew on his coat and, gathering a pile of empty bags together, he disappeared into the night.

The Night-Before-Christmas! That magic hour of all the year when Santa Claus, behind his team of reindeer steeds, rides hither and thither from one chimney top to another. But on this particular night the little creatures of the great forest had given up all hope of any Christmas visitor and were huddled in their beds for warmth. They were fast asleep, dreaming their troubled dreams of empty shelves and stockings. Outside the great world lay covered with ice and snow, for the blizzard had gone on its way and a cold winter moon shone on the hanging icicles.

Then suddenly there came, at the exact hour of twelve, the ringing of a bell. The little people awoke with a start and in excited voices cried: “It’s a Christmas bell! It’s a Christmas bell!”

In a flash they were out of their beds, and, hurriedly dressing, they scampered toward the echoing bell.

And what do you suppose they saw?

A smiling old rat, who, with the aid of his long tail, was ringing the bell! While before him on the ground was spread a wonderful collection of Christmas gifts, and above all was the sign:

PEACE ON EARTH AND GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL! FROM MR. LONG-TAIL.

[5] Reprinted by permission of the author and the “Ladies’ Home Journal.”

THE STORY OF THE FIELD OF ANGELS[6]

_Florence Morse Kingsley_

In the deep valley below Bethlehem an undulating meadow stretches east and west, its grass starred thick with blossoms in the days after the autumn rains. The villagers call it the Field of Angels, though to some it is known as the Place of the Star. In the days of the Cæsars the turrets of Migdol Edar, the shepherds’ watch tower, still looked down upon the place, though shepherds had long ceased to watch their flocks there by night.

Six miles to the north, behind the scarred shoulders of the ravaged hills, lay shamed and desolate Jerusalem. There was no longer a temple therein whither the tribes of Israel could go up to praise and magnify the name of Jehovah. Of all that great and glorious Zion there remained only a place for wailing by a ruined wall.

But flowers bloomed again in the red tracks of the Roman armies, and again there were little children to whom the horrors of that time of death were only as a tale that is told between waking and sleeping. When the sun shines in unclouded heavens, and myriads of flowers wave in the sweet wind, and the lark floods his acres of sky with down-dropping melody, what young thing will lament ruined temples or yet vanished cities, be they never so glorious? And so, the children were plucking the first flowers in the Field of Angels with shouts and laughter.

In the dwarfed shadow of Migdol Edar sat an old man who talked with himself in the midst of his great silver beard, his blue eyes shining like twinkling pools amid the frosty sedge of a winter’s morning. “The young things crop the blossoms like lambs,” he muttered, and stretched his withered hand to gather a tuft of the white, starlike flowers. Then he smiled to see a troop of little ones running toward him fearless as the lambs to which he had likened them.

First came a tall girl of ten, her clear olive cheek shaded by a tangle of curls; she held a flower-crowned baby in each hand. Behind her lagged three or four smaller girls and half a score of boys, shyer and more suspicious than their sisters.

“Good sir, wilt thou gather flowers in the Angel Field?” demanded the tall girl fixing bright, questioning eyes upon the stranger.

“Thou hast said truth, maiden,” answered the old man.

“I have come from over seas to gather them. And I will also tell thee one thing. Seest thou how many blossoms grow in this low valley? There grows a shining thought for every flower; these also would I gather.”

The girl shook her head. “We have found no shining thoughts in this field, honorable stranger,” she said. “Here are star flowers, and blue lilies of Israel, and anemones purple and scarlet. There are no flowers like those of the Angel Field. But I would that we might see the shining things which thou hast gathered.”

“Sit ye down upon the grass, every child of you,” cried the old man, his blue eyes beaming with delight, “and I will show you my shining thoughts, for in truth they are fairer than the flowers which perish in the plucking. See, child, the blue lilies of Israel how they droop and wither, and the star flowers drop their petals like early snow; but I will show you that which can never perish. Look you, children, I was no taller than yon little lad--he with the scarlet tunic; and I wandered with the shepherds in this field--which in those days was known only as the valley of flocks--gathering flowers and minding the paschal lambs. They strayed not far from their mothers. Great Jerusalem was in its latter glory, and a marvelous bright star shone in the heavens. Wise men there were who declared that the star heralded the birth of Israel’s deliverer, He who should be King of kings and Lord even of the Romans. The shepherds talked of these things in the night watches, and I, folded in my father’s abba, listened between dreams.