A CHRISTMAS STORY BY FRANÇOIS COPPÉE; ADAPTED AND TRANSLATED BY ALMA J. FOSTER
ONCE upon a time—so long ago that everybody has forgotten the date—in a city in the north of Europe—with such a hard name that nobody can ever remember it—there was a little seven-year-old boy named Wolff, whose parents were dead, who lived with a cross and stingy old aunt, who never thought of kissing him more than once a year and who sighed deeply whenever she gave him a bowlful of soup.
But the poor little fellow had such a sweet nature that in spite of everything, he loved the old woman, although he was terribly afraid of her and could never look at her ugly old face without shivering.
As this aunt of little Wolff was known to have a house of her own and an old woollen stocking full of gold, she had not dared to send the boy to a charity school; but, in order to get a reduction in the price, she had so wrangled with the master of the school, to which little Wolff finally went, that this bad man, vexed at having a pupil so poorly dressed and paying so little, often punished him unjustly, and even prejudiced his companionsagainst him, so that the three boys, all sons of rich parents, made a drudge and laughing stock of the little fellow.
The poor little one was thus as wretched as a child could be and used to hide himself in corners to weep whenever Christmas time came.
It was the schoolmaster's custom to take all his pupils to the midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and to bring them home again afterward.
Now, as the winter this year was very bitter, and as heavy snow had been falling for several days, all the boys came well bundled up in warm clothes, with fur caps pulled over their ears, padded jackets, gloves and knitted mittens, and strong, thick-soled boots. Only little Wolff presented himself shivering in the poor clothes he used to wear both weekdays and Sundays and having on his feet only thin socks in heavy wooden shoes.
His naughty companions noticing his sad face and awkward appearance, made many jokes at his expense; but the little fellow was so busy blowing on his fingers, and was suffering so much with chilblains, that he took no notice of them. So the band of youngsters, walking two and two behind the master, started for the church.
It was pleasant in the church which was brilliant with lighted candles; and the boys excited by the warmth took advantage of the music of the choir and the organ to chatter among themselves in low tones. They bragged about the fun that was awaiting themat home. The mayor's son had seen, just before starting off, an immense goose ready stuffed and dressed for cooking. At the alderman's home there was a little pine-tree with branches laden down with oranges, sweets, and toys. And the lawyer's cook had put on her cap with such care as she never thought of taking unless she was expecting something very good!
Then they talked, too, of all that the Christ-Child was going to bring them, of all he was going to put in their shoes which, you might be sure, they would take good care to leave in the chimney place before going to bed; and the eyes of these little urchins, as lively as a cage of mice, were sparkling in advance over the joy they would have when they awoke in the morning and saw the pink bag full of sugar-plums, the little lead soldiers ranged in companies in their boxes, the menageries smelling of varnished wood, and the magnificent jumping-jacks in purple and tinsel.
Alas! Little Wolff knew by experience that his old miser of an aunt would send him to bed supperless, but, with childlike faith and certain of having been, all the year, as good and industrious as possible, he hoped that the Christ-Child would not forget him, and so he, too, planned to place his wooden shoes in good time in the fireplace.
Midnight mass over, the worshippers departed, eager for their fun, and the band of pupils always walking two and two, and following the teacher, left the church.
Now, in the porch and seated on a stone bench set in the niche of a painted arch, a child was sleeping—a child in a white woollen garment, but with his little feet bare, in spite of the cold. He was not a beggar, for his garment was white and new, and near him on the floor was a bundle of carpenter's tools.
In the clear light of the stars, his face, with its closed eyes, shone with an expression of divine sweetness, and his long, curling, blond locks seemed to form a halo about his brow. But his little child's feet, made blue by the cold of this bitter December night, were pitiful to see!
The boys so well clothed for the winter weather passed by quite indifferent to the unknown child; several of them, sons of the notables of the town, however, cast on the vagabond looks in which could be read all the scorn of the rich for the poor, of the well-fed for the hungry.
But little Wolff, coming last out of the church, stopped, deeply touched, before the beautiful sleeping child.
"Oh, dear!" said the little fellow to himself, "this is frightful! This poor little one has no shoes and stockings in this bad weather—and, what is still worse, he has not even a wooden shoe to leave near him to-night while he sleeps, into which the little Christ-Child can put something good to soothe his misery."
And carried away by his loving heart, Wolff drew the wooden shoe from his right foot, laid it down beforethe sleeping child, and, as best he could, sometimes hopping, sometimes limping with his sock wet by the snow, he went home to his aunt.
"Look at the good-for-nothing!" cried the old woman, full of wrath at the sight of the shoeless boy. "What have you done with your shoe, you little villain?"
Little Wolff did not know how to lie, so, although trembling with terror when he saw the rage of the old shrew, he tried to relate his adventure.
But the miserly old creature only burst into a frightful fit of laughter.
"Aha! So my young gentleman strips himself for the beggars. Aha! My young gentleman breaks his pair of shoes for a bare-foot! Here is something new, forsooth. Very well, since it is this way, I shall put the only shoe that is left into the chimney-place, and I'll answer for it that the Christ-Child will put in something to-night to beat you with in the morning! And you will have only a crust of bread and water to-morrow. And we shall see if the next time, you will be giving your shoes to the first vagabond that happens along."
And the wicked woman having boxed the ears of the poor little fellow, made him climb up into the loft where he had his wretched cubbyhole.
Desolate, the child went to bed in the dark and soon fell asleep, but his pillow was wet with tears.
But behold! the next morning when the old woman,awakened early by the cold, went downstairs—oh, wonder of wonders—she saw the big chimney filled with shining toys, bags of magnificent bonbons, and riches of every sort, and standing out in front of all this treasure, was the right wooden shoe which the boy had given to the little vagabond, yes, and beside it, the one which she had placed in the chimney to hold the bunch of switches.
As little Wolff, attracted by the cries of his aunt, stood in an ecstasy of childish delight before the splendid Christmas gifts, shouts of laughter were heard outside. The woman and child ran out to see what all this meant, and behold! all the gossips of the town were standing around the public fountain. What could have happened? Oh, a most ridiculous and extraordinary thing! The children of the richest men in the town, whom their parents had planned to surprise with the most beautiful presents had found only switches in their shoes!
Then the old woman and the child thinking of all the riches in their chimney were filled with fear. But suddenly they saw the priest appear, his countenance full of astonishment. Just above the bench placed near the door of the church, in the very spot where, the night before, a child in a white garment and with bare feet, in spite of the cold, had rested his lovely head, the priest had found a circlet of gold imbedded in the old stones.
Then, they all crossed themselves devoutly, perceivingthat this beautiful sleeping child with the carpenter's tools had been Jesus of Nazareth himself, who had come back for one hour just as he had been when he used to work in the home of his parents; and reverently they bowed before this miracle, which the good God had done to reward the faith and the love of a little child.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
I DECLARE for 't, to-morrow is Christmas Day an' I clean forgot all about it," said old Ann, the washerwoman, pausing in her work and holding the flatiron suspended in the air.
"Much good it'll do us," growled a discontented voice from the coarse bed in the corner.
"We haven't much extra, to be sure," answered Ann cheerfully, bringing the iron down onto the shirt-bosom before her, "but at least we've enough to eat, and a good fire, and that's more'r some have, not a thousand miles from here either."
"We might have plenty more," said the fretful voice, "if you didn't think so much more of strangers than you do of your own folk's comfort, keeping a houseful of beggars, as if you was a lady!"
"Now, John," replied Ann, taking another iron from the fire, "you're not half so bad as you pretend. You wouldn't have me turn them poor creatures into the streets to freeze, now, would you?"
"It's none of our business to pay rent for them," grumbled John. "Every one for himself, I say,these hard times. If they can't pay you'd ought to send 'em off; there's plenty as can."
"They'd pay quick enough if they could get work," said Ann. "They're good honest fellows, every one, and paid me regular as long as they had a cent. But when hundreds are out o' work in the city, what can they do?"
"That's none o' your business, you can turn 'em out!" growled John.
"And leave the poor children to freeze as well as starve?" said Ann. "Who'd ever take 'em in without money, I'd like to know? No, John," bringing her iron down as though she meant it, "I'm glad I'm well enough to wash and iron, and pay my rent, and so long as I can do that, and keep the hunger away from you and the child, I'll never turn the poor souls out, leastways, not in this freezing winter weather."
"An' here's Christmas," the old man went on whiningly, "an' not a penny to spend, an' I needin' another blanket so bad, with my rhumatiz, an' haven't had a drop of tea for I don't know how long!"
"I know it," said Ann, never mentioning that she too had been without tea, and not only that, but with small allowance of food of any kind, "and I'm desperate sorry I can't get a bit of something for Katey. The child never missed a little something in her stocking before."
"Yes," John struck in, "much you care for yourflesh an' blood. The child ha'n't had a thing this winter."
"That's true enough," said Ann, with a sigh, "an' it's the hardest thing of all that I've had to keep her out o' school when she was doing so beautiful."
"An' her feet all on the ground," growled John.
"I know her shoes is bad," said Ann, hanging the shirt up on a line that stretched across the room, and was already nearly full of freshly ironed clothes, "but they're better than the Parker children's."
"What's that to us?" almost shouted the weak old man, shaking his fist at her in his rage.
"Well, keep your temper, old man," said Ann. "I'm sorry it goes so hard with you, but as long as I can stand on my feet, I sha'n't turn anybody out to freeze, that's certain."
"How much'll you get for them?" said the miserable old man, after a few moments' silence, indicating by his hand the clean clothes on the line.
"Two dollars," said Ann, "and half of it must go to help make up next month's rent. I've got a good bit to make up yet, and only a week to do it in, and I sha'n't have another cent till day after to-morrow."
"Well, I wish you'd manage to buy me a little tea," whined the old man; "seems as if that would go right to the spot, and warm up my old bones a bit."
"I'll try," said Ann, revolving in her mind how she could save a few pennies from her indispensablepurchases to get tea and sugar, for without sugar he would not touch it.
Wearied with his unusual exertion, the old man now dropped off to sleep, and Ann went softly about, folding and piling the clothes into a big basket already half full. When they were all packed in, and nicely covered with a piece of clean muslin, she took an old shawl and hood from a nail in the corner, put them on, blew out the candle, for it must not burn one moment unnecessarily, and, taking up her basket, went out into the cold winter night, softly closing the door behind her.
The house was on an alley, but as soon as she turned the corner she was in the bright streets, glittering with lamps and gay people. The shop windows were brilliant with Christmas displays, and thousands of warmly dressed buyers were lingering before them, laughing and chatting, and selecting their purchases. Surely it seemed as if there could be no want here.
As quickly as her burden would let her, the old washerwoman passed through the crowd into a broad street and rang the basement bell of a large, showy house.
"Oh, it's the washerwoman!" said a flashy-looking servant who answered the bell; "set the basket right in here. Mrs. Keithe can't look them over to-night, there's company in the parlour—Miss Carry's Christmas party."
"Ask her to please pay me—at least a part," saidold Ann hastily. "I don't see how I can do without the money. I counted on it."
"I'll ask her," said the pert young woman, turning to go upstairs; "but it's no use."
Returning in a moment, she delivered the message. "She has no change to-night; you're to come in the morning."
"Dear me!" thought Ann, as she plodded back through the streets, "it'll be even worse than I expected, for there's not a morsel to eat in the house, and not a penny to buy one with. Well—well—the Lord will provide, the Good Book says, but it's mighty dark days, and it's hard to believe."
Entering the house, Ann sat down silently before the expiring fire. She was tired, her bones ached, and she was faint for want of food.
Wearily she rested her head on her hands, and tried to think of some way to get a few cents. She had nothing she could sell or pawn, everything she could do without had gone before, in similar emergencies. After sitting there some time, and revolving plan after plan, only to find them all impossible, she was forced to conclude that they must go supperless to bed.
Her husband grumbled, and Katey—who came in from a neighbour's—cried with hunger, and after they were asleep old Ann crept into bed to keep warm, more disheartened than she had been all winter.
If we could only see a little way ahead! All this time—the darkest the house on the alley had seen—helpwas on the way to them. A kind-hearted city missionary, visiting one of the unfortunate families living in the upper rooms of old Ann's house, had learned from them of the noble charity of the humble old washerwoman. It was more than princely charity, for she not only denied herself nearly every comfort, but she endured the reproaches of her husband, and the tears of her child.
Telling the story to a party of his friends this Christmas Eve, their hearts were troubled, and they at once emptied their purses into his hands for her. And the gift was at that very moment in the pocket of the missionary, waiting for morning to make her Christmas happy.
Christmas morning broke clear and cold. Ann was up early, as usual, made her fire, with the last of her coal, cleared up her two rooms, and, leaving her husband and Katey in bed, was about starting out to try and get her money to provide a breakfast for them. At the door she met the missionary.
"Good-morning, Ann," said he. "I wish you a Merry Christmas."
"Thank you, sir," said Ann cheerfully; "the same to yourself."
"Have you been to breakfast already?" asked the missionary.
"No, sir," said Ann. "I was just going out for it."
"I haven't either," said he, "but I couldn't bear to wait until I had eaten breakfast before I brought youyour Christmas present—I suspect you haven't had any yet."
Ann smiled. "Indeed, sir, I haven't had one since I can remember."
"Well, I have one for you. Come in, and I'll tell you about it."
Too much amazed for words, Ann led him into the room. The missionary opened his purse, and handed her a roll of bills.
"Why—what!" she gasped, taking it mechanically.
"Some friends of mine heard of your generous treatment of the poor families upstairs," he went on, "and they send you this, with their respects and best wishes for Christmas. Do just what you please with it—it is wholly yours. No thanks," he went on, as she struggled to speak. "It's not from me. Just enjoy it—that's all. It has done them more good to give than it can you to receive," and before she could speak a word he was gone.
What did the old washerwoman do?
Well, first she fell on her knees and buried her agitated face in the bedclothes. After a while she became aware of a storm of words from her husband, and she got up, subdued as much as possible her agitation, and tried to answer his frantic questions.
"How much did he give you, old stupid?" he screamed; "can't you speak, or are you struck dumb? Wake up! I just wish I could reach you! I'd shake you till your teeth rattled!"
If his vicious looks were a sign, it was evident that he only lacked the strength to be as good as his word.
Ann roused herself from her stupour and spoke at last.
"I don't know. I'll count it." She unrolled the bills and began.
"O Lord!" she exclaimed excitedly, "here's ten-dollar bills! One, two, three, and a twenty—that makes five—and five are fifty-five—sixty—seventy—eighty—eighty-five—ninety—one hundred—and two and five are seven, and two and one are ten, twenty—twenty-five—one hundred and twenty-five! Why, I'm rich!" she shouted. "Bless the Lord! Oh, this is the glorious Christmas Day! I knew He'd provide. Katey! Katey!" she screamed at the door of the other room, where the child lay asleep. "Merry Christmas to you, darlin'! Now you can have some shoes! and a new dress! and—and—breakfast, and a regular Christmas dinner! Oh! I believe I shall go crazy!"
But she did not. Joyseldomhurts people, and she was brought back to everyday affairs by the querulous voice of her husband.
"Now I will have my tea, an' a new blanket, an' some tobacco—how I have wanted a pipe!" and he went on enumerating his wants while Ann bustled about, putting away most of her money, and once more getting ready to go out.
"I'll run out and get some breakfast," she said "but don't you tell a soul about the money."
"No! they'll rob us!" shrieked the old man.
"Nonsense! I'll hide it well, but I want to keep it a secret for another reason. Mind, Katey, don't you tell?"
"No!" said Katey, with wide eyes. "But can I truly have a new frock, Mammy, and new shoes—and is it really Christmas?"
"It's really Christmas, darlin'," said Ann, "and you'll see what mammy'll bring home to you, after breakfast."
The luxurious meal of sausages, potatoes, and hot tea was soon smoking on the table, and was eagerly devoured by Katey and her father. But Ann could not eat much. She was absent-minded, and only drank a cup of tea. As soon as breakfast was over, she left Katey to wash the dishes, and started out again.
She walked slowly down the street, revolving a great plan in her mind.
"Let me see," she said to herself. "They shall have a happy day for once. I suppose John'll grumble, but the Lord has sent me this money, and I mean to use part of it to make one good day for them."
Having settled this in her mind, she walked on more quickly, and visited various shops in the neighbourhood. When at last she went home, her big basket was stuffed as full as it could hold, and she carried a bundle besides.
"Here's your tea, John," she said cheerfully, as she unpacked the basket, "a whole pound of it, and sugar, and tobacco, and a new pipe."
"Give me some now," said the old man eagerly; "don't wait to take out the rest of the things."
"And here's a new frock for you, Katey," old Ann went on, after making John happy with his treasures, "a real bright one, and a pair of shoes, and some real woollen stockings; oh! how warm you'll be!"
"Oh, how nice, Mammy!" cried Katey, jumping about. "When will you make my frock?"
"To-morrow," answered the mother, "and you can go to school again."
"Oh, goody!" she began, but her face fell. "If only Molly Parker could go too!"
"You wait and see," answered Ann, with a knowing look. "Who knows what Christmas will bring to Molly Parker?"
"Now here's a nice big roast," the happy woman went on, still unpacking, "and potatoes and turnips and cabbage and bread and butter and coffee and——"
"What in the world! You goin' to give a party?" asked the old man between the puffs, staring at her in wonder.
"I'll tell you just what I am going to do," said Ann firmly, bracing herself for opposition, "and it's as good as done, so you needn't say a word about it. I'm going to have a Christmas dinner, and I'm going to invite every blessed soul in this house to come. They shall be warm and full for once in their lives, please God! And, Katey," she went on breathlessly, before the old man had sufficiently recovered from his astonishmentto speak, "go right upstairs now, and invite every one of 'em from the fathers down to Mrs. Parker's baby to come to dinner at three o'clock; we'll have to keep fashionable hours, it's so late now; and mind, Katey, not a word about the money. And hurry back, child, I want you to help me."
To her surprise, the opposition from her husband was less than she expected. The genial tobacco seemed to have quieted his nerves, and even opened his heart. Grateful for this, Ann resolved that his pipe should never lack tobacco while she could work.
But now the cares of dinner absorbed her. The meat and vegetables were prepared, the pudding made, and the long table spread, though she had to borrow every table in the house, and every dish to have enough to go around.
At three o'clock when the guests came in, it was really a very pleasant sight. The bright warm fire, the long table, covered with a substantial, and, to them, a luxurious meal, all smoking hot. John, in his neatly brushed suit, in an armchair at the foot of the table, Ann in a bustle of hurry and welcome, and a plate and a seat for every one.
How the half-starved creatures enjoyed it; how the children stuffed and the parents looked on with a happiness that was very near to tears; how old John actually smiled and urged them to send back their plates again and again, and how Ann, the washerwoman, was the life and soul of it all, I can't half tell.
After dinner, when the poor women lodgers insisted on clearing up, and the poor men sat down by the fire to smoke, for old John actually passed around his beloved tobacco, Ann quietly slipped out for a few minutes, took four large bundles from a closet under the stairs, and disappeared upstairs. She was scarcely missed before she was back again.
Well, of course it was a great day in the house on the alley, and the guests sat long into the twilight before the warm fire, talking of their old homes in the fatherland, the hard winter, and prospects for work in the spring.
When at last they returned to the chilly discomfort of their own rooms, each family found a package containing a new warm dress and pair of shoes for every woman and child in the family.
"And I have enough left," said Ann the washerwoman, to herself, when she was reckoning up the expenses of the day, "to buy my coal and pay my rent till spring, so I can save my old bones a bit. And sure John can't grumble at their staying now, for it's all along of keeping them that I had such a blessed Christmas day at all."
KATHERINE PYLE
COME now, my dear little stars," said Mother Moon, "and I will tell you the Christmas story."
Every morning for a week before Christmas, Mother Moon used to call all the little stars around her and tell them a story.
It was always the same story, but the stars never wearied of it. It was the story of the Christmas star—the Star of Bethlehem.
When Mother Moon had finished the story the little stars always said: "And the star is shining still, isn't it, Mother Moon, even if we can't see it?"
And Mother Moon would answer: "Yes, my dears, only now it shines for men's hearts instead of their eyes."
Then the stars would bid the Mother Moon good-night and put on their little blue nightcaps and go to bed in the sky chamber; for the stars' bedtime is when people down on the earth are beginning to waken and see that it is morning.
But that particular morning when the little starssaid good-night and went quietly away, one golden star still lingered beside Mother Moon.
"What is the matter, my little star?" asked the Mother Moon. "Why don't you go with your little sisters?"
"Oh, Mother Moon," said the golden star. "I am so sad! I wish I could shine for some one's heart like that star of wonder that you tell us about."
"Why, aren't you happy up here in the sky country?" asked Mother Moon.
"Yes, I have been very happy," said the star; "but to-night it seems just as if I must find some heart to shine for."
"Then if that is so," said Mother Moon, "the time has come, my little star, for you to go through the Wonder Entry."
"The Wonder Entry? What is that?" asked the star. But the Mother Moon made no answer.
Rising, she took the little star by the hand and led it to a door that it had never seen before.
The Mother Moon opened the door, and there was a long dark entry; at the far end was shining a little speck of light.
"What is this?" asked the star.
"It is the Wonder Entry; and it is through this that you must go to find the heart where you belong," said the Mother Moon.
Then the little star was afraid.
It longed to go through the entry as it had neverlonged for anything before; and yet it was afraid and clung to the Mother Moon.
But very gently, almost sadly, the Mother Moon drew her hand away. "Go, my child," she said.
Then, wondering and trembling, the little star stepped into the Wonder Entry, and the door of the sky house closed behind it.
The next thing the star knew it was hanging in a toy shop with a whole row of other stars blue and red and silver. It itself was gold.
The shop smelled of evergreen, and was full of Christmas shoppers, men and women and children; but of them all, the star looked at no one but a little boy standing in front of the counter; for as soon as the star saw the child it knew that he was the one to whom it belonged.
The little boy was standing beside a sweet-faced woman in a long black veil and he was not looking at anything in particular.
The star shook and trembled on the string that held it, because it was afraid lest the child would not see it, or lest, if he did, he would not know it as his star.
The lady had a number of toys on the counter before her, and she was saying: "Now I think we have presents for every one: There's the doll for Lou, and the game for Ned, and the music box for May; and then the rocking horse and the sled."
Suddenly the little boy caught her by the arm. "Oh, mother," he said. He had seen the star.
"Well, what is it, darling?" asked the lady.
"Oh, mother, just see that star up there! I wish—oh, I do wish I had it."
"Oh, my dear, we have so many things for the Christmas-tree," said the mother.
"Yes, I know, but I do want the star," said the child.
"Very well," said the mother, smiling; "then we will take that, too."
So the star was taken down from the place where it hung and wrapped up in a piece of paper, and all the while it thrilled with joy, for now it belonged to the little boy.
It was not until the afternoon before Christmas, when the tree was being decorated, that the golden star was unwrapped and taken out from the paper.
"Here is something else," said the sweet-faced lady. "We must hang this on the tree. Paul took such a fancy to it that I had to get it for him. He will never be satisfied unless we hang it on too."
"Oh, yes," said some one else who was helping to decorate the tree; "we will hang it here on the very top."
So the little star hung on the highest branch of the Christmas-tree.
That evening all the candles were lighted on the Christmas-tree, and there were so many that they fairly dazzled the eyes; and the gold and silver balls, the fairies and the glass fruits, shone and twinkledin the light; and high above them all shone the golden star.
At seven o'clock a bell was rung, and then the folding doors of the room where the Christmas-tree stood were thrown open, and a crowd of children came trooping in.
They laughed and shouted and pointed, and all talked together, and after a while there was music, and presents were taken from the tree and given to the children.
How different it all was from the great wide, still sky house!
But the star had never been so happy in all its life; for the little boy was there.
He stood apart from the other children, looking up at the star, with his hands clasped behind him, and he did not seem to care for the toys and the games.
At last it was all over. The lights were put out, the children went home, and the house grew still.
Then the ornaments on the tree began to talk among themselves.
"So that is all over," said a silver ball. "It was very gay this evening—the gayest Christmas I remember."
"Yes," said a glass bunch of grapes; "the best of it is over. Of course people will come to look at us for several days yet, but it won't be like this evening."
"And then I suppose we'll be laid away for another year," said a paper fairy. "Really it seems hardlyworth while. Such a few days out of the year and then to be shut up in the dark box again. I almost wish I were a paper doll."
The bunch of grapes was wrong in saying that people would come to look at the Christmas-tree the next few days, for it stood neglected in the library and nobody came near it. Everybody in the house went about very quietly, with anxious faces; for the little boy was ill.
At last, one evening, a woman came into the room with a servant. The woman wore the cap and apron of a nurse.
"That is it," she said, pointing to the golden star.
The servant climbed up on some steps and took down the star and put it in the nurse's hand, and she carried it out into the hall and upstairs to a room where the little boy lay.
The sweet-faced lady was sitting by the bed, and as the nurse came in she held out her hand for the star.
"Is this what you wanted, my darling?" she asked, bending over the little boy.
The child nodded and held out his hands for the star; and as he clasped it a wonderful, shining smile came over his face.
The next morning the little boy's room was very still and dark.
The golden piece of paper that had been the star lay on a table beside the bed, its five points very sharp and bright.
But it was not the real star, any more than a person's body is the real person.
The real star was living and shining now in the little boy's heart, and it had gone out with him into a new and more beautiful sky country than it had ever known before—the sky country where the little child angels live, each one carrying in its heart its own particular star.
GRACE MARGARET GALLAHER
BETTY stood at her door, gazing drearily down the long, empty corridor in which the breakfast gong echoed mournfully. All the usual brisk scenes of that hour, groups of girls in Peter Thomson suits or starched shirt-waists, or a pair of energetic ones, red-cheeked and shining-eyed from a run in the snow, had vanished as by the hand of some evil magician. Silent and lonely was the corridor.
"And it's the day before Christmas!" groaned Betty. Two chill little tears hung on her eyelashes.
The night before, in the excitement of getting the girls off with all their trunks and packages intact, she had not realized the homesickness of the deserted school. Now it seemed to pierce her very bones.
"Oh, dear, why did father have to lose his money? 'Twas easy enough last September to decide I wouldn't take the expensive journey home these holidays, and for all of us to promise we wouldn't give each other as much as a Christmas card. But now!" The two chill tears slipped over the edge of her eyelashes."Well, I know how I'll spend this whole day; I'll come right up here after breakfast and cry and cry and cry!" Somewhat fortified by this cheering resolve, Betty went to breakfast.
Whatever the material joys of that meal might be, it certainly was not "a feast of reason and a flow of soul." Betty, whose sense of humour never perished, even in such a frost, looked round the table at the eight grim-faced girls doomed to a Christmas in school, and quoted mischievously to herself: "On with the dance, let joy be unconfined."
Breakfast bolted, she lagged back to her room, stopping to stare out of the corridor windows.
She saw nothing of the snowy landscape, however. Instead, a picture, the gayest medley of many colours and figures, danced before her eyes: Christmas-trees thumping in through the door, mysterious bundles scurried into dark corners, little brothers and sisters flying about with festoons of mistletoe, scarlet ribbon and holly, everywhere sound and laughter and excitement. The motto of Betty's family was: "Never do to-day what you can put off till to-morrow"; therefore the preparations of a fortnight were always crowded into a day.
The year before, Betty had rushed till her nerves were taut and her temper snapped, had shaken the twins, raged at the housemaid, and had gone to bed at midnight weeping with weariness. But in memory only the joy of the day remained.
"I think I could endure this jail of a school, and not getting one single present, but it breaks my heart not to give one least little thing to any one! Why, who ever heard of such a Christmas!"
"Won't you hunt for that blue——"
"Broken my thread again!"
"Give me those scissors!"
Betty jumped out of her day-dream. She had wandered into "Cork" and the three O'Neills surrounded her, staring.
"I beg your pardon—I heard you—and it was so like home the day before Christmas——"
"Did you hear the heathen rage?" cried Katherine.
"Dolls for Aunt Anne's mission," explained Constance.
"You're so forehanded that all your presents went a week ago, I suppose," Eleanor swept clear a chair. "The clan O'Neill is never forehanded."
"You'd think I was from the number of thumbs I've grown this morning. Oh, misery!" Eleanor jerked a snarl of thread out on the floor.
Betty had never cared for "Cork" but now the hot worried faces of its girls appealed to her.
"Let me help. I'm a regular silkworm."
The O'Neills assented with eagerness, and Betty began to sew in a capable, swift way that made the others stare and sigh with relief.
The dolls were many, the O'Neills slow. Betty worked till her feet twitched on the floor; yet sheenjoyed the morning, for it held an entirely new sensation, that of helping some one else get ready for Christmas.
"Done!"
"We never should have finished if you hadn't helped! Thank you, Betty Luther, very,verymuch! You're a duck! Let's run to luncheon together, quick."
Somehow the big corridors did not seem half so bleak echoing to those warm O'Neill voices.
"This morning's just spun by, but, oh, this long, dreary afternoon!" sighed Betty, as she wandered into the library. "Oh, me, there goes Alice Johns with her arms loaded with presents to mail, and I can't give a single soul anything!"
"Do you know where 'Quotations for Occasions' has gone?" Betty turned to face pretty Rosamond Howitt, the only senior left behind.
"Gone to be rebound. I heard Miss Dyce say so."
"Oh, dear, I needed it so."
"Could I help? I know a lot of rhymes and tags of proverbs and things like that."
"Oh, if you would help me, I'd be so grateful! Won't you come to my room? You see, I promised a friend in town, who is to have a Christmas dinner, and who's been very kind to me, that I'd paint the place cards and write some quotation appropriate to each guest. I'm shamefully late over it, my own gifts took such a time; but the painting, at least, is done."
Rosamond led the way to her room, and there displayed the cards which she had painted.
"You can't think of my helplessness! If it were a Greek verb now, or a lost and strayed angle—but poetry!"
Betty trotted back and forth between the room and the library, delved into books, and even evolved a verse which she audaciously tagged "old play," in imitation of Sir Walter Scott.
"I think they are really and truly very bright, and I know Mrs. Fernell will be delighted." Rosamond wrapped up the cards carefully. "I can't begin to tell you how you've helped me. It was sweet in you to give me your whole afternoon."
The dinner-bell rang at that moment, and the two went down together.
"Come for a little run; I haven't been out all day," whispered Rosamond, slipping her hand into Betty's as they left the table.
A great round moon swung cold and bright over the pines by the lodge.
"Down the road a bit—just a little way—to the church," suggested Betty.
They stepped out into the silent country road.
"Why, the little mission is as gay as—as Christmas! I wonder why?"
Betty glanced at the bright windows of the small plain church. "Oh, some Christmas-eve doings," she answered.
Some one stepped quickly out from the church door.
"Oh, Miss Vernon, I am relieved! I had begun to fear you could not come."
The girls saw it was the tall old rector, his white hair shining silver bright in the moonbeams.
"We're just two girls from the school, sir," said Rosamond.
"Dear, dear!" His voice was both impatient and distressed. "I hoped you were my organist. We are all ready for our Christmas-eve service, but we can do nothing without the music."
"I can play the organ a little," said Betty. "I'd be glad to help."
"You can? My dear child, how fortunate! But—do you know the service?"
"Yes, sir, it's my church."
No vested choir stood ready to march triumphantly chanting into the choir stalls. Only a few boys and girls waited in the dim old choir loft, where Rosamond seated herself quietly.
Betty's fingers trembled so at first that the music sounded dull and far away; but her courage crept back to her in the silence of the church, and the organ seemed to help her with a brave power of its own. In the dark church only the altar and a great gold star above it shone bright. Through an open window somewhere behind her she could hear the winter wind rattling the ivy leaves and bending the trees. Yet,somehow, she did not feel lonesome and forsaken this Christmas eve, far away from home, but safe and comforted and sheltered. The voice of the old rector reached her faintly in pauses; habit led her along the service, and the star at the altar held her eyes.
Strange new ideas and emotions flowed in upon her brain. Tears stole softly into her eyes, yet she felt in her heart a sweet glow. Slowly the Christmas picture that had flamed and danced before her all day, painted in the glory of holly and mistletoe and tinsel, faded out, and another shaped itself, solemn and beautiful in the altar light.
"My dear child, I thank you very much!" The old rector held Betty's hand in both his. "I cannot have a Christmas morning service—our people have too much to do to come then—but I was especially anxious that our evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them, and your music has made it so. You have given me great aid. May your Christmas be a blessed one."
"I was glad to play, sir. Thank you!" answered Betty, simply.
"Let's run!" she cried to Rosamond, and they raced back to school.
She fell asleep that night without one smallest tear.
The next morning Betty dressed hastily, and catching up her mandolin, set out into the corridor.
Something swung against her hand as she opened the door. It was a great bunch of holly, glossy greenleaves and glowing berries, and hidden in the leaves a card:
"Betty, Merry Christmas," was all, but only one girl wrote that dainty hand.
"A winter rose," whispered Betty, happily, and stuck the bunch into the ribbon of her mandolin.
Down the corridor she ran until she faced a closed door. Then, twanging her mandolin, she burst out with all her power into a gay Christmas carol. High and sweet sang her voice in the silent corridor all through the gay carol. Then, sweeter still, it changed into a Christmas hymn. Then from behind the closed doors sounded voices:
"Merry Christmas, Betty Luther!"
Then Constance O'Neill's deep, smooth alto flowed into Betty's soprano; and at the last all nine girls joined in "Adeste Fideles." Christmas morning began with music and laughter.
"This is your place, Betty. You are lord of Christmas morning."
Betty stood, blushing, red as the holly in her hand, before the breakfast table. Miss Hyle, the teacher at the head of the table, had given up her place.
The breakfast was a merry one. After it somebody suggested that they all go skating on the pond.
Betty hesitated and glanced at Miss Hyle and Miss Thrasher, the two sad-looking teachers.
She approached them and said, "Won't you come skating, too?"
Miss Thrasher, hardly older than Betty herself, and pretty in a white frightened way, refused, but almost cheerfully. "I have a Christmas box to open and Christmas letters to write. Thank you very much."
Betty's heart sank as she saw Miss Hyle's face. "Goodness, she's coming!"
Miss Hyle was the most unpopular teacher in school. Neither ill-tempered nor harsh, she was so cold, remote and rigid in face, voice, and manner that the warmest blooded shivered away from her, the least sensitive shrank.
"I have no skates, but I should like to borrow a pair to learn, if I may. I have never tried," she said.
The tragedies of a beginner on skates are to the observers, especially if such be school-girls, subjects for unalloyed mirth. The nine girls choked and turned their backs and even giggled aloud as Miss Hyle went prone, now backward with a whack, now forward in a limp crumple.
But amusement became admiration. Miss Hyle stumbled, fell, laughed merrily, scrambled up, struck out, and skated. Presently she was swinging up the pond in stroke with Betty and Eleanor O'Neill.
"Miss Hyle, you're great!" cried Betty, at the end of the morning. "I've taught dozens and scores to skate, but never anybody like you. You've a genius for skating."
Miss Hyle's blue eyes shot a sudden flash at Betty that made her whole severe face light up.
"I've never had a chance to learn—at home there never is any ice—but I have always been athletic."
"Where is your home, Miss Hyle?" asked Betty.
"Cawnpore, India."
"India?" gasped Eleanor. "How delightful! Oh, won't you tell us about it, Miss Hyle?"
So it was that Miss Hyle found herself talking about something besides triangles to girls who really wanted to hear, and so it was that the flash came often into her eyes.
"I have had a happy morning, thank you, Betty—and all." She said it very simply, yet a quick throb of pity and liking beat in Betty's heart.
"How stupid we are about judging people!" she thought. Yet Betty had always prided herself on her character-reading.
"Hurrah, the mail and express are in!" The girls ran excitedly to their rooms.
Betty alone went to hers without interest. "Why, Hilma, what's happened?"
The little round-faced Swedish maid mopped the big tears with her duster, and choked out:
"Nothings, ma'am!"
"Of course there is! You're crying like everything."
Hilma wept aloud. "Christmas Day it is, and mine family and mine friends have party, now, all day."
"Where?"
Hilma jerked her head toward the window.
"Oh, you mean in town? Why can't you go?"
"I work. And never before am I from home Christmas day."
Betty shivered.
"Never before amIfrom home Christmas day," she whispered.
She went close to the girl, very tall and slim and bright beside the dumpy, flaxen Hilma.
"What work do you do?"
"The cook, he cooks the dinner and the supper; I put it on and wait it on the young ladies and wash the dishes. The others all are gone."
Betty laughed suddenly. "Hilma, go put on your best clothes, quick, and go down to your party. I'm going to do your work."
Hilma's eyes rounded with amazement. "The cook, he be mad."
"No, he won't. He won't care whether it's Hilma or Betty, if things get done all right. I know how to wait on table and wash dishes. There's no housekeeper here to object. Run along, Hilma; be back by nine o'clock—and—Merry Christmas!"
Hilma's face beamed through her tears. She was speechless with joy, but she seized Betty's slim brown hand and kissed it loudly.
"What larks!" "Is it a joke?" "Betty, you're the handsomest butler!"
Betty, in a white shirt-waist suit, a jolly red bow pinned on her white apron, and a little cap cocked on her dark hair, waved them to their seats at the holly-deckedtable. "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!"
"Nobody is ill, Betty?" Rosamond asked, anxiously.
"If I had three guesses, I should use every one that our maid wanted to go into town for the day, and Betty took her place." It was Miss Hyle's calm voice.
Betty blushed. It was her turn now to flash back a glance; and those two sparks kindled the fire of friendship.
It was a jolly Christmas dinner, with the "butler" eating with the family.
"And now the dishes!" thought Betty. It must be admitted the "washing up" after a Christmas dinner of twelve is not a subject for much joy.
"I propose we all help Betty wash the dishes!" cried Rosamond Howitt.
Out in the kitchen every one laughed and talked and got in the way, and had a good time; and if the milk pitcher was knocked on the floor and the pudding bowl emptied in Betty's lap—why, it was all "Merry Christmas."
After that they all skated again. When they came in, little Miss Thrasher, looking almost gay in a rose-red gown, met them in the corridor.
"I thought it would be fun," she said, shyly, "to have supper in my room. I have a big box from home. I couldn'tpossiblyeat all the things myself, and if you'll bring chafing-dishes and spoons, and those things, I'll cook it, and we can sit round my open fire."
Miss Thrasher's room was homelike, with its fire of white-birch and its easy chairs, and Miss Thrasher herself proved to be a pleasant hostess.
After supper Miss Hyle told a tale of India, Miss Thrasher gave a Rocky mountain adventure, and the girls contributed ghost and burglar stories till each guest was in a thrill of delightful horror.
"We've had really a fine day!"
"I expected to die of homesickness, but it's been jolly!"
"So did I, but I have actually been happy."
Thus the girls commented as they started for bed.
"I have enjoyed my day," said little Miss Thrasher, "very much."
"Yes, indeed, it's been a merry Christmas." Miss Hyle spoke almost eagerly.
Betty gave a little jump; she realized each one of them was holding her hand and pressing it a little. "Thank you, it's been a lovely evening. Goodnight."
Rosamond had invited Betty to share her room-mate's bed, but both girls were too tired and sleepy for any confidence.
"It's been the queerest Christmas!" thought Betty, as she drifted toward sleep. "Why, I haven't given one single soul one single present!"
Yet she smiled, drowsily happy, and then the room seemed to fill with a bright, warm light, and round thebed there danced a great Christmas wreath, made up of the faces of the three O'Neills, and the thin old rector, with his white hair, and pretty Rosamond, and frightened Miss Thrasher and the homesick girls, and lonely Miss Hyle, and tear-dimmed Hilma.
And all the faces smiled and nodded, and called, "Merry Christmas, Betty, Merry Christmas!"