BUTTONS AND BOOTS
Itwas the middle of the night. All the Brownies, and Santa Claus, too, were fast asleep in their beds in the Snow Palace at the very tip-top of the North Pole.
It was a cold, frosty night. ‘Whoo-oo-oo! Whoo-oo-oo!’ sang the West Wind round the chimneys, in such a chilly voice, with a tinkle of ice in it, that the Brownies snuggled down under their covers and pulled the bed-quilts up about their ears.
All the Brownies were fast asleep, I said. But, as the great clock in the hall downstairs slowly boomed out the hour of twelve, Brownie Fleetfoot opened his bright black eyes.
‘Ugh! How cold it is!’ shivered Brownie Fleetfoot, trying to roll himself into a ball. ‘It wasn’t so cold when Iwent to bed. I wonder what the Moon is laughing at up there in the sky. He likes to see me freeze, I guess.’
For a great silver Moon, with a broad smile on his face, was looking straight in the window at Fleetfoot, and it did seem as if he were laughing at some joke of his own.
‘I will shut my eyes and count ten,’ said Fleetfoot to himself, ‘and then I will look at the Moon again to see if he is still laughing at me.’
He shut his black eyes with a snap. Slowly he counted up to ten. But when he opened his eyes again he forgot the Moon entirely.
For beside his bed stood a little figure dressed in snowy white. He wore a glittering cap trimmed with a frosty plume, and over his shoulder, like a soldier’s musket, he carried a paint-brush, long and slim.
‘Jack Frost!’ exclaimed Fleetfoot, sitting up in surprise. ‘Jack Frost! What are you doing here? No wonder I was so cold with you standing beside my bed. That was why the Moon laughed in at me, I suppose. He saw you all the while.’
‘Yes, he did,’ nodded Jack Frost, unbuttoning his snowy white coat. ‘How warm it is in here! He watched me slip through the crack in the window. It made him laugh, too, because I have been tickling you with an icicle trying to wake you up. Put on your clothes, Fleetfoot, and come along with me. I have a piece of work for you to do.’
Jack Frost and Santa Claus and the Brownies were old, old friends. Jack Frost was always glad to do Santa Claus a good turn, such as making Christmas Day bright and cold, with plenty of snow and ice for the boys and girls with new snow-shoes and sleds and skates. Onthe other hand, as every one knows, all Brownies, and of course Santa Claus’s Brownies, too, are never so happy as when they are being helpful and kind. These Brownies at the North Pole were quite used to being called upon, day or night, to do some kind or thoughtful act.
Fleetfoot was not surprised, therefore, when he heard that Jack Frost had a piece of work for him to do. He dressed in a twinkling. It took him only a moment to slip into his neat little suit, draw on his pointed Brownie shoes, and pull his scarlet Brownie cap well down over his ears.
‘I am ready,’ he whispered, creeping over to the door.
But Jack Frost laid a chilly little hand on his arm.
‘Bring a bell with you,’ murmured Jack Frost in the Brownie’s ear. ‘You will need to use a bell to-night.’
‘A bell?’ whispered back Fleetfoot. ‘What kind of bell? A dinner bell? A bicycle bell?’
‘No,’ answered Jack Frost, his finger on his lips, ‘a cat’s bell. Hush!’
For Brownie Mischief had flung out his arms and tossed his quilt off on the floor, and Sharpeyes had turned over with a long, long sigh.
Fleetfoot crept on tiptoe into the work-room and without a sound untied a silver bell from the neck of a drowsy white fur cat.
Then he and Jack Frost stole downstairs and out of the house without being seen by a single person except the friendly Moon, who not only smiled as he watched them, but followed them on their journey all the way.
‘Now, we can talk,’ said Jack Frost, as hand in hand they sped over the snow. ‘Let me tell you why I came after you to-night.’
Brownie Fleetfoot nodded his red-capped head. This was just what he wanted to know, of course.
‘In the first place,’ began Jack Frost, ‘Buttons has lost Boots.’
Here he paused for a moment to shift his paint-brush from one shoulder to the other, but Fleetfoot was too wise to interrupt by a question. He knew what a sharp little fellow Jack Frost could be if he wished.
‘Buttons is a little boy,’ went on Jack Frost, taking a tight hold on Fleetfoot’s hand. ‘He has a new winter coat trimmed with brass buttons. And, too, his eyes are as round as buttons and so are his nose and his mouth. All this may be why he is called Buttons. I can’t say. Boots is his cat. It is easy to tell where he gets his name, for he wears a white fur boot on each foot.’
Brownie Fleetfoot didn’t answer, for atthat moment he tumbled headlong into a drift of snow. He lay there kicking until Jack Frost pulled him out and gently shook him to brush him off.
‘Try to keep your eyes open,’ said Jack Frost, tweaking the end of Fleetfoot’s nose. ‘And now come along. I was in Buttons’ front yard to-night painting his maple tree yellow and red,’ continued Jack Frost, ‘and a very pretty tree it is going to be. The night was as quiet as quiet could be, not a sound, when, all of a sudden, out of the door like a flash came Boots and shot off round the house as fast as he could go. He didn’t stop for anything. I could hear the bell on his neck tinkling all the way to the top of Butternut Hill. That is a high hill just back of Buttons’ house. Look out for that ice, Fleetfoot! Do you want to tumble down?’
The little Brownie laughed and shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t hurt me if I did,’said saucy Fleetfoot, but under his breath so that Jack Frost couldn’t hear.
‘In no time at all,’ went on Jack Frost, ‘out of the house came Buttons himself in his night-clothes and no slippers, enough to give him his death of cold. And he started to hunt for Boots.’
‘It is lucky his mother didn’t see him,’ said Fleetfoot. ‘You know how particular mothers are about coats and sweaters and rubbers and all.’
‘Yes, I know,’ answered Jack Frost shortly. Perhaps he thought it was partly his fault that mothers behaved so. At any rate, he didn’t seem pleased. ‘Don’t interrupt, Fleetfoot. Of course Buttons hadn’t heard the bell going up Butternut Hill, so where does he go to look for Boots but round the barn. He thought Boots was after mice, I suppose. Well, I did my best to make Buttons go up Butternut Hill. I whispered in hisear, but he couldn’t understand a word I said. He thought I was the wind blowing. Think of that! Then I rubbed my icicle over his nose and gave his cheeks and his toes a little pinch. But that didn’t help either. He kept walking round and round the barn calling, “Boots! Boots!” and saying, “Ouch!” every time he stepped on a sharp stone with his bare feet.’
‘Poor Buttons!’ murmured Fleetfoot, looking down at his own pointed Brownie shoes that were helping him speed so swiftly over the ground. ‘Poor Buttons! He must have hurt his toes.’
‘Yes, he did,’ answered Jack Frost, a trifle sharply. ‘But I couldn’t help that, you know. Now I am so busy this Autumn weather that I couldn’t spend any more time on him. So I hurried up Butternut Hill, and there at the top, huddled in a tree, sat Boots. The foolish fellowhad dreamed that a dog was chasing him. I heard him say so, talking to himself. There he sat and wouldn’t come down. Dream or no dream, he was afraid that the dog was at the foot of the hill. I pinched him and nipped him on ears and nose and toes, but still he wouldn’t move for me. I find that cats never are friendly with me,’ said Jack Frost thoughtfully, and a trifle sadly, too. ‘They are too fond of the fire and their comfort to like me very well.’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Fleetfoot, trying to be both honest and kind; ‘but you mustn’t mind that, you know. Think how fond of you our reindeer are, and all the Polar Bears. But what is it you want me to do, Jack Frost? You said you had brought me down here to help.’
‘We must send Buttons back to bed as soon as we can,’ was Jack Frost’s answer. ‘I am a little worried about him.He will catch a cold, I am afraid, out in his night-clothes this frosty night. And this is how I want you to help. I thought you could play you were Boots, Fleetfoot. You Brownies can do anything, I know. You could ring your bell and run on ahead and lead Buttons straight up Butternut Hill to where the real Boots sits in a tree. I chose you, Fleetfoot, because you could run so lightly and so fast. Once Buttons has found Boots, he will carry him home to bed. There isn’t anything else that he can do. And that will be the end of it, I hope. Just think of my being so busy to-night and having to stop for a boy and a cat.’
Here Jack Frost shook his paint-brush so impatiently that Fleetfoot skipped along at his side faster than ever before.
‘Don’t I hear Buttons calling?’ asked Fleetfoot presently, as they stopped amoment for breath. ‘I hear some one calling, “Boots! Boots! Boots!”’
‘Yes, that is Buttons’ voice,’ answered Jack Frost; ‘I hear him too. Now I will keep out of the way, for I am afraid of giving Buttons a chill, and you lead him up the hill to Boots as fast as you can go.’
All this seemed great fun to Fleetfoot. He watched the little figure in white creeping round and round the barn calling, ‘Boots! Boots! Come home, Boots!’ Then he pulled from his pocket the silver bell he had taken from the neck of the drowsy white fur cat.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!
Fleetfoot crouched close to the ground and rang the bell at Buttons’ feet.
‘Boots!’ called Buttons with a little jump. ‘Where are you? I hear your bell.’
‘Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!’ called the bell a little farther away, and as Buttonsstarted toward it, Fleetfoot cried, ‘Me-ow!’ in such a natural way that it is no wonder Buttons felt sure it was the voice of the missing Boots.
Round the barn and round the house they went, the bell calling, ‘Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!’ and Buttons following close behind. Up Butternut Hill they climbed, Buttons quite forgetting his tender toes in his eagerness to catch his little friend. Up and up they went. Every time that Fleetfoot cried, ‘Me-ow!’ Buttons would run faster than before.
At last the top of the hill was reached and Fleetfoot and Buttons both spied Boots sitting on the branch of a tree, his eyes gleaming in the darkness like green lamps and every hair standing straight out with excitement and fright.
‘Oh, Boots! Boots!’ cried Buttons, standing at the foot of the tree and stretching up his arms. ‘Come down!Come down! We are all alone. There is no one here but me.’
Fleetfoot wanted to laugh as he peeped from behind the roots of the tree. All alone, were they? Not to mention himself, over the top of a bayberry bush Fleetfoot could see the white plume in Jack Frost’s cap. He had followed them all the way up the hill. Indeed, Boots and Buttons were not alone.
But neither Jack Frost nor Fleetfoot stirred nor made a sign. They both wanted Boots and Buttons to run home at once.
Slowly down the trunk of the tree crept Boots. Tenderly he was gathered into Buttons’ arms. Down the hill started Buttons on his way toward home.
Close behind them came Fleetfoot watching Buttons’ every step.
‘Dear me, those bare toes!’ thought he to himself. ‘How I wish he was safe at home!’
Every time Buttons stepped on a stone and cried, ‘Ouch!’ Fleetfoot winced as if his own tiny toes had been hurt. Brownies are the kindest little people in the world and their hearts are very tender, you must know.
Behind them, lurking in the shadows, marched Jack Frost, carrying his paint-brush like a banner, and stopping now and then to paint a scarlet spray on a bush or to trace with white the leaves of a late wayside flower. Jack Frost felt happy. He had been troubled about Buttons, wandering out in his night-clothes on this frosty night. But now, with the help of Fleetfoot, he had started Buttons toward home. In five minutes, if Buttons kept straight on, the little boy would be tucked snugly in his own warm bed.
But Buttons didn’t keep straight on. Suddenly, to every one’s surprise, he sat down by the side of the road.
‘Ouch! Ouch!’ cried Buttons, rocking to and fro. ‘I have hurt my toe again. Ouch! Ouch! Oh! Oh! I can’t walk another step. Let us stay here, Boots, and go to sleep. I am so tired. We can go home in the morning.’
And burying his face in Boots’ fur, poor, tired Buttons fell fast asleep.
‘This won’t do! This won’t do!’ scolded Jack Frost, hurrying up and shaking his paint-brush as if he would sweep Boots and Buttons down the road. ‘This will never do! Come, Fleetfoot, come! We must get home at once.’
‘Yes, yes,’ answered Fleetfoot soothingly, sitting down beside Buttons and quickly pulling off his own pointed Brownie shoes. ‘See, Jack Frost, I will put my own Brownie shoes on Buttons’ feet. Just like this. Now I will pull Boots down on the ground and climb on his back, so. Whoa, Boots, whoa! Now,Jack Frost, take your icicle and poke Buttons until he wakes. Wake up, Buttons, wake up! Open your eyes! Good! Now, let’s run!’
And, sure enough, off they started. Boots ran like the wind, his bell all a-tinkle, his ears pointing skyward, his tail and his whiskers standing out straight. On his back rode Fleetfoot, holding on by the cat’s collar, and ringing his own bell wildly as he rode. Behind them sped Buttons, the Brownie shoes carrying him over the ground faster than he had ever run before. Close at his side came Jack Frost, poking him with his icicle now and then, though there wasn’t the slightest need.
It was the funniest race the silver Moon had ever looked down upon. No wonder he laughed until the stars all crowded round to see too.
Home at last! Jack Frost gave a greatsigh of relief as Buttons vanished into the house and up the stairs to bed. Boots like a shadow ran at his heels.
‘Just a moment,’ said Jack Frost, as he and Fleetfoot stared up at the dark and silent house, ‘until I see that they are really safe.’
Like a flash Jack Frost disappeared, and when he came back, as suddenly as he had gone, his face was all a-smile.
‘Fast asleep already,’ said he. ‘They were both tired out. Now, Fleetfoot, you must go home. You had better ride back on the Wind, I think. You have run enough for one night. Tell Santa Claus you were a great help. I never could have got those two home if it hadn’t been for you. Good-bye! I must go back to work. This maple tree isn’t half finished. Look at the green leaves I must paint to-night.’
Jack Frost with a flourish of his paint-brushdisappeared among the maple boughs as Fleetfoot climbed upon the shoulder of the friendly West Wind.
They were halfway home, sweeping along through the air, when Fleetfoot suddenly cried out.
‘My shoes!’ cried Fleetfoot. ‘My shoes! I have left them on Buttons’ feet. What will Buttons think in the morning when he sees my Brownie shoes?’
The West Wind didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t know what to say. As for the Moon, he was still smiling. He made Fleetfoot smile too.
‘That is the best thing to do,’ said Fleetfoot. ‘Laugh about it. Probably that is what Buttons will do to-morrow morning when he sees my funny shoes.’
And Fleetfoot was right. That is just what Buttons did.