It was the time of year when the store windows are mighty interesting. Plotner's bakery, that away, 'way back in the summer-time, was an ice-cream saloon, showed a plaster man in the window, with long, white whiskers, in top boots and a brown coat and peaked hat, all trimmed with fur, and carrying a little pinetree with arsenical foliage. Over his head dangled a thicket of canes hanging by their crooks from a twine string stretched across. They were made of candy striped spirally in red and white. There were candy men and women in the window, and chocolate mice with red eyes, and a big cake, all over frosting, with a candy preacher on it marrying a candy man and lady. The little children stood outside, with their joggerfies, and arithmetics, and spellers, and slates bound in red flannel under their arms, and swallowed hard as they looked. Whenever anybody went in for a penny's worth of yeast and opened the door, that had a bell fastened to it so that Mrs. Plotner could hear in the back room, and come to wait on the customer, the smell of wintergreen and peppermint and lemonsticks and hot taffy gushed out so strong that they couldn't swallow fast enough, but stood there choking and dribbling at the mouth.
Brown's shoe store exhibited green velvet slippers with deers' heads on them, and Galbraith's windows were hung with fancy dressgoods, and handkerchiefs with dogs' heads in the corners; but, next to Plotner's, Case's drug-and-book store was the nicest. When you first went in, it smelled of cough candy and orris root, but pretty soon you could notice the smell of drums and new sleds, and about the last smell, (sort of down at the bottom of things) was the smell of new books, the fish-glue on the binding, and the muslin covers, and the printer's ink, and that is a smell that if it ever gets a good hold of you, never lets go. There were the “Rollo” books, and the “Little Prudy” books, and “Minnie and Her Pets,” and the “Elm Island” series, and the “Arabian Nights,” with colored pictures, and There were skates all curled up at the toes, and balls of red and black leather in alternate quarters, and China mugs, with “Love the Giver,” and “For a Good Boy” in gilt letters on them. Kind of Dutch letters they were. And there were dolls with black, shiny hair, and red cheeks, and blue eyes, with perfectly arched eyebrows. They had on black shoes and white stockings, with pink garters, and they almost always toed in a little. They looked so cold in the window with nothing but a “shimmy” on, and fairly ached to be dressed, and nursed, and sung to. The little girls outside the window felt an emptiness in the hollow of their left arms as they gazed. There was one big doll in the middle all dressed up. It had real hair that you could comb, and it was wax. Pure wax! Yes, sir. And it could open and shut its eyes, and if you squeezed its stomach it would cry, of course, not like a real baby, but more like one of those ducks that stand on a sort of bellows thing. Though they all “chose” that doll and hoped for miracles, none of them really expected to find it in her stocking sixteen days later. (They kept count of the days.) Maybe Bell Brown might get it; her pa bought her lots of things. She had parlor skates and a parrot, only her ma wouldn't let her skate in the parlor, it tore up the carpet so, and the parrot bit her finger like anything.
The little boys kicked their copper-toed boots to keep warm and quarreled about which one chose the train of cars first, and then began to quarrel over an army of soldiers.
“I choose them!”
“A-aw! You choosed the ingine and the cars.”
“Dung care. I choose everything in this whole window.”
“A-aw! That ain't fair!”
In the midst of the wrangle somebody finds out that Johnny Pym has a piece of red glass, and then they begin fighting for turns looking through it at the snow and the court-house. But not for long. They fall to bragging about what they are going to get for Christmas. Eddie Cameron was pretty sure he 'd get a spy-glass. He asked his pa, and his pa said “Mebby. He'd see about it.” Then, just in time, they looked up and saw old man Nicholson coming along with his shawl pinned around him. They ran to the other side of the street because he stops little boys, and pats them on the head, and asks them if they have found the Savior. It makes some boys cry when he asks them that.
The Rowan twins—Alfaretta and Luanna May—are working a pair of slippers for their pa, one apiece, because it is such slow work. Along about suppertime they make Elmer Lonnie stay outside and watch for his coming, and he has to say: “Hello, pa!” very loud, and romp with him outside the gate so as to give the twins time to gather up the colored zephyrs and things, and hide them in the lower bureau drawer in the spare bedroom. At such a time their mother finds an errand that takes her into the parlor so that she can see that they do not, by any chance, look into the middle drawer in the farther left-hand corner, under the pillow-slips.
One night, just at supper-time, Elmer Lonnie said: “Hello, pa!” and then they heard pa whispering and Elmer Lonnie came in looking very solemn—or trying to—and said: “Ma, Miss Waldo wants to know if you won't please step over there a minute.”
“Did she say what for? Because I'm right in the midst of getting supper. I look for your pa any minute now, and I don't want to keep him waiting.”
“No 'm, she didn't say what for. She jist said: 'Ast yer ma won't she please an' step over here a minute.' I wouldn't put anythin' on. 'T ain't cold. You needn't stay long, only till... I guess she's in some of a hurry.”
“Well, if Harriet Waldo thinks 'at I haven't anythin' better to do 'n trot around after her at her beck an'.... All right, I'll come.”
The twins got their slippers hid, and Mrs. Rowan threw her shawl over her head, and went next door to take Mrs. Waldo completely by surprise. The good woman immediately invented an intricate problem in crochet work demanding instant solution. Mr. Rowan had brought home a crayon enlargement of a daguerreotype of Ma, taken before she was married, when they wore their hair combed down over their ears, and wide lace collars fastened with a big cameo pin, and puffed sleeves with the armholes nearly at the elbows. They wore lace mitts then, too. The twins thought it looked so funny, but Pa said: “It was all the style in them days. Laws! I mind the first time I took her home from singin' school.... Tell you where less hide it. In between the straw tick, and the feather tick.” And Luanna May said: “What if company should come?” Elmer Lonnie ran over to Mrs. Waldo's to tell Ma that Pa had come home, and wanted his supper right quick, because he had to get back to the store, there was so much trade in the evenings now.
“I declare, Emmeline Rowan, you're gettin' to be a reg'lar gadabout,” said Mr. Rowan, very savagely. “Gad, gad, gad, from mornin' till night. Ain't they time in daylight fer you an' Hat Waldo to talk about your neighbors 'at you can't stay home long enough to git me my supper?”
He winked at the twins so funny that Alfaretta, who always was kind of flighty, made a little noise with her soft palate and tried to pass it off for a cough. Luanna May poked her in the ribs with her elbow, and Mrs. Rowan spoke up quite loud: “Why, Pa, how you go on! I wasn't but a minute, an' you hardly ever come before halfpast. And furthermore, mister, I want to know how I'm to keep this house a-lookin' like anything an' you a-trackin' in snow like that. Just look at you. I sh'd think you'd know enough to stomp your feet before you come in. Luanna May, you come grind the coffee. Alfie, run git your Pa his old slippers.” That set both of them to giggling, and Mrs. Rowan went out into the kitchen and began to pound the beefsteak.
“D' you think she sispicioned anythin'?” asked Mr. Rowan out of one side of his mouth, and Elmer Lonnie said, “No, sir,” and wondered if his Pa “sispicioned anythin”' when Ma said, “Run git the old slippers.”
Mr. Waldo always walked up with Mr. Rowan, and just about that time his little Mary Ellen was climbing up into his lap and saying: “I bet you can't guess what I'm a-goin' to buy you for a Christmas gift with my pennies what I got saved up.”
“I'll just bet I can.”
“No, you can't. It's awful pretty—I mean, they're awful pretty. Somepin you want, too.” How could he guess with her fingering his tarnished cuff buttons and looking down at them every minute or two?
“Well, now, let me see. Is it a gold watch?”
“Nope.”
“Aw, now! I jist set my heart on a gold watch and chain.”
“Well, but it'd cost more money 'n I got. Three or fifteen dollars, mebby.”
“Well, let me see. Is it a shotgun?”
“No, sir. Oh, you just can't guess it.”
“Is it a—a—Is it a horse and buggy?”
“Aw, now, you're foolin'. No, it ain't a horse and buggy.”
“I know what it is. It's a dolly with real hair that you can comb, and all dressed up in a blue dress. One that can shut its eyes when it goes bye-bye.”
Little Mary Ellen looks at him very seriously a minute, and sighs, and says: “No, it ain't that. But if it was, wouldn't you let me play with it when you was to the store?” And he catches her up in his arms and says: “You betchy! Now, I ain't goin' to guess any more! I want to be surprised. You jump down an' run an' ask Ma if supper ain't most ready. Tell her I'm as hungry as a hound pup.”
He hears her deliver the message, and also the word her mother sends back: “Tell him to hold his horses. It 'll be ready in a minute.”
“It will, eh? Well, I can't wait a minute, an' I'm goin' to take a hog-bite right out of YOU!” and he snarls and bites her right in the middle of her stomach, and if there is anything more ticklesome than that, it hasn't been heard of yet.
After supper, little Eddie Allgire teases his brother D. to tell him about Santa Claus. D. is cracking walnuts on a flat-iron held between his knees.
“Is they any Santy Claus, D.?”
“W'y, cert, they is. Who says not?”
“Bunty Rogers says they ain't no sech a person.”
“You tell Bunt Rogers that he's a-gittin' too big fer his britches, an' first thing he knows, he'll whirl round an' see his naked nose. Tell him I said so.”
“Well, is they any Santy Claus?”
“W'y cert. Ain't I a-tellin' you? Laws! ain't you never seen him yet?”
“I seen that kind of a idol they got down in Plotner's winder.”
“Well, he looks jist like that, on'y he's alive.”
“Did you ever see him, D.?”
“O-oh, well! Think I'm goin' to tell everything I know? Well, I guess not.”
“Well, but did you now?”
“M-well, that 'd be tellin'.”
“Aw, now, D., tell me.”
“Look out what you're doin'. Now see that. You pretty near made me mash my thumb.”
“Aw, now, D., tell me. I think you might. I don't believe you ever did.”
“Oh, you don't, hey? Well, if you had 'a saw what I saw. M-m! Little round eyes an' red nose an' white whiskers, an' heard the sleigh bells, an' oh, my! them reindeers! Cutest little things! Stompin' their little feet” Here he stopped, and went on cracking nuts.
“Tell some more. Woncha, please? Ma, make D. tell me the rest of it.”
“Huck-uh! Dassant. 'T wouldn't be right. Like's not he won't put anythin' in my stockin' now fer what I did tell.”
“How'll he know?”
“How'll he know? Easy enough. He goes around all the houses evenings now to see how the young ones act, an' if he finds they're sassy, an' don't mind their Ma when she tells them to leave the cat alone, an' if they whine: 'I don' want to go out an' cut the kindlin'. Why cain't D. do it?' then he puts potatoes an' lumps o' coal in their stockin's. Oh, he'll be here, course o' the evenin'.”
“D' you s'pose he's round here now?” Eddie got a little closer to his brother.
“I wouldn't wonder. Yes, sir. There he goes now. Sure's you're alive.”
“Where?”
“Right over yan. Aw, you don't look. See? There he is. Aw! you're too slow. Didn't you see him? Now the next time I tell you—Look, look! There! He run right acrost the floor an' into the closet. Plain 's day. didn't you see him? You saw him, mother?”
Mrs. Allgire nodded her head. She was busy counting the stitches in a nubia she was knitting for old Aunt Pashy, Roebuck.
“W'y, you couldn't help but see him, didn't you take notice to his white whiskers?”
“Ye-es,” said the child, slowly, with the wide-open stare of hypnosis.
“Didn't you see the evergreen tree he carried?”
“M-hm,” said Eddie, the image taking shape in his mind's eye.
“And his brown coat all trimmed with fur, an' his funny peaked hat? An' his red nose? W'y, course you did.” The boy nodded his head. He was sure now. Yes. Faith was lost in sight. He believed.
“I expect he's in the closet now. Go look.”
“No. You.” He clung to D.
“I can't. I got this flat-iron in my lap, an' wouldn't spill the nut-shells all over the floor. You don't want me to, do you, Ma?”
Mrs. Allgire shook her head.
“Well, now,” said D. “Anybody tell you they ain't sich a person as Santy Claus, you kin jist stand 'em down 'at you know better, 'cause you seen him, didn't you?”
Eddie nodded his head. Anyhow, what D. told him was “the Lord said unto Moses,” and now that he had the evidence of his own eyes—Well, the next day he defied Bunt Rogers and all his works. To tell the plain truth, Bunt wasn't too well grounded in his newly cut infidelity.
In the public schools the children were no longer singing:
“None knew thee but to love thee, thou dear one of my heart; Oh, thy mem'ry is ever fresh and green. The sweet buds may wither and fond hearts be broken, Still I love thee, my darling, Daisy Deane.”
They turned over now to page 53, and there was a picture of Santa Claus just as in Plotner's window, except that he had a pack on his back and one leg in the chimney. This is what they sang:
“Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? Up on the house-top, click, click, click Down through the chimney with good St. Nick.”
Miss Munsell, who taught the D primary, traded rooms with Miss Crutcher, who taught the “a-b Abs.” Miss Munsell was a big fat lady, and she smiled so that the dimples came in both cheeks and her double Chin was doubter than ever, when she told the children what a dear, nice teacher Miss Crutcher was, and how fond she was of them, and wouldn't they like to make a Christmas present to their dear, kind teacher? They all said “Yes, mam.” Well, now, the way to do would be for each child to bring money (if Miss Munsell had smiled at a bird in the tree as she did then, it would have had to come right down and perch in her hand), just as much money as ever they could, and all must bring something, because it would make Miss Crutcher feel so bad to think that there was one little boy or one little girl that didn't love her enough to give her a Christmas present. And if everybody brought a dime or maybe a quarter, they could get her such a nice present. If their papas wouldn't let them have that much money, why surely they would let them have a penny, wouldn't they, children? And the children said: “Yes, mam.”
“And now all that love their dear, kind teacher, raise their hands. Why, there's a little girl over that hasn't her hand up! That's right, dear, put it up, bless your little heart! Now, we mustn't say a word to Miss Crutcher, must we? No. And that will be our secret, won't it? And all be sure to have your money ready by to-morrow. Now, I wonder if you can be just as still as little mice. I'm going to give this little girl a pin to drop and see if I can hear it out in the hall.”
Then she tiptoed down the hall clear to her own room and Mary Ellen Waldo let the pin drop, and Miss Mussell didn't come back to say whether she heard the pin drop or not. The children sat in breathless silence. Selma Morgenroth knocked her slate off and bit her lip with mortification while the others looked at her as much as to say: “Oh, my! ain't you 'shamed?” Then Miss Crutchet came back and smiled at the children, and they smiled back at her because they knew something she didn't know and couldn't guess at all. It was a secret.
The next morning Miss Crutchet traded rooms again, and the little children gave Miss Mussell their money, and she counted it, and it came to $2.84. The next day she came again because there were three that hadn't their money, so there was $2.88 at last. Miss Mussell had three little girls go with her after school to pick out the present. They chose a silver-plated pickle caster, which is exactly what girls of seven will choose, and, do you know, it came exactly to $2.88?
Then, on the last day of school, Miss Mussell came in, and, with the three little girls standing on the platform and following every move with their eyes as a dog watches his master, she gave the caster to Miss Crutchet and Miss Crutchet cried, she was so surprised. They were tears of joy, she said. After that, she went into Miss Munsell's room, and three little girls in there gave Miss Mussell a copy of Tennyson's poems that cost exactly $2.53, which was what Miss Crutchet had collected, and Miss Mussell cried because she was so surprised. How they could guess that she wanted a copy of Tennyson's poems, she couldn't think, but she would always keep the book and prize it because her dear pupils had given it to her. And just as Selma Morgenroth called out to the monitor, Charley Freer, who sat in Miss Crutchers chair, while she was absent: “Teacher! Make Miky Ryan he should ka-vit a-pullin' at my hair yet!” and the school was laughing because she called Charley Freer “teacher,” in came Miss Crutchet as cross as anything, and boxed Miky Ryan's ears and shook Selma Morgenroth for making so much noise. They didn't give anything, though they promised they would.
It was not alone in the day schools that there were extra preparations. The Sunday-schools were getting ready, too, and when Janey Pettit came home and told her Pa how big her class was, he started to say something, but her Ma shook her head at him and he looked very serious and seemed to be trying hard not to smile. He was very much interested, though, when she told him that Iky Morgenroth, whose father kept the One-Price Clothing House down on Main Street, had joined, and how he didn't know enough to take his hat off when he came into church. Patsy Gubbins and Miky Ryan and six boys from the Baptist Sunday-School had joined, too, and they all went into Miss Sarepta Downey's class, so that she had two whole pews full to teach, and they acted just awful. The infant class was crowded, and there was one little boy that grabbed for the collection when it was passed in front of him, and got a whole handful and wouldn't give it up, and they had to twist the money out of his fist, and he screamed and “hollered” like he was being killed. And coming home, Sophy Perkins, who goes to the Baptist Church, told her that there wasn't going to be any Christmas tree at their Sabbath-school. She said that there wasn't hardly anybody out. The teachers just sat round and finally went into the pastor's Bible class. Mr. Pettit said he was surprised to hear it. It couldn't have been the weather that kept them away, could it? Janey said she didn't know. Then he asked her what they were going to sing for Christmas, and she began on “We three kings of Orient are,” and broke off to ask him what “Orient” meant, and he told her that Orient was out on the Sunbury pike, about three miles this side of Olive Green, and her Ma said: “Lester Pettit, I wish't you'd ever grow up and learn how to behave yourself. Why, honey, it means the East. The three wise men came from the East, don't you mind?”
At the Centre Street M. E. Church, where Janey Pettit went to Sunday-school, there were big doings. Little Lycurgus Emerson, whose mother sent him down to Littell's in a hurry for two pounds of brown sugar, and who had already been an hour and a half getting past Plotner's and Case's, heard Brother Littell and Abel Horn talking over what they had decided at the “fishery meetin'.” (By the time Curg got so that he shaved, he knew that “officiary” was the right way to say it, just as “certificate” is the right way to say “stiffcut.”) There was going to be a Christmas tree clear up to the ceiling, all stuck full of candles and strung with pop-corn, and a chimney for Santa Claus to climb down and give out the presents and call out the names on them. Every child in the Sunday-school was to get a bag of candy and an orange, and there were going to be “exercises.” Curg thought it would be kind of funny to go through gymnastics, but, just then, he saw Uncle Billy Nicholson come in, and he hid. He didn't want to be patted on the head and—asked things.
Uncle Billy had his mouth all puckered up, and his eyebrows looked more like tooth-brushes than ever. He put down the list of groceries that Aunt Libby had written out for him, because he couldn't remember things very well, and commenced to lay down the law.
“Such carryin's on in the house o' God!” he snorted. “Why the very idy! Talk about them Pharisees an' Sadducees a-makin' the temple a den o' thieves! W'y, you're a-turnin' it into a theayter with your play-actin' tomfoolery! They'll be no blessin' on it, now you mark.”
“Aunt Libby say whether she wanted stoned raisins?” asked Brother Littell, who was copying off the list on the order book.
“I disremember, but you better send up the reg'lar raisins. Gittin' too many newfangled contraptions these days. They're a-callin' it a theayter right now, the Babtists is. What you astin' fer your eatin' apples? Whew! My souls alive! I don't wonder you grocery storekeepers git rich in a hurry. No, I guess you needn't send 'ny up. Taste too strong o' money. Don't have no good apples now no more anyways. All so dried up and pethy. An' what is it but a theayter, I'd like to know? Weth your lectures about the Ar'tic regions an' your mum-socials, an' all like that, chargin' money fer to git in the meetin' house. I tell you what it is, Brother Littell, the women folks 'd take the money they fritter away on ribbons and artificial flowers an' gold an'costly apparel, which I have saw them turned away from the love-feast fer wearin', an' 'ud give it in fer quarterage an' he'p support the preachin' of the Word, they wouldn't need to be no shows in the meetin' house an' they 'd be more expeerimental religion.”
Abel Horn (Abel led the singing in meeting, and had a loud bass voice; he always began before everybody and ended after everybody) was standing behind Uncle Billy, and Lycurgus could see him with his head juked forward and his eyebrows up and his mouth wide open in silent laughter, very disconcerting to Brother Littell, who didn't want to anger Uncle Billy, and maybe lose his trade by grinning in his face.
“An' now you got to go an' put up a Christmas tree right in the altar,” stormed Uncle Billy, “an' dike it all out with pop-corn an' candles. You're gittin' as bad 's the Catholics, every bit. Worse, I say, becuz they never had the Gospel light, an' is jist led round by the priest an' have to pay to git their sins forgive. But you, you're a-walkin' right smack dab into it, weth your eyes open, teachin' fer Gospel the inventions o' men.”
“W'y what, Uncle Billy?”
“W'y, this here Santy Claus a-climbin' down a chimley an' a-cuttin' up didoes fer to make them little ones think they is a reel Santy Claus 'cuz they seen him to the meetin' house. Poot soon when they git a little older 'n' they find out how you been afoolin' 'em about Santy Claus, they'll wonder if what you been a-tellin' 'em about the Good Man ain't off o' the same bolt o' goods, an' another one o' them cunningly devised fables. Think they'll come any blessin' on tellin' a lie? An' a-actin' it out? No, sir. No, sir. Ain't ary good thing to a lie, no way you kin fix it. How kin they be? Who's the father of lies? W'y the Old Scratch! That's who. An' here you go a—”
The old man was so wroth that he couldn't finish and turned and stamped out, slamming the door after him.
Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before he mildly observed “Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like.”
“Righteous mad, I s'pose,” said Abel Horn.
“You waited on yit, bub?” asked Brother Littell. “I betchy he's a-thinkin' right now he'll take his letter out o' Centre Street an' go to the Barefoot Church. He would, too, if 't wasn't clean plumb at the fur end o' town an' a reg'lar mud-hole to git there.”
“Pity him an' a few more of 'em up in the Amen corner wouldn't go,” said Abel Horn. “Mind the time we sung, 'There is a Stream?' You know they's a solo in it fer the soprano. Well, 't is kind o' operatic an' skallyhootin' up an' down the scale. I give the solo to Tilly Wilkerson an' if that old skeezicks didn't beller right out in the middle of it: 'It's a disgrace tud Divine service!' He did. You could 'a' heard him clear to the court-house. My! I thought I'd go up. Tilly, she was kind o' scared an' trimbly, but she stuck to it like a major. Said afterwards she'd 'a' finished that solo if it was the last act she ever done.”
“Who's a-goin' to be Santy Claus?” asked Brother Littell, with cheerful irrevelance.
“The committee thought that had better be kept a secret,” replied Abel, with as much dignity as his four feet nine would admit of.
“Ort to be somebody kind o' heavy-set, ort n't it?” hinted the grocer, giving a recognizable description of himself.
“Well, I don' know 'bout that,” contested Abel. “Git somebody kind o' spry an' he could pad out weth a pilfer. A pussy man 'd find it rather onhandy comin' down that chimbly an' hoppin' hether an' yan takin' things off o' the tree. Need somebody with a good strong voice, too, to call off the names.... Woosh's you'd git them things up to the house soon 's you kin, Otho. Ma's in a hurry fer 'em.”
“Betchy two cents,” said Brother Littell to his clerk, Clarence Bowersox, “'at Abel Horn 'll be Santy Claus.”
“Git out!” doubted Clarence.
“'Ll, you see now. He's the daggonedest feller to crowd himself in an' be the head leader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more call to be Santy Claus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Little, dried-up runt, bald 's a apple. Told me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inch tell I was sixteen 'n' then I shot up like a weed.'... Bub, you tell yer Ma if she wants a turkey fer Christmas she better be gittin' her order in right quick.”
Only six more days till Christmas now—only five—only four—only three—only two—Christmas Eve. One day more of holding in such swelling secrets, and some of the young folks would have popped right wide open. Families gather about the Franklin stove, Pa and Ma gaping and rubbing their eyes—saying, “Oh, hum!” and making out that they are just plumb perishing for the lack of sleep. But the children cannot take the hint. They don't want to go to bed. The imminence of a great event nerves them in their hopeless fight against the hosts of Nod. They sit and stare with bulging eyes at the red coals and dancing flames, spurting out here and there like tiny sabers.
The mystic hour draws near. Sometime in the night will come the jingle of silver bells, and the patter of tiny hoofs. Old Santa will halloo: “Whoa!” and come sliding down the chimney. The drowsing heads, fuddled with weariness, wrestle clumsily with the problem, “How is he to get through the stove without burning himself?” Reason falters and Faith triumphs. It would be done somehow, and then the reindeer would fly to the next house, and the next, and so on, and so on. The mystic hour draws near. Like a tidal wave it rolls around the world, foaming at its crest in a golden spray of gifts and love. The mystic hour.
“Oh, just a little longer, just a little longer.”
“No, no. You cain't hardly prop your eyes open now. Come now. Get to bed. Now, Elmer Lonnie; now, Mary Ellen; now, Janey; now, Eddie; now, Lycurgus. Don't be naughty at the last minute and say, 'I don't want to,' or else Santa Claus won't come a-near. No, sir.”
After the last drink of water and the last “Now I lay me,” a long pause.... Then from the spare bedroom the loud rustling of stiff paper, the snap of broken, string, and whispers of, “Won't her eyes stick out when she sees that!” and, “He's been just fretting for a sled; I'm so glad it was so 't we could get it for him,” and, “I s'pose we ort n't to spent so much, but seems like with such nice young ones 's we've got 't ain't no more 'n right we should do for 'em all we can afford, 'n' mebby a little more. Janey 's 'stiffcut' said she was 100 in everything, deportment an' all.”
At one house something white slips down the staircase to where a good view can be had through the half-open parlor door. It pauses when a step cracks loudly in the stillness. The parlor door is slammed to.
“D' you think he saw?”
“I don't know. I'm afraid so. Little tyke!”
Something white creeps back and crawls into bed. A heart thumps violently under the covers, and two big, round eyes stare up at the dark ceiling. Somebody has eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and the gates of Eden have shut behind him forever.
He does not sense that now; he is glad in the exulting consciousness that he is “a little kid” no longer. Pretty soon he'll be a man, and then.... and then.... Oh, what grand things are to happen then!
The mutual gifts are brought out with many a shamefaced: “It looks awful little, but 't was the best I could do for the money. You see I spent more on the children than I lotted to,” and many a cheerful fib of: “Why, that's exactly what I've been wishing for.” Some poor fools, that have never learned and never will learn that the truest word ever spoken is: “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” make their husbands a present of a parlor lamp or a pair of lace curtains, and their wives a present of a sack of flour, or enough muslin to make half a dozen shirts. And there are deeper depths. There are such words as: “What possessed you to buy me that old thing? Well, I won't have it! Now!” The stove-door is slammed open and the gift crammed in upon the coals, and two people sit there with lips puffed out, chests heaving and hearts burning with hate.
It is the truth, but cover it up. Cover it up. Turn away the head. On this Holy Night of Illusion let us forget the truth for once. There are three hundred and sixty-four other nights in which to consider the eternal verities. On this one, let us be as little children. “Let us now go even to Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass.”
The mystic hour draws nigh. The lights go out, one by one. The watchman at the flax mills rings the bell, and they that are waking count the strokes that tremble in the frosty air. Eleven o'clock. Father and mother sit silent by the fire. The tree in the corner of the room flashes its tinselry in the dying light. A cinder tinkles on the hearth. Their thoughts are one. “He would be nine years old, if he had lived,” murmurs the mother. Their hands grope for each other, meet and clasp. Something aches in their throats. The red coals swell and blur into a formless mass.
The mystic hour is come. The town sleeps. The moon rides high in the clear heavens. The wind sighs in the fir trees. Faint and far-off across the centuries sounds the chant of angels.
The hour is come.
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