THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF CHRISTMAS STORIES
    







      By Various
    







      Edited by Asa Don Dickinson and Ada M. Skinner
    




 
 


      PREFACE
    

      Many librarians have felt the need and expressed the desire for a select
      collection of children's Christmas stories in one volume. This books
      claims to be just that and nothing more.
    

      Each of the stories has already won the approval of thousands of children,
      and each is fraught with the true Christmas spirit.
    

      It is hoped that the collection will prove equally acceptable to parents,
      teachers, and librarians.
    

      Asa Don Dickinson.
    


 





 




CONTENTS



  PREFACE 


  (DETAILED) CONTENTS 


  I.   CHRISTMAS AT FEZZIWIG'S
        WAREHOUSE 


  II.   THE
        FIR-TREE* 


  III.   THE
        CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE* 


  IV.   THE
        SHEPHERDS AND THE ANGELS 


  V.   THE
        TELLTALE TILE* 


  VI.   LITTLE
        GIRL'S CHRISTMAS 


  VII.   "A
        CHRISTMAS MATINEE"* 


  VIII.   TOINETTE
        AND THE ELVES* 


  IX.   THE
        VOYAGE OF THE WEE RED CAP 


  X.   A
        STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD* 


  XI.   JIMMY
        SCARECROW'S CHRISTMAS 


  XII.   WHY
        THE CHIMES RANG* 


  XIII.   THE
        BIRDS' CHRISTMAS 


  XIV.   THE
        LITTLE SISTER'S VACATION* 


  XV.   LITTLE
        WOLFF'S WOODEN SHOES 


  XVI.   CHRISTMAS
        IN THE ALLEY* 


  XVII.   A
        CHRISTMAS STAR* 


  XVIII.   THE
        QUEEREST CHRISTMAS* 


  XIX.   OLD
        FATHER CHRISTMAS 


  XX.   A
        CHRISTMAS CAROL 


  XXI.   HOW
        CHRISTMAS CAME TO THE SANTA MARIA FLATS* 


  XXII.   THE LEGEND OF BABOUSCKA*
        


  XXIII.   CHRISTMAS IN
        THE BARN* 


  XXIV.   THE
        PHILANTHROPIST'S CHRISTMAS* 


  XXV.
          THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-TREE 


  XXVI.   THE FIRST NEW ENGLAND
        CHRISTMAS* 


  XXVII.   THE
        CRATCHITS' CHRISTMAS DINNER 


  XXVIII.
             CHRISTMAS IN SEVENTEEN SEVENTY-SIX*
        


  XXIX.   CHRISTMAS
        UNDER THE SNOW* 


  XXX.   MR.
        BLUFF'S EXPERIENCES OF HOLIDAYS* 


 
        XXXI.   MASTER SANDY'S SNAPDRAGON* 


  XXXII.   A CHRISTMAS FAIRY* 



 XXXIII.   THE GREATEST OF THESE*
        


  XXXIV.   LITTLE
        GRETCHEN AND THE WOODEN SHOE* 


  XXXV.
          CHRISTMAS ON BIG RATTLE* 







 





 
 
 


      (DETAILED) CONTENTS
    


        (Note.—The stories marked with a star (*) will be most enjoyed by
        
 younger children; those marked with a two stars (**) are better
        suited 
 to older children.) 
 Christmas at Fezziwig's
        Warehouse. By Charles Dickens 
 * The Fir-Tree. By Hans Christian
        Andersen 
 The Christmas Masquerade. By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
        
 * The Shepherds and the Angels. Adapted from the Bills 
 **
        The Telltale Tile. By Olive Thorne Miller 
 * Little Girl's
        Christmas. By Winnifred E. Lincoln 
 ** A Christmas Matinee. By
        M.A.L. Lane 
 * Toinette and the Elves. By Susan Coolidge 
 The
        Voyage of the Wee Red Cap. By Ruth Sawyer Durand 
 * A Story of the
        Christ-Child (a German Legend for Christmas Eve). As 
 told by 

        Elizabeth Harrison 
 * Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas. By Mary E.
        Wilkins Freeman 
 Why the Chimes Rang. By Raymond McAlden 
 The
        Birds' Christmas (founded on fact). By F.E. Mann 
 ** The Little
        Sister's Vacation. By Winifred M. Kirkland 
 * Little Wolff's Wooden
        Shoes. By Francois Coppee, adapted and 
 translated by 
 Alma J.
        Foster 
 ** Christmas in the Alley. By Olive Thorne Miller 
 * A
        Christmas Star. By Katherine Pyle 
 ** The Queerest Christmas. By
        Grace Margaret Gallaher 
 Old Father Christmas. By J.H. Ewing 

        A Christmas Carol. By Charles Dickens 
 How Christmas Came to the
        Santa Maria Flats. By Elia W. Peattie 
 The Legend of Babouscka.
        From the Russian Folk Tale 
 * Christmas in the Barn. By F. Arnstein
        
 The Philanthropist's Christmas. By James Weber Linn 
 * The
        First Christmas-Tree. By Lucy Wheelock 
 The First New England
        Christmas. By G.L. Stone and M.G. Fickett 
 The Cratchits' Christmas
        Dinner. By Charles Dickens 
 Christmas in Seventeen Seventy-Six. By
        Anne Hollingsworth Wharton 
 * Christmas Under the Snow. By Olive
        Thorne Miller 
 Mr. Bluff's Experience of Holidays. By Oliver Bell
        Bunce 
 ** Master Sandy's Snapdragon. By Elbridge S. Brooks 
 A
        Christmas Fairy. By John Strange Winter 
 The Greatest of These. By
        Joseph Mills Hanson 
 * Little Gretchen and the Wooden Shoe. By
        Elizabeth Harrison 
 ** Big Rattle. By Theodore Goodridge Roberts
        





 





 
 
 


      I. CHRISTMAS AT FEZZIWIG'S WAREHOUSE
    

      CHARLES DICKENS
    

      "Yo Ho! my boys," said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night! Christmas Eve,
      Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up!" cried old Fezziwig
      with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say Jack Robinson...."
    

      "Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with
      wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here!
      Hilli-ho, Dick! Cheer-up, Ebenezer!"
    

      Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't
      have cleared away with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute.
      Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life
      forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel
      was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and
      dry, and bright a ballroom as you would desire to see on a winter's night.
    

      In came a fiddler with a music book, and went up to the lofty desk and
      made an orchestra of it and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs.
      Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Misses Fezziwig,
      beaming and lovable. In came the six followers whose hearts they broke. In
      came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the
      housemaid with her cousin the baker. In came the cook with her brother's
      particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was
      suspected of not having board enough from his master, trying to hide
      himself behind the girl from next door but one who was proved to have had
      her ears pulled by her mistress; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow.
      Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again
      the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various
      stages of affectionate grouping, old top couple always turning up in the
      wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there;
      all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them.
    

      When this result was brought about the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de
      Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top
      couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or
      four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled with;
      people who would dance and had no notion of walking.
    

      But if they had been thrice as many—oh, four times as many—old
      Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As
      to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If
      that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it. A positive light
      appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the
      dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted at any given time what would
      become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all
      through the dance, advance and retire; both hands to your partner, bow and
      courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle, and back again to your place;
      Fezziwig "cut"—cut so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs,
      and came upon his feet again with a stagger.
    

      When the clock struck eleven the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs.
      Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking
      hands with every person individually, as he or she went out, wished him or
      her a Merry Christmas!
    


 












      II. THE FIR-TREE*
    

      *Reprinted by permission of the Houghton-Mifflin Company.
    

      HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
    

      Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir-tree. The place he had was a very
      good one; the sun shone on him; as to fresh air, there was enough of that,
      and round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well as firs. But
      the little Fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.
    

      He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he did not care for
      the little cottage children that ran about and prattled when they were in
      the woods looking for wild strawberries. The children often came with a
      whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them threaded on a straw,
      and sat down near the young tree and said, "Oh, how pretty he is! what a
      nice little fir!" But this was what the Tree could not bear to hear.
    

      At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another year he
      was another long bit taller; for with fir-trees one can always tell by the
      shoots how many years old they are.
    

      "Oh, were I but such a high tree as the others are!" sighed he. "Then I
      should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look into
      the wide world! Then would the birds build nests among my branches; and
      when there was a breeze, I could bend with as much stateliness as the
      others!"
    

      Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds, which morning and
      evening sailed above them, gave the little Tree any pleasure.
    

      In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would often
      come leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh, that made him
      so angry! But two winters were past, and in the third the tree was so
      large that the hare was obliged to go round it. "To grow and grow, to get
      older and be tall," thought the Tree—"that, after all, is the most
      delightful thing in the world!"
    

      In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of the largest
      trees. This happened every year; and the young Fir-tree, that had now
      grown to a very comely size, trembled at the sight; for the magnificent
      great trees fell to the earth with noise and cracking, the branches were
      lopped off, and the trees looked long and bare; they were hardly to be
      recognized; and then they were laid in carts, and the horses dragged them
      out of the woods.
    

      Where did they go to? What became of them?
    

      In spring, when the Swallows and the Storks came, the Tree asked them,
      "Don't you know where they have been taken? Have you not met them
      anywhere?"
    

      The Swallows did not know anything about it; but the Stork looked musing,
      nodded his head, and said: "Yes, I think I know; I met many ships as I was
      flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were magnificent masts, and I
      venture to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir. I may
      congratulate you, for they lifted themselves on high most majestically!"
    

      "Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea! But how does the sea
      look in reality? What is it like?"
    

      "That would take a long time to explain," said the Stork, and with these
      words off he went.
    

      "Rejoice in thy growth!" said the Sunbeams, "rejoice in thy vigorous
      growth, and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!"
    

      And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over him; but the Fir
      understood it not.
    

      When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down; trees which often
      were not even as large or of the same age as this Fir-tree, who could
      never rest, but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and they were
      always the finest looking, retained their branches; they were laid on
      carts, and the horses drew them out of the woods.
    

      "Where are they going to?" asked the Fir. "They are not taller than I;
      there was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and why do they retain
      all their branches? Whither are they taken?"
    

      "We know! we know!" chirped the Sparrows. "We have peeped in at the
      windows in the town below! We know whither they are taken! The greatest
      splendour and the greatest magnificence one can imagine await them. We
      peeped through the windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the warm
      room, and ornamented with the most splendid things—with gilded
      apples, with gingerbread, with toys, and many hundred lights!"
    

      "And then?" asked the Fir-tree, trembling in every bough. "And then? What
      happens then?"
    

      "We did not see anything more: it was incomparably beautiful."
    

      "I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious a career," cried the
      Tree, rejoicing. "That is still better than to cross the sea! What a
      longing do I suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and my
      branches spread like the others that were carried off last year! Oh, were
      I but already on the cart. Were I in the warm room with all the splendour
      and magnificence! Yes; then something better, something still grander,
      will surely follow, or wherefore should they thus ornament me? Something
      better, something still grander, MUST follow—but what? Oh, how I
      long, how I suffer! I do not know myself what is the matter with me!"
    

      "Rejoice in our presence!" said the Air and the Sunlight; "rejoice in thy
      own fresh youth!"
    

      But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and was green both
      winter and summer. People that saw him said, "What a fine tree!" and
      toward Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down. The axe struck
      deep into the very pith; the tree fell to the earth with a sigh: he felt a
      pang—it was like a swoon; he could not think of happiness, for he
      was sorrowful at being separated from his home, from the place where he
      had sprung up. He knew well that he should never see his dear old
      comrades, the little bushes and flowers around him, any more; perhaps not
      even the birds! The departure was not at all agreeable.
    

      The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a courtyard with the
      other trees, and heard a man say, "That one is splendid! we don't want the
      others." Then two servants came in rich livery and carried the Fir-tree
      into a large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hanging on the
      walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese vases
      with lions on the covers. There, too, were large easy chairs, silken
      sofas, large tables full of picture-books, and full of toys worth hundreds
      and hundreds of crowns—at least the children said so. And the
      Fir-tree was stuck upright in a cask that was filled with sand: but no one
      could see that it was a cask, for green cloth was hung all around it, and
      it stood on a large gayly coloured carpet. Oh, how the Tree quivered! What
      was to happen? The servants, as well as the young ladies, decorated it. On
      one branch there hung little nets cut out of coloured paper, and each net
      was filled with sugar-plums; and among the other boughs gilded apples and
      walnuts were suspended, looking as though they had grown there, and little
      blue and white tapers were placed among the leaves. Dolls that looked for
      all the world like men—the Tree had never beheld such before—were
      seen among the foliage, and at the very top a large star of gold tinsel
      was fixed. It was really splendid—beyond description splendid.
    

      "This evening!" said they all; "how it will shine this evening!"
    

      "Oh," thought the Tree, "if the evening were but come! If the tapers were
      but lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps the other trees
      from the forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the sparrows will beat
      against the window-panes! I wonder if I shall take root here, and winter
      and summer stand covered with ornaments!"
    

      He knew very much about the matter! but he was so impatient that for sheer
      longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees is the same thing
      as a headache with us.
    

      The candles were now lighted. What brightness! What splendour! The Tree
      trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire to the foliage.
      It blazed up splendidly.
    

      "Help! Help!" cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the fire.
    

      Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state he was in! He was so
      uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendour, that he was quite
      bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when suddenly both
      folding-doors opened, and a troop of children rushed in as if they would
      upset the Tree. The older persons followed quietly; the little ones stood
      quite still. But it was only for a moment; then they shouted so that the
      whole place reechoed with their rejoicing; they danced round the tree, and
      one present after the other was pulled off.
    

      "What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What is to happen now?" And the
      lights burned down to the very branches, and as they burned down they were
      put out, one after the other, and then the children had permission to
      plunder the tree. So they fell upon it with such violence that all its
      branches cracked; if it had not been fixed firmly in the cask, it would
      certainly have tumbled down.
    

      The children danced about with their beautiful playthings: no one looked
      at the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the branches; but it
      was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that had been
      forgotten.
    

      "A story! a story!" cried the children, drawing a little fat man toward
      the tree. He seated himself under it, and said: "Now we are in the shade,
      and the Tree can listen, too. But I shall tell only one story. Now which
      will you have: that about Ivedy-Avedy, or about Klumpy-Dumpy who tumbled
      downstairs, and yet after all came to the throne and married the
      princess?"
    

      "Ivedy-Avedy!" cried some; "Klumpy-Dumpy" cried the others. There was such
      a bawling and screaming—the Fir-tree alone was silent, and he
      thought to himself, "Am I not to bawl with the rest?—am I to do
      nothing whatever?" for he was one of the company, and had done what he had
      to do.
    

      And the man told about Klumpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who notwithstanding
      came to the throne, and at last married the princess. And the children
      clapped their hands, and cried out, "Oh, go on! Do go on!" They wanted to
      hear about Ivedy-Avedy, too, but the little man only told them about
      Klumpy-Dumpy. The Fir-tree stood quite still and absorbed in thought; the
      birds in the woods had never related the like of this. "Klumpy-Dumpy fell
      downstairs, and yet he married the princess! Yes! Yes! that's the way of
      the world!" thought the Fir-tree, and believed it all, because the man who
      told the story was so good-looking. "Well, well! who knows, perhaps I may
      fall downstairs, too, and get a princess as wife!" And he looked forward
      with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked out again with lights,
      playthings, fruits, and tinsel.
    

      "I won't tremble to-morrow," thought the Fir-tree. "I will enjoy to the
      full all my splendour. To-morrow I shall hear again the story of
      Klumpy-Dumpy, and perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy, too." And the whole night
      the Tree stood still and in deep thought.
    

      In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.
    

      "Now, then, the splendour will begin again," thought the Fir. But they
      dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft; and here in
      a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him. "What's the
      meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What shall I
      hear now, I wonder?" And he leaned against the wall, lost in reverie. Time
      enough had he, too, for his reflections; for days and nights passed on,
      and nobody came up; and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put
      some great trunks in a corner out of the way. There stood the Tree quite
      hidden; it seemed as if he had been entirely forgotten.
    

      "'Tis now winter out of doors!" thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and
      covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I have been put
      up here under shelter till the springtime comes! How thoughtful that is!
      How kind man is, after all! If it only were not so dark here, and so
      terribly lonely! Not even a hare. And out in the woods it was so pleasant,
      when the snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by; yes—even
      when he jumped over me; but I did not like it then. It is really terribly
      lonely here!"
    

      "Squeak! squeak!" said a little Mouse at the same moment, peeping out of
      his hole. And then another little one came. They sniffed about the
      Fir-tree, and rustled among the branches.
    

      "It is dreadfully cold," said the Mouse. "But for that, it would be
      delightful here, old Fir, wouldn't it?"
    

      "I am by no means old," said the Fir-tree. "There's many a one
      considerably older than I am."
    

      "Where do you come from," asked the Mice; "and what can you do?" They were
      so extremely curious. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on the earth.
      Have you never been there? Were you never in the larder, where cheeses lie
      on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances about on
      tallow-candles; that place where one enters lean, and comes out again fat
      and portly?"
    

      "I know no such place," said the Tree, "but I know the woods, where the
      sun shines, and where the little birds sing." And then he told all about
      his youth; and the little Mice had never heard the like before; and they
      listened and said:
    

      "Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you must have been!"
    

      "I?" said the Fir-tree, thinking over what he had himself related. "Yes,
      in reality those were happy times." And then he told about Christmas Eve,
      when he was decked out with cakes and candles.
    

      "Oh," said the little Mice, "how fortunate you have been, old Fir-tree!"
    

      "I am by no means old," said he. "I came from the woods this winter; I am
      in my prime, and am only rather short for my age."
    

      "What delightful stories you know!" said the Mice: and the next night they
      came with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the tree
      recounted; and the more he related, the more plainly he remembered all
      himself; and it appeared as if those times had really been happy times.
      "But they may still come—they may still come. Klumpy-Dumpy fell
      downstairs and yet he got a princess," and he thought at the moment of a
      nice little Birch-tree growing out in the woods; to the Fir, that would be
      a real charming princess.
    

      "Who is Klumpy-Dumpy?" asked the Mice. So then the Fir-tree told the whole
      fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and the little
      Mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next night two more
      Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats, even; but they said the stories were
      not interesting, which vexed the little Mice; and they, too, now began to
      think them not so very amusing either.
    

      "Do you know only one story?" asked the Rats.
    

      "Only that one," answered the Tree. "I heard it on my happiest evening;
      but I did not then know how happy I was."
    

      "It is a very stupid story. Don't you know one about bacon and tallow
      candles? Can't you tell any larder stories?"
    

      "No," said the Tree.
    

      "Then good-bye," said the Rats; and they went home.
    

      At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree sighed: "After all,
      it was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat around me and listened
      to what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take good care to
      enjoy myself when I am brought out again."
    

      But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a quantity of people
      and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the Tree was pulled
      out and thrown—rather hard, it is true—down on the floor, but
      a man drew him toward the stairs, where the daylight shone.
    

      "Now a merry life will begin again," thought the Tree. He felt the fresh
      air, the first sunbeam—and now he was out in the courtyard. All
      passed so quickly, there was so much going on around him, that the Tree
      quite forgot to look to himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all was
      in flower; the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the
      lindens were in blossom, the Swallows flew by, and said, "Quirre-vit! my
      husband is come!" but it was not the Fir-tree that they meant.
    

      "Now, then, I shall really enjoy life," said he, exultingly, and spread
      out his branches; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow. It was in
      a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden star of tinsel
      was still on the top of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.
    

      In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing who had danced at
      Christmas round the Fir-tree, and were so glad at the sight of him. One of
      the youngest ran and tore off the golden star.
    

      "Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas tree!" said he,
      trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet. And
      the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in the
      garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark corner
      in the loft; he thought of his first youth in the woods, of the merry
      Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice who had listened with so much
      pleasure to the story of Klumpy-Dumpy.
    

      "'Tis over—'tis past!" said the poor Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when
      I had reason to do so! But now 'tis past, 'tis past!"
    

      And the gardener's boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a
      whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large
      brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.
    

      The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star on
      his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of his life.
      However, that was over now—the Tree gone, the story at an end. All,
      all was over; every tale must end at last.
    


 












      III. THE CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE*
    

      * From "The Pot of Gold", copyright by Lothrop, Lee & Shepherd Co.
    

      MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    

      On Christmas Eve the Mayor's stately mansion presented a beautiful
      appearance. There were rows of different coloured wax candles burning in
      every window, and beyond them one could see the chandeliers of gold and
      crystal blazing with light. The fiddles were squeaking merrily, and lovely
      little forms flew past the windows in time to the music.
    

      There were gorgeous carpets laid from the door to the street, and
      carriages were constantly arriving and fresh guests tripping over them.
      They were all children. The Mayor was giving a Christmas Masquerade
      tonight to all the children in the city, the poor as well as the rich. The
      preparation for this ball had been making an immense sensation for the
      last three months. Placards had been up in the most conspicuous points in
      the city, and all the daily newspapers had at least a column devoted to
      it, headed with "THE MAYOR'S CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE," in very large letters.
    

      The Mayor had promised to defray the expenses of all the poor children
      whose parents were unable to do so, and the bills for their costumes were
      directed to be sent in to him.
    

      Of course there was great excitement among the regular costumers of the
      city, and they all resolved to vie with one another in being the most
      popular, and the best patronized on this gala occasion. But the placards
      and the notices had not been out a week before a new Costumer appeared who
      cast all the others into the shade directly. He set up his shop on the
      corner of one of the principal streets, and hung up his beautiful costumes
      in the windows. He was a little fellow, not much bigger than a boy of ten.
      His cheeks were as red as roses, and he had on a long curling wig as white
      as snow. He wore a suit of crimson velvet knee-breeches, and a little
      swallow-tailed coat with beautiful golden buttons. Deep lace ruffles fell
      over his slender white hands, and he wore elegant knee buckles of
      glittering stones. He sat on a high stool behind his counter and served
      his customers himself; he kept no clerk.
    

      It did not take the children long to discover what beautiful things he
      had, and how superior he was to the other costumers, and they begun to
      flock to his shop immediately, from the Mayor's daughter to the poor
      ragpicker's. The children were to select their own costumes; the Mayor had
      stipulated that. It was to be a children's ball in every sense of the
      word.
    

      So they decided to be fairies and shepherdesses, and princesses according
      to their own fancies; and this new Costumer had charming costumes to suit
      them.
    

      It was noticeable that, for the most part, the children of the rich, who
      had always had everything they desired, would choose the parts of
      goose-girls and peasants and such like; and the poor children jumped
      eagerly at the chance of being princesses or fairies for a few hours in
      their miserable lives.
    

      When Christmas Eve came and the children flocked into the Mayor's mansion,
      whether it was owing to the Costumer's art, or their own adaptation to the
      characters they had chosen, it was wonderful how lifelike their
      representations were. Those little fairies in their short skirts of silken
      gauze, in which golden sparkles appeared as they moved with their little
      funny gossamer wings, like butterflies, looked like real fairies. It did
      not seem possible, when they floated around to the music, half supported
      on the tips of their dainty toes, half by their filmy purple wings, their
      delicate bodies swaying in time, that they could be anything but fairies.
      It seemed absurd to imagine that they were Johnny Mullens, the
      washerwoman's son, and Polly Flinders, the charwoman's little girl, and so
      on.
    

      The Mayor's daughter, who had chosen the character of a goose-girl, looked
      so like a true one that one could hardly dream she ever was anything else.
      She was, ordinarily, a slender, dainty little lady rather tall for her
      age. She now looked very short and stubbed and brown, just as if she had
      been accustomed to tend geese in all sorts of weather. It was so with all
      the others—the Red Riding-hoods, the princesses, the Bo-Peeps and
      with every one of the characters who came to the Mayor's ball; Red
      Riding-hood looked round, with big, frightened eyes, all ready to spy the
      wolf, and carried her little pat of butter and pot of honey gingerly in
      her basket; Bo-Peep's eyes looked red with weeping for the loss of her
      sheep; and the princesses swept about so grandly in their splendid
      brocaded trains, and held their crowned heads so high that people
      half-believed them to be true princesses.
    

      But there never was anything like the fun at the Mayor's Christmas ball.
      The fiddlers fiddled and fiddled, and the children danced and danced on
      the beautiful waxed floors. The Mayor, with his family and a few grand
      guests, sat on a dais covered with blue velvet at one end of the dancing
      hall, and watched the sport. They were all delighted. The Mayor's eldest
      daughter sat in front and clapped her little soft white hands. She was a
      tall, beautiful young maiden, and wore a white dress, and a little cap
      woven of blue violets on her yellow hair. Her name was Violetta.
    

      The supper was served at midnight—and such a supper! The mountains
      of pink and white ices, and the cakes with sugar castles and flower
      gardens on the tops of them, and the charming shapes of gold and
      ruby-coloured jellies. There were wonderful bonbons which even the Mayor's
      daughter did not have every day; and all sorts of fruits, fresh and
      candied. They had cowslip wine in green glasses, and elderberry wine in
      red, and they drank each other's health. The glasses held a thimbleful
      each; the Mayor's wife thought that was all the wine they ought to have.
      Under each child's plate there was a pretty present and every one had a
      basket of bonbons and cake to carry home.
    

      At four o'clock the fiddlers put up their fiddles and the children went
      home; fairies and shepherdesses and pages and princesses all jabbering
      gleefully about the splendid time they had had.
    

      But in a short time what consternation there was throughout the city. When
      the proud and fond parents attempted to unbutton their children's dresses,
      in order to prepare them for bed, not a single costume would come off. The
      buttons buttoned again as fast as they were unbuttoned; even if they
      pulled out a pin, in it would slip again in a twinkling; and when a string
      was untied it tied itself up again into a bowknot. The parents were
      dreadfully frightened. But the children were so tired out they finally let
      them go to bed in their fancy costumes and thought perhaps they would come
      off better in the morning. So Red Riding-hood went to bed in her little
      red cloak holding fast to her basket full of dainties for her grandmother,
      and Bo-Peep slept with her crook in her hand.
    

      The children all went to bed readily enough, they were so very tired, even
      though they had to go in this strange array. All but the fairies—they
      danced and pirouetted and would not be still.
    

      "We want to swing on the blades of grass," they kept saying, "and play
      hide and seek in the lily cups, and take a nap between the leaves of the
      roses."
    

      The poor charwomen and coal-heavers, whose children the fairies were for
      the most part, stared at them in great distress. They did not know what to
      do with these radiant, frisky little creatures into which their Johnnys
      and their Pollys and Betseys were so suddenly transformed. But the fairies
      went to bed quietly enough when daylight came, and were soon fast asleep.
    

      There was no further trouble till twelve o'clock, when all the children
      woke up. Then a great wave of alarm spread over the city. Not one of the
      costumes would come off then. The buttons buttoned as fast as they were
      unbuttoned; the pins quilted themselves in as fast as they were pulled
      out; and the strings flew round like lightning and twisted themselves into
      bow-knots as fast as they were untied.
    

      And that was not the worst of it; every one of the children seemed to have
      become, in reality, the character which he or she had assumed.
    

      The Mayor's daughter declared she was going to tend her geese out in the
      pasture, and the shepherdesses sprang out of their little beds of down,
      throwing aside their silken quilts, and cried that they must go out and
      watch their sheep. The princesses jumped up from their straw pallets, and
      wanted to go to court; and all the rest of them likewise. Poor little Red
      Riding-hood sobbed and sobbed because she couldn't go and carry her basket
      to her grandmother, and as she didn't have any grandmother she couldn't
      go, of course, and her parents were very much doubled. It was all so
      mysterious and dreadful. The news spread very rapidly over the city, and
      soon a great crowd gathered around the new Costumer's shop for every one
      thought he must be responsible for all this mischief.
    

      The shop door was locked; but they soon battered it down with stones. When
      they rushed in the Costumer was not there; he had disappeared with all his
      wares. Then they did not know what to do. But it was evident that they
      must do something before long for the state of affairs was growing worse
      and worse.
    

      The Mayor's little daughter braced her back up against the tapestried
      wall, and planted her two feet in their thick shoes firmly. "I will go and
      tend my geese," she kept crying. "I won't eat my breakfast. I won't go out
      in the park. I won't go to school. I'm going to tend my geese—I
      will, I will, I will!"
    

      And the princesses trailed their rich trains over the rough unpainted
      floors in their parents' poor little huts, and held their crowned heads
      very high and demanded to be taken to court. The princesses were mostly
      geese-girls when they were their proper selves, and their geese were
      suffering, and their poor parents did not know what they were going to do
      and they wrung their hands and wept as they gazed on their gorgeously
      apparelled children.
    

      Finally the Mayor called a meeting of the Aldermen, and they all assembled
      in the City Hall. Nearly every one of them had a son or a daughter who was
      a chimney-sweep, or a little watch-girl, or a shepherdess. They appointed
      a chairman and they took a great many votes and contrary votes but they
      did not agree on anything, until every one proposed that they consult the
      Wise Woman. Then they all held up their hands, and voted to, unanimously.
    

      So the whole board of Aldermen set out, walking by twos, with the Mayor at
      their head, to consult the Wise Woman. The Aldermen were all very fleshy,
      and carried gold-headed canes which they swung very high at every step.
      They held their heads well back, and their chins stiff, and whenever they
      met common people they sniffed gently. They were very imposing.
    

      The Wise Woman lived in a little hut on the outskirts of the city. She
      kept a Black Cat, except for her, she was all alone. She was very old, and
      had brought up a great many children, and she was considered remarkably
      wise.
    

      But when the Aldermen reached her hut and found her seated by the fire,
      holding her Black Cat, a new difficulty presented itself. She had always
      been quite deaf and people had been obliged to scream as loud as they
      could in order to make her hear; but lately she had grown much deafer, and
      when the Aldermen attempted to lay the case before her she could not hear
      a word. In fact, she was so very deaf that she could not distinguish a
      tone below G-sharp. The Aldermen screamed till they were quite red in the
      faces, but all to no purpose: none of them could get up to G-sharp of
      course.
    

      So the Aldermen all went back, swinging their gold-headed canes, and they
      had another meeting in the City Hall. Then they decided to send the
      highest Soprano Singer in the church choir to the Wise Woman; she could
      sing up to G-sharp just as easy as not. So the high Soprano Singer set out
      for the Wise Woman's in the Mayor's coach, and the Aldermen marched
      behind, swinging their gold-headed canes.
    

      The High Soprano Singer put her head down close to the Wise Woman's ear,
      and sung all about the Christmas Masquerade and the dreadful dilemma
      everybody was in, in G-sharp—she even went higher, sometimes, and
      the Wise Woman heard every word.
    

      She nodded three times, and every time she nodded she looked wiser.
    

      "Go home, and give 'em a spoonful of castor-oil, all 'round," she piped
      up; then she took a pinch of snuff, and wouldn't say any more.
    

      So the Aldermen went home, and every one took a district and marched
      through it, with a servant carrying an immense bowl and spoon, and every
      child had to take a dose of castor-oil.
    

      But it didn't do a bit of good. The children cried and struggled when they
      were forced to take the castor-oil; but, two minutes afterward, the
      chimney-sweeps were crying for their brooms, and the princesses screaming
      because they couldn't go to court, and the Mayor's daughter, who had been
      given a double dose, cried louder and more sturdily: "I want to go and
      tend my geese. I will go and tend my geese."
    

      So the Aldermen took the high Soprano Singer, and they consulted the Wise
      Woman again. She was taking a nap this time, and the Singer had to sing up
      to B-flat before she could wake her. Then she was very cross and the Black
      Cat put up his back and spit at the Aldermen.
    

      "Give 'em a spanking all 'round," she snapped out, "and if that don't work
      put 'em to bed without their supper."
    

      Then the Aldermen marched back to try that; and all the children in the
      city were spanked, and when that didn't do any good they were put to bed
      without any supper. But the next morning when they woke up they were worse
      than ever.
    

      The Mayor and Aldermen were very indignant, and considered that they had
      been imposed upon and insulted. So they set out for the Wise Woman again,
      with the high Soprano Singer.
    

      She sang in G-sharp how the Aldermen and the Mayor considered her an
      impostor, and did not think she was wise at all, and they wished her to
      take her Black Cat and move beyond the limits of the city.
    

      She sang it beautifully; it sounded like the very finest Italian opera
      music.
    

      "Deary me," piped the Wise Woman, when she had finished, "how very grand
      these gentlemen are." Her Black Cat put up his back and spit.
    

      "Five times one Black Cat are five Black Cats," said the Wise Woman. And
      directly there were five Black Cats spitting and miauling.
    

      "Five times five Black Cats are twenty-five Black Cats." And then there
      were twenty-five of the angry little beasts.
    

      "Five times twenty-five Black Cats are one hundred and twenty-five Black
      Cats," added the Wise Woman with a chuckle.
    

      Then the Mayor and the Aldermen and the high Soprano Singer fled
      precipitately out the door and back to the city. One hundred and
      twenty-five Black Cats had seemed to fill the Wise Woman's hut full, and
      when they all spit and miauled together it was dreadful. The visitors
      could not wait for her to multiply Black Cats any longer.
    

      As winter wore on and spring came, the condition of things grew more
      intolerable. Physicians had been consulted, who advised that the children
      should be allowed to follow their own bents, for fear of injury to their
      constitutions. So the rich Aldermen's daughters were actually out in the
      fields herding sheep, and their sons sweeping chimneys or carrying
      newspapers; and while the poor charwomen's and coal-heavers, children
      spent their time like princesses and fairies. Such a topsy-turvy state of
      society was shocking. While the Mayor's little daughter was tending geese
      out in the meadow like any common goose-girl, her pretty elder sister,
      Violetta, felt very sad about it and used often to cast about in her mind
      for some way of relief.
    

      When cherries were ripe in spring, Violetta thought she would ask the
      Cherry-man about it. She thought the Cherry-man quite wise. He was a very
      pretty young fellow, and he brought cherries to sell in graceful little
      straw baskets lined with moss. So she stood in the kitchen door one
      morning and told him all about the great trouble that had come upon the
      city. He listened in great astonishment; he had never heard of it before.
      He lived several miles out in the country.
    

      "How did the Costumer look?" he asked respectfully; he thought Violetta
      the most beautiful lady on earth.
    

      Then Violetta described the Costumer, and told him of the unavailing
      attempts that had been made to find him. There were a great many
      detectives out, constantly at work.
    

      "I know where he is!" said the Cherry-man. "He's up in one of my
      cherry-trees. He's been living there ever since cherries were ripe, and he
      won't come down."
    

      Then Violetta ran and told her father in great excitement, and he at once
      called a meeting of the Aldermen, and in a few hours half the city was on
      the road to the Cherry-man's.
    

      He had a beautiful orchard of cherry-trees all laden with fruit. And, sure
      enough in one of the largest, way up amongst the topmost branches, sat the
      Costumer in his red velvet and short clothes and his diamond knee-buckles.
      He looked down between the green boughs. "Good-morning, friends!" he
      shouted.
    

      The Aldermen shook their gold-headed canes at him, and the people danced
      round the tree in a rage. Then they began to climb. But they soon found
      that to be impossible. As fast as they touched a hand or foot to a tree,
      back it flew with a jerk exactly as if the tree pushed it. They tried a
      ladder, but the ladder fell back the moment it touched the tree, and lay
      sprawling upon the ground. Finally, they brought axes and thought they
      could chop the tree down, Costumer and all; but the wood resisted the axes
      as if it were iron, and only dented them, receiving no impression itself.
    

      Meanwhile, the Costumer sat up in the tree, eating cherries and throwing
      the stones down. Finally he stood up on a stout branch, and, looking down,
      addressed the people.
    

      "It's of no use, your trying to accomplish anything in this way," said he;
      "you'd better parley. I'm willing to come to terms with you, and make
      everything right on two conditions."
    

      The people grew quiet then, and the Mayor stepped forward as spokesman,
      "Name your two conditions," said he rather testily. "You own, tacitly,
      that you are the cause of all this trouble."
    

      "Well" said the Costumer, reaching out for a handful of cherries, "this
      Christmas Masquerade of yours was a beautiful idea; but you wouldn't do it
      every year, and your successors might not do it at all. I want those poor
      children to have a Christmas every year. My first condition is that every
      poor child in the city hangs its stocking for gifts in the City Hall on
      every Christmas Eve, and gets it filled, too. I want the resolution filed
      and put away in the city archives."
    

      "We agree to the first condition!" cried the people with one voice,
      without waiting for the Mayor and Aldermen.
    

      "The second condition," said the Costumer, "is that this good young
      Cherry-man here has the Mayor's daughter, Violetta, for his wife. He has
      been kind to me, letting me live in his cherry-tree and eat his cherries
      and I want to reward him."
    

      "We consent," cried all the people; but the Mayor, though he was so
      generous, was a proud man. "I will not consent to the second condition,"
      he cried angrily.
    

      "Very well," replied the Costumer, picking some more cherries, "then your
      youngest daughter tends geese the rest of her life, that's all."
    

      The Mayor was in great distress; but the thought of his youngest daughter
      being a goose-girl all her life was too much for him. He gave in at last.
    

      "Now go home and take the costumes off your children," said the Costumer,
      "and leave me in peace to eat cherries."
    

      Then the people hastened back to the city, and found, to their great
      delight, that the costumes would come off. The pins stayed out, the
      buttons stayed unbuttoned, and the strings stayed untied. The children
      were dressed in their own proper clothes and were their own proper selves
      once more. The shepherdesses and the chimney-sweeps came home, and were
      washed and dressed in silks and velvets, and went to embroidering and
      playing lawn-tennis. And the princesses and the fairies put on their own
      suitable dresses, and went about their useful employments. There was great
      rejoicing in every home. Violetta thought she had never been so happy, now
      that her dear little sister was no longer a goose-girl, but her own dainty
      little lady-self.
    

      The resolution to provide every poor child in the city with a stocking
      full of gifts on Christmas was solemnly filed, and deposited in the city
      archives, and was never broken.
    

      Violetta was married to the Cherry-man, and all the children came to the
      wedding, and strewed flowers in her path till her feet were quite hidden
      in them. The Costumer had mysteriously disappeared from the cherry-tree
      the night before, but he left at the foot some beautiful wedding presents
      for the bride—a silver service with a pattern of cherries engraved
      on it, and a set of china with cherries on it, in hand painting, and a
      white satin robe, embroidered with cherries down the front.
    


 












      IV. THE SHEPHERDS AND THE ANGELS
    

      ADAPTED FROM THE BIBLE
    

      And there were shepherds in the same country abiding in the field, and
      keeping watch by night over their flock. And an angel of the Lord stood by
      them and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore
      afraid. And the angel said unto them, Be not afraid; for, behold, I bring
      you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all the people: for there
      is born to you this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ
      the Lord. And this is the sign unto you; ye shall find a babe wrapped in
      swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the
      angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying:
    
     Glory to God in the highest,
     And on earth peace,
     Good will toward men.


      And it came to pass, when the angels went away from them into heaven, the
      shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see
      this thing that is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
      And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph and the babe lying in
      the manger. And when they saw it, they made known concerning the saying
      which was spoken to them about this child. And all that heard it wondered
      at the things which were spoken unto them by the shepherds. But Mary kept
      all these sayings, pondering them in her heart. And the shepherds returned
      glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and
      seen, even as it was spoken unto them.
    

      And when eight days were fulfilled his name was called
    
               JESUS



 












      V. THE TELLTALE TILE*
    

      * From "Kristy's Queer Christmas," Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1904.
    

      OLIVE THORNE MILLER
    

      It begins with a bit of gossip of a neighbour who had come in to see Miss
      Bennett, and was telling her about a family who had lately moved into the
      place and were in serious trouble. "And they do say she'll have to go to
      the poorhouse," she ended.
    

      "To the poorhouse! how dreadful! And the children, too?" and Miss Bennett
      shuddered.
    

      "Yes; unless somebody'll adopt them, and that's not very likely. Well, I
      must go," the visitor went on, rising. "I wish I could do something for
      her, but, with my houseful of children, I've got use for every penny I can
      rake and scrape."
    

      "I'm sure I have, with only myself," said Miss Bennett, as she closed the
      door. "I'm sure I have," she repeated to herself as she resumed her
      knitting; "it's as much as I can do to make ends meet, scrimping as I do,
      not to speak of laying up a cent for sickness and old age."
    

      "But the poorhouse!" she said again. "I wish I could help her!" and the
      needles flew in and out, in and out, faster than ever, as she turned this
      over in her mind. "I might give up something," she said at last, "though I
      don't know what, unless—unless," she said slowly, thinking of her
      one luxury, "unless I give up my tea, and it don't seem as if I COULD do
      that."
    

      Some time the thought worked in her mind, and finally she resolved to make
      the sacrifice of her only indulgence for six months, and send the money to
      her suffering neighbour, Mrs. Stanley, though she had never seen her, and
      she had only heard she was in want.
    

      How much of a sacrifice that was you can hardly guess, you, Kristy, who
      have so many luxuries.
    

      That evening Mrs. Stanley was surprised by a small gift of money "from a
      friend," as was said on the envelope containing it.
    

      "Who sent it?" she asked, from the bed where she was lying.
    

      "Miss Bennett told me not to tell," said the boy, unconscious that he had
      already told.
    

      The next day Miss Bennett sat at the window knitting, as usual—for
      her constant contribution to the poor fund of the church was a certain
      number of stockings and mittens—when she saw a young girl coming up
      to the door of the cottage.
    

      "Who can that be?" she said to herself. "I never saw her before. Come in!"
      she called; in answer to a knock. The girl entered, and walked up to Miss
      Bennett.
    

      "Are you Miss Bennett?" she asked.
    

      "Yes," said Miss Bennett with an amused smile.
    

      "Well, I'm Hetty Stanley."
    

      Miss Bennett started, and her colour grew a little brighter.
    

      "I'm glad to see you, Hetty." she said, "won't you sit down?"
    

      "Yes, if you please," said Hetty, taking a chair near her.
    

      "I came to tell you how much we love you for—"
    

      "Oh, don't! don't say any more!" interrupted Miss Bennett; "never mind
      that! Tell me about your mother and your baby brother."
    

      This was an interesting subject, and they talked earnestly about it. The
      time passed so quickly that, before she knew it, she had been in the house
      an hour. When she went away Miss Bennett asked her to come again, a thing
      she had never been known to do before, for she was not fond of young
      people in general.
    

      "But, then, Hetty's different," she said to herself, when wondering at her
      own interest.
    

      "Did you thank kind Miss Bennett?" was her mother's question as Hetty
      opened the door.
    

      Hetty stopped as if struck, "Why, no! I don't think I did."
    

      "And stayed so long, too? Whatever did you do? I've heard she isn't fond
      of people generally."
    

      "We talked; and—I think she's ever so nice. She asked me to come
      again; may I?"
    

      "Of course you may, if she cares to have you. I should be glad to do
      something to please her."
    

      That visit of Hetty's was the first of a long series. Almost every day she
      found her way to the lonely cottage, where a visitor rarely came, and a
      strange intimacy grew up between the old and the young. Hetty learned of
      her friend to knit, and many an hour they spent knitting while Miss
      Bennett ransacked her memory for stories to tell. And then, one day, she
      brought down from a big chest in the garret two of the books she used to
      have when she was young, and let Hetty look at them.
    

      One was "Thaddeus of Warsaw," and the other "Scottish Chiefs." Poor Hetty
      had not the dozens of books you have, and these were treasures indeed. She
      read them to herself, and she read them aloud to Miss Bennett, who, much
      to her own surprise, found her interest almost as eager as Hetty's.
    

      All this time Christmas was drawing near, and strange, unusual feelings
      began to stir in Miss Bennett's heart, though generally she did not think
      much about that happy time. She wanted to make Hetty a happy day. Money
      she had none, so she went into the garret, where her youthful treasures
      had long been hidden. From the chest from which she had taken the books
      she now took a small box of light-coloured wood, with a transferred
      engraving on the cover. With a sigh—for the sight of it brought up
      old memories—Miss Bennett lifted the cover by its loop of ribbon,
      took out a package of old letters, and went downstairs with the box,
      taking also a few bits of bright silk from a bundle in the chest.
    

      "I can fit it up for a workbox," she said, "and I'm sure Hetty will like
      it."
    

      For many days after this Miss Bennett had her secret work, which she
      carefully hid when she saw Hetty coming. Slowly, in this way, she made a
      pretty needle-book, a tiny pincushion, and an emery bag like a big
      strawberry. Then from her own scanty stock she added needles, pins,
      thread, and her only pair of small scissors, scoured to the last extreme
      of brightness.
    

      One thing only she had to buy—a thimble, and that she bought for a
      penny, of brass so bright it was quite as handsome as gold.
    

      Very pretty the little box looked when full; in the bottom lay a quilted
      lining, which had always been there, and upon this the fittings she had
      made. Besides this, Miss Bennett knit a pair of mittens for each of
      Hetty's brothers and sisters.
    

      The happiest girl in town on Christmas morning was Hetty Stanley. To begin
      with, she had the delight of giving the mittens to the children, and when
      she ran over to tell Miss Bennett how pleased they were, she was surprised
      by the present of the odd little workbox and its pretty contents.
    

      Christmas was over all too soon, and New Year's, and it was about the
      middle of January that the time came which, all her life, Miss Bennett had
      dreaded—the time when she should be helpless. She had not money
      enough to hire a girl, and so the only thing she could imagine when that
      day should come was her special horror—the poorhouse.
    

      But that good deed of hers had already borne fruit, and was still bearing.
      When Hetty came over one day, and found her dear friend lying on the floor
      as if dead, she was dreadfully frightened, of course, but she ran after
      the neighbours and the doctor, and bustled about the house as if she
      belonged to it.
    

      Miss Bennett was not dead—she had a slight stroke of paralysis; and
      though she was soon better, and would be able to talk, and probably to
      knit, and possibly to get about the house, she would never be able to live
      alone and do everything for herself, as she had done.
    

      So the doctor told the neighbours who came in to help, and so Hetty heard,
      as she listened eagerly for news.
    

      "Of course she can't live here any longer; she'll have to go to a
      hospital," said one woman.
    

      "Or to the poorhouse, more likely," said another.
    

      "She'll hate that," said the first speaker. "I've heard her shudder over
      the poorhouse."
    

      "She shall never go there!" declared Hetty, with blazing eyes.
    

      "Hoity-toity! who's to prevent?" asked the second speaker, turning a look
      of disdain on Hetty.
    

      "I am," was the fearless answer. "I know all Miss Bennett's ways, and I
      can take care of her, and I will," went on Hetty indignantly; and turning
      suddenly, she was surprised to find Miss Bennett's eyes fixed on her with
      an eager, questioning look.
    

      "There! she understands! she's better!" cried Hetty. "Mayn't I stay and
      take care of you, dear Miss Bennett?" she asked, running up to the bed.
    

      "Yes, you may," interrupted the doctor, seeing the look in his patient's
      face; "but you mustn't agitate her now. And now, my good women"—turning
      to the others—"I think she can get along with her young friend here,
      whom I happen to know is a womanly young girl, and will be attentive and
      careful."
    

      They took the hint and went away, and the doctor gave directions to Hetty
      what to do, telling her she must not leave Miss Bennett. So she was now
      regularly installed as nurse and housekeeper.
    

      Days and weeks rolled by. Miss Bennett was able to be up in her chair, to
      talk and knit, and to walk about the house, but was not able to be left
      alone. Indeed, she had a horror of being left alone; she could not bear
      Hetty out of her sight, and Hetty's mother was very willing to spare her,
      for she had many mouths to fill.
    

      To provide food for two out of what had been scrimping for one was a
      problem; but Miss Bennett ate very little, and she did not resume her tea
      so they managed to get along and not really suffer.
    

      One day Hetty sat by the fire with her precious box on her knee, which she
      was putting to rights for the twentieth time. The box was empty, and her
      sharp young eyes noticed a little dust on the silk lining.
    

      "I think I'll take this out and dust it," she said to Miss Bennett, "if
      you don't mind."
    

      "Do as you like with it," answered Miss Bennett; "it is yours."
    

      So she carefully lifted the silk, which stuck a little.
    

      "Why, here's something under it," she said—"an old paper, and it has
      writing on."
    

      "Bring it to me," said Miss Bennett; "perhaps it's a letter I have
      forgotten."
    

      Hetty brought it.
    

      "Why, it's father's writing!" said Miss Bennett, looking closely at the
      faded paper; "and what can it mean? I never saw it before. It says, 'Look,
      and ye shall find'—that's a Bible text. And what is this under it?
      'A word to the wise is sufficient.' I don't understand—he must have
      put it there himself, for I never took that lining out—I thought it
      was fastened. What can it mean?" and she pondered over it long, and all
      day seemed absent-minded.
    

      After tea, when they sat before the kitchen fire, as they always did, with
      only the firelight flickering and dancing on the walls while they knitted,
      or told stories, or talked, she told Hetty about her father: that they had
      lived comfortably in this house, which he built, and that everybody
      supposed that he had plenty of money, and would leave enough to take care
      of his only child, but that when he died suddenly nothing had been found,
      and nothing ever had been, from that day to this.
    

      "Part of the place I let to John Thompson, Hetty, and that rent is all I
      have to live on. I don't know what makes me think of old times so
      to-night."
    

      "I know," said Hetty; "it's that paper, and I know what it reminds me of,"
      she suddenly shouted, in a way very unusual with her. "It's that tile over
      there," and she jumped up and ran to the side of the fireplace, and put
      her hand on the tile she meant.
    

      On each side of the fireplace was a row of tiles. They were Bible
      subjects, and Miss Bennett had often told Hetty the story of each one, and
      also the stories she used to make up about them when she was young. The
      one Hetty had her hand on now bore the picture of a woman standing before
      a closed door, and below her the words of the yellow bit of paper: "Look,
      and ye shall find."
    

      "I always felt there was something different about that," said Hetty
      eagerly, "and you know you told me your father talked to you about it—about
      what to seek in the world when he was gone away, and other things."
    

      "Yes, so he did," said Miss Bennett thoughtfully; "come to think of it, he
      said a great deal about it, and in a meaning way. I don't understand it,"
      she said slowly, turning it over in her mind.
    

      "I do!" cried Hetty, enthusiastically. "I believe you are to seek here! I
      believe it's loose!" and she tried to shake it. "It IS loose!" she cried
      excitedly. "Oh, Miss Bennett, may I take it out?"
    

      Miss Bennett had turned deadly pale. "Yes," she gasped, hardly knowing
      what she expected, or dared to hope.
    

      A sudden push from Hetty's strong fingers, and the tile slipped out at one
      side and fell to the floor. Behind it was an opening into the brickwork.
      Hetty thrust in her hand.
    

      "There's something in there!" she said in an awed tone.
    

      "A light!" said Miss Bennett hoarsely.
    

      There was not a candle in the house, but Hetty seized a brand from the
      fire, and held it up and looked in.
    

      "It looks like bags—tied up," she cried. "Oh, come here yourself!"
    

      The old woman hobbled over and thrust her hand into the hole, bringing out
      what was once a bag, but which crumpled to pieces in her hands, and with
      it—oh, wonder!—a handful of gold pieces, which fell with a
      jingle on the hearth, and rolled every way.
    

      "My father's money! Oh, Hetty!" was all she could say, and she seized a
      chair to keep from falling, while Hetty was nearly wild, and talked like a
      crazy person.
    

      "Oh, goody! goody! now you can have things to eat! and we can have a
      candle! and you won't have to go to the poorhouse!"
    

      "No, indeed, you dear child!" cried Miss Bennett who had found her voice.
      "Thanks to you—you blessing!—I shall be comfortable now the
      rest of my days. And you! oh! I shall never forget you! Through you has
      everything good come to me."
    

      "Oh, but you have been so good to me, dear Miss Bennett!"
    

      "I should never have guessed it, you precious child! If it had not been
      for your quickness I should have died and never found it."
    

      "And if you hadn't given me the box, it might have rusted away in that
      chest."
    

      "Thank God for everything, child! Take money out of my purse and go buy a
      candle. We need not save it for bread now. Oh, child!" she interrupted
      herself, "do you know, we shall have everything we want to-morrow. Go! Go!
      I want to see how much there is."
    

      The candle bought, the gold was taken out and counted, and proved to be
      more than enough to give Miss Bennett a comfortable income without
      touching the principal. It was put back, and the tile replaced, as the
      safest place to keep it till morning, when Miss Bennett intended to put it
      into a bank.
    

      But though they went to bed, there was not a wink of sleep for Miss
      Bennett, for planning what she would do. There were a thousand things she
      wanted to do first. To get clothes for Hetty, to brighten up the old
      house, to hire a girl to relieve Hetty, so that the dear child should go
      to school, to train her into a noble woman—all her old ambitions and
      wishes for herself sprang into life for Hetty. For not a thought of her
      future life was separate from Hetty.
    

      In a very short time everything was changed in Miss Bennett's cottage. She
      had publicly adopted Hetty, and announced her as her heir. A girl had been
      installed in the kitchen, and Hetty, in pretty new clothes, had begun
      school. Fresh paint inside and out, with many new comforts, made the old
      house charming and bright. But nothing could change the pleasant and happy
      relations between the two friends, and a more contented and cheerful
      household could not be found anywhere.
    

      Happiness is a wonderful doctor and Miss Bennett grew so much better, that
      she could travel, and when Hetty had finished school days, they saw a
      little of the world before they settled down to a quiet, useful life.
    

      "Every comfort on earth I owe to you," said Hetty, one day, when Miss
      Bennett had proposed some new thing to add to her enjoyment.
    

      "Ah, dear Hetty! how much do I owe to you! But for you, I should, no
      doubt, be at this moment a shivering pauper in that terrible poorhouse,
      while some one else would be living in this dear old house. And it all
      comes," she added softly, "of that one unselfish thought, of that one
      self-denial for others."
    


 












      VI. LITTLE GIRL'S CHRISTMAS
    

      WINNIFRED E. LINCOLN
    

      It was Christmas Eve, and Little Girl had just hung up her stocking by the
      fireplace—right where it would be all ready for Santa when he
      slipped down the chimney. She knew he was coming, because—well,
      because it was Christmas Eve, and because he always had come to leave
      gifts for her on all the other Christmas Eves that she could remember, and
      because she had seen his pictures everywhere down town that afternoon when
      she was out with Mother.
    

      Still, she wasn't JUST satisfied. 'Way down in her heart she was a little
      uncertain—you see, when you have never really and truly seen a
      person with your very own eyes, it's hard to feel as if you exactly
      believed in him—even though that person always has left beautiful
      gifts for you every time he has come.
    

      "Oh, he'll come," said Little Girl; "I just know he will be here before
      morning, but somehow I wish—"
    

      "Well, what do you wish?" said a Tiny Voice close by her—so close
      that Little Girl fairly jumped when she heard it.
    

      "Why, I wish I could SEE Santa myself. I'd just like to go and see his
      house and his workshop, and ride in his sleigh, and know Mrs. Santa—'twould
      be such fun, and then I'd KNOW for sure."
    

      "Why don't you go, then?" said Tiny Voice. "It's easy enough. Just try on
      these Shoes, and take this Light in your hand, and you'll find your way
      all right."
    

      So Little Girl looked down on the hearth, and there were two cunning
      little Shoes side by side, and a little Spark of a Light close to them—just
      as if they were all made out of one of the glowing coals of the wood-fire.
      Such cunning Shoes as they were—Little Girl could hardly wait to
      pull off her slippers and try them on. They looked as if they were too
      small, but they weren't—they fitted exactly right, and just as
      Little Girl had put them both on and had taken the Light in her hand,
      along came a little Breath of Wind, and away she went up the chimney,
      along with ever so many other little Sparks, past the Soot Fairies, and
      out into the Open Air, where Jack Frost and the Star Beams were all busy
      at work making the world look pretty for Christmas.
    

      Away went Little Girl—Two Shoes, Bright Light, and all—higher
      and higher, until she looked like a wee bit of a star up in the sky. It
      was the funniest thing, but she seemed to know the way perfectly, and
      didn't have to stop to make inquiries anywhere. You see it was a straight
      road all the way, and when one doesn't have to think about turning to the
      right or the left, it makes things very much easier. Pretty soon Little
      Girl noticed that there was a bright light all around her—oh, a very
      bright light—and right away something down in her heart began to
      make her feel very happy indeed. She didn't know that the Christmas
      spirits and little Christmas fairies were all around her and even right
      inside her, because she couldn't see a single one of them, even though her
      eyes were very bright and could usually see a great deal.
    

      But that was just it, and Little Girl felt as if she wanted to laugh and
      sing and be glad. It made her remember the Sick Boy who lived next door,
      and she said to herself that she would carry him one of her prettiest
      picture-books in the morning, so that he could have something to make him
      happy all day. By and by, when the bright light all around her had grown
      very, very much brighter, Little Girl saw a path right in front of her,
      all straight and trim, leading up a hill to a big, big house with ever and
      ever so many windows in it. When she had gone just a bit nearer, she saw
      candles in every window, red and green and yellow ones, and every one
      burning brightly, so Little Girl knew right away that these were Christmas
      candles to light her on her journey, and make the way dear for her, and
      something told her that this was Santa's house, and that pretty soon she
      would perhaps see Santa himself.
    

      Just as she neared the steps and before she could possibly have had time
      to ring the bell, the door opened—opened of itself as wide as could
      be—and there stood—not Santa himself—don't think it—but
      a funny Little Man with slender little legs and a roly-poly stomach which
      shook every now and then when he laughed. You would have known right away,
      just as Little Girl knew, that he was a very happy little man, and you
      would have guessed right away, too, that the reason he was so roly-poly
      was because he laughed and chuckled and smiled all the time—for it's
      only sour, cross folks who are thin and skimpy. Quick as a wink, he pulled
      off his little peaked red cap, smiled the broadest kind of a smile, and
      said, "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Come in! Come in!"
    

      So in went Little Girl, holding fast to Little Man's hand, and when she
      was really inside there was the jolliest, reddest fire all glowing and
      snapping, and there were Little Man and all his brothers and sisters, who
      said their names were "Merry Christmas," and "Good Cheer," and ever so
      many other jolly-sounding things, and there were such a lot of them that
      Little Girl just knew she never could count them, no matter how long she
      tried.
    

      All around her were bundles and boxes and piles of toys and games, and
      Little Girl knew that these were all ready and waiting to be loaded into
      Santa's big sleigh for his reindeer to whirl them away over cloudtops and
      snowdrifts to the little people down below who had left their stockings
      all ready for him. Pretty soon all the little Good Cheer Brothers began to
      hurry and bustle and carry out the bundles as fast as they could to the
      steps where Little Girl could hear the jingling bells and the stamping of
      hoofs. So Little Girl picked up some bundles and skipped along too, for
      she wanted to help a bit herself—it's no fun whatever at Christmas
      unless you can help, you know—and there in the yard stood the
      BIGGEST sleigh that Little Girl had ever seen, and the reindeer were all
      stamping and prancing and jingling the bells on their harnesses, because
      they were so eager to be on their way to the Earth once more.
    

      She could hardly wait for Santa to come, and just as she had begun to
      wonder where he was, the door opened again and out came a whole forest of
      Christmas trees, at least it looked just as if a whole forest had started
      out for a walk somewhere, but a second glance showed Little Girl that
      there were thousands of Christmas sprites, and that each one carried a
      tree or a big Christmas wreath on his back. Behind them all, she could
      hear some one laughing loudly, and talking in a big, jovial voice that
      sounded as if he were good friends with the whole world.
    

      And straightway she knew that Santa himself was coming. Little Girl's
      heart went pit-a-pat for a minute while she wondered if Santa would notice
      her, but she didn't have to wonder long, for he spied her at once and
      said:
    

      "Bless my soul! who's this? and where did you come from?"
    

      Little Girl thought perhaps she might be afraid to answer him, but she
      wasn't one bit afraid. You see he had such a kind little twinkle in his
      eyes that she felt happy right away as she replied, "Oh, I'm Little Girl,
      and I wanted so much to see Santa that I just came, and here I am!"
    

      "Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!" laughed Santa, "and here you are! Wanted to see
      Santa, did you, and so you came! Now that's very nice, and it's too bad
      I'm in such a hurry, for we should like nothing better than to show you
      about and give you a real good time. But you see it is quarter of twelve
      now, and I must be on my way at once, else I'll never reach that first
      chimney-top by midnight. I'd call Mrs. Santa and ask her to get you some
      supper, but she is busy finishing dolls' clothes which must be done before
      morning, and I guess we'd better not bother her. Is there anything that
      you would like, Little Girl?" and good old Santa put his big warm hand on
      Little Girl's curls and she felt its warmth and kindness clear down to her
      very heart. You see, my dears, that even though Santa was in such a great
      hurry, he wasn't too busy to stop and make some one happy for a minute,
      even if it was some one no bigger than Little Girl.
    

      So she smiled back into Santa's face and said: "Oh, Santa, if I could ONLY
      ride down to Earth with you behind those splendid reindeer! I'd love to
      go; won't you PLEASE take me? I'm so small that I won't take up much room
      on the seat, and I'll keep very still and not bother one bit!"
    

      Then Santa laughed, SUCH a laugh, big and loud and rollicking, and he
      said, "Wants a ride, does she? Well, well, shall we take her, Little
      Elves? Shall we take her, Little Fairies? Shall we take her, Good
      Reindeer?"
    

      And all the Little Elves hopped and skipped and brought Little Girl a
      sprig of holly; and all the Little Fairies bowed and smiled and brought
      her a bit of mistletoe; and all the Good Reindeer jingled their bells
      loudly, which meant, "Oh, yes! let's take her! She's a good Little Girl!
      Let her ride!" And before Little Girl could even think, she found herself
      all tucked up in the big fur robes beside Santa, and away they went, right
      out into the air, over the clouds, through the Milky Way, and right under
      the very handle of the Big Dipper, on, on, toward the Earthland, whose
      lights Little Girl began to see twinkling away down below her. Presently
      she felt the runners scrape upon something, and she knew they must be on
      some one's roof, and that Santa would slip down some one's chimney in a
      minute.
    

      How she wanted to go, too! You see if you had never been down a chimney
      and seen Santa fill up the stockings, you would want to go quite as much
      as Little Girl did, now, wouldn't you? So, just as Little Girl was wishing
      as hard as ever she could wish, she heard a Tiny Voice say, "Hold tight to
      his arm! Hold tight to his arm!" So she held Santa's arm tight and close,
      and he shouldered his pack, never thinking that it was heavier than usual,
      and with a bound and a slide, there they were, Santa, Little Girl, pack
      and all, right in the middle of a room where there was a fireplace and
      stockings all hung up for Santa to fill.
    

      Just then Santa noticed Little Girl. He had forgotten all about her for a
      minute, and he was very much surprised to find that she had come, too.
      "Bless my soul!" he said, "where did you come from, Little Girl? and how
      in the world can we both get back up that chimney again? It's easy enough
      to slide down, but it's quite another matter to climb up again!" and Santa
      looked real worried. But Little Girl was beginning to feel very tired by
      this time, for she had had a very exciting evening, so she said, "Oh,
      never mind me, Santa. I've had such a good time, and I'd just as soon stay
      here a while as not. I believe I'll curl up on his hearth-rug a few
      minutes and have a little nap, for it looks as warm and cozy as our own
      hearth-rug at home, and—why, it is our own hearth and it's my own
      nursery, for there is Teddy Bear in his chair where I leave him every
      night, and there's Bunny Cat curled up on his cushion in the corner."
    

      And Little Girl turned to thank Santa and say goodbye to him, but either
      he had gone very quickly, or else she had fallen asleep very quickly—she
      never could tell which—for the next thing she knew, Daddy was
      holding her in his arms and was saying, "What is my Little Girl doing
      here? She must go to bed, for it's Christmas Eve, and old Santa won't come
      if he thinks there are any little folks about."
    

      But Little Girl knew better than that, and when she began to tell him all
      about it, and how the Christmas fairies had welcomed her, and how Santa
      had given her such a fine ride, Daddy laughed and laughed, and said,
      "You've been dreaming, Little Girl, you've been dreaming."
    

      But Little Girl knew better than that, too, for there on the hearth was
      the little Black Coal, which had given her Two Shoes and Bright Light, and
      tight in her hand she held a holly berry which one of the Christmas
      Sprites had placed there. More than all that, there she was on the
      hearth-rug herself, just as Santa had left her, and that was the best
      proof of all.
    

      The trouble was, Daddy himself had never been a Little Girl, so he
      couldn't tell anything about it, but we know she hadn't been dreaming,
      now, don't we, my dears?
    


 












      VII. "A CHRISTMAS MATINEE"*
    

      *This story was first published in the Youth's Companion, vol. 74.
    

      MRS. M.A.L. LANE
    

      It was the day before Christmas in the year 189-. Snow was falling heavily
      in the streets of Boston, but the crowd of shoppers seemed undiminished.
      As the storm increased, groups gathered at the corners and in sheltering
      doorways to wait for belated cars; but the holiday cheer was in the air,
      and there was no grumbling. Mothers dragging tired children through the
      slush of the streets; pretty girls hurrying home for the holidays; here
      and there a harassed-looking man with perhaps a single package which he
      had taken a whole morning to select—all had the same spirit of
      tolerant good-humor.
    

      "School Street! School Street!" called the conductor of an electric car. A
      group of young people at the farther end of the car started to their feet.
      One of them, a young man wearing a heavy fur-trimmed coat, addressed the
      conductor angrily.
    

      "I said, 'Music Hall,' didn't I?" he demanded. "Now we've got to walk back
      in the snow because of your stupidity!"
    

      "Oh, never mind, Frank!" one of the girls interposed. "We ought to have
      been looking out ourselves! Six of us, and we went by without a thought!
      It is all Mrs. Tirrell's fault! She shouldn't have been so entertaining!"
    

      The young matron dimpled and blushed. "That's charming of you, Maidie,"
      she said, gathering up her silk skirts as she prepared to step down into
      the pond before her. "The compliment makes up for the blame. But how it
      snows!"
    

      "It doesn't matter. We all have gaiters on," returned Maidie Williams,
      undisturbed.
    

      "Fares, please!" said the conductor stolidly.
    

      Frank Armstrong thrust his gloved hand deep into his pocket with angry
      vehemence. "There's your money," he said, "and be quick about the change,
      will you? We've lost time enough!"
    

      The man counted out the change with stiff, red fingers, closed his lips
      firmly as if to keep back an obvious rejoinder, rang up the six fares with
      careful accuracy, and gave the signal to go ahead. The car went on into
      the drifting storm.
    

      Armstrong laughed shortly as he rapidly counted the bits of silver lying
      in his open palm. He turned instinctively, but two or three cars were
      already between him and the one he was looking for.
    

      "The fellow must be an imbecile," he said, rejoining the group on the
      crossing. "He's given me back a dollar and twenty cents, and I handed him
      a dollar bill."
    

      "Oh, can't you stop him?" cried Maidie Williams, with a backward step into
      the wet street.
    

      The Harvard junior, who was carrying her umbrella, protested: "What's the
      use. Miss Williams? He'll make it up before he gets to Scollay Square, you
      may be sure. Those chaps don't lose anything. Why, the other day, I gave
      one a quarter and he went off as cool as you please. 'Where's my change?'
      said I. 'You gave me a nickel,' said he. And there wasn't anybody to swear
      that I didn't except myself, and I didn't count."
    

      "But that doesn't make any difference," insisted the girl warmly. "Because
      one conductor was dishonest, we needn't be. I beg your pardon, Frank, but
      it does seem to me just stealing."
    

      "Oh, come along!" said her cousin, with an easy laugh. "I guess the West
      End Corporation won't go without their dinners to-morrow. Here, Maidie,
      here's the ill-gotten fifty cents. I think you ought to treat us
      all after the concert; still, I won't urge you. I wash my hands of all
      responsibility. But I do wish you hadn't such an unpleasant conscience."
    

      Maidie flushed under the sting of his cousinly rudeness, but she went on
      quietly with the rest. It was evident that any attempt to overtake the car
      was out of the question.
    

      "Did you notice his number, Frank?" she asked, suddenly.
    

      "No, I never thought of it" said Frank, stopping short. "However, I
      probably shouldn't make any complaint if I had. I shall forget all about
      it tomorrow. I find it's never safe to let the sun go down on my wrath.
      It's very likely not to be there the next day."
    

      "I wasn't thinking of making a complaint," said Maidie; but the two young
      men were enjoying the small joke too much to notice what she said.
    

      The great doorway of Music Hall was just ahead. In a moment the party were
      within its friendly shelter, stamping off the snow. The girls were
      adjusting veils and hats with adroit feminine touches; the pretty chaperon
      was beaming approval upon them, and the young men were taking off their
      wet overcoats, when Maidie turned again in sudden desperation.
    

      "Mr. Harris," she said, rather faintly, for she did not like to make
      herself disagreeable, "do you suppose that car comes right back from
      Scollay Square?"
    

      "What car?" asked Walter Harris, blankly. "Oh, the one we came in? Yes, I
      suppose it does. They're running all the time, anyway. Why, you are not
      sick, are you, Miss Williams?"
    

      There was genuine concern in his tone. This girl, with her sweet, vibrant
      voice, her clear gray eyes, seemed very charming to him. She wasn't
      beautiful, perhaps, but she was the kind of girl he liked. There was a
      steady earnestness in the gray eyes that made him think of his mother.
    

      "No," said Maidie, slowly. "I'm all right, thank you. But I wish I could
      find that man again. I know sometimes they have to make it up if their
      accounts are wrong, and I couldn't—we couldn't feel very comfortable—"
    

      Frank Armstrong interrupted her. "Maidie," he said, with the studied
      calmness with which one speaks to an unreasonable child, "you are
      perfectly absurd. Here it is within five minutes of the tune for the
      concert to begin. It is impossible to tell when that car is coming back.
      You are making us all very uncomfortable. Mrs. Tirrell, won't you please
      tell her not to spoil our afternoon?"
    

      "I think he's right, Maidie," said Mrs. Tirrell. "It's very nice of you to
      feel so sorry for the poor man, but he really was very careless. It was
      all his own fault. And just think how far he made us walk! My feet are
      quite damp. We ought to go in directly or we shall all take cold, and I'm
      sure you wouldn't like that, my dear."
    

      She led the way as she spoke, the two girls and young Armstrong following.
      Maidie hesitated. It was so easy to go in, to forget everything in the
      light and warmth and excitement.
    

      "No," said she, very firmly, and as much to herself as to the young man
      who stood waiting for her. "I must go back and try to make it right. I'm
      so sorry, Mr. Harris, but if you will tell them—"
    

      "Why, I'm going with you, of course" said the young fellow, impulsively.
      "If I'd only looked once at the man I'd go alone, but I shouldn't know him
      from Adam."
    

      Maidie laughed. "Oh, I don't want to lose the whole concert, Mr. Harris,
      and Frank, has all the tickets. You must go after them and try to make my
      peace. I'll come just as soon as I can. Don't wait for me, please. If
      you'll come and look for me here the first number, and not let them scold
      me too much—" She ended with an imploring little catch in her breath
      that was almost a sob.
    

      "They sha'n't say a word, Miss Williams!" cried Walter Harris, with honest
      admiration in his eyes.
    

      But she was gone already, and conscious that further delay was only making
      matters worse, he went on into the hall.
    

      Meanwhile, the car swung heavily along the wet rails on its way to the
      turning-point. It was nearly empty now. An old gentleman and his nurse
      were the only occupants. Jim Stevens, the conductor, had stepped inside
      the car.
    

      "Too bad I forgot those young people wanted to get off at Music Hall," he
      was thinking to himself. "I don't see how I came to do it. That chap
      looked as if he wanted to complain of me, and I don't know as I blame him.
      I'd have said I was sorry if he hadn't been so sharp with his tongue. I
      hope he won't complain just now. 'Twould be a pretty bad time for me to
      get into trouble, with Mary and the baby both sick. I'm too sleepy to be
      good for much, that's a fact. Sitting up three nights running takes hold
      of a fellow somehow when he's at work all day. The rent's paid, that's one
      thing, if it hasn't left me but half a dollar to my name. Hullo!" He was
      struck by a sudden distinct recollection of the coins he had returned.
      "Why, I gave him fifty cents too much!"
    

      He glanced up at the dial which indicated the fares and began to count the
      change in his pocket. He knew exactly how much money he had had at the
      beginning of the trip. He counted carefully. Then he plunged his hand into
      the heavy canvas pocket of his coat. Perhaps he had half a dollar there.
      No, it was empty!
    

      He faced the fact reluctantly. Fifty cents short, ten fares! Gone into the
      pocket of the young gentleman with the fur collar! The conductor's hand
      shook as he put the money back in his pocket. It meant—what did it
      mean? He drew a long breath.
    

      Christmas Eve! A dark dreary little room upstairs in a noisy tenement
      house. A pale, thin woman on a shabby lounge vainly trying to quiet a
      fretful child. The child is thin and pale, too, with a hard, racking
      cough. There is a small fire in the stove, a very small fire; coal is so
      high. The medicine stands on the shelf. "Medicine won't do much good," the
      doctor had said; "he needs beef and cream."
    

      Jim's heart sank at the thought. He could almost hear the baby asking;
      "Isn't papa coming soon? Isn't he, mamma?"
    

      "Poor little kid!" Jim said, softly, under his breath. "And I shan't have
      a thing to take home to him; nor Mary's violets, either. It'll be the
      first Christmas that ever happened. I suppose that chap would think it was
      ridiculous for me to be buying violets. He wouldn't understand what the
      flowers mean to Mary. Perhaps he didn't notice I gave him too much. That
      kind don't know how much they have. They just pull it out as if it was
      newspaper."
    

      The conductor went out into the snow to help the nurse, who was assisting
      the old gentleman to the ground. Then the car swung on again. Jim turned
      up the collar of his coat about his ears and stamped his feet. There was
      the florist's shop where he had meant to buy the violets, and the toy-shop
      was just around the corner.
    

      A thought flashed across his tired brain. "Plenty of men would do it; they
      do it every day. Nobody ever would be the poorer for it. This car will be
      crowded going home. I needn't ring in every fare; nobody could tell. But
      Mary! She wouldn't touch those violets if she knew. And she'd know. I'd
      have to tell her. I couldn't keep it from her, she's that quick."
    

      He jumped off to adjust the trolley with a curious sense of unreality. It
      couldn't be that he was really going home this Christmas Eve with empty
      hands. Well, they must all suffer together for his carelessness. It was
      his own fault, but it was hard. And he was so tired!
    

      To his amazement he found his eyes were blurred as he watched the people
      crowding into the car. What? Was he going to cry like a baby—he, a
      great burly man of thirty years?
    

      "It's no use," he thought. "I couldn't do it. The first time I gave Mary
      violets was the night she said she'd marry me. I told her then I'd do my
      best to make her proud of me. I guess she wouldn't be very proud of a man
      who could cheat. She'd rather starve than have a ribbon she couldn't pay
      for."
    

      He rang up a dozen fares with a steady hand. The temptation was over. Six
      more strokes—then nine without a falter. He even imagined the bell
      rang more distinctly than usual, even encouragingly. The car stopped. Jim
      flung the door open with a triumphant sweep of his arm. He felt ready to
      face the world. But the baby—his arm dropped. It was hard.
    

      He turned to help the young girl who was waiting at the step. Through the
      whirling snow he saw her eager face, with a quick recognition lighting the
      steady eyes, and wondered dimly, as he stood with his hand on the
      signal-strap, where he could have seen her before.
    

      He knew immediately.
    

      "There was a mistake," she said, with a shy tremor in her voice. "You gave
      us too much change and here it is." She held out to Jim the piece of
      silver which had given him such an unhappy quarter of an hour.
    

      He took it like one dazed. Would the young lady think he was crazy to care
      so much about so small a coin? He must say something. "Thank you, miss,"
      he stammered as well as he could. "You see, I thought it was gone—and
      there's the baby—and it's Christmas Eve—and my wife's sick—and
      you can't understand—"
    

      It certainly was not remarkable that she couldn't.
    

      "But I do," she said, simply. "I was afraid of that. And I thought perhaps
      there was a baby, so I brought my Christmas present for her," and
      something else dropped into Jim's cold hand.
    

      "What you waiting for?" shouted the motorman from the front platform. The
      girl had disappeared in the snow.
    

      Jim rang the bell to go ahead, and gazed again at the two shining half
      dollars in his hand.
    

      "I didn't have a chance to tell her," he explained to his wife late in the
      evening, as he sat in a tiny rocking-chair several sizes too small for
      him, "that the baby wasn't a her at all, though if I thought he'd grow up
      into such a lovely one as she is, I don't know but I almost wish he was."
    

      "Poor Jim!" said Mary, with a little laugh as she put up her hand to
      stroke his rough cheek. "I guess you're tired."
    

      "And I should say," he added, stretching out his long legs toward the few
      red sparks in the bottom of the grate, "I should say she had tears in her
      eyes, too, but I was that near crying myself I couldn't be sure."
    

      The little room was sweet with the odour of English violets. Asleep in the
      bed lay the boy, a toy horse clasped close to his breast.
    

      "Bless her heart!" said Mary, softly.
    

      "Well, Miss Williams," said Walter Harris, as he sprang to meet a
      snow-covered figure coming swiftly along the sidewalk. "I can see that you
      found him. You've lost the first number, but they won't scold you—not
      this time."
    

      The girl turned a radiant face upon him. "Thank you," she said, shaking
      the snowy crystals from her skirt. "I don't care now if they do. I should
      have lost more than that if I had stayed."
    


 












      VIII. TOINETTE AND THE ELVES*
    

      * Published by arrangement with Little, Brown & Co.
    

      SUSAN COOLIDGE
    

      The winter's sun was nearing the horizon's edge. Each moment the tree
      shadows grew longer in the forest; each moment the crimson light on the
      upper boughs became more red and bright. It was Christmas Eve, or would be
      in half an hour, when the sun should be fairly set; but it did not feel
      like Christmas, for the afternoon was mild and sweet, and the wind in the
      leafless boughs sang, as it moved about, as though to imitate the vanished
      birds. Soft trills and whistles, odd little shakes and twitters—it
      was astonishing what pretty noises the wind made, for it was in good
      humor, as winds should be on the Blessed Night; all its storm-tones and
      bass-notes were for the moment laid aside, and gently as though hushing a
      baby to sleep, it cooed and rustled and brushed to and fro in the leafless
      woods.
    

      Toinette stood, pitcher in hand, beside the well. "Wishing Well," the
      people called it, for they believed that if any one standing there bowed
      to the East, repeated a certain rhyme and wished a wish, the wish would
      certainly come true. Unluckily, nobody knew exactly what the rhyme should
      be. Toinette did not; she was wishing that she did, as she stood with her
      eyes fixed on the bubbling water. How nice it would be! she thought. What
      beautiful things should be hers, if it were only to wish and to have. She
      would be beautiful, rich, good—oh, so good. The children should love
      her dearly, and never be disagreeable. Mother should not work so hard—they
      should all go back to France—which mother said was si belle. Oh,
      dear, how nice it would be. Meantime, the sun sank lower, and mother at
      home was waiting for the water, but Toinette forgot that.
    

      Suddenly she started. A low sound of crying met her ear, and something
      like a tiny moan. It seemed close by but she saw nothing.
    

      Hastily she filled her pitcher and turned to go. But again the sound came,
      an unmistakable sob, right under her feet. Toinette stopped short.
    

      "What is the matter?" she called out bravely. "Is anybody there? and if
      there is, why don't I see you?"
    

      A third sob—and all at once, down on the ground beside her, a tiny
      figure became visible, so small that Toinette had to kneel and stoop her
      head to see it plainly. The figure was that of an odd little man. He wore
      a garb of green bright and glancing as the scales of a beetle. In his mite
      of a hand was a cap, out of which stuck a long pointed feather. Two specks
      of tears stood on his cheeks and he fixed on Toinette a glance so sharp
      and so sad that it made her feel sorry and frightened and confused all at
      once.
    

      "Why how funny this is!" she said, speaking to herself out loud.
    

      "Not at all," replied the little man, in a voice as dry and crisp as the
      chirr of a grasshopper. "Anything but funny. I wish you wouldn't use such
      words. It hurts my feelings, Toinette."
    

      "Do you know my name, then?" cried Toinette, astonished. "That's strange.
      But what is the matter? Why are you crying so, little man?"
    

      "I'm not a little man. I'm an elf," responded the dry voice; "and I think
      you'd cry if you had an engagement out to tea, and found yourself spiked
      on a great bayonet, so that you couldn't move an inch. Look!" He turned a
      little as he spoke and Toinette saw a long rose-thorn sticking through the
      back of the green robe. The little man could by no means reach the thorn,
      and it held him fast prisoner to the place.
    

      "Is that all? I'll take it out for you," she said.
    

      "Be careful—oh, be careful," entreated the little man. "This is my
      new dress, you know—my Christmas suit, and it's got to last a year.
      If there is a hole in it, Peascod will tickle me and Bean Blossom tease,
      till I shall wish myself dead." He stamped with vexation at the thought.
    

      "Now, you mustn't do that," said Toinette, in a motherly tone, "else
      you'll tear it yourself, you know." She broke off the thorn as she spoke,
      and gently drew it out. The elf anxiously examined the stuff. A tiny
      puncture only was visible and his face brightened.
    

      "You're a good child," he said. "I'll do as much for you some day,
      perhaps."
    

      "I would have come before if I had seen you," remarked Toinette, timidly.
      "But I didn't see you a bit."
    

      "No, because I had my cap on," cried the elf. He placed it on his head as
      he spoke, and hey, presto! nobody was there, only a voice which laughed
      and said: "Well—don't stare so. Lay your finger on me now."
    

      "Oh," said Toinette, with a gasp. "How wonderful. What fun it must be to
      do that. The children wouldn't see me. I should steal in and surprise
      them; they would go on talking, and never guess that I was there. I should
      so like it. Do elves ever lend their caps to anybody? I wish you'd lend me
      yours. It must be so nice to be invisible."
    

      "Ho," cried the elf, appearing suddenly again. "Lend my cap, indeed! Why
      it wouldn't stay on the very tip of your ear, it's so small. As for nice,
      that depends. Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. No, the only way
      for mortal people to be invisible is to gather the fern-seed and put it in
      their shoes."
    

      "Gather it? Where? I never saw any seed to the ferns," said Toinette,
      staring about her.
    

      "Of course not—we elves take care of that," replied the little man.
      "Nobody finds the fern-seed but ourselves. I'll tell you what, though. You
      were such a nice child to take out the thorn so cleverly, that I'll give
      you a little of the seed. Then you can try the fun of being invisible, to
      your heart's content."
    

      "Will you really? How delightful. May I have it now?"
    

      "Bless me. Do you think I carry my pockets stuffed with it?" said the elf.
      "Not at all. Go home, say not a word to any one, but leave your bedroom
      window open to night, and you'll see what you'll see."
    

      He laid his finger on his nose as he spoke, gave a jump like a
      grasshopper, clapping on his cap as he went, and vanished. Toinette
      lingered a moment, in hopes that he might come back, then took her pitcher
      and hurried home. The woods were very dusky by this time; but full of her
      strange adventures, she did not remember to feel afraid.
    

      "How long you have been," said her mother. "It's late for a little maid
      like you to be up. You must make better speed another time, my child."
    

      Toinette pouted as she was apt to do when reproved. The children clamoured
      to know what had kept her, and she spoke pettishly and crossly; so that
      they too became cross, and presently went away into the outer kitchen to
      play by themselves. The children were apt to creep away when Toinette
      came. It made her angry and unhappy at times that they should do so, but
      she did not realize that it was in great part her own fault, and so did
      not set herself to mend it.
    

      "Tell me a 'tory," said baby Jeanneton, creeping to her knee a little
      later. But Toinette's head was full of the elf; she had no time to spare
      for Jeanneton.
    

      "Oh, not to-night," she replied. "Ask mother to tell you one."
    

      "Mother's busy," said Jeanneton wistfully.
    

      Toinette took no notice and the little one crept away disconsolately.
    

      Bedtime at last. Toinette set the casement open, and lay a long time
      waiting and watching; then she fell asleep. She waked with a sneeze and
      jump and sat up in bed. Behold, on the coverlet stood her elfin friend,
      with a long train of other elves beside him, all clad in the beetle-wing
      green, and wearing little pointed caps. More were coming in at the window;
      outside a few were drifting about in the moon rays, which lit their
      sparkling robes till they glittered like so many fireflies. The odd thing
      was, that though the caps were on, Toinette could see the elves distinctly
      and this surprised her so much, that again she thought out loud and said,
      "How funny."
    

      "You mean about the caps," replied her special elf, who seemed to have the
      power of reading thought.
    

      "Yes, you can see us to-night, caps and all. Spells lose their value on
      Christmas Eve, always. Peascod, where is the box? Do you still wish to try
      the experiment of being invisible, Toinette?"
    

      "Oh, yes—indeed I do."
    

      "Very well; so let it be."
    

      As he spoke he beckoned, and two elves puffing and panting like little men
      with a heavy load, dragged forward a droll little box about the size of a
      pumpkin-seed.
    

      One of them lifted the cover.
    

      "Pay the porter, please, ma'am," he said giving Toinette's ear a
      mischievous tweak with his sharp fingers.
    

      "Hands off, you bad Peascod!" cried Toinette's elf. "This is my girl. She
      shan't be pinched!" He dealt Peascod a blow with his tiny hand as he spoke
      and looked so brave and warlike that he seemed at least an inch taller
      than he had before. Toinette admired him very much; and Peascod slunk away
      with an abashed giggle muttering that Thistle needn't be so ready with his
      fist.
    

      Thistle—for thus, it seemed, Toinette's friend was named—dipped
      his fingers in the box, which was full of fine brown seeds, and shook a
      handful into each of Toinette's shoes, as they stood, toes together by the
      bedside.
    

      "Now you have your wish," he said, "and can go about and do what you like,
      no one seeing. The charm will end at sunset. Make the most of it while you
      can; but if you want to end it sooner, shake the seeds from the shoes and
      then you are just as usual."
    

      "Oh, I shan't want to," protested Toinette; "I'm sure I shan't."
    

      "Good-bye," said Thistle, with a mocking little laugh.
    

      "Good-bye, and thank you ever so much," replied Toinette.
    

      "Good-bye, good-bye," replied the other elves, in shrill chorus. They
      clustered together, as if in consultation; then straight out of the window
      they flew like a swarm of gauzy-winged bees, and melted into the
      moonlight. Toinette jumped up and ran to watch them but the little men
      were gone—not a trace of them was to be seen; so she shut the
      window, went back to bed and presently in the midst of her amazed and
      excited thoughts fell asleep.
    

      She waked in the morning, with a queer, doubtful feeling. Had she dreamed,
      or had it really happened? She put on her best petticoat and laced her
      blue bodice; for she thought the mother would perhaps take them across the
      wood to the little chapel for the Christmas service. Her long hair
      smoothed and tied, her shoes trimly fastened, downstairs she ran. The
      mother was stirring porridge over the fire. Toinette went close to her,
      but she did not move or turn her head.
    

      "How late the children are," she said at last, lifting the boiling pot on
      the hob. Then she went to the stair-foot and called, "Marc, Jeanneton,
      Pierre, Marie. Breakfast is ready, my children. Toinette—but where,
      then, is Toinette? She is used to be down long before this."
    

      "Toinette isn't upstairs," said Marie from above.
    

      "Her door is wide open, and she isn't there."
    

      "That is strange," said the mother. "I have been here an hour, and she has
      not passed this way since." She went to the outer door and called,
      "Toinette! Toinette!" passing close to Toinette as she did so. And looking
      straight at her with unseeing eyes. Toinette, half frightened, half
      pleased, giggled low to herself. She really was invisible, then. How
      strange it seemed and what fun it was going to be.
    

      The children sat down to breakfast, little Jeanneton, as the youngest,
      saying grace. The mother distributed the porridge and gave each a spoon
      but she looked anxious.
    

      "Where can Toinette have gone?" she said to herself. Toinette was
      conscious-pricked. She was half inclined to dispel the charm on the spot.
      But just then she caught a whisper from Pierre to Marc which so surprised
      her as to put the idea out of her head.
    

      "Perhaps a wolf has eaten her up—a great big wolf like the 'Capuchon
      Rouge,' you know." This was what Pierre said; and Marc answered
      unfeelingly:
    

      "If he has, I shall ask mother to let me have her room for my own."
    

      Poor Toinette, her cheeks burned and her eyes filled with tears at this.
      Didn't the boys love her a bit then? Next she grew angry, and longed to
      box Marc's ears, only she recollected in time that she was invisible. What
      a bad boy he was, she thought.
    

      The smoking porridge reminded her that she was hungry; so brushing away
      the tears she slipped a spoon off the table and whenever she found the
      chance, dipped it into the bowl for a mouthful. The porridge disappeared
      rapidly.
    

      "I want some more," said Jeanneton.
    

      "Bless me, how fast you have eaten," said the mother, turning to the bowl.
    

      This made Toinette laugh, which shook her spoon, and a drop of the hot
      mixture fell right on the tip of Marie's nose as she sat with upturned
      face waiting her turn for a second helping. Marie gave a little scream.
    

      "What is it?" said the mother.
    

      "Hot water! Right in my face!" sputtered Marie.
    

      "Water!" cried Marc. "It's porridge."
    

      "You spattered with your spoon. Eat more carefully, my child," said the
      mother, and Toinette laughed again as she heard her. After all, there was
      some fun in being invisible.
    

      The morning went by. Constantly the mother went to the door, and, shading
      her eyes with her hand, looked out, in hopes of seeing a little figure
      come down the wood-path, for she thought perhaps the child went to the
      spring after water, and fell asleep there. The children played happily,
      meanwhile. They were used to doing without Toinette and did not seem to
      miss her, except that now and then baby Jeanneton said: "Poor Toinette
      gone—not here—all gone."
    

      "Well, what if she has?" said Marc at last looking up from the wooden cup
      he was carving for Marie's doll. "We can play all the better."
    

      Marc was a bold, outspoken boy, who always told his whole mind about
      things.
    

      "If she were here," he went on," she'd only scold and interfere. Toinette
      almost always scolds. I like to have her go away. It makes it pleasanter."
    

      "It is rather pleasanter," admitted Marie, "only I'd like her to be having
      a nice time somewhere else."
    

      "Bother about Toinette," cried Pierre.
    

      "Let's play 'My godmother has cabbage to sell.'"
    

      I don't think Toinette had ever felt so unhappy in her life, as when she
      stood by unseen, and heard the children say these words. She had never
      meant to be unkind to them, but she was quick-tempered, dreamy, wrapped up
      in herself. She did not like being interrupted by them, it put her out,
      and she spoke sharply and was cross. She had taken it for granted that the
      others must love her, by a sort of right, and the knowledge that they did
      not grieved over very much. Creeping away, she hid herself in the woods.
      It was a sparkling day, but the sun did not look so bright as usual.
      Cuddled down under a rosebush, Toinette sat sobbing as if her heart would
      break at the recollection of the speeches she had overheard.
    

      By and by a little voice within her woke up and began to make itself
      audible. All of us know this little voice. We call it conscience.
    

      "Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, oh, dear! I pushed her away only
      last night and wouldn't tell her a story. And Marie hoped I was having a
      pleasant time somewhere. I wish I hadn't slapped Marie last Friday. And I
      wish I hadn't thrown Marc's ball into the fire that day I was angry with
      him. How unkind he was to say that—but I wasn't always kind to him.
      And once I said that I wished a bear would eat Pierre up. That was because
      he broke my cup. Oh, dear, oh, dear. What a bad girl I've been to them
      all."
    

      "But you could be better and kinder if you tried, couldn't you?" said the
      inward voice. "I think you could."
    

      And Toinette clasped her hands tight and said out loud: "I could. Yes—and
      I will."
    

      The first thing to be done was to get rid of the fern-seed which she now
      regarded as a hateful thing. She untied her shoes and shook it out in the
      grass. It dropped and seemed to melt into the air, for it instantly
      vanished. A mischievous laugh sounded close behind, and a beetle-green
      coat-tail was visible whisking under a tuft of rushes. But Toinette had
      had enough of the elves, and, tying her shoes, took the road toward home,
      running with all her might.
    

      "Where have you been all day, Toinette?" cried the children, as,
      breathless and panting, she flew in at the gate. But Toinette could not
      speak. She made slowly for her mother, who stood in the doorway, flung
      herself into her arms and burst into a passion of tears.
    

      "Ma cherie, what is it, whence hast thou come?" asked the good mother
      alarmed. She lifted Toinette into her arms as she spoke, and hastened
      indoors. The other children followed, whispering and peeping, but the
      mother sent them away, and sitting down by the fire with Toinette in her
      lap, she rocked and hushed and comforted, as though Toinette had been
      again a little baby. Gradually the sobs ceased. For a while Toinette lay
      quiet, with her head on her mother's breast. Then she wiped her wet eyes,
      put her arms around her mother's neck, and told her all from the very
      beginning, keeping not a single thing back. The dame listened with alarm.
    

      "Saints protect us," she muttered. Then feeling Toinette's hands and head,
      "Thou hast a fever," she said. "I will make thee a tisane, my darling, and
      thou must at once go to bed." Toinette vainly protested; to bed she went
      and perhaps it was the wisest thing, for the warm drink threw her into a
      long sound sleep and when she woke she was herself again, bright and well,
      hungry for dinner, and ready to do her usual tasks.
    

      Herself—but not quite the same Toinette that she had been before.
      Nobody changes from bad to better in a minute. It takes time for that,
      time and effort, and a long struggle with evil habits and tempers. But
      there is sometimes a certain minute or day in which people begin to
      change, and thus it was with Toinette. The fairy lesson was not lost upon
      her. She began to fight with herself, to watch her faults and try to
      conquer them. It was hard work; often she felt discouraged, but she kept
      on. Week after week and month after month she grew less selfish, kinder,
      more obliging than she used to be. When she failed and her old fractious
      temper got the better of her, she was sorry and begged every one's pardon
      so humbly that they could not but forgive. The mother began to think that
      the elves really had bewitched her child. As for the children they learned
      to love Toinette as never before, and came to her with all their pains and
      pleasures, as children should to a kind older sister. Each fresh proof of
      this, every kiss from Jeanneton, every confidence from Marc, was a comfort
      to Toinette, for she never forgot Christmas Day, and felt that no trouble
      was too much to wipe out that unhappy recollection. "I think they like me
      better than they did then," she would say; but then the thought came,
      "Perhaps if I were invisible again, if they did not know I was there, I
      might hear something to make me feel as badly as I did that morning."
      These sad thoughts were part of the bitter fruit of the fairy fern-seed.
    

      So with doubts and fears the year went by, and again it was Christmas Eve.
      Toinette had been asleep some hours when she was roused by a sharp tapping
      at the window pane. Startled, and only half awake, she sat up in bed and
      saw by the moonlight a tiny figure outside which she recognized. It was
      Thistle drumming with his knuckles on the glass.
    

      "Let me in," cried the dry little voice. So Toinette opened the casement,
      and Thistle flew in and perched as before on the coverlet.
    

      "Merry Christmas, my girl." he said, "and a Happy New Year when it comes.
      I've brought you a present;" and, dipping into a pouch tied round his
      waist, he pulled out a handful of something brown. Toinette knew what it
      was in a moment.
    

      "Oh, no," she cried shrinking back. "Don't give me any fern-seeds. They
      frighten me. I don't like them."
    

      "Don't be silly," said Thistle, his voice sounding kind this time, and
      earnest. "It wasn't pleasant being invisible last year, but perhaps this
      year it will be. Take my advice, and try it. You'll not be sorry."
    

      "Sha'n't I?" said Toinette, brightening. "Very well, then, I will." She
      leaned out of bed, and watched Thistle strew the fine dustlike grains in
      each shoe.
    

      "I'll drop in to-morrow night, and just see how you like it," he said.
      Then, with a nod, he was gone.
    

      The old fear came back when she woke in the morning, and she tied on her
      shoes with a tremble at her heart. Downstairs she stole. The first thing
      she saw was a wooden ship standing on her plate. Marc had made the ship,
      but Toinette had no idea it was for her.
    

      The little ones sat round the table with their eyes on the door, watching
      till Toinette should come in and be surprised.
    

      "I wish she'd hurry," said Pierre, drumming on his bowl with a spoon.
    

      "We all want Toinette, don't we?" said the mother, smiling as she poured
      the hot porridge.
    

      "It will be fun to see her stare," declared Marc.
    

      "Toinette is jolly when she stares. Her eyes look big and her cheeks grow
      pink. Andre Brugen thinks his sister Aline is prettiest, but I don't. Our
      Toinette is ever so pretty."
    

      "She is ever so nice, too," said Pierre. "She's as good to play with as—as—a
      boy," finished triumphantly.
    

      "Oh, I wish my Toinette would come," said Jeanneton.
    

      Toinette waited no longer, but sped upstairs with glad tears in her eyes.
      Two minutes, and down she came again visible this time. Her heart was
      light as a feather.
    

      "Merry Christmas!" clamoured the children. The ship was presented,
      Toinette was duly surprised, and so the happy day began.
    

      That night Toinette left the window open, and lay down in her clothes; for
      she felt, as Thistle had been so kind, she ought to receive him politely.
      He came at midnight, and with him all the other little men in green.
    

      "Well, how was it?" asked Thistle.
    

      "Oh, I liked it this time," declared Toinette, with shining eyes, "and I
      thank you so much."
    

      "I'm glad you did," said the elf. "And I'm glad you are thankful, for we
      want you to do something for us."
    

      "What can it be?" inquired Toinette, wondering.
    

      "You must know," went on Thistle, "that there is no dainty in the world
      which we elves enjoy like a bowl of fern-seed broth. But it has to be
      cooked over a real fire, and we dare not go near fire, you know, lest our
      wings scorch. So we seldom get any fern-seed broth. Now, Toinette, will
      you make us some?"
    

      "Indeed, I will!" cried Toinette, "only you must tell me how."
    

      "It is very simple," said Peascod; "only seed and honey dew, stirred from
      left to right with a sprig of fennel. Here's the seed and the fennel, and
      here's the dew. Be sure and stir from the left; if you don't, it curdles,
      and the flavour will be spoiled."
    

      Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette, moving very softly,
      quickened the fire, set on the smallest bowl she could find, and spread
      the doll's table with the wooden saucers which Marc had made for Jeanneton
      to play with. Then she mixed and stirred as the elves bade, and when the
      soup was done, served it to them smoking hot. How they feasted! No
      bumblebee, dipping into a flower-cup, ever sipped and twinkled more
      rapturously than they.
    

      When the last drop was eaten, they made ready to go. Each in turn kissed
      Toinette's hand, and said a word of farewell. Thistle brushed his
      feathered cap over the doorpost as he passed.
    

      "Be lucky, house," he said, "for you have received and entertained the
      luck-bringers. And be lucky, Toinette. Good temper is good luck, and sweet
      words and kind looks and peace in the heart are the fairest of fortunes.
      See that you never lose them again, my girl." With this, he, too, kissed
      Toinette's hand, waved his feathered cap, and—whir! they all were
      gone, while Toinette, covering the fire with ashes and putting aside the
      little cups, stole up to her bed a happy child.
    


 


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