Christmas gold, p.580
Christmas Gold, page 580
"These are the finest tin-soldiers I ever saw!" I cried with enthusiasm.
"Only they're not tin," said she. "Solid silver, every man-jack of them—except the officers—they're made of platinum."
"And will you look at that little electric railroad!" I cried, my eye ranging to the other end of the salon. "Stations, switches, danger-signals, cars of all kinds, and even miniature Pullmans, with real little berths that can be let up and down—who is the lucky kid who's getting all these beautiful things?"
"Sh!" she whispered, putting her finger to her lips. "He is coming—go on and play. Pretend you don't see him until he speaks to you."
As she spoke, a door at the far end of the apartment swung gently open, and a little boy tiptoed softly in. He was a golden-haired little chap, and I fell in love with his soft, dreamy eyes the moment my own rested upon them. I could not help glancing up furtively to see his joy over the discovery of all these wondrous possessions, but alas, to my surprise, there was only an unemotional stare in his eyes as they swept the aggregation of childish treasures. Then, on a sudden, he saw me, squatting on the floor, setting up again the army of silver warriors.
"How do you do?" he said gently, but with just a touch of weariness in his sad little voice.
"Good morning, and a Merry Christmas to you, sir," I replied.
"What are you doing?" he asked, drawing near, and watching me with a good deal of seeming curiosity.
"I am playing with your soldiers," said I. "I hope you don't mind?"
"Oh, no indeed," he replied; "but what do you mean by that? What is playing?"
I could hardly believe my ears.
"What is what?" said I.
"You said you were playing, sir," said he, "and I don't know exactly what you mean."
"Why," said I, scratching my head hard in a mad quest for a definition, for I couldn't for the life of me think of the answer to his question offhand, any more than I could define one of the elements. "Playing is—why, it's playing, laddie. Don't you know what it is to play?"
"Oh, yes," said he. "It's what you do on the piano—I've been taught to play on the piano, sir."
"Oh, but this is different," said I. "This kind is fun—it's what most little boys do with their toys."
"You mean—breaking them?" said he.
"No, indeed," said I. "It's getting all the fun there is out of them."
"I think I should like to do that," said he, with a fixed gaze upon the soldiers. "Can a little fellow like me learn to play that way?"
"Well, rather, kiddie," said I, reaching out and taking him by the hand. "Sit down here on the floor alongside of me, and I'll show you."
"Oh, no," said he, drawing back; "I—I can't sit on the floor. I'd catch cold."
"Now, who under the canopy told you that?" I demanded, somewhat impatiently, I fear.
"My governesses and both my nurses, sir," said he. "You see, there are drafts—"
"Well, there won't be any drafts this time," said I. "Just you sit down here, and we'll have a game of marbles—ever play marbles with your father?"
"No, sir," he replied. "He's always too busy, and neither of my nurses has ever known how."
"But your mother comes up here and plays games with you sometimes, doesn't she?" I asked.
"Mother is busy, too," said the child. "Besides, she wouldn't care for a game which you had to sit on the floor to—"
I sprang to my feet and lifted him bodily in my arms, and, after squatting him over by the fireplace where if there were any drafts at all they would be as harmless as a summer breeze, I took up a similar position on the other side of the room, and initiated him into the mystery of miggles as well as I could, considering that all his marbles were real agates.
"You don't happen to have a china-alley anywhere, do you?" I asked.
"No, sir," he answered. "We only have china plates—"
"Never mind," I interrupted. "We can get along very nicely with these."
And then for half an hour, despite the rich quality of our paraphernalia, that little boy and I indulged in a glorious game of real plebeian miggs, and it was a joy to see how quickly his stiff little fingers relaxed and adapted themselves to the uses of his eye, which was as accurate as it was deeply blue. So expert did he become that in a short while he had completely cleaned me out, giving joyous little cries of delight with every hit, and then we turned our attention to the soldiers.
"I want some playing now," he said gleefully, as I informed him that he had beaten me out of my boots at one of my best games. "Show me what you were doing with those soldiers when I came in."
"All right," said I, obeying with alacrity. "First, we'll have a parade."
I started a great talking-machine standing in one corner of the room off on a spirited military march, and inside of ten minutes, with his assistance, I had all the troops out and to all intents and purposes bravely swinging by to the martial music of Sousa.
"How's that?" said I, when we had got the whole corps arranged to our satisfaction.
"Fine!" he cried, jumping up and down upon the floor and clapping his hands with glee. "I've got lots more of these stored away in my toy-closet," he went on, "but I never knew that you could do such things as this with them."
"But what did you think they were for?" I asked.
"Why—just to—to keep," he said hesitatingly.
"Wait a minute," said I, wheeling a couple of cannon off to a distance of a yard from the passing troops. "I'll show you something else you can do with them."
I loaded both cannon to the muzzle with dried pease, and showed him how to shoot.
"Now," said I, "fire!"
He snapped the spring, and the dried pease flew out like death-dealing shells in war. In a moment the platinum commander of the forces, and about thirty-seven solid silver warriors, lay flat on their backs. It needed only a little red ink on the carpet to reproduce in miniature a scene of great carnage, but I shall never forget the expression of mingled joy and regret on his countenance as those creatures went down.
"Don't you like it, son?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said, with an anxious glance at the prostrate warriors. "They aren't deaded, are they?"
"Of course not," said I, restoring the presumably defunct troopers to life by setting them up again. "The only thing that'll dead a soldier like these is to step on him. Try the other gun."
Thus reassured, he did as I bade him, and again the proud paraders went down, this time amid shouts of glee. And so we passed an all too fleeting two hours, that little boy and I. Through the whole list of his famous toys we went, and as well as I could I taught him the delicious uses of each and all of them, until finally he seemed to grow weary, and so, drawing up a big arm-chair before the fire and taking his tired little body into my lap, with his tousled head cuddled up close over the spot where my heart is alleged to be, I started to read a story to him out of one of the many beautiful books that had been provided for him by his generous parents. But I had not gone far when I saw that his attention was wandering.
"Perhaps you'd rather have me tell you a story instead of reading it," said I.
"What's to tell a story?" he asked, fixing his blue eyes gravely upon mine.
"Great Scott, kiddie!" said I, "didn't anybody ever tell you a story?"
"No, sir," he replied sleepily; "I get read to every afternoon by my governess, but nobody ever told me a story."
"Well, just you listen to this," said I, giving him a hearty squeeze. "Once upon a time there was a little boy," I began, "and he lived in a beautiful house not far from the Park, and his daddy—"
"What's a daddy?" asked the child, looking up into my face.
"Why, a daddy is a little boy's father," I explained. "You've got a daddy—"
"Oh, yes," he said. "If a daddy is a father, I've got one. I saw him yesterday," he added.
"Oh, did you?" said I. "And what did he say to you?"
"He said he was glad to see me and hoped I was a good boy," said the child. "He seemed very glad when I told him I hoped so, too, and he gave me all these things here—he and my mother."
"That was very nice of them," said I huskily.
"And they're both coming up some time to-day or to-morrow to see if I like them," said the lad.
"And what are you going to say?" I asked, with difficulty getting the words out over a most unaccountable lump that had arisen in my throat.
"I'm going to tell them," he began, as his eyes closed sleepily, "that I like them all very, very much."
"And which one of them all do you like the best?" said I.
He snuggled up closer in my arms, and, raising his little head a trifle higher, he kissed me on the tip end of my chin, and murmured softly as he dropped off to sleep,
"You!"
III
"Good night," said my spectral visitor as she left me, once more bending over my desk, whither I had been re-transported without my knowledge, for I must have fallen asleep, too, with that little boy in my arms. "You have done a good night's work."
"Have I?" said I, rubbing my eyes to see if I were really awake. "But tell me—who was that little kiddie anyhow?"
"He?" she answered with a smile. "Why, he is the Child Who Has Everything But—"
And then she vanished from my sight.
"Everything but what?" I cried, starting up and peering into the darkness into which she had disappeared.
But there was no response, and I was left alone to guess the answer to my question.
A Holiday Wish
Table of Contents
When Santa Claus doth visit me
With richly laden pack of toys,
And tumbles down my chim-i-ney
To scatter 'round his Christmas joys,
I trust that he will bring the kind
That can be shared, for it is true
Past peradventure to my mind
That joy is sweeter shared by two.
I never cared for solitaire.
I do not pine for lonely things.
I love the pleasure I can share
Because of all the fun it brings.
A selfish pleasure loses zest
With none to share it with you by,
And shrinks the longer 'tis possest,
While joys divided multiply.
Santa Clause and Little Billee
Table of Contents
I
He was only a little bit of a chap, and so, when for the first time in his life he came into close contact with the endless current of human things, it was as hard for him to "stay put" as for some wayward little atom of flotsam and jetsam to keep from tossing about in the surging tides of the sea.
His mother had left him there in the big toy-shop, with instructions not to move until she came back, while she went off to do some mysterious errand. She thought, no doubt, that with so many beautiful things on every side to delight his eye and hold his attention, strict obedience to her commands would not be hard. But, alas, the good lady reckoned not upon the magnetic power of attraction of all those lovely objects in detail. She saw them only as a mass of wonders which, in all probability, would so dazzle his vision as to leave him incapable of movement; but Little Billee was not so indifferent as all that.
When a phonograph at the other end of the shop began to rattle off melodious tunes and funny jokes, in spite of the instructions he had received, off he pattered as fast as his little legs would carry him to investigate. After that, forgetful of everything else, finding himself caught in the constantly moving stream of Christmas shoppers, he was borne along in the resistless current until he found himself at last out upon the street—alone, free, and independent.
It was great fun, at first. By and by, however, the afternoon waned; the sun, as if anxious to hurry along the dawn of Christmas Day, sank early to bed; and the electric lights along the darkening highway began to pop out here and there, like so many merry stars come down to earth to celebrate the gladdest time of all the year. Little Billee began to grow tired; and then he thought of his mama, and tried to find the shop where he had promised to remain quiet until her return. Up and down the street he wandered until his little legs grew weary; but there was no sign of the shop, nor of the beloved face he was seeking.
Once again, and yet once again after that, did the little fellow traverse that crowded highway, his tears getting harder and harder to keep back, and then—joy of joys—whom should he see walking slowly along the sidewalk but Santa Claus himself! The saint was strangely decorated with two queer-looking boards, with big red letters on them, hung over his back and chest; but there was still that same kindly, gray-bearded face, the red cloak with the fur trimmings, and the same dear old cap that the children's friend had always worn in the pictures of him that Little Billee had seen.
He thought it very strange that Santa Claus's hand should be so red and cold and rough. With a glad cry of happiness, Little Billee ran to meet the old fellow, and put his hand gently into that of the saint. He thought it very strange that Santa Claus's hand should be so red and cold and rough, and so chapped; but he was not in any mood to be critical. He had been face to face with a very disagreeable situation. Then, when things had seemed blackest to him, everything had come right again; and he was too glad to take more than passing notice of anything strange and odd.
Santa Claus, of course, would recognize him at once, and would know just how to take him back to his mama at home—wherever that might be. Little Billee had never thought to inquire just where home was. All he knew was that it was a big gray stone house on a long street somewhere, with a tall iron railing in front of it, not far from the park.
"Howdidoo, Mr. Santa Claus?" said Little Billee, as the other's hand unconsciously tightened over his own.
"Why, howdidoo, kiddie?" replied the old fellow, glancing down at his new-found friend, with surprise gleaming from his deep-set eyes. "Where did you drop from?"
"Oh, I'm out," said Little Billee bravely. "My mama left me a little while ago while she went off about something, and I guess I got losted."
"Very likely," returned the old saint with a smile. "Little two-by-four fellows are apt to get losted when they start in on their own hook, specially days like these, with such crowds hustlin' around."
"But it's all right now," suggested Little Billee hopefully. "I'm found again, ain't I?"
"Oh, yes, indeedy, you're found all right, kiddie," Santa Claus agreed.
"And pretty soon you'll take me home again, won't you?" said the child.
"Surest thing you know!" answered Santa Claus, looking down upon the bright but tired little face with a comforting smile. "What might your address be?"
"My what?" asked Little Billee.
"Your address," repeated Santa Claus. "Where do you live?"
The answer was a ringing peal of childish laughter.
"As if you didn't know that!" cried Little Billee, giggling.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Santa Claus. "Can't fool you, can I? It would be funny if, after keeping an eye on you all these years since you was a babby, I didn't know where you lived, eh?"
"Awful funny," agreed Little Billee. "But tell me, Mr. Santa Claus, what sort of a boy do you think I have been?" he added with a shade of anxiety in his voice.
"Pretty good—pretty good," Santa Claus answered, turning in his steps and walking back again along the path he had just traveled—which Little Billee thought was rather a strange thing to do. "You've got more white marks than black ones—a good many more—a hundred and fifty times as many, kiddie. Fact is, you're all right—'way up among the good boys; though once or twice last summer, you know—"
"Yes, I know," said Little Billee meekly, "but I didn't mean to be naughty."
"That's just what I said to the bookkeeper," said Santa Claus, "and so we gave you a gray mark—half white and half black—that doesn't count either way, for or against you."
"Thank you, sir," said Little Billee, much comforted.
"Don't mention it; you are very welcome, kiddie," said Santa Claus, giving the youngster's hand a gentle squeeze.
"Why do you call me 'kiddie' when you know my name is Little Billee?" asked the boy.
"Oh, that's what I call all good boys," explained Santa Claus. "You see, we divide them up into two kinds—the good boys and the naughty boys—and the good boys we call kiddies, and the naughty boys we call caddies, and there you are."
Just then Little Billee noticed for the first time the square boards that Santa Claus was wearing.
"What are you wearing those boards for, Mr. Santa Claus?" he asked.
If the lad had looked closely enough, he would have seen a very unhappy look come into the old man's face; but there was nothing of it in his answer.
"Oh, those are my new-fangled back-and-chest protectors, my lad," he replied. "Sometimes we have bitter winds blowing at Christmas, and I have to be ready for them. It wouldn't do for Santa Claus to come down with the sneezes at Christmas-time, you know—no, sirree! This board in front keeps the wind off my chest, and the one behind keeps me from getting rheumatism in my back. They are a great protection against the weather."
"I'll have to tell my papa about them," said Little Billee, much impressed by the simplicity of this arrangement. "We have a glass board on the front of our ortymobile to keep the wind off Henry—he's our shuffer—but papa wears a fur coat, and sometimes he says the wind goes right through that. He'll be glad to know about these boards."
"I shouldn't wonder," smiled Santa Claus. "They aren't very becoming, but they are mighty useful. You might save up your pennies and give your papa a pair like 'em for his next Christmas."
Santa Claus laughed as he spoke; but there was a catch in his voice which Little Billee was too young to notice.
"You've got letters printed there," said the boy, peering around in front of his companion at the lettering on the board. "What do they spell? You know I haven't learned to read yet."
"And why should you know how to read at your age?" said Santa Claus. "You're not more than—"
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