The Project Gutenberg eBook of Santa Claus' Sweetheart, by Imogen Clark This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Santa Claus' Sweetheart Author: Imogen Clark Release Date: December 24, 2020 [eBook #64124] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SANTA CLAUS' SWEETHEART *** S A N TA C L A U S ’ S W E E T H E A RT “Will ye tell me good-by now, swateheart?” Page 93. SANTA CLAUS’ SWEETHEART T BY IMOGEN CLARK ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET Copyright, 1906, E. P. Dutton & Co. Published September, 1906. THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. TO E. A. M. M. CONTENTS Chapter Page I. Enter Santa Claus 3 II. The Ride Together 30 III. Exit Santa Claus 66 IV. Christmas Eve at Thornby’s 97 V. The Peace of God 130 VI. Christmas Day 165 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS “Will ye tell me good-by now, swateheart?” (p. 93) Frontispiece She stood waiting, listening to the bells Facing page 96 S A N TA C L A U S ’ S WE E TH E A RT CHAPTER I E N T E R S A N TA C L A U S ERRY O’CONNOR always declared he was born under a happy star, and he also maintained that at the time of his coming into the world it had danced for very joy. This statement, which no matter how much others might doubt but could not dispute, he had direct from his mother’s mother, who was present on that most auspicious occasion, and had observed the unusual conduct of the stellar body from the window. And, moreover, as if to establish quite conclusively the connection between the shining merriment in the skies and the advent of the little child on earth, the first thing the baby did was to smile. Old Mrs. Mulcahey knew what she was talking of. She had seen many new-born children in her time, and all of them, with the exception of her small and only grandchild, had worn {1} {2} {3} {4} such doleful countenances that a less hopeful person than herself would have been cast into despair. Whether that dazzling, dancing star had blinded her eyes, or had given them a truer vision, who shall say? She had seen—what she had seen! A little joyful slip of humanity come valiantly into this world of trouble, equipped from the outset with the sign-royal of a light heart. It was the humblest of cradles; but to it, as to all cradles—so runs the old belief—had trooped, unseen, the good fairies with their gifts, and hither also had come the wicked fairy, who is seldom absent at such times, and whose malignant generosity mars all the gracious giving, making possession only too often of doubtful value. Here, as elsewhere, she wreaked her evil will so that the little child grew to be a man known through the countryside as a good-for-naught. That was the extent of her work, however; she was powerless to prevent another testimony. He was also known as a kindly, happy-go-lucky fellow, his own worst enemy, but the friend of all the world. Such was the record of five-and-sixty years, and such it would be to the end. Terry dragged his squirrel cap closely down about his ears, and pulled the collar of his fur coat up to meet it, shutting out the shouts that rose from the group of idlers gathered around the roaring fire in Wistar’s tavern. Not even Ulysses, on that memorable voyage of his past the sirens, ever strove so vigorously to dull his hearing as did this little commonplace man, who was generally in thrall to his own pleasures. In spite of the laughter which reached him in faint bursts, he strode resolutely to the door and let himself out into the still, white world. For a moment his will, nerved as it seldom was, faltered; back of him, through the open door, he could see the gleaming eye of the fire winking and blinking in friendly wise; the grinning human faces turned his way, jovial as they were, were less alluring, though he knew what comfort lay in their mirth, and what additional comfort would be passed from lip to lip as the hours went by. He was not unfamiliar with such scenes, but the knowledge that the morrow would be Christmas and his rude sleigh contained what would go to the needs, and also to the meagre pleasuring of the shantymen at Thornby’s logging-camp, as well as another and still more potent thought, lent an unusual firmness to his step. He was not sure of himself even then, however, though he cleared the distance with a bound which landed him in the centre of his waiting sleigh, and shook out the reins with a wild halloo that startled the placid old horses and made them whirl forward on the frozen road with the friskiness of youth. The noise of the hurried departure brought the men within the tavern running to the open door, to stand there bare-headed, gaping at the diminishing speck which they knew—and did not know. A man of determination, surely, and hitherto their acquaintance had been with one who never could say “no,” or a quarter of a “no,” on any occasion—the real Terry O’Connor. Meanwhile, as the sorry-looking nags sobered down to their everyday gait, the man back of them knew which was the real self. His own conduct, despite the fact that he held its key, had surprised him even more than it had his companions; and as his thoughts turned longingly to the spot he had just quitted, he let his grasp slacken on the reins. It was better that the horses should take their own way for a while; he could not quite trust himself. Presently, however, when no backward glance revealed the tavern, and all around the country lay wrapped in the white silence of winter, he gathered the lines more firmly between his fingers and called a jovial word of encouragement. His voice rang out loud and far-reaching,—the only sound to break the stillness save the monotonous sing-song of the sleigh bells that struck a vibrant note on the clear air, and the sharp crunching of the hardened snow under the passing hoofs. Another man in Terry’s place, doing his duty against his inclination, would have performed the task stolidly if there were no one by to applaud his action and recognize what a fine fellow he was. With Terry it was different. Once starting out to do a thing he carried his own lightness of heart into the matter, which was probably the result of being born under a happy star. There were other reasons in this instance, besides the performance of his duty, to make Terry happy. He had never heard that duty done is the soul’s fireside; indeed, had he been consulted on the subject he would have frankly cast his vote for Wistar’s fireside with the hot toddy going around at blessed intervals rather than for any warmth that might come from his soul because of his own well- doing. He knew little of his soul, and cared less; that was something, according to him, to be reserved for the time when illness, or old age, should overtake him. At present, with his lusty health and his gay heart that was bubbling over with youth despite his years, he disregarded the acquaintance entirely. He had turned his face resolutely toward the north and to the north he would go, though first the provisions would be duly left at the camp; but he had no intention of remaining there himself. A glass of grog—another—they could scarcely offer him less than two!—and he would be away again. Like a beacon, out of the distance, beckoning to him was the jollity up at Merle. It was there he meant to keep the Christmas Eve vigil and, moreover, win the bet Narcisse Vélin had made. For Narcisse, smarting under what he termed “a slight to hees honor-r,” had declared that Terry would never be able to leave Wistar’s tavern and the jolly crowd assembled there, and the shantymen would be obliged to do without their Christmas cheer because they had chosen so unworthy a bearer instead of a more capable man—he would mention no names!—and then with an evil laugh he had made a heavy wager that his words would come true. Terry shivered momentarily under his furs, though he was so well wrapped up that the cold was powerless to reach him. How nearly had Narcisse been right, how nearly had he—Terry O’Connor—been the loser. The grog was so good at Wistar’s, and Baptiste, the most famous story-teller of them all, had just come in with a new and wonderful adventure at his tongue’s end, and the glow of the fire was like a gentle hand soothing one into forgetfulness. Then suddenly he had remembered the packed sleigh without with Danny and Whitefoot waiting patiently, though mournfully shaking their bells from time to time to remind him of themselves, of his duty, and, more than all, of Narcisse. The latter thought was the real spur to goad him out of the ease into which he had fallen. So he had left the tavern, and the surprise his action had caused filled him with great glee. “They’ll niver be t’rough talkin’ av it,” he chuckled aloud, “niver! They’ll say whin they tell their shtories ’twas the year, ye mind, whin Terry, the little jool av a man, wudn’t stay along wid us though we besached most beguilin’, an’ the grog was that edifyin’ ’twas its own monymint. He wint out into the piercin’ cold did that brave little felly”—Terry’s chest swelled with pardonable pride —“because he’d passed his say-so. He’s a square sowl is the lad, though there do be some avil-minded folks as give out that he an’ his promises don’t walk on the same side av the way—now the howly saints fergive thim!” He flapped the reins on the horses’ backs. “Hi, there, me byes!” he shouted. “’Tis a fine supper ye’ll be havin’, an’ Narcisse Vélin will be afther payin’ the score. Kape a- goin’, me beauties. The moon will be up whin we go into Merle, an’ ye’ll be dhroppin’ wid fatague; but aisy! now—aisy!—there won’t be anny work to-morry, childer—oh, jist ye wait an’ see! They’ll be afther thinkin’ we ain’t comin’, an’ Narcisse will say in his Frenchy way: ’Bieng! didn’t I tol’ ye so? The bet is mine, an’ little Terry’ll have to pay up; ye can’t put no daypindince in a man av his build iver—’ An’ whilst the avil wurrds are dhroppin’ from his mouth I’ll walk in on thim all as inconsequenshul-like as if I was goin’ to {5} {6} {7} {8} {9} {10} {11} {12} {13} {14} {15} {16} a fair. That’s the toime the laugh will be wid me, an’ Narcisse will want to slink aff to some remoted place. Oh, there does be no sinse at all to make wagers onlesst ye be sure av winnin’—thin ye can make thim big—” The thought so pleased him that he laughed boisterously, and flicked the horses with the whip, much as a man would nudge his neighbor with a friendly elbow at some witticism; then, his merriment abating a trifle, he began to sing. Suddenly he broke off in his song, and his fingers closed tightly over the slack reins; the horses felt the authoritative touch and came to an instant standstill. Before them lay the road which here led across the open country, though farther on it wound through the woods and over the low hills. Back of them, three good miles by now, was the little settlement with Wistar’s tavern (which had given the place its name) as a nucleus, while to the left stretched the plain empty of all sign of life; and to the right there was the same level whiteness, broken only by a solitary house which fronted the road at some distance away and seemed like a belated straggler, held captive by the relentless bonds of winter, as it peered longingly in the direction of the small town from whose companionship it was forever set apart. There was an air of forlornness about it, surrounded as it was by all that glitter of ice and glint of frost, though the chimney smoke curling slowly up through the sharp air told of a certain homely cheer within. It was off the beaten track, however, and despite the fact that Terry had halted he made no attempt to give evidence of his presence by so much as a shout. Out of the earth, almost beside him, there had unexpectedly risen a small figure, and he now found himself staring into a child’s eager face. “Are you Santa Claus?” she demanded with bated breath. He looked back at her, taking in, even in his dull fashion, the delight that widened her eyes and shrilled her voice. Suppose he told the truth—what then? How the disappointment would cloud the upturned radiant face at the commonplace statement that he was only Terry O’Connor. He hesitated an inappreciable moment; then, because he had been born under a dancing star and loved a jest, he answered her question. The child’s laugh rang out on the air in happy triumph, waking the echoes. The horses stirred a little and their dull old bells gave forth a low sound, but it wasn’t music compared to that which filled Terry’s ears. He took up the reins reluctantly. She pressed nearer, putting out a small, resolute hand as if she were one of those old-time, fierce-browed highwaymen and meant to stop his further progress. “Ah, please don’t,” she protested, in a tone no knight of the road would ever have employed, “please—” Then with a little rush, as if the words were eager to escape: “ I was so sure it was truly you, so sure. I saw you when you were way off—just a teeny, weeny speck—and first I thought maybe it was Pierre, or p’r’aps the doctor, or Mr. Higgins, and I came down here ’cause they always say ‘How are you?’ as they pass—they’re such noticing big men! I couldn’t see very clear, you know, with the sun shining one way and the snow sending back baby sparkles the other; but everything seemed so happy, and when I heard you singing, I knew why—even your bells sounded glad—glad! I just could hardly wait. I’ve thought so much about you always—I knew you’d come some day. Where—where are you going now, sir?” “Home,” answered Terry, honestly enough. She cast a quick glance at the north along the road he must travel, and which, to her fancy, led henceforth to an enchanted world; then her eyes sought his face again. “Oh!” she cried breathlessly, “must you go quite—quite yet?” At the possibility of his departure, the joy that had been written all over her confident little person seemed suddenly to take wing, leaving her dejected and forlorn. The pleasure had been so brief,—a mere flash of brightness that was over almost as soon as it had come. Terry hesitated; every moment he lingered imperilled the fulfilment of his wager, for his horses were old, and their best was apt to be very slow indeed. He could not afford to loiter. “Before twelve av the clock, Christmas Eve,” Narcisse had taunted him. But the little child! It seemed almost a sin to cheat her of this happiness. He must go, yet everything about her—drooping lips and saddened eyes—bade him stay. Then, filled with a desire to please her and, at the same time, not interfere with his own plans, he bent down. “Come along wid me,” he suggested jocosely. He had not been prepared for the effect his words would have on her; the joy in her face was keen as a dagger’s point, and seeing it he would not temporize. “Come wid me,” he urged. She hesitated in her turn, and cast a backward glance at the silent house whose tin roof flashed almost like an admonishing eye in the sun. Duty was a word of even less proportions in her vocabulary than in Terry’s, though she knew its existence; knew, too, young as she was, the wide gulf that lies between right and wrong doing. Yet here was no question of wrong, certainly. The possibility of the passing of such an Important Personage had never occurred to her elders, and they, who loved to see her happy, would never refuse to let her go with him; it wasn’t necessary to ask—she couldn’t wait. The house was so lonely! Her uncle was away at his work, and her mother sat sad and quiet, sewing the livelong day; there were no children’s voices in the empty rooms, no rollicking, romping feet in the hall or on the stairs. Just silence, save for the little sounds she herself made as she played with her dolls, or, tired of them, watched the big, desolate world from the window. That was the picture the house held for her. This,—she looked again at the little red- cheeked, blue-eyed man smiling at her from under his big fur cap, his white beard framing his jovial face—why, he had just stepped from her story book; hundreds of times he had met her glance in this same friendly fashion from the printed page; just so had he looked at her in those long daydreams, gleamed at her so in the twilight from the leaping fire, haunted her slumbers at night. Even the sound of his voice was familiar, though she had never thought to hear him say: “Come with me, come with me.” The road, stretching away to the north, gleamed like silver under the dazzling sky, twinkling and beckoning to her as with a thousand hands, and innumerable voices, too fine to be heard by ordinary ears, echoed the invitation. The voices of the sleeping plains waking at the thought of the happiness in store for her, the voices of the snow-covered trees where the little leaves danced in the summer time, and all the spirits of the birds that had once darted in and out among them and had nested there sang now in a mighty chorus: “Come, come, come.” {17} {18} {19} {20} {21} {22} {23} {24} {25} “A Oh, that happy, happy road. Never a child of all the multitude of children on earth who had loved him, dreamed about him, and longed to see him had been so fortunate as she. It was impossible to hesitate a moment longer, especially when the pursed up lips might so quickly slip from the magic word into a chirrup to the horses, and in consequence sleigh and occupant would vanish into thin air. “Do you really mean it?” she asked tremulously. “Do you really mean it?” For though she was deafened by the noisy voices, his had been the first to speak. “Will you take me, truly?” For answer he threw back the robes, and as she sprang to his side he gave a great laugh and drew her closer to him; then he dragged an extra rug from the bottom of the sleigh and folded it about her. “Santa Claus’ swateheart mustn’t ketch the p-noo-moany,” he cried. “Divil a bit av it! What do I percaive—is it missin’ a mitten ye are? Sure that’s disthressful, fer we can’t hunt it up now wid toime racin’ by like a mill-shtrame—” “I’m unpartikilar, truly. I don’t mind the leastest bit—” “Well, mine wud be too shmall fer the likes av ye annyway, an’ I nade thim mesilf. So tuck your hands clost under, me darlint, an’ ye won’t be afther falin’ the cold. Now thin, is it ready ye are?” “Yes, oh, yes.” “Hi, there, Danny! Hi, there, Whitefut!” he shouted. “Buckle to, me byes; the luck av the wurrld is foldin’ her arrms about me at this toime, an’ no mishtake. Git a move on ye, childer.” The horses obeyed his voice with alacrity, as if they were eager to get their work over; the bells jingled, the snow beneath the runners gave out a sharp hissing sound by way of answer, and the little sweetheart, only her face showing out of the old brown rug as she nestled close against the man’s arm, laughed merrily. Before them the happy road, its joyous voices still calling to her, went on and on into the very rim of the sky; behind them the white earth stretched. They didn’t glance back—why should they? There was not much to see,—nothing but the empty plain and the lonely little house that seemed to shiver there all by itself; the silent little house where no child played, or looked from any of its windows. It seemed to have no love for the outer world, and no interest in it; yet zigzagging from its door were the prints of certain steps—too big for a fairy, too tiny for a man,—a strange huddle of marks ever forming new paths, and finally coming to an end at the side of the road. And the road led north, and the road led south, but nowhere was there any trace of a small maid faring forth on a mission of discovery. One would never have dreamed of her passing that way, had it not been for those adventurous footprints and for the little red mitten that showed upon the snow like a hand flung out in a silent good-by. CHAPTER II T H E R I D E TO G E T H E R N’ the shtar danced whin I was born—” “That was because you were Santa Claus,” laughed the little maid. “Faith, ’twas because I was mesilf—jest a slip av a babe that wud have gladdened your eyes to see. ’Twas a happy shtar, an’ it came geekin’ in at the windy,—An’ how are ye, me broth av a b’y?’ it seemed to say; an’ I, not knowin’ the spache av the wurrld, jest shmiled back for an answer. A shmile, or a laugh, is the best spache afther all, an’ don’t ye fergit it. Why, even the brute dorgs know the differ betwixt glum looks an’ cheerful ones. An’ the shtar wasn’t to be bate by a dorg, not it! Iv’ry blessed wurrd that lay in me heart an’ cudn’t git to me tongue’s end—the way bein’ thin unknown—was clear to it, an’ twinkle, twinkle, hop, skip, jump it wint, a-twangin’ its little fiddle in chune to its steps. Me mither’s mither—may the peace av hivin be her sowl’s rist!—near dhropped me aff her knees wid amazemint, fer niver had she beheld such divarshions; an’ by reason av the same she ran the pins into me body, mishtakin’ it fer a cushion, but niver a whoop did I let forth, bein’ all took up mesilf wid the joy av the shtar. Sure, she cud have made a clove apple av me intoirely an’ I wudn’t have been none the wiser. She rectified her mishtake did she, an’ if she’d been in doubts that all the saylestial fandarago was in me honor, she saw the truth av it thin. ‘Mavourneen,’ she sez to me mither, ‘there’s a little happy shtar widout in the hivins doin’ a quick-shtep, an’ up an’ down the middle, an’ ballings to corners all because av this new-born babe who’s laughin’ wid the humor av it—’ ‘An’ why not?’ sez me mither, wid a certain fierceness in the soft voice av her. ‘Why shudn’t the whole firmymint be set into a commotion av gladness because av him? Faith, if ye cud pennythrate to me heart,’ sez she, ‘ye’d see it dancin’ as niver was. Bring him here to me arrms, alanna, that I may cuddle him clost, so’s he can fale the bate av it.’ Thin the ould woman did as she was bid, an’ me mither—now the saints bless her swate sowl!—held me till her side an’ talked to me low, whilst the joy av her heart crept insid’yus like into me own, an’ it’s lived there iver since.” “What did she say? Did she call you Santa Claus?” “Faith, she didn’t—not thin, nor aftherwards. She called me Cushla ma-chree,—which manes Pulse av me Heart,—an’ Jool, an’ Precious, an’ Light av me Eyes—” “But those are my own names, truly, all but the first one, and Heart’s Content, and—” “Ah, the mithers—bless thim! There does be but one langwidge they spake the wurrld over. Don’t I know the truth av it? An’ the haythins as well, that haven’t a wurrd av English to their names—God pity thim, though he made thim an’ gave thim their gibberish, too —they say the same thing in their outlandish tongue, an’ the little haythins undershtand as well as you an’ me. Heart’s Contint, an’ Wurrld’s Blessin’ an’—” “‘Dear my little own,’—only muvver made that up speshilly for me; she told me so—” “Did she, now? Begorra, the familiarity av it sounds like music in me ears. I remimber me own mither whisperin’ something akin to it wanst whin I snuggled clost to her. Whist! ’tis out av their falin’s fer us that they do be gettin’ the wurrds afther all, an’ that’s {26} {27} {28} {29} {30} {31} {32} {33} {34} {35} betther than learnin’ thim from the books. Whin ye come to think av it, it ain’t to be wondered at that there’s a sort av fam’ly raysimblince betwixt thim, seein’ as their hearts are av the same complexion. Oh, there ain’t annything annyw’eres like a mither’s love.” For just a little minute the eyes blazing with fun took on a misty twinkle, and something like a shadow crossed the old man’s face, making it seem strangely grave; but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was his merry self once more. “It must have been a most ’normous long while ago when you were a baby,” the child said, inspecting him shyly. “It was, me darlint; it was the beginnin’ av toime—fer me.” “Somehow I never thought of you as a baby at all,” she went on, plainly distressed. “Oh, what ever did the little children do then for Santa Claus? There was never any other, was there?” “Niver a wan, Swate Eyes. I’m the original, simon-pure Santa Claus, an’ no mishtake. Troth, they had to get on the best they cud widout me; an’ a sorry toime they had av it, wan an’ all. Thin I came, an’ the wurrld was a different place iver afther—so me mither towld me.” The child breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad I got born when I did. I shouldn’t have liked to be borned before you came. I’m half-past six, you know. Who filled your stocking?” she demanded the next moment, as the new idea occurred to her. “Divil a wan I had to hang up whin I was a spalpeen; ’twas bare-futted an’ bare-legged I wint.” “But Christmas,”—the little maid’s lip trembled,—“what did you do at Christmas?” “’Twas like anny plain, ordinary iv’ry day to me, agra, an’ no differ; except that wanst in jest so often me mither hid a plum in the bit cake she was afther makin’ fer me, an’ I’d the joy av searchin’ it out mesilf, same as ye’d seek out a naydle in a hayrick. An’ toimes it was fat, an’ toimes ag’in ’twas like the shadder av itsilf; but glory be! I niver missed it. An’ ’twas so good, fat or lane, that I used to drame I’d give iv’ry child in the wurrld a cake all shtuffed wid plums whin I growed up—” “That was what put it into your head to be Santa Claus.” The man cast a sidelong glance at his companion’s eager face. “S’pose so,” he muttered. “But the star knew all along, and that’s why it danced and couldn’t keep still.” She stole her hand into the curve of his arm, and gave it a soft little squeeze. “Tell me ’bout that first time,” she coaxed. “What first toime?” “When you went Santa Clausing. Were you very long growing up?” “’Twas a terrible long spell from the b’y’s ind, an’ a terrible short wan from the man’s,—all av which you’ll undershtand whin your hair is me own color. But ’twas over an’ done wid sooner or late, an’ there I was a man grown, though the heart av me has always been like a child’s because av the shtar—” “And ’cause you belong to us.” “’Tis a Solymon King av Sheba ye are, alanna. Well, I wint about me work, an’ I toiled up an’ down the wurrld; but the goin’ was joyful like, ’count av the fun I left in me wake, an’ iv’rywheres folks seemed powerful glad to see me.” “I tried to keep awake last Christmas Eve,” she broke in shrilly, “after muvver hanged up my stocking, but the sandman would come. I’d been awake so long that when he crept in in his long gray cloak and with his bag on his back, I thought it was truly you, and my heart went thumpety thump. But he shook out the sand—sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle. ‘To-night of all nights you must sleep,’ he said; and I cried ‘No,’ and closed my eyes quick, so’s the sand couldn’t get in; and when I opened them the next minute it was quite morning—not yellow morning, you know, but just the baby light that comes first. Then very soft, so’s not to ’sturb muvver, I crawled out of bed, ’cause it made me incontented to lie still, and there was my stocking, full to the brim. I knew who’d filled it—” She stopped in her recital to smile at him and to pat his arm again. “Then I climbed up on a chair to take it down, and muvver laughed out loud. ‘Come back to bed, dear my little own,’ she said; ‘bring the stocking, and cuddle down warm and snug in blanket land.’ So I did; and she kissed me and I kissed her, and we both said ‘Merry Christmas’ to each uver. She went fast asleep again, but cert’inly you couldn’t expect a little girl could sleep. I felt all my presents; muvver says us little folks have eyes in our finger tips; and every minute the light grew brighter, and then—I really saw! Dear, dear Santa Claus, how could you ’member just what I wanted?” She rubbed her dimpling cheek ecstatically against the old sleeve. “But you didn’t put anything in muvver’s stocking,” she added softly. He could not meet her reproachful glance. “’Twas in a hurry I was,” he mumbled, “an’ me bastes shtampin’ widout in the cowld—” “Oh, she didn’t know,” the child interrupted, “’cause when she was tight asleep I found her stocking, and I put that very rosy- cheeked apple you’d put in mine quite far, far down in hers, and some nuts, too. Cert’inly I couldn’t give her the little doll or the picture book, ’cause grown-ups don’t care for such things, really; but things to eat are different. You don’t mind, do you?” He did not answer. For the moment it almost seemed as if he had not heard. His head was turned quite away. “And she was s’prised—oh! you can’t think—and glad, too; so glad her eyes got all shiny and bright. But you can’t guess what happened next. She said, ‘Bless my Santa Claus.’ Wasn’t that funny? And then she kissed me most ’s if she ’spected.” Danny and Whitefoot felt a sudden queer twitch on the reins—a compelling touch that made them both swerve out of the direction they were taking. It was almost as if their driver meant them to turn around. Much earlier in the day, when they first left Wistar’s, for instance, such a command would not have appeared singular; but coming at a time when the tavern lay so far behind as to be forgotten, when the world seemed a blanket of drift and down and glistening silver, with no house in sight, the action was at least puzzling to their equine minds. They stopped instantly, however, the noise of their bells hushed into silence. Whitefoot turned a wondering face upon his master, and almost immediately Danny looked protestingly around. The man met their gaze half guiltily. Beyond—oh, very far beyond—lay Merle, with its Christmas fun,—Merle, where he must be that night, or his name would be the jibe of the countryside; and back of them—a good twelve miles, perhaps fifteen, they had jogged on at such a steady pace—was that {35} {36} {37} {38} {39} {40} {41} {42} {43} {44} solitary house. If he turned round it must be good-by to Merle; it would be impossible for Danny and Whitefoot to make the journey again without rest. He shifted the reins from one hand to the other. “Why are we stopping?” asked the child. He looked at her in some perplexity, then his brow cleared. “To give the bastes their feed; they’re perishin’ wid hunger, so they are, the saints fergive me,” he answered, in a relieved tone, glad to postpone his decision for a time. He threw back the robes as he spoke, and sprang out on the ground. Where they had stopped the narrow, lane-like road widened for a considerable space into a plain again and a well, not far distant from the track, now furnished water for the team, after which a bag at the back of the sleigh poured forth grain into the pails; and when these were set before the horses they fell to work as if Terry’s words were in danger of coming true. The child watched the proceedings with wide eyes. “They’re only just very woolly horses, after all,” she said, with a tinge of disappointment in her voice, “in the books they’re reindeer.” “Sure, the reindeers is at home savin’ up forninst this night. I cudn’t be dhrivin’ thim in the broad daylight, alanna dear; folks wud think us a thravellin’ circus widout the elefunt. Begorra, ’tis shtarvin’ I am mesilf, an’ I’ll take my Alfred-Davy ye’re in the same boat. We’ll be afther havin’ a snack oursilves an’ a dhrop av somethin’ warmin’. Tumble back into the sleigh, mavourneen, an’ wrap yoursilf up clost till I shpread the tablecloth ag’inst the bankquid.” The tablecloth, as was speedily disclosed, was nothing more than a very greasy newspaper, which was wrapped around a huge pile of sandwiches, each with a rim of bacon showing darkly between its thick slices of bread, a hunk of cheese, and some fat crackers; but the finest damask under other circumstances would not have seemed half so beautiful in her eyes. And she had no quarrel with the coarse fare. Hunger, after all, is the best sauce for appetite that can be served with any meal, and it is more apt to come in with the plain dishes than with the elaborate ones, as Santa Claus and his little sweetheart proved. “Faith, I cud ate a nail wid relish if nothin’ else was handy,” he laughed, as he made his first onslaught on the sandwich he was holding, and lessened it by a third, “but this is a dish to set before a king, so tinder an’ tasty as it is. Take a rale thry at it, me darlint; ye do be nibblin’ sech little grand lady bites ye’ll niver be t’rough. ’Tis wan sandwidge I’ve put away already, an’ ye but embarkin’ on the top roof av yours. Here’s the second to kape ye comp’ny, Brown Eyes.” He took an enormous mouthful, and smiled at her, while he was rendered speechless, and she smiled back, mute, too, from a similar reason. “Did ye iver taste betther?” he made out to ask. “Never,” she answered promptly; and she really spoke the truth. Sawdust eaten in such companionship would have seemed as palatable as sugar, and the present food was like the ambrosia of the high gods. Even those delicious sandwiches that her mother made for her sometimes, with the little slice of ham blushing faintly between the dainty pieces of bread where the butter lay like a filmy, glistening veil, had never seemed so good and satisfying as these big grown-up ones eaten under the high blue sky in that country of snow and ice. As soon as the sandwiches had disappeared Santa Claus covered a cracker with bits of cheese like nuggets of gold, and presented it to her with a bow as if she were a queen. It seemed a fitting crown to the feast, though apparently he had quite other ideas of a crown, as was soon shown. When the crackers and cheese were all eaten, and even the last crumb chased home and captured, he put his hand into the breast of his coat and drew out a flat, dark bottle which he regarded with loving eyes. “Here’s me beauty,” he cried; “here’s what’s to top aff a faste a king wudn’t disdain; here’s something he wudn’t give the go-by to, not he!” “What is it?” the little maid asked curiously. “What is it? Troth, ’twud take an hour by the clock to tell all the names it has the wurrld over; an’ some is good, an’ some is bad —the names, I’m manin’. Merry-go-down an’ Tangle-legs,—that’s shlander’us! an’ Water av Health, an’ Odivvy, as the Frenchies say, which is the same as Water av Life; but I’m not so much fer water in it mesilf, likin’ it nate. Then there’s Oil av Gladness an’— Sure ye shall have the first taste, mavourneen, as ’tis fit an’ proper—ladies always lead. Come, shtand up an’ give us the toast—” “The toast—” she looked around bewildered; “why, we’ve eaten all the bread, and there isn’t any fire—” “This is the fire an’ the bread too,” roared Santa Claus. “Bless your innercent sowl, me dear, ’tis a propysition I’m afther askin’ ye fer. Whist now, the fellies at the tavern sit ’round, an’ before they drink wan will git up an’ say, a-wavin’ av his glass, ‘Here’s to him’—namin’ some wan prisint; or ‘Here’s to honist hearts an’ true;’ or ‘Here’s to thim at home, God love thim!’ an’ we all drink to it. So now thin, Swate Eyes, spake quickly, an’ drink long, an’ pass the bottle spadily if ye love me, fer iv’ry minnit’s an hour till it quinches me thirst.” She got to her feet quite gravely, her eyebrows drawn together in the little pucker they always made when she was thinking very hard; and first she looked up at the sky, and then around at the stretch of land where the sparkles under the crusted snow flashed like so many imprisoned diamonds, and then at the sky again as if for inspiration. Finally her glance rested upon him, leaning forward, regarding her with his merry smile. “Why, here’s to you,” she cried, “our very own, ownest Santa Claus.” She tipped the bottle against her lips as she finished speaking, gurgled a little, choked, spluttered— “Saints above! child, howld your hand stiddy,” Terry shouted. “ ’Tis your hood-shtrings an’ your coat as is gettin’ all that precious elixir, an’ iv’ry dhrop av it a jool.” “Oh, take it away very quick,” she gasped. “I’m sorry to spill it, but it’s most dreffly horrid.” “Aisy, me darlint, aisy! There’s no accountin’ fer tastes, as the ould woman said when she kissed her cow. It’s a quare wurrld this is; but sure, ’tis a most glorious dispinsation av Providince that we don’t all be thinkin’ alike. See! I’ll have to take your share as well as me own. An’ first, here’s me hand on me heart to your toast, an’ the honor av it; ’tis proud I am at this minnit, an’ next, here’s to ye—shtandin’—here’s to the best thing a man can have in this wurrld,—the love av a little child.” {45} {46} {47} {48} {49} {50} {51} {52} {53} {54} She stood up facing him, and bowed as he had done. “Here’s me hand on me heart to your toast,” she echoed, “an’ the honor of it, ’tis proud I am at this minute.” Then she climbed back on the seat and watched him with round eyes as he tilted his head very far back and took a deep draught. If his attack on the sandwiches had astonished her, this new conduct awakened all her wonder. As he took the bottle from his lips he uttered a sigh which immediately slipped into a loud guffaw at sight of her expression. “You can’t like it,” she shuddered. “I’m not quarrellin’ wid the taste,” he answered, “an’ annyway, ’tis by the docthor’s orders I do be takin’ a dhrop av the crayther, to kape the cold out an’ the warm in. A nip once in jest so often, the wise ould man sez, an’ don’t improve on the occasions, mind ye! But sure, there’s a toast I haven’t yet given, an’ that’s to our next merry meetin’, an’ may it come sooner than ’tis expected.” He neither looked nor bowed her way; indeed, the words were addressed to his familiar spirits, and his eyes were fixed solely upon what he held in his hand. After a moment he put the bottle back in his breast, and buttoned his coat securely across. “An’ now to juty, swateheart,” he cried, springing out of the sleigh, “the raypast is over, an’ the horses have gorged thimsilves like magisthrates, the rapaycious gossoons! Come, be shpry, an’ lind a hand wid the pails.” She did not wait to be told twice, but bustled around delightedly, helping him stow the buckets among the dingy bags and barrels which formed the prosaic load this Santa Claus carried. “Jest food forninst to-morry fer the shantymen,” he explained, as she prodded the bulging sacks with inquisitive fingers. “They axed me to fetch along their Christmas dinner. Oh, they knowed their man. An’ I, that obligin’, cudn’t say no till thim. If I’d hardened me heart like Phareyo we wudn’t be knowin’ aitch other this blessed minnit; so ’tis glad I am that I’m mild as a mid-summer night by nature an’ dishposition. Let’s limber up a bit afore we shtart ag’in on our thravels; ’tis shtiff I am in the fate av me. All hands down the middle, sashy to corners. Gintlemin, take your pardners—gintlemin twirl your gurrls! Ladies change!” He roared out the calls, as he had so often done in the different taverns when he sat with his fiddle beneath his chin and played such enlivening strains that nobody who heard them could keep still. This time, however, he was going to cut pigeon-wings himself, and do wonderful double-shuffles; and he needed both hands to swing his little thistledown of a partner, so the old fiddle lay undisturbed in the bottom of the sleigh, while he whistled and sang the tunes with great gusto. It was a scene unlike any he had ever known. Instead of the long, low rooms with the candles, set a-row in bottles, spluttering through the haze of dust and giving out, besides their meagre light, a smell of dripping tallow, where the air was noisy with the scraping and pounding of many feet, and shouts and laughter rose on every side, was this wide, beautiful place with its pure white carpet and the roof of blue far, far above. Its remote walls were hung with white, where the low hills climbed skyward. And nearer, where the woods began, tall snow-crowned trees stood, their branches shining with frost. Clumps of bushes, with here and there a stunted isolated tree, dressed in the same glittering garments, took on fantastic shapes as if they were spectators; nor were they the only ones,—the furtive little people of the forest in feathers and fur peeped out from their shelter to watch with all their eyes, and then to murmur under their breaths: “How mad these mortals be!” Terry stood at one side of the road some distance beyond the sleigh, and opposite him, her face aglow with excitement, her eyes like twin stars, the child waited. As he bowed with a great flourish, bringing his old cap to rest over his heart, she swept him a curtsey so low that her skirts stood stiffly out on the ground,—“a cheese” she would have called it; then the next instant she sprang to her feet again and poised on tip-toe, watching eagerly for his signal. “Now,” he called, “now, thin, darlint, ready.” She raised her right hand high in air, as if to meet the one he extended toward her, and skimmed across the shimmering floor close, close to him; their fingers met, clasped, parted—and she was in his place and he in hers. Then dipping, bowing, swaying, they advanced, retreated, advanced again; passed each other, now disdaining hands, each twisting and turning alone as if the other did not exist; then repentant, meeting, joining forces, and with hands crossed, setting off together—oh! happy word—in swift sliding steps that scarcely touched the ground, so light they seemed; and up the road and down the road they went, laughing, shouting, singing. It was the maddest, merriest dance! The snow whirled up from their flying feet in soft clouds, and lo! each tiniest particle was a fairy; the air was full of graceful bending shapes fluttering here and there, there and here, until at last, quite tired out, they dropped to earth again to twinkle and sparkle, chattering softly to one another of the fun they had had. Only an old man and a small child light of heart and heels dancing out there in the wide country, do you say? Oh, no! oh, no! Santa Claus and his little sweetheart; and, as if that were not happiness enough, there were the others besides,—the snow fairies (and no dancers are like them anywhere), and the spirits of the plains sending back the gay music and laughter, and the spirits that dwell in the woods in their soft shadowy robes winding between the trees in a stately measure, and the spirits of the wind laughing softly among the snow-laden, ice-gemmed branches, and the spirit of the high blue sky smiling down on everything. Hitherto the little maid had only danced by herself, or with her shadow, or her dolls,—those rather unsatisfactory partners whose limp legs went every which way; but she was happy at all times because she kept the fairy, Content, in her breast. Now joy came to her in larger fashion. She waved her hand to sparkling earth and smiling sky as she darted up and down like some belated butterfly caught tenderly up into the heart of winter, a bit of glowing color. She saw the dancers in the clearing,—young eyes are sharp eyes, surely!—and I think she caught glimpses, too, of the shy woodland creatures peering out in open-mouthed amazement; she blew a kiss toward them, anyway. Tired? Not a bit. Tired? She could dance forever. Faster, faster, faster, like the little red top at home she spun, and then slower, slow-er, and more slowly. The little top always did that just before it hummed off to sleep. Faster again, slow—Two strong arms caught her and flung her up quite high toward the sky; how blue it was! Then—how blue Santa Claus’ eyes were, and how they twinkled, giving back the picture of herself! She laughed into them gayly, and his deep merriment echoed her flute-like notes. Swiftly he carried her to the sleigh, wrapped her close in the thick rug again, then sprang to his place, and gathered up the reins. “Och, ’tis the most thriminjious shtepper-out ye are,” he cried. “’Twas the iligantest shport in the wurrld, bar none. Go on, me b’ys.” Jingle, jangle went the bells; sober music surely, after what had gone before. It was like the little tune when the dance is done and {55} {56} {57} {58} {59} {60} {61} {62} {63} {64} T the lights are burning low that, no matter how jolly it may be, still sounds sad, because in and out of its lilt run the words: “Good-by, pleasure, good-by.” Jingle, jangle clashed the bells as Danny and Whitefoot settled very gravely to their work. On and on they went, through the woods and over the barren stretches, but always toward the north. There was no thought of turning back. CHAPTER III E X I T S A N TA C L A U S HE air bit more keenly, for the afternoon was wearing on; already the dazzling sparkles had vanished from the snow, and rosy sunbeams slipped among the glistening tree shafts and lay with the tall shadows upon the ground of the forest aisles. She nestled closer against him. “Tell me some more,” she urged. “Sure, ’tis me hist’ry from the cradle up that I’m afther tellin’ ye, ’tis your turn now. I don’t know so much as your name, though I do be runnin’ away wid ye.” “Muvver calls me heart-names—I telled you what; and uncle says E-lis-a-beth when he’s cross, uvver times, child, or Betty. I wroted it at the end—Betty Hammond. It was just make b’lieve writing, only I thought you’d know—” “Aisy, swateheart, aisy! Av coorse I did.” “You got it, didn’t you?” she demanded, sitting bolt upright, and facing him as the possibility of a dreadful mischance took possession of her whole being. “What do ye mane, mavourneen?” “Why, the letter I wroted; oh, ever so long ago,—the letter that went up the chimbly. I saw it fly away. Muvver says that’s the children’s post-box ev’rywheres.” A light dawned upon him; not, alas, from his own childhood, which had been poor and sordid enough, and held no such golden make-believes, though in other ways he had entered into the beautiful kingdom to the utter forgetting of cold and hunger, want and sorrow, but from what he had heard here and there from little lips in his long journey through life. He had always been the children’s friend. He looked into her anxious eyes, therefore, and winked slowly. “Whist, now! your Christmas letther,” he said, “an’ that’s what,—the wan that towld me how to set to work. Come, say the list over slow till I see if we both mane the same thing.” She put up her hand, and dragged his head down until his ear was on a level with her lips; then she poured in the secret, interrupted by happy bursts of laughter. “Begorra, the stockin’ will have to be made av injy rubber, or’t will burrst intoirely.” “I’m going to put a chair under,” she confided hurriedly, “and if the things won’t go quite in you can leave them there. Did you ’member ’em all? The little crosses low on the paper I meant for kisses, you know.” “Howly St. Pathrick! I was afther thinkin’ they was extrys.” “You must get a most ’normous lot of letters,” she said thoughtfully, a moment later. “’Twould be aisier countin’ the sands on the sayshore than to count thim,” he answered, entering heartily into his rôle of the jolly saint, “me secretarries an’ under-secretarries niver rest at all; they do be dhroppin’ wid fatague, the poor fellies! ’Tis entries they have to make, an’ double-entries, an’ charges an’ counter-charges, an’ I must give each wan my speshul suprevision—” “Do you burn our letters up after you’ve read them?” “Do I look like a man as wud desthroy his love-letters, alanna, fer that’s what they are? Not me! I’ve the walls av me mansion papered wid thim, an’ I’ve autygraph quilts an’ tablecloths made out av thim, an’ curt’ins to me doors an’ windys, an’ sofy-pillers an’ chair-sates,—oh, ’tis an injaneyus mind I have. Sure, the shtuff av drames makes foine wearin’ material, an’ don’t ye fergit it. I had to build an appindix to me house year before last, an’ last year there was an addenda, an’ this year I’m goin’ to t’row out an L, an’ if things continny the same I’ll have to add the whole alphabet before I know it.” “Of course it must be a big place to keep all the toys of the world there.” “Whist, me darlint, no house in the wurrld wud be big enough to howld all the toys an’ all the drames av the childer too; an’ I’d sooner be havin’ the latter than the former anny day. ’Tis as much as I can manage to kape me autygraph collection intacks, so I have workin’ drawin’s av the toys, an’ the big dipartmintal shtores in the cities an’ towns an’ villidges do kape the rale articles. An’ by the same token I’ve me dep-puties stationed iv’rywhere to git things ready forninst me comin’, an’ thin I can make the journey wid the spade av the wind—” Her head dropped against his arm. “Not Whitefoot and Danny,” she said drowsily, “but Dancer and Prancer and Vixen,—I like Vixen best in the picture; then there’s On-come-et, and—” She didn’t finish her sentence, and he, looking down, discovered the reason. “The darlint,” he said. “Faith, ’tis tired out complately ye are, an’ the slape will refresh ye. Cuddle clost, mavourneen. ’Tis a day fer a notch on the shtick annyway, an’ I’ll niver fergit it.” He tucked the rugs about her as tenderly as her mother could have done, though his fingers were clumsy, and unused to such offices. Then, after he had seen to her comfort,...