Christmas Eve had come and the year of 1850. For two weeks snowhad rushed over the creaking gable of the forest above MarthaVaughn's, to pile in drifts or go hissing down the long hillside.A freezing blast had driven it to the roots of the stubble and sownit deep and rolled it into ridges and whirled it into heaps andmounds, or flung it far in long waves that seemed to plunge, as ifpart of a white sea, and break over fence and roof and chimney intheir downrush. Candle and firelight filtered through frosty panesand glowed, dimly, under dark fathoms of the snow sheet now flyingfull of voices. Mrs. Vaughn opened her door a moment to peer out.A great horned owl flashed across the light beam with a snap andrustle of wings and a cry "oo-oo-oo," lonely, like that, as if itwere the spirit of darkness and the cold wind. Mrs. Vaughnstarted, turning quickly and closing the door.
"Ugh! what a sound," said Polly. "It reminds me of a ghost story."
"Well," said the widow, "that thing belongs to the only family o'real ghosts in the world."
"What was it?" said a small boy. There were Polly and threechildren about the fireplace.
"An air cat," said she, shivering, her back to the fire. "They go'round at night in a great sheet o' feathers an' rustle it, an' Ideclare they do cry lonesome. Got terrible claws, too!"
"Ever hurt folks?" one of the boys inquired.
"No; but they're just like some kinds o' people--ye want to let 'emalone. Any one that'll shake hands with an owl would be foolenough to eat fish-hooks. They're not made for friendship--thoseowls."
"What are they made for?" another voice inquired.
"Just to kill," said she, patting a boy's head tenderly. "They'reDeath flying round at night--the angel o' Death for rats an'rabbits an' birds an' other little creatures. Once,--oh, manyyears ago,--it seemed so everything was made to kill. Men werelike beasts o' prey, most of 'em; an' they're not all gone yet.Went around day an' night killing. I declare they must have hadclaws. Then came the Prince o' Peace."
"What did he do to 'em, mother?" said Paul--a boy of seven.
"Well, he began to cut their claws for one thing," said the mother."Taught 'em to love an' not to kill. Shall I read you thestory--how he came in a manger?"
"B'lieve I'd rather hear about Injuns," said the boy.
"We shall hear about them too," the mother added. "They're likefolks o' the olden time. They make a terrible fuss; but they'vegot to hold still an' have their claws cut."
Presently she sat down by a table, where there were candles, andbegan reading aloud from a county paper. She read anecdotes ofmen, remarkable for their success and piety, and an account ofIndian fighting, interrupted, as a red man lifted his tomahawk toslay, by the rattle of an arrow on the buttery door.
It was off the cross-gun of young Paul. He had seen everything inthe story and had taken aim at the said Indian just in the nick oftime.
She read, also, the old sweet story of the coming of the ChristChild.
"Some say it was a night like this," said she, as the story ended.
Paul had listened, his thin, sober face glowing.
"I'll bet Santa Claus was good to him," said he. "Brought himsleds an' candy an' nuts an' raisins an' new boots an' everything."
"Why do you think so?" asked his mother, who was now readingintently.
"'Cos he was a good boy. He wouldn't cry if he had to fill thewood box; would he, mother?"
That query held a hidden rebuke for his brother Tom.
"I do not know, but I do not think he was ever saucy or spoke a badword."
"Huh!" said Tom, reflectively; "then I guess he never had nomustard plaster put on him."
The widow bade him hush.
"Er never had nuthin' done to him, neither," the boy continued,rocking vigorously in his little chair.
"Mustn't speak so of Christ," the mother added.
"Wal," said Paul, rising, "I guess I'll hang up my stockin's."
"One'll do, Paul," said his sister Polly, with a knowing air.
"No, 'twon't," the boy insisted. "They ain't half 's big as yours.I'm goin' t' try it, anyway, an' see what he'll do to 'em."
He drew off his stockings and pinned them carefully to the braceson the back of a chair.
"Well, my son," said Mrs. Vaughn, looking over the top of herpaper, "it's bad weather; Santa Claus may not be able to get here."
"Oh, yes, he can," said the boy, confidently, but with a littlequiver of alarm in his voice. "I'm sure he'll come. He has a teamof reindeers. 'An' the deeper the snow the faster they go.'"
Soon the others bared their feet and hung their stockings on fourchairs in a row beside the first.
Then they all got on the bed in the corner and pulled a quilt overthem to wait for Santa Claus. The mother went on with her readingas they chattered.
Sleep hushed them presently. But for the crackling of the fire,and the push and whistle of the wind, that room had become as apeaceful, silent cave under the storm.
The widow rose stealthily and opened a bureau drawer. The row oflimp stockings began to look cheerful and animated. Littlepackages fell to their toes, and the shortest began to reach forthe floor. But while they were fat in the foot they were stillvery lean in the leg.
Her apron empty, Mrs. Vaughn took her knitting to the fire, andbefore she began to ply the needles, looked thoughtfully at herhands. They had been soft and shapely before the days of toil. Afrail but comely woman she was, with pale face, and dark eyes, andhair prematurely white.
She had come west--a girl of nineteen--with her young husband, fullof high hopes. That was twenty-one years ago, and the new land hadpoorly kept its promise.
And the children--"How many have you?" a caller had once inquired."Listen," said she, "hear 'em, an' you'd say there were fifteen,but count 'em an' they're only four."
The low, weathered house and sixty acres were mortgaged. Even thewilderness had not wholly signed off its claim. Every year itexacted tribute, the foxes taking a share of her poultry, and thewild deer feeding on her grain.
A little beggar of a dog, that now lay in the firelight, hadoffered himself one day, with cheerful confidence, and beenaccepted. Small, affectionate, cowardly, irresponsible, andyellow, he was in the nature of a luxury, as the widow had oncesaid. He had a slim nose, no longer than a man's thumb, and everbusy. He was a most prudent animal, and the first day found asmall opening in the foundation of the barn through which he betookhimself always at any sign of danger. He soon buried his bonesthere, and was ready for a siege if, perchance, it came. One blowor even a harsh word sent him to his refuge in hot haste. He hadlearned early that the ways of hired men were full of violence andperil. Hospitality and affection had won his confidence but neverdeprived him of his caution.
Presently there came a heavy step and a quick pull at thelatch-string. An odd figure entered in a swirl of snow--a realSanta Claus, the mystery and blessing of Cedar Hill. For fiveyears, every Christmas Eve, in good or bad weather, he had come tofour little houses on the Hill, where, indeed, his coming had beenas a Godsend. Whence he came and who he might be none had beenable to guess. He never spoke in his official capacity, and nocitizen of Faraway had such a beard or figure as this man. Now hisfur coat, his beard, and eyebrows were hoary with snow and frost.Icicles hung from his mustache around the short clay pipe oftradition. He lowered a great sack and brushed the snow off it.He had borne it high on his back, with a strap at each shoulder.
The sack was now about half full of things. He took out three bigbundles and laid them on the table. They were evidently for thewidow herself, who quickly stepped to the bedside.
"Come, children," she whispered, rousing them; "here is SantaClaus."
They scrambled down, rubbing their eyes. Polly took the hands ofthe two small boys and led them near him. Paul drew his hand awayand stood spellbound, eyes and mouth open. He watched every motionof the good Saint, who had come to that chair that held the littlestockings. Santa Claus put a pair of boots on it. They werecopper-toed, with gorgeous front pieces of red morocco at the topof the leg. Then, as if he had some relish of a joke, he took themup, looked them over thoughtfully, and put them in the sack again,whereupon the boy Paul burst into tears. Old Santa Claus, shakingwith silent laughter, replaced them in the chair quickly,
As if to lighten the boy's heart he opened a box and took out amouth-organ. He held it so the light sparkled on its shiny side.Then he put his pipe in his pocket and began to dance and playlively music. Step and tune quickened. The bulky figure wasflying up and down above a great clatter of big boots, his headwagging to keep time. The oldest children were laughing, and theboy Paul, he began to smile in the midst of a great sob that shookhim to the toes. The player stopped suddenly, stuffed theinstrument in a stocking, and went on with his work. Presently heuncovered a stick of candy long as a man's arm. There were spiralstripes of red from end to end of it. He used it for a fiddle-bow,whistling with terrific energy and sawing the air. Then he putshawls and tippets and boots and various little packages on theother chairs.
At last he drew out of the sack a sheet of pasteboard, with stringattached, and hung it on the wall. It bore the simple message,rudely lettered in black, as follows:--
"Mery Crismus. And Children i have the honnor to remane, Yours Respec'fully SANDY CLAUS."
His work done, he swung the pack to his shoulders and made off asthey all broke the silence with a hearty "Thank you, Santa Claus!"
They listened a moment, as he went away with a loud and merry laughsounding above the roar of the wind. It was the voice of a big andgentle heart, but gave no other clew. In a moment cries ofdelight, and a rustle of wrappings, filled the room. As on wingsof the bitter wind, joy and good fortune had come to them, and, inthat little house, had drifted deep as the snow without.
The children went to their beds with slow feet and quick pulses.Paul begged for the sacred privilege of wearing his new boots tobed, but compromised on having them beside his pillow. The boyswent to sleep at last, with all their treasures heaped about them.Tom shortly rolled upon the little jumping-jack, that broke awayand butted him in the face with a loud squawk. It roused the boy,who promptly set up a defence in which the stuffed hen lost hertail-feathers and the jumping-jack was violently put out of bed.When the mother came to see what had happened, order had beenrestored--the boys were both sleeping.
It was an odd little room under bare shingles above stairs. Greatchests, filled with relics of another time and country, sat againstthe walls. Here and there a bunch of herbs or a few ears of corn,their husks braided, hung on the bare rafters. The aroma of thesummer fields--of peppermint, catnip, and lobelia--haunted it.Chimney and stovepipe tempered the cold. A crack in the gable endlet in a sift of snow that had been heaping up a lonely littledrift on the bare floor. The widow covered the boys tenderly andtook their treasures off the bed, all save the little woodenmonkey, which, as if frightened by the melee, had hidden far underthe clothes. She went below stairs to the fire, which every coldday was well fed until after midnight, and began to enjoy the sightof her own gifts. They were a haunch of venison, a sack of flour,a shawl, and mittens. A small package had fallen to the floor. Itwas neatly bound with wrappings of blue paper. Under the lastlayer was a little box, the words "For Polly" on its cover. Itheld a locket of wrought gold that outshone the light of thecandles. She touched a spring, and the case opened. Inside was alock of hair, white as her own. There were three lines cut in theglowing metal, and she read them over and over again:--
"Here are silver and gold, The one for a day of remembrance between thee and dishonour, The other for a day of plenty between thee and want."
She went to her bed, presently, where the girl lay sleeping, and,lifting dark masses of her hair, kissed a ruddy cheek. Then thewidow stood a moment, wiping her eyes.