* * *
"Oh, Mother Skau, I feel so frightened, I feel so frightened!" whimpered one of the children, and climbed up on a chair.
* * *
Round the Yule Log lady out door"Hush, hush, child!" said Mother Skau. "She got away from them safe enough; only listen! When the widow heard the voice of the person next to her, she turned round to look at her,—but what a start she got! She recognized her; it was her neighbour who died many years ago; and when she looked around the church, she remembered well that she had seen both the minister and several of the congregation before, and that they had died long ago. This sent quite a cold shiver through her, she became that frightened. She threw the cloak loosely round her, as the female next to her had said, and went out of the pew; but she thought they all turned round and stretched out their hands after her. Her legs shook under her, till she thought she would sink down on the church floor. When she came out on the steps, she felt that they had got hold of her cloak; she let it go and left it in their clutches, while she hurried home as quickly as she could. When she came to the door the clock struck one, and by the time she got inside she was nearly half dead,—she was that frightened. In the morning when the people went to church, they found the cloak lying on the steps, but it was torn into a thousand pieces. My mother had often seen the cloak before, and I think she saw one of the pieces, also; but that doesn't matter,—it was a short, pink, woollen cloak, with fur lining and borders, such as was still in use in my childhood. They are very rarely seen nowadays, but there are some old ladies in the town and down at the 'Home' whom I see with such cloaks in church at Christmas time."
* * *
The children, who had expressed considerable fear and uneasiness during the latter part of the story, declared they would not hear any more such terrible stories. They had crept up into the sofa and on the chairs, but still they thought they felt somebody plucking at them from underneath the table. Suddenly the lights were brought in, and we discovered then, to our great amusement, that the children had put their legs on to the table. The lights, the Christmas cake, the jellies, the tarts and the wine soon chased away the horrible ghost story and all fear from their minds, revived everybody's spirits, and brought the conversation on to their neighbours and the topics of the day. Finally, our thoughts took a flight towards something more substantial, on the appearance of the Christmas porridge and the roast ribs of pork. We broke up early, and parted with the best wishes for a Merry Christmas. I passed, however, a very uneasy night. I do not know whether it was the stories, the substantial supper, my weak condition, or all these combined, which was the cause of it; I tossed myself hither and thither in my bed, and got mixed up with brownies, fairies and ghosts the whole night. Finally, I sailed through the air towards the church, while some merry sledge-bells were ringing in my ears. The church was lighted up, and when I came inside I saw it was our own church up in the valley. There were nobody there but peasants in their red caps, soldiers in full uniform, country lasses with their white head-dresses and red cheeks. The minister was in the pulpit; it was my grandfather, who died when I was a little boy. But just as he was in the middle of the sermon, he made a somersault—he was known as one of the smartest men in the parish—right into the middle of the church; the surplice flew one way and the collar another. "There lies the parson, and here am I," he said, with one of his well-known airs, "and now let us have a spring dance!" In an instant the whole of the congregation was in the midst of a wild dance. A big tall peasant came towards me and took me by the shoulder and said, "You'll have to join us, my lad!"
* * *
Round the Yule Log lady in churchAt this moment I awoke, and felt some one pulling at my shoulder. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw the same peasant whom I had seen in my dream leaning over me. There he was, with the red cap down over his ears, a big fur coat over his arm, and a pair of big eyes looking fixedly at me.
* * *
"You must be dreaming," he said, "the perspiration is standing in big drops on your forehead, and you were sleeping as heavily as a bear in his lair! God's peace and a merry Christmas to you, I say! and greetings to you from your father and all yours up in the valley. Here's a letter from your father, and the horse is waiting for you out in the yard."
* * *
"But, good heavens! is that you, Thor?" I shouted in great joy. It was indeed my father's man, a splendid specimen of a Norwegian peasant. "How in the world have you come here already?"
* * *
"Ah! that I can soon tell you," answered Thor. "I came with your favourite, the bay mare. I had to take your father down to Næs, and then he says to me, 'Thor,' says he, 'it isn't very far to town from here. Just take the bay mare and run down and see how the Lieutenant is, and if he is well and can come back with you, you must bring him back along with you,' says he."
* * *
Round the Yule Log sickWhen we left the town it was daylight. The roads were in splendid condition. The bay mare stretched out her old smart legs, and we arrived at length in sight of the dear old house. Thor jumped off the sledge to undo the gate, and as we merrily drove up to the door we were met by the boisterous welcome of old Rover, who, in his frantic joy at hearing my voice, almost broke his chains in trying to rush at me.
* * *
Such a Christmas as I spent that year I cannot recollect before or since.
* * *
The End.
A College Santa Claus
Ralph Henry Barbour
A College Santa Claus
SATHERWAITE, '02, threw his overcoat across the broad mahogany table, regardless of the silver and cutglass furnishings, shook the melting snowflakes from his cap and tossed it atop the coat, half kicked, half shoved a big leathern arm-chair up to the wide fireplace, dropped himself into it, and stared moodily at the flames.
* * *
Satherwaite was troubled. In fact, he assured himself, drawing his handsome features into a generous scowl, that he was, on this Christmas eve, the most depressed and bored person in the length and breadth of New England. Satherwaite was not used to being depressed, and boredom was a state usually far remote from his experience; consequently, he took it worse. With something between a groan and a growl, he drew a crumpled telegram from his pocket. The tele- gram was at the bottom of it all. He read it again:
* * *
R. Satherwaite,
Randolph Hall, Cambridge.
* * *
Advise your not coming. Aunt Louise very ill. Merry Christmas.
* * *
Phil.
* * *
"'Merry Christmas!'" growled Satherwaite, throwing the offending sheet of buff paper into the flames. "Looks like it, doesn't it? Confound Phil's Aunt Louise, anyway! What business has she getting sick at Christmas time? Not, of course, that I wish the old lady any harm, but it—it—well, it's wretched luck."
* * *
When at college, Phil was the occupant of the bedroom that lay in darkness beyond the half-opened door to the right. He lived, when at home, in a big, rambling house in the Berkshires, a house from the windows of which one could see into three states and overlook a wonderful expanse of wooded hill and sloping meadow; a house which held, beside Phil, and Phil's father and mother and Aunt Louise and a younger brother, Phil's sister. Satherwaite growled again, more savagely, at the thought of Phil's sister; not, be it understood, at that extremely attractive young lady, but at the fate which was keeping her from his sight.
* * *
Satherwaite had promised his room-mate to spend Christmas with him, thereby bringing upon himself pained remonstrances from his own family, remonstrances which, Satherwaite acknowledged, were quite justifiable. His bags stood beside the door. He had spent the early afternoon very pleasurably in packing them, carefully weighing the respective merits of a primrose waistcoat and a blue flannel one, as weapons wherewith to impress the heart of Phil's sister. And now——!
* * *
He kicked forth his feet
, and brought brass tongs and shovel clattering on the hearth. It relieved his exasperation.
* * *
The fatal telegram had reached him at five o'clock, as he was on the point of donning his coat. From five to six, he had remained in a torpor of disappointment, smoking pipe after pipe, and continually wondering whether Phil's sister would care. At six, his own boarding-house being closed for the recess, he had trudged through the snow to a restaurant in the square, and had dined miserably on lukewarm turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes. And now it was nearly eight, and he did not even care to smoke. His one chance of reaching his own home that night had passed, and there was nothing for it but to get through the interminable evening somehow, and catch an early train in the morning. The theatres in town offered no attraction. As for his club, he had stopped in on his way from dinner, and had fussed with an evening paper, until the untenanted expanse of darkly-furnished apartments and the unaccustomed stillness had driven him forth again.
* * *
He drew his long legs under him, and arose, crossing the room and drawing aside the deep-toned hangings before the window. It was still snowing. Across the avenue, a flood of mellow light from a butcher's shop was thrown out over the snowy sidewalk. Its windows were garlanded with Christmas greens and hung with pathetic-looking turkeys and geese. Belated shoppers passed out, their arms piled high with bundles. A car swept by, its drone muffled by the snow. The spirit of Christmas was in the very air. Satherwaite's depression increased and, of a sudden, inaction became intolerable. He would go and see somebody, anybody, and make them talk to him; but, when he had his coat in his hands, he realized that even this comfort was denied him. He had friends in town, nice folk who would be glad to see him any other time, but into whose family gatherings he could no more force himself to-night than he could steal. As for the men he knew in college, they had all gone to their homes or to those of somebody else.
* * *
Staring disconsolately about the study, it suddenly struck him that the room looked disgustingly slovenly and unkempt. Phil was such an untidy beggar! He would fix things up a bit. If he did it carefully and methodically, no doubt he could consume a good hour and a half that way. It would then be half-past nine. Possibly, if he tried hard, he could use up another hour bathing and getting ready for bed. And at half-past ten lots of fellows went to sleep. He could not remember having done so himself of late years, but he could try it; and, if he succeeded, it would be a good joke to tell Phil—confound him! As a first step, he removed his coat from the table, and laid it carefully across the foot of the leather couch. Then he placed his damp cap on one end of the mantel. The next object to meet his gaze was a well-worn note-book. It was not his own, and it did not look like Phil's. The mystery was solved when he opened it and read, "H. G. Doyle—College House," on the fly-leaf. He remembered then. He had borrowed it from Doyle almost a week before, at a lecture. He had copied some of the notes, and had forgotten to return the book. It was very careless of him; he would return it as soon as— Then he recollected having seen Doyle at noon that day, coming from one of the cheaper boarding-houses. It was probable that Doyle was spending recess at college. Just the thing—he would call on Doyle!
* * *
It was not until he was half-way down-stairs that he remembered the book. He went back for it, two steps at a time. Out in the street, with the fluffy flakes against his face, he felt better. After all, there was no use in getting grouchy over his disappointment; Phil would keep; and so would Phil's sister, at least until Easter; or, better yet, he would get Phil to take him home with him over Sunday some time. He was passing the shops now, and stopped before a jeweler's window, his eye caught by a rather jolly-looking paper-knife in gun-metal. He had made his purchases for Christmas and had already despatched them, but the paper-knife looked attractive and, if there was no one to give it to, he could keep it himself. So he passed into the shop, and purchased it.
* * *
"Put it into a box, will you?" he requested. "I may want to send it away."
* * *
Out on the avenue again, his thoughts reverted to his prospective host. The visit had elements of humor. He had known Doyle at preparatory school, and since then, at college, had maintained the acquaintance in a casual way. He liked Doyle, always had, just as any man must like an honest, earnest, gentlemanly fellow, whether their paths run parallel or cross only at rare intervals. He and Doyle were not at all in the same coterie. Satherwaite's friends were the richest, and sometimes the laziest, men in college; Doyle's were—well, presumably men who, like himself, had only enough money to scrape through from September to June, who studied hard for degrees, whose viewpoint of university life must, of necessity, be widely separated from Satherwaite's. As for visiting Doyle, Satherwaite could not remember ever having been in his room but once, and that was long ago, in their Freshman year.
* * *
Satherwaite had to climb two flights of steep and very narrow stairs, and when he stood at Doyle's door, he thought he must have made a mistake. From within came the sounds of very unstudious revelry, laughter, a snatch of song, voices raised in good-natured argument. Satherwaite referred again to the fly-leaf of the note-book; there was no error. He knocked and, in obedience to a cheery, "Come in!" entered.
* * *
He found himself in a small study, shabbily furnished, but cheerful and homelike by reason of the leaping flames in the grate and the blue haze of tobacco-smoke, that almost hid its farther wall. About the room sat six men, their pipes held questioningly away from their mouths and their eyes fixed wonderingly, half-resentfully, upon the intruder. But what caught and held Satherwaite's gaze was a tiny Christmas tree, scarcely three feet high, which adorned the centre of the desk. Its branches held toy candles, as yet unlighted, and were festooned with strings of crimson cranberries and colored popcorn, while here and there a small package dangled amid the greenery.
* * *
"How are you, Satherwaite?"
* * *
Doyle, tall, lank and near-sighted, arose and moved forward, with outstretched hand. He was plainly embarrassed, as was every other occupant of the study, Satherwaite included. The laughter and talk had subsided. Doyle's guests politely removed their gaze from the new-comer, and returned their pipes to their lips. But the new-comer was intruding, and knew it, and he was consequently embarrassed. Embarrassment, like boredom, was a novel sensation to him, and he speedily decided that he did not fancy it. He held out Doyle's book.
* * *
"I brought this back, old man. I don't know how I came to forget it. I'm awfully sorry, you know; it was so very decent of you to lend it to me. Awfully sorry, really."
* * *
Doyle murmured that it didn't matter, not a particle; and wouldn't Satherwaite sit down?
* * *
No, Satherwaite couldn't stop. He heard the youth in the faded cricket-blazer tell the man next to him, in a stage aside, that this was, "Satherwaite, '02, an awful swell, you know." Satherwaite again declared that he could not remain.
* * *
Doyle said he was sorry; they were just having a little—a sort of a Christmas-eve party, you know. He blushed while he explained, and wondered whether Satherwaite thought them a lot of idiots, or simply a parcel of sentimental kids. Probably, Satherwaite knew some of the fellows? he went on.
The Big Book of Christmas Page 351