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The Children's Book of Christmas Stories
THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF CHRISTMAS STORIES
Edited by Asa Don Dickinson and Ada M. Skinner
THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF CHRISTMAS STORIES
PREFACE
Many librarians have felt the need and expressed the desire for a
select collection of children's Christmas stories in one volume. This
books claims to be just that and nothing more.
Each of the stories has already won the approval of thousands of
children, and each is fraught with the true Christmas spirit.
It is hoped that the collection will prove equally acceptable to
parents, teachers, and librarians.
Asa Don Dickinson.
CONTENTS (Note.--The stories marked with a star (*) will be most
enjoyed by younger children; those marked with a two stars (**) are
better suited to older children.)
Christmas at Fezziwig's Warehouse. By Charles Dickens * The Fir-Tree.
By Hans Christian Andersen The Christmas Masquerade. By Mary E.
Wilkins Freeman * The Shepherds and the Angels. Adapted from the
Bills ** The Telltale Tile. By Olive Thorne Miller * Little Girl's
Christmas. By Winnifred E. Lincoln ** A Christmas Matinee. By M.A.L.
Lane * Toinette and the Elves. By Susan Coolidge The Voyage of the
Wee Red Cap. By Ruth Sawyer Durand * A Story of the Christ-Child (a
German Legend for Christmas Eve). As told by Elizabeth Harrison *
Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas. By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Why the Chimes
Rang. By Raymond McAlden The Birds'Christmas (founded on fact). By
F.E. Mann ** The Little Sister's Vacation. By Winifred M. Kirkland *
Little Wolff's Wooden Shoes. By Francois Coppee, adapted and
translated by Alma J. Foster ** Christmas in the Alley. By Olive
Thorne Miller * A Christmas Star. By Katherine Pyle ** The Queerest
Christmas. By Grace Margaret Gallaher Old Father Christmas. By J.H.
Ewing A Christmas Carol. By Charles Dickens How Christmas Came to the
Santa Maria Flats. By Elia W. Peattie The Legend of Babouscka. From
the Russian Folk Tale * Christmas in the Barn. By F. Arnstein The
Philanthropist's Christmas. By James Weber Linn * The First
Christmas-Tree. By Lucy Wheelock The First New England Christmas. By
G.L. Stone and M.G. Fickett The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner. By
Charles Dickens Christmas in Seventeen Seventy-Six. By Anne
Hollingsworth Wharton * Christmas Under the Snow. By Olive Thorne
Miller Mr. Bluff's Experience of Holidays. By Oliver Bell Bunce **
Master Sandy's Snapdragon. By Elbridge S. Brooks A Christmas Fairy. By
John Strange Winter The Greatest of These. By Joseph Mills Hanson *
Little Gretchen and the Wooden Shoe. By Elizabeth Harrison ** Big
Rattle. By Theodore Goodridge Roberts
I. CHRISTMAS AT FEZZIWIG'S WAREHOUSE
CHARLES DICKENS
"Yo Ho! my boys," said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night! Christmas
Eve, Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up!" cried
old Fezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say
Jack Robinson. . . ."
"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with
wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room
here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Cheer-up, Ebenezer!"
Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or
couldn't have cleared away with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done
in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed
from public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the
lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse
was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ballroom as you would
desire to see on a winter's night.
In came a fiddler with a music book, and went up to the lofty desk and
made an orchestra of it and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came
Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Misses
Fezziwig, beaming and lovable. In came the six followers whose hearts
they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the
business. In came the housemaid with her cousin the baker. In came the
cook with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy
from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from
his master, trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but
one who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress; in
they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple
at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the
middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate
grouping, old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top
couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples
at last, and not a bottom one to help them.
When this result was brought about the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de
Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig.
Top couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them;
three or four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be
trifled with; people who would dance and had no notion of walking.
But if they had been thrice as many--oh, four times as many--old
Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig.
As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the
term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it. A
positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in
every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted at any
given time what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and
Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance, advance and retire; both
hands to your partner, bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle,
and back again to your place; Fezziwig "cut"--cut so deftly that he
appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again with a
stagger.
When the clock struck eleven the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs.
Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and
shaking hands with every person individually, as he or she went out,
wished him or her a Merry Christmas!
II. THE FIR-TREE*
*Reprinted by permission of the Houghton-Mifflin Company.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir-tree. The place he had was a
very good one; the sun shone on him; as to fresh air, there was enough
of that, and round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well
as firs. But the little Fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.
He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he did not care
for the little cottage children that ran about and prattled when they
were in the woods looking for wild strawberries. The children often
came with a whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them
threaded on a straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, "Oh,
how pretty he is! what a nice little fir!" But this was what the Tree
could not bear to hear.
At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another
year he was another long bit taller; for with fir-trees one can always
tell by the shoots how many years old they are.
"Oh, were I but such a high tree as the others are!" sighed he. "Then
I should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look
into the wide world! Then would the birds build nests among my
branches; and when there was a breeze, I could bend with as much
stateliness as the others!"
Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds, which morning
and evening sailed above them, gave the little Tree any pleasure.
In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would
often come leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh,
that made him so angry! But two winters were past, and in the third
the tree was so large that the hare was obliged to go round it. "To
grow and grow, to get older and be tall," thought the Tree--"that,
after all, is the most delightful thing in the world!"
In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of the largest
trees. This happened every year; and the young Fir-tree, that had now
grown to a very comely size, trembled at the sight; for the
magnificent great trees fell to the earth with noise and cracking, the
branches were lopped off, and the trees looked long and bare; they
were hardly to be recognized; and then they were laid in carts, and
the horses dragged them out of the woods.
Where did they go to? What became of them?
In spring, when the Swallows and the Storks came, the Tree asked them,
"Don't you know where they have been taken? Have you not met them
anywhere?"
The Swallows did not know anything about it; but the Stork looked
musing, nodded his head, and said: "Yes, I think I know; I met many
ships as I was flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were magnificent
masts, and I venture to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir.
I may congratulate you, for they lifted themselves on high most
majestically!"
"Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea! But how does the sea
look in reality? What is it like?"
"That would take a long time to explain," said the Stork, and with
these words off he went.
"Rejoice in thy growth!" said the Sunbeams, "rejoice in thy vigorous
growth, and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!"
And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over him; but the
Fir understood it not.
When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down; trees which
often were not even as large or of the same age as this Fir-tree, who
could never rest, but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and
they were always the finest looking, retained their branches; they
were laid on carts, and the horses drew them out of the woods.
"Where are they going to?" asked the Fir. "They are not taller than I;
there was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and why do they
retain all their branches? Whither are they taken?"
"We know! we know!" chirped the Sparrows. "We have peeped in at the
windows in the town below! We know whither they are taken! The
greatest splendour and the greatest magnificence one can imagine await
them. We peeped through the windows, and saw them planted in the
middle of the warm room, and ornamented with the most splendid
things--with gilded apples, with gingerbread, with toys, and many
hundred lights!"
"And then?" asked the Fir-tree, trembling in every bough. "And then?
What happens then?"
"We did not see anything more: it was incomparably beautiful."
"I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious a career," cried
the Tree, rejoicing. "That is still better than to cross the sea! What
a longing do I suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and my
branches spread like the others that were carried off last year! Oh,
were I but already on the cart. Were I in the warm room with all the
splendour and magnificence! Yes; then something better, something
still grander, will surely follow, or wherefore should they thus
ornament me? Something better, something still grander, MUST
follow--but what? Oh, how I long, how I suffer! I do not know myself
what is the matter with me!"
"Rejoice in our presence!" said the Air and the Sunlight; "rejoice in
thy own fresh youth!"
But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and was green
both winter and summer. People that saw him said, "What a fine tree!"
and toward Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down. The
axe struck deep into the very pith; the tree fell to the earth with a
sigh: he felt a pang--it was like a swoon; he could not think of
happiness, for he was sorrowful at being separated from his home, from
the place where he had sprung up. He knew well that he should never
see his dear old comrades, the little bushes and flowers around him,
any more; perhaps not even the birds! The departure was not at all
agreeable.
The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a courtyard with
the other trees, and heard a man say, "That one is splendid! we don't
want the others." Then two servants came in rich livery and carried
the Fir-tree into a large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were
hanging on the walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two
large Chinese vases with lions on the covers. There, too, were large
easy chairs, silken sofas, large tables full of picture-books, and
full of toys worth hundreds and hundreds of crowns--at least the
children said so. And the Fir-tree was stuck upright in a cask that
was filled with sand: but no one could see that it was a cask, for
green cloth was hung all around it, and it stood on a large gayly
coloured carpet. Oh, how the Tree quivered! What was to happen? The
servants, as well as the young ladies, decorated it. On one branch
there hung little nets cut out of coloured paper, and each net was
filled with sugar-plums; and among the other boughs gilded apples and
walnuts were suspended, looking as though they had grown there, and
little blue and white tapers were placed among the leaves. Dolls that
looked for all the world like men--the Tree had never beheld such
before--were seen among the foliage, and at the very top a large star
of gold tinsel was fixed. It was really splendid--beyond description
splendid.
"This evening!" said they all; "how it will shine this evening!"
"Oh," thought the Tree, "if the evening were but come! If the tapers
were but lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps the
other trees from the forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the
sparrows will beat against the window-panes! I wonder if I shall take
root here, and winter and summer stand covered with ornaments!"
He knew very much about the matter! but he was so impatient that for
sheer longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees is the
same thing as a headache with us.
The candles were now lighted. What brightness! What splendour! The
Tree trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire to the
foliage. It blazed up splendidly.
"Help! Help!" cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the
fire.
Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state he was in! He was
so uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendour, that he was
quite bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when suddenly both
folding-doors opened, and a troop of children rushed in as if they
would upset the Tree. The older persons followed quietly; the little
ones stood quite still. But it was only for a moment; then they
shouted so that the whole place reechoed with their rejoicing; they
danced round the tree, and one present after the other was pulled off.
"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What is to happen now?" And
the lights burned down to the very branches, and as they burned down
they were put out, one after the other, and then the children had
permission to plunder the tree. So they fell upon it with such
violence that all its branches cracked; if it had not been fixed
firmly in the cask, it would certainly have tumbled down.
The children danced about with their beautiful playthings: no one
looked at the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the
branches; but it was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left
that had been forgotten.
"A story! a story!" cried the children, drawing a little fat man
toward the tree. He seated himself under it, and said: "Now we are in
the shade, and the Tree can listen, too. But I shall tell only one
story. Now which will you have: that about Ivedy-Avedy, or about
Klumpy-Dumpy who tumbled downstairs, and yet after all came to the
throne and married the princess?"
"Ivedy-Avedy!" cried some; "Klumpy-Dumpy" cried the others. There was
such a bawling and screaming--the Fir-tree alone was silent, and he
thought to himself, "Am I not to bawl with the rest?--am I to do
nothing whatever?" for he was one of the company, and had done what he
had to do.
And the man told about Klumpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who
notwithstanding came to the throne, and at last married the princess.
And the children clapped their hands, and cried out, "Oh, go on! Do go
on!" They wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy, too, but the little man
only told them about Klumpy-Dumpy. The Fir-tree stood quite still and
absorbed in thought; the birds in the woods had never related the like
of this. "Klumpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the
princess! Yes! Yes! that's the way of the world!" thought the
Fir-tree, and believed it all, because the man who told the story was
so good-looking. "Well, well! who knows, perhaps I may fall
downstairs, too, and get a princess as wife!" And he looked forward
with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked out again with
lights, playthings, fruits, and tinsel.
"I won't tremble to-morrow," thought the Fir-tree. "I will enjoy to
the full all my splendour. To-morrow I shall hear again the story of
Klumpy-Dumpy, and perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy, too." And the whole
night the Tree stood still and in deep thought.
In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.
"Now, then, the splendour will begin again," thought the Fir. But they
dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft; and here
in a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him.
"What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here?
What shall I hear now, I wonder?" And he leaned against the wall,
lost in reverie. Time enough had he, too, for his reflections; for
days and nights passed on, and nobody came up; and when at last
somebody did come, it was only to put some great trunks in a corner
out of the way. There stood the Tree quite hidden; it seemed as if he
had been entirely forgotten.
"'Tis now winter out of doors!" thought the Tree. "The earth is hard
and covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I have
been put up here under shelter till the springtime comes! How
thoughtful that is! How kind man is, after all! If it only were not so
dark here, and so terribly lonely! Not even a hare. And out in the
woods it was so pleasant, when the snow was on the ground, and the
hare leaped by; yes--even when he jumped over me; but I did not like
it then. It is really terribly lonely here!"
"Squeak! squeak!" said a little Mouse at the same moment, peeping out
of his hole. And then another little one came. They sniffed about the
Fir-tree, and rustled among the branches.
"It is dreadfully cold," said the Mouse. "But for that, it would be
delightful here, old Fir, wouldn't it?"
"I am by no means old," said the Fir-tree. "There's many a one
considerably older than I am."
"Where do you come from," asked the Mice; "and what can you do?" They
were so extremely curious. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on
the earth. Have you never been there? Were you never in the larder,
where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one
dances about on tallow-candles; that place where one enters lean, and
comes out again fat and portly?"
"I know no such place," said the Tree, "but I know the woods, where
the sun shines, and where the little birds sing." And then he told all
about his youth; and the little Mice had never heard the like before;
and they listened and said:
"Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you must have
been!"
"I?" said the Fir-tree, thinking over what he had himself related.
"Yes, in reality those were happy times." And then he told about
Christmas Eve, when he was decked out with cakes and candles.
"Oh," said the little Mice, "how fortunate you have been, old
Fir-tree!"
"I am by no means old," said he. "I came from the woods this winter; I
am in my prime, and am only rather short for my age."
"What delightful stories you know!" said the Mice: and the next night
they came with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the tree
recounted; and the more he related, the more plainly he remembered all
himself; and it appeared as if those times had really been happy
times. "But they may still come--they may still come. Klumpy-Dumpy
fell downstairs and yet he got a princess," and he thought at the
moment of a nice little Birch-tree growing out in the woods; to the
Fir, that would be a real charming princess.
"Who is Klumpy-Dumpy?" asked the Mice. So then the Fir-tree told the
whole fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and
the little Mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next
night two more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats, even; but they said
the stories were not interesting, which vexed the little Mice; and
they, too, now began to think them not so very amusing either.
"Do you know only one story?" asked the Rats.
"Only that one," answered the Tree. "I heard it on my happiest
evening; but I did not then know how happy I was."
"It is a very stupid story. Don't you know one about bacon and tallow
candles? Can't you tell any larder stories?"
"No," said the Tree.
"Then good-bye," said the Rats; and they went home.
At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree sighed: "After
all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat around me and
listened to what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take
good care to enjoy myself when I am brought out again."
But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a quantity of
people and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the Tree
was pulled out and thrown--rather hard, it is true--down on the floor,
but a man drew him toward the stairs, where the daylight shone.
"Now a merry life will begin again," thought the Tree. He felt the
fresh air, the first sunbeam--and now he was out in the courtyard. All
passed so quickly, there was so much going on around him, that the
Tree quite forgot to look to himself. The court adjoined a garden, and
all was in flower; the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the
balustrade, the lindens were in blossom, the Swallows flew by, and
said, "Quirre-vit! my husband is come!" but it was not the Fir-tree
that they meant.
"Now, then, I shall really enjoy life," said he, exultingly, and
spread out his branches; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow.
It was in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden
star of tinsel was still on the top of the Tree, and glittered in the
sunshine.
In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing who had
danced at Christmas round the Fir-tree, and were so glad at the sight
of him. One of the youngest ran and tore off the golden star.
"Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas tree!" said he,
trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet.
And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness
in the garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his
dark corner in the loft; he thought of his first youth in the woods,
of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice who had listened
with so much pleasure to the story of Klumpy-Dumpy.
"'Tis over--'tis past!" said the poor Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I
had reason to do so! But now 'tis past, 'tis past!"
And the gardener's boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a
whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large
brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.
The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold
star on his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of
his life. However, that was over now--the Tree gone, the story at an
end. All, all was over; every tale must end at last.
III. THE CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE*
* From "The Pot of Gold , copyright by Lothrop, Lee & Shepherd Co.
MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
On Christmas Eve the Mayor's stately mansion presented a beautiful
appearance. There were rows of different coloured wax candles burning
in every window, and beyond them one could see the chandeliers of gold
and crystal blazing with light. The fiddles were squeaking merrily,
and lovely little forms flew past the windows in time to the music.
There were gorgeous carpets laid from the door to the street, and
carriages were constantly arriving and fresh guests tripping over
them. They were all children. The Mayor was giving a Christmas
Masquerade tonight to all the children in the city, the poor as well
as the rich. The preparation for this ball had been making an immense
sensation for the last three months. Placards had been up in the most
conspicuous points in the city, and all the daily newspapers had at
least a column devoted to it, headed with "THE MAYOR'S CHRISTMAS
MASQUERADE," in very large letters.
The Mayor had promised to defray the expenses of all the poor children
whose parents were unable to do so, and the bills for their costumes
were directed to be sent in to him.
Of course there was great excitement among the regular costumers of
the city, and they all resolved to vie with one another in being the
most popular, and the best patronized on this gala occasion. But the
placards and the notices had not been out a week before a new Costumer
appeared who cast all the others into the shade directly. He set up
his shop on the corner of one of the principal streets, and hung up
his beautiful costumes in the windows. He was a little fellow, not
much bigger than a boy of ten. His cheeks were as red as roses, and he
had on a long curling wig as white as snow. He wore a suit of crimson
velvet knee-breeches, and a little swallow-tailed coat with beautiful
golden buttons. Deep lace ruffles fell over his slender white hands,
and he wore elegant knee buckles of glittering stones. He sat on a
high stool behind his counter and served his customers himself; he
kept no clerk.
It did not take the children long to discover what beautiful things he
had, and how superior he was to the other costumers, and they begun to
flock to his shop immediately, from the Mayor's daughter to the poor
ragpicker's. The children were to select their own costumes; the Mayor
had stipulated that. It was to be a children's ball in every sense of
the word.
So they decided to be fairies and shepherdesses, and princesses
according to their own fancies; and this new Costumer had charming
costumes to suit them.
It was noticeable that, for the most part, the children of the rich,
who had always had everything they desired, would choose the parts of
goose-girls and peasants and such like; and the poor children jumped
eagerly at the chance of being princesses or fairies for a few hours
in their miserable lives.
When Christmas Eve came and the children flocked into the Mayor's
mansion, whether it was owing to the Costumer's art, or their own
adaptation to the characters they had chosen, it was wonderful how
lifelike their representations were. Those little fairies in their
short skirts of silken gauze, in which golden sparkles appeared as
they moved with their little funny gossamer wings, like butterflies,
looked like real fairies. It did not seem possible, when they floated
around to the music, half supported on the tips of their dainty toes,
half by their filmy purple wings, their delicate bodies swaying in
time, that they could be anything but fairies. It seemed absurd to
imagine that they were Johnny Mullens, the washerwoman's son, and
Polly Flinders, the charwoman's little girl, and so on.
The Mayor's daughter, who had chosen the character of a goose-girl,
looked so like a true one that one could hardly dream she ever was
anything else. She was, ordinarily, a slender, dainty little lady
rather tall for her age. She now looked very short and stubbed and
brown, just as if she had been accustomed to tend geese in all sorts
of weather. It was so with all the others--the Red Riding-hoods, the
princesses, the Bo-Peeps and with every one of the characters who came
to the Mayor's ball; Red Riding-hood looked round, with big,
frightened eyes, all ready to spy the wolf, and carried her little pat
of butter and pot of honey gingerly in her basket; Bo-Peep's eyes
looked red with weeping for the loss of her sheep; and the princesses
swept about so grandly in their splendid brocaded trains, and held
their crowned heads so high that people half-believed them to be true
princesses.
But there never was anything like the fun at the Mayor's Christmas
ball. The fiddlers fiddled and fiddled, and the children danced and
danced on the beautiful waxed floors. The Mayor, with his family and a
few grand guests, sat on a dais covered with blue velvet at one end of
the dancing hall, and watched the sport. They were all delighted. The
Mayor's eldest daughter sat in front and clapped her little soft white
hands. She was a tall, beautiful young maiden, and wore a white dress,
and a little cap woven of blue violets on her yellow hair. Her name
was Violetta.
The supper was served at midnight--and such a supper! The mountains of
pink and white ices, and the cakes with sugar castles and flower
gardens on the tops of them, and the charming shapes of gold and
ruby-coloured jellies. There were wonderful bonbons which even the
Mayor's daughter did not have every day; and all sorts of fruits,
fresh and candied. They had cowslip wine in green glasses, and
elderberry wine in red, and they drank each other's health. The
glasses held a thimbleful each; the Mayor's wife thought that was all
the wine they ought to have. Under each child's plate there was a
pretty present and every one had a basket of bonbons and cake to carry
home.
At four o'clock the fiddlers put up their fiddles and the children
went home; fairies and shepherdesses and pages and princesses all
jabbering gleefully about the splendid time they had had.
But in a short time what consternation there was throughout the city.
When the proud and fond parents attempted to unbutton their children's
dresses, in order to prepare them for bed, not a single costume would
come off. The buttons buttoned again as fast as they were unbuttoned;
even if they pulled out a pin, in it would slip again in a twinkling;
and when a string was untied it tied itself up again into a bowknot.
The parents were dreadfully frightened. But the children were so tired
out they finally let them go to bed in their fancy costumes and
thought perhaps they would come off better in the morning. So Red
Riding-hood went to bed in her little red cloak holding fast to her
basket full of dainties for her grandmother, and Bo-Peep slept with
her crook in her hand.
The children all went to bed readily enough, they were so very tired,
even though they had to go in this strange array. All but the
fairies--they danced and pirouetted and would not be still.
"We want to swing on the blades of grass," they kept saying, "and play
hide and seek in the lily cups, and take a nap between the leaves of
the roses."
The poor charwomen and coal-heavers, whose children the fairies were
for the most part, stared at them in great distress. They did not know
what to do with these radiant, frisky little creatures into which
their Johnnys and their Pollys and Betseys were so suddenly
transformed. But the fairies went to bed quietly enough when daylight
came, and were soon fast asleep.
There was no further trouble till twelve o'clock, when all the
children woke up. Then a great wave of alarm spread over the city. Not
one of the costumes would come off then. The buttons buttoned as fast
as they were unbuttoned; the pins quilted themselves in as fast as
they were pulled out; and the strings flew round like lightning and
twisted themselves into bow-knots as fast as they were untied.
And that was not the worst of it; every one of the children seemed to
have become, in reality, the character which he or she had assumed.
The Mayor's daughter declared she was going to tend her geese out in
the pasture, and the shepherdesses sprang out of their little beds of
down, throwing aside their silken quilts, and cried that they must go
out and watch their sheep. The princesses jumped up from their straw
pallets, and wanted to go to court; and all the rest of them likewise.
Poor little Red Riding-hood sobbed and sobbed because she couldn't go
and carry her basket to her grandmother, and as she didn't have any
grandmother she couldn't go, of course, and her parents were very much
doubled. It was all so mysterious and dreadful. The news spread very
rapidly over the city, and soon a great crowd gathered around the new
Costumer's shop for every one thought he must be responsible for all
this mischief.
The shop door was locked; but they soon battered it down with stones.
When they rushed in the Costumer was not there; he had disappeared
with all his wares. Then they did not know what to do. But it was
evident that they must do something before long for the state of
affairs was growing worse and worse.
The Mayor's little daughter braced her back up against the tapestried
wall, and planted her two feet in their thick shoes firmly. "I will go
and tend my geese," she kept crying. "I won't eat my breakfast. I
won't go out in the park. I won't go to school. I'm going to tend my
geese--I will, I will, I will!"
And the princesses trailed their rich trains over the rough unpainted
floors in their parents' poor little huts, and held their crowned
heads very high and demanded to be taken to court. The princesses were
mostly geese-girls when they were their proper selves, and their geese
were suffering, and their poor parents did not know what they were
going to do and they wrung their hands and wept as they gazed on their
gorgeously apparelled children.
Finally the Mayor called a meeting of the Aldermen, and they all
assembled in the City Hall. Nearly every one of them had a son or a
daughter who was a chimney-sweep, or a little watch-girl, or a
shepherdess. They appointed a chairman and they took a great many
votes and contrary votes but they did not agree on anything, until
every one proposed that they consult the Wise Woman. Then they all
held up their hands, and voted to, unanimously.
So the whole board of Aldermen set out, walking by twos, with the
Mayor at their head, to consult the Wise Woman. The Aldermen were all
very fleshy, and carried gold-headed canes which they swung very high
at every step. They held their heads well back, and their chins stiff,
and whenever they met common people they sniffed gently. They were
very imposing.
The Wise Woman lived in a little hut on the outskirts of the city. She
kept a Black Cat, except for her, she was all alone. She was very old,
and had brought up a great many children, and she was considered
remarkably wise.
But when the Aldermen reached her hut and found her seated by the
fire, holding her Black Cat, a new difficulty presented itself. She
had always been quite deaf and people had been obliged to scream as
loud as they could in order to make her hear; but lately she had grown
much deafer, and when the Aldermen attempted to lay the case before
her she could not hear a word. In fact, she was so very deaf that she
could not distinguish a tone below G-sharp. The Aldermen screamed till
they were quite red in the faces, but all to no purpose: none of them
could get up to G-sharp of course.
So the Aldermen all went back, swinging their gold-headed canes, and
they had another meeting in the City Hall. Then they decided to send
the highest Soprano Singer in the church choir to the Wise Woman; she
could sing up to G-sharp just as easy as not. So the high Soprano
Singer set out for the Wise Woman's in the Mayor's coach, and the
Aldermen marched behind, swinging their gold-headed canes.
The High Soprano Singer put her head down close to the Wise Woman's
ear, and sung all about the Christmas Masquerade and the dreadful
dilemma everybody was in, in G-sharp--she even went higher, sometimes,
and the Wise Woman heard every word.
She nodded three times, and every time she nodded she looked wiser.
"Go home, and give 'em a spoonful of castor-oil, all 'round," she
piped up; then she took a pinch of snuff, and wouldn't say any more.
So the Aldermen went home, and every one took a district and marched
through it, with a servant carrying an immense bowl and spoon, and
every child had to take a dose of castor-oil.
But it didn't do a bit of good. The children cried and struggled when
they were forced to take the castor-oil; but, two minutes afterward,
the chimney-sweeps were crying for their brooms, and the princesses
screaming because they couldn't go to court, and the Mayor's daughter,
who had been given a double dose, cried louder and more sturdily: "I
want to go and tend my geese. I will go and tend my geese."
So the Aldermen took the high Soprano Singer, and they consulted the
Wise Woman again. She was taking a nap this time, and the Singer had
to sing up to B-flat before she could wake her. Then she was very
cross and the Black Cat put up his back and spit at the Aldermen.
"Give 'em a spanking all 'round," she snapped out, "and if that don't
work put 'em to bed without their supper."
Then the Aldermen marched back to try that; and all the children in
the city were spanked, and when that didn't do any good they were put
to bed without any supper. But the next morning when they woke up they
were worse than ever.
The Mayor and Aldermen were very indignant, and considered that they
had been imposed upon and insulted. So they set out for the Wise Woman
again, with the high Soprano Singer.
She sang in G-sharp how the Aldermen and the Mayor considered her an
impostor, and did not think she was wise at all, and they wished her
to take her Black Cat and move beyond the limits of the city.
She sang it beautifully; it sounded like the very finest Italian opera
music.
"Deary me," piped the Wise Woman, when she had finished, "how very
grand these gentlemen are." Her Black Cat put up his back and spit.
"Five times one Black Cat are five Black Cats," said the Wise Woman.
And directly there were five Black Cats spitting and miauling.
"Five times five Black Cats are twenty-five Black Cats." And then
there were twenty-five of the angry little beasts.
"Five times twenty-five Black Cats are one hundred and twenty-five
Black Cats," added the Wise Woman with a chuckle.
Then the Mayor and the Aldermen and the high Soprano Singer fled
precipitately out the door and back to the city. One hundred and
twenty-five Black Cats had seemed to fill the Wise Woman's hut full,
and when they all spit and miauled together it was dreadful. The
visitors could not wait for her to multiply Black Cats any longer.
As winter wore on and spring came, the condition of things grew more
intolerable. Physicians had been consulted, who advised that the
children should be allowed to follow their own bents, for fear of
injury to their constitutions. So the rich Aldermen's daughters were
actually out in the fields herding sheep, and their sons sweeping
chimneys or carrying newspapers; and while the poor charwomen's and
coal-heavers, children spent their time like princesses and fairies.
Such a topsy-turvy state of society was shocking. While the Mayor's
little daughter was tending geese out in the meadow like any common
goose-girl, her pretty elder sister, Violetta, felt very sad about it
and used often to cast about in her mind for some way of relief.
When cherries were ripe in spring, Violetta thought she would ask the
Cherry-man about it. She thought the Cherry-man quite wise. He was a
very pretty young fellow, and he brought cherries to sell in graceful
little straw baskets lined with moss. So she stood in the kitchen door
one morning and told him all about the great trouble that had come
upon the city. He listened in great astonishment; he had never heard
of it before. He lived several miles out in the country.
"How did the Costumer look?" he asked respectfully; he thought
Violetta the most beautiful lady on earth.
Then Violetta described the Costumer, and told him of the unavailing
attempts that had been made to find him. There were a great many
detectives out, constantly at work.
"I know where he is!" said the Cherry-man. "He's up in one of my
cherry-trees. He's been living there ever since cherries were ripe,
and he won't come down."
Then Violetta ran and told her father in great excitement, and he at
once called a meeting of the Aldermen, and in a few hours half the
city was on the road to the Cherry-man's.
He had a beautiful orchard of cherry-trees all laden with fruit. And,
sure enough in one of the largest, way up amongst the topmost
branches, sat the Costumer in his red velvet and short clothes and his
diamond knee-buckles. He looked down between the green boughs.
"Good-morning, friends!" he shouted.
The Aldermen shook their gold-headed canes at him, and the people
danced round the tree in a rage. Then they began to climb. But they
soon found that to be impossible. As fast as they touched a hand or
foot to a tree, back it flew with a jerk exactly as if the tree pushed
it. They tried a ladder, but the ladder fell back the moment it
touched the tree, and lay sprawling upon the ground. Finally, they
brought axes and thought they could chop the tree down, Costumer and
all; but the wood resisted the axes as if it were iron, and only
dented them, receiving no impression itself.
Meanwhile, the Costumer sat up in the tree, eating cherries and
throwing the stones down. Finally he stood up on a stout branch, and,
looking down, addressed the people.
"It's of no use, your trying to accomplish anything in this way," said
he; "you'd better parley. I'm willing to come to terms with you, and
make everything right on two conditions."
The people grew quiet then, and the Mayor stepped forward as
spokesman, "Name your two conditions," said he rather testily. "You
own, tacitly, that you are the cause of all this trouble."
"Well" said the Costumer, reaching out for a handful of cherries,
"this Christmas Masquerade of yours was a beautiful idea; but you
wouldn't do it every year, and your successors might not do it at all.
I want those poor children to have a Christmas every year. My first
condition is that every poor child in the city hangs its stocking for
gifts in the City Hall on every Christmas Eve, and gets it filled,
too. I want the resolution filed and put away in the city archives."
"We agree to the first condition!" cried the people with one voice,
without waiting for the Mayor and Aldermen.
"The second condition," said the Costumer, "is that this good young
Cherry-man here has the Mayor's daughter, Violetta, for his wife. He
has been kind to me, letting me live in his cherry-tree and eat his
cherries and I want to reward him."
"We consent," cried all the people; but the Mayor, though he was so
generous, was a proud man. "I will not consent to the second
condition," he cried angrily.
"Very well," replied the Costumer, picking some more cherries, "then
your youngest daughter tends geese the rest of her life, that's all."
The Mayor was in great distress; but the thought of his youngest
daughter being a goose-girl all her life was too much for him. He gave
in at last.
"Now go home and take the costumes off your children," said the
Costumer, "and leave me in peace to eat cherries."
Then the people hastened back to the city, and found, to their great
delight, that the costumes would come off. The pins stayed out, the
buttons stayed unbuttoned, and the strings stayed untied. The children
were dressed in their own proper clothes and were their own proper
selves once more. The shepherdesses and the chimney-sweeps came home,
and were washed and dressed in silks and velvets, and went to
embroidering and playing lawn-tennis. And the princesses and the
fairies put on their own suitable dresses, and went about their useful
employments. There was great rejoicing in every home. Violetta thought
she had never been so happy, now that her dear little sister was no
longer a goose-girl, but her own dainty little lady-self.
The resolution to provide every poor child in the city with a stocking
full of gifts on Christmas was solemnly filed, and deposited in the
city archives, and was never broken.
Violetta was married to the Cherry-man, and all the children came to
the wedding, and strewed flowers in her path till her feet were quite
hidden in them. The Costumer had mysteriously disappeared from the
cherry-tree the night before, but he left at the foot some beautiful
wedding presents for the bride--a silver service with a pattern of
cherries engraved on it, and a set of china with cherries on it, in
hand painting, and a white satin robe, embroidered with cherries down
the front.