SANTA CLAUS’ SWEETHEART. “Somehow 1 never thought of you ps a baby ai 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’ ell. Thin I came, an’ the wurrld was » 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. { shouldn't have liked to be borned be- "fore 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 barefutted 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, ex- cept 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 1 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. i “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 lit- tle 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 un- ! dershtand 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’ 1 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 “I tried to keep awake last Christ! mas 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. ‘Tonight of al nights you must sleep,” he said. And I cried ‘No’ and closed my eyes quick 80'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 'sturb muvver, I crawled out of bed, ‘cause it made me incon-! tented to lie still, and there was my stocking full to the brim. I knew who filled it.” She stopped in her re- | cital 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’in- ly you couldn’t expect a little girl could sleep. T felt all my presents. Muvver lsays us little folks have eyes in our fingertips, 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 stock- ing,” she added softly. He could not meet her reproachful glance. * “Twas in a hurry I was,” he mum- |bled, “an’ me bastes shtampin’ widout lin the cowld”— “Oh, she didn’t know,” the child in- iterrupted, *‘'cause when she was tight lasleep I found her stocking, and I put /that very rosy cheeked apple you'd put lin mine quite far, far down in hers and some nuts too. Cert’inly I couldn’t igive her the little doll or the picture book, ‘cause grownups 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. dn ' “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.” i { | i | | | { “Shook out the sand | =—sprinkle, sprin- , kle, sprinkle.” Danny and Whitefoot felt a sudden queer twitch on the reins—a compel- ling 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 com- ing 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 im- mediately Danny looked protestingly around. The man met their gaze half guiltily. Be- yond — 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 solitary house. If he turned round it must be good by to Merle. Ii would be impos sible for Dannjy and Whitefoot tc make the jour ney 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 answer: “We both said ‘Merry Christmas’ to each uver.” ed 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, lanelike road widened for a consider able space into 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 sav- in’ up forninst this night. I cudn’t be dhrivin’ thim in the broad daylight, alanna dear. Folks wud think us a thravelin’ 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 some- thin’ warmin'. Tumble back into the sleigh, mavourneen, an’ wrap yoursilf up clost till I shpread the tablecloth ag’'inst the bankquid.” Pe Ig Chapter III. : “Qur Very Own, Own- : est Santa Claus.” HE tablecloth, as was speedily disclosed, was nothing more than a very greasy newspa- per which had been 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 un- der 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 company, brown eyes.” He took an enormous mouthful and smiled at her, . while he was rendered speechless, and she smiled back, mute, too, from a sim- ilar reason. “Did ye iver taste betther?’ he made out to ask. “Never,” she answered promptly. And she really spoke the truth. Saw- dust 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, glis- tening veil, had never seemed so good and satisfying as these big, grownup ones eaten under the high blue sky in that country of snow and ice. As soon as the sandwiches had dis- appeared Santa Claus covered a crack: er with bits of cheese like nuggets of ‘the crackers and cheese were all eaten gold and presented it to her with a bow as if she were a queen. It seem- ed a fitting crown to the feast, though apparently he had quite other ideas of a crown, as was soon shown. When 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, t'wud 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 French- ies say. which is the same as ‘water av life’ But I'm not so much for wa- ter in it mesilf, likin’ it nate. Then there's ‘oil av gladness® an’— Sure ye shall have the first taste, mavourneen, as ‘tis fit and proper, ladies always It Seemed a Fitting Crown to the Feast. lead. Come, shtand up an’ give us the toast’— “The toast?’ She looked around be- wildered. ‘““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 in- nercent sowl, me dear, ’tis a propysi- tion I'm afther askin’ ye for. 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 one pris- int—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, swateeyes, spake quickly.” 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 spar- kles under the crusted snow flashed like so many imprisoned diamonds and then at the sky again as if for inspira- tion. 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 ‘smelled the odor of the fiery liquid, and it was so offensive her hand shook. “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 drefily horrid.” “Aisy, me darlint, aisy! There's no accountin’ fer tastes, as the ould wo- man said when she kissed her cow. She Prodded the Bulging Sacks With Inquisitive Fingers. It’s a quare wurrld this is, but sure ‘tis a most glorious dispinsation av Providence that we don’t all be think- In’ 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.” . She stood up facing him and bowed ¥8 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 draft. 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 attered a sigh which immediately slip- ped into a loud guffaw at sight of her expression. “You can’t like it,” she shuddered. “I'm not quarrelin’ 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 address- ed 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, and the horses have gorged thimsilves like magis- thrates, the rapaycious gossoons! Come, be shpry, an’ lend a hand wid the pails.” She did not wait to be told twice, but bustled around delightedly, help- ing him stow the buckets among the dingy bags and barrels which formed the prosaic load this Santa Claus car- ried. “Jest food forninst tomorry fer the shanty men.” he explained as she prod- ded the bulging sacks with inquisitive fingers. “They axed ‘me to fetch along their Christmas dinner. Oh, they knowed their man. An’ 1, that oblig- in’, cudn't say no to thim. If Id 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 midsummer night by na- ture an’ dishposition. Let's limber up a bit afore we shtart ag’in on our thravels. 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 him- self 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 bot- tom 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 He Needed Both Hands to Swing His Little Thistledown of a Partner. rooms, with the candles set a-row in bottles spluttering through the haze of dust and giving out, beside their mea: ger light, a smell of dripping tallow, where the air was noisy with the scraping and pounding of many feet and shouts of 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 glit- tering garments, took on fantastic shapes as if they were spectators. Nor were they the only ones—the fur- tive 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 ex- citement, 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 tiptoe, watching eagerly for his signal. “Now,” he called. “now, thin, dar- lint, 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 very 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' the swift sliding 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 par- ticle was a fairy. The air was full of graceful, bending shapes fluttering here and there, there and here, until at last, quite tired -cut, they dropped to earth again to twinkle and sparkle, thattering softly to one another of the Up the Road and Down the Road They Went, Laughing, Shouting, Singing. 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 mu- sic and laughter, and the spirits that dwell in the woods in their soft, sha. dowy 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 oun everything. Hitherto the little maid had only danced by herself or with her shadow or her dolls—those rather unsatisfac- tory partners whose limp legs went ev- ery 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 ten- derly 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 wood- land 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 slow- er, slow-er and more slowly. The little top always did that just before it hum- med 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, giv- ing back the picture of herself! She laughed into them gayly. and his deep merriment echoed her flutelike 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, sure- ly, after what had gone before. It was like the little tune when the dance is done and 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, “Goodby. pleasure, goodby.” Jingle, jangle clashed the bells as Dan- ny and Whitefoot settled very grave: ly 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. i iat Me Mean Mia 1 Chapter IV. : Exit Santa Claus. Briers ars amend HE air bit more keenly, for the afternoon was wearing on. Al ready 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 cra. dle up that I'm afther tellin’ ye. ’Tis your turi now. 1 don't know so much as your name, though I do be runnin’ away wid ye” : : Two Arms Caught Her. — s 3 —— — “Muvver calls me heart names—I1 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! 1 did.” “You got it, didn’t you?’ she de- manded, sitting bolt upright and fac- ing him as the possibility of a dread- ful 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. Muv- ver 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 the beau- tiful 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 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 Ilet- ther,” 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 ’twill burst 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 Av coorse countin’ the sands on the sayshore than to count thim.” he answered, entering heartily “Did you 'member ’em all?” into his role of the jolly saint. “Me secretarries an’ undersecretarries niv- er rest at all. They do be dhroppin’ wid fatague, the poor fellies! 'Tis en- tries they have to make ui." double en- tries an’ charges and countercharges, an’ I must give each wan my speshul supervision”— ’ “Do you burn our letters up after you’ve read them?” “Do I look like a man as wud de- sthroy 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’ ta- blecloths made out av thim an’ cur- tins to me doors an’ windys, an’ sofy pillers an’ chair sates—oh, ’tis an in- janeyus mind I have. Sure, the shtuff av drames makes foine wearin’ mate- rial, an’ don't ye fergit it. I had to build an appindix to me house year be- fore 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 darlist, 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 cit- ies an’ towns an’ villidges do kape the rale articles. An’, by the same token, I've me dep-puties stationed iv'ry- where to git things ready forninst me comin’, an’ thin 1 can make the jour- ney wid the spade av the wind”— Her head dropped against his arm. “Not Whitefoot and Danny,” she said drowsily, “but Dancer and Pranc- er 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 rea- son. “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. annyways, an’ I'll niver fergit it.” He tucked the rugs about her as ten- derly as her mother could have done, though his fingers were clumsy and un- used to such offices. Then, after he had seen to her comfort, he bethought himself of his own and had a mer- ry meeting with that other — quite a longish meeting this time—and he murmured the same toast, repeating the words again and again, with fun. ny little nods by way of emphasis, aft- er which he fell to singing rather loud- (Continued on page 6)
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers