— ———————————— 1 Soman : i SANTA CLAUS’ SWEETHEART . | iy che diverting history of “Kelly's Cat” It was on a Sunday evenin’—I'l mind it evermore— Whin Paddy Kelly wint to bed an’ fergot to bar the door; The cat riz up an’ shook hersilf widout either dread or fear, An’ over the hollow to Barney's she quickly thin did steer. The night bein’ cold an’ stormy, an’ the cat bein’ poor an’ thin, An’ the windy, it bein’ open, she” — He broke off here, his chin falling forward on his chest. Danny and Whitefoot, however, were used to his ways and knew their own duty too well to stop because the reins fell so! slack on their backs. They jogged on’ quite as steadily as if he were awake. ' It was a lonely conntry where there was little travel, so there was no fear of meeting any one and no reason for turning out. All they had to do was to’ keep on. Presently he stirred and opened his eyes. “Tis forty winks I've been havin’, an’ they've made a new man av me,” he said. with a prodigious yawn. “But, begorra, I dramed me arrm was held in the grip av a monsther. ’'Tis use- | less an’ shtiff it is this very minnit. Faith, ‘tis as sound aslape as if ould! Pickett was tellin’ wan av his wurrld | widout ind shtories. Arrah, wake up wid ye"— He started to jerk his arm free and glanced down with some impatience. but the sight of what rested there made him pause. So that was the monster he had dreamed was holding him fast! He had forgotten the child for the moment—forgotten, too, the part he was playing. Then everything came back with a rush as he gazed at her peaceful little face. “Sure, ’tis no shtiffness at all, at all.” he muttered. “What's the weight av a feather fer a man to complain av? *Tis like the touch av an angel's wing. so it is, an’ proud I am to fale it— proud an’ plazed. Lie shtill, cushla machree: lie shtill.” But she had been partially aroused by his attempt to ease himself and very obligingly changed her position. cuddling down on the scat. He helped to fix her anew. murmuring fond lit- tle phrases. and as her eyelids flutter- ed open he bade her go to sleep again. She obeyed without question. The air made her very drowsy, and the steady. - forward motion of the sleigh was like the lulling of a cradle. He began to sing again almost immediately, though in a subdued key, and still about “Kel- 1y’s Cat.” But he took scant pleasure in the song. Half of its fun lay in hearing the laughter it always evoked. and he missed her silvery merriment.’ To sing a comic song just for one's own amusement is rather dreary work, after all. Everything is better when it is shared. A laugh is always jollier | and even the heaviest sorrow will grow lighter at a true word of sym-| pathy. ! He did not complete the history of the celebrated combat, therefore, but’ after a few lines brought it to a close and began something else. Then, be- fore he knew it, a song that had lived in the background of his memory for! many years found its way, for the little child's sake, to his lips. Curious- ly enough. it didn’t seem to him that he was singing it, for through the words he could hear his mother’s worn voice carrying the tune forward. and his own voice, the best in all the coun- try round for trolling out a drinking catch or some fantastic rigamarole set Ph 7 1K ) / 5 lp ” They Jogged on Quite as Steadily as if ; He Werc Awake. to music, grew so tender that the roisterers at Wistar's or up at Merle would never have recognized it. But if they could have heard him they wouldn't have laughed. The song would have been like a little key un- locking the gates of childhood. Even if the words had been unfamiliar to them the sweet sounds would have ta- ken them back. After he had finished singing he sat very still, one hand holding the reins, the other resting gently on the warm little bundle at his side. But his thoughts were far back in that distant past where, because of his light heart, he only dwelt on the golden spots— and his nature had many such. Then he began to build some castles in that dear, impossible, ever true country where one may rear the most beauti- ful houses and have them ready to be lived in in the wink of an eye; where there are never any vexing questions of rent or taxes and one doesn’t have to bother about gas or electricity (such a wonderful lighting system as they have there, by the way!), and there ~ are never any repairs to be made. Perhaps a prosaically minded architect would never have called Terry’s dream house a castle, but such sober matter of factness is not to be envied. Very much happier are the people who live in the clouds at times, though they do have many a tumble to earth, than the ones who never see things through the rose colored glasses of fancy, but plod along in the dull light of common gray- mess. Terry belonged to the first kind, and because his mind was still full of the nonscnse he had uttered to his com- panion he began to build a beautiful palace where the dreams of little chil- dren could come true. On every side he could see their wishes written plain- ly, sometimes in copybook writing, sometimes in big print and sometimes sounds of scrambling, racing feet. { away loike, an’ yet ’tis plain as thun- again in these funny, wavering, uphill lines thai Santa Claus never fails to read. And everywhere he could hear merry laughter and shouts and the It was a beautiful palace! He chuckled to himself, seeing it so distinctly. and then, suddenly—very suddenly—just in - front of him, a trifle at one side of the road, stood a small, square house of the sort that your eminently practical. no-thought-of-beauty contractor would build. Terry's hand, reins and all. went to his eyes to clear the mist from before them. Impossible! He knew the country as well as Danny and Whitefoot. and he knew, too. that ne such house stood there. The shanty men’s hut. the only human habitation for miles. was still some distance off. He looked again sharply. convinced that in the darkening land some snow covered tree had taken on the likeness, to a building. And he was quite right —there was no house. i The bells smote the air sullenly and soberly as the horses started once more on their patient, even course. They did not merit the sharp flap of the reins on their backs—they were doing their best. Terry tried to go on with his dreams, but the thread of, fancy. once broken, is hard to recover. ! He caught bravely at it—there stood the house again, square, squat. unpic- turesque, with the low stable at one side connected Dby the covered way, as is the custom in cold countries. Ho; rubbed his eyes, and it was gone .again — they ! had driven right through : it! He laughed, but not | gayly. ‘Two parts of, him seemed to be dream- | ing—the one that built a castle for little children. | the other that thought of | solemn. elderly folk, He began to sing: “Now Mrs. McGrath to the ' sargint said, | Sure I'd like me son to be a corpril made, Wid a foine rid coat an’ a : goold laced hat— Och Tiddy me by, wnd- dent you like that? Musha ti ral la"— i It was no use! The! house was quite near | him again. with its] chimney breathing out There Stood a soft little line of the House smoke and its tin roof | Again. dull in the level light’ —the roof that had flashed like a | reproving eye hours carlier. And then he knew! He turned and looked back | fearfully. As far as he could see there | was no sign of life. Before him it was | the same tale—even the house his fan- cy had conjured up had vanished. It was very still save for the bells on his horses, and they were not clinking merrily just then, only giving out a monotonous jog trot sound that did not deafen him to the faint voice crying very far away. ‘Dear my little own. ! where are you?" He shivered among his furs, still looking back, and sob- bingly the words came again, “Dear my little own, where are you?” Danny and Whitefoot pawed the snow uneasily. Merle was still dis-: tant, and they were anxious to be at rest. They even determined to pull more steadily, more swiftly. They had been saving their best wind for that, but the hand on the reins kept them still. “Och, wurra. wurra, that iver I shtooped to desate,” the old man mur- | mured. “What will I do wid juty say- | in’ ‘go forrard’ an’ juty sayin’ ‘go : back? ‘Tis most thirty miles from the shanty men's hut to that lonely little house. an’ 1 can’t take the journey over ag'in. Whist, there, mither, wid your callin’ to the colleen or ‘tis cracked me heart will be intoirely. Aisy now! The voice av you is far der in' me ears. Sure, I thought the fun av the wurrld was in this thing. an’ 1 meant no harm at all. Whist. there, mither dear! They do be wait- in’ fer me up at Merle, thim an’ the Christmas fun, an’ Christmas only comin’ wanst a year. an’ there's the wager besides. Och, wurra, wurra. what will I do? I must go on, but ’tisn’t wid me the darlint can be go- in’.” He recognized that very clearly now when it was almost too late. His home as the child dreamed of it and his home as it really was were two very different things. He couldn’t take her to the tavern at Merle, with its rough, carousing crowd—such fun was not for her—and he had nowhere else to go. Then he thought of the road ever getting darker and darker, of the frozen lake, with its treacherous ice, that he must cross; of the night grow- | ing colder. He knew how to keep himself warm, but it was another mat- ter where she was concerned. And when he went driving into Merle to claim his bet his hand might not be steady—that had happened so often be- fore!—and there was that ugly bit just below the tavern, where even the most careful driver must pick his way warily. But with a little child—the thought made him giddy. No, no, no! He couldn't take her with him—that was impossible! And equally he saw, because he knew himself so well, he couldn’t take her back to her mother’s longing arms. He couldn't go back! He sat quite still, turning over differ- ent plans in his mind, while the pre- cious minutes slipped by unheeded. Finally his brow cleared a trifle. There was but one solution to the difficulty— the lumbermen might help him, must help him. He would see that they had no choice in the matter. As he reach- ed this decision some of his old reck- less daring came back to him, but he bore himself in a shamefaced fashion and with none of his usual jauntinees, though he straightened his shoulders i of a broken sixpence. and tried to appear unconcerned. He began to whistle, too. as if to silence the wailing cry that still pursued the sleigh. He would not let himself lis- ten. “Och, child.” he said. looking down at the little maid. * ‘tis sorry I am fer “Och, child,” he said, ““’tis sorry | am fer ye, darlint.” ye, darlint, but twill all come right in the mornin’—throubles always do. Whist now! ’Tis sorriest I am fer me- silf, since I can’t help mesilf at all, I bein’ what I am, ye see.” The Gift of Santa Claus Jr E put his hand into his coat. and though his fingers came in contact with the flat bottle they did not draw it forth. They groped farther, past the inner coat and beneath the blouse, to some- thing that Bung against his chest sus- pended from a cord. When he brought out his hand it held a dingy little bag. | He stripped off the outer covering, dis- closing a cheap gilt locket and the half With shaking fin- gers he took a wisp of hair from the trinket and, wrapping it up again, thrust it back into his breast, but the locket and the coin he folded in a bit of newspaper and stooped once more to the child. “Sure, it ain't a dolly that will shut its eyes, mavourneen, that I do be giv- in’ ye fer a Christmas gift,” he whis- pered, “but mebbe ye’ll like it fer the the sake av wan as loved it. An’ God Almighty an’ all the howly saints bless ve feriver an’ iver, amin.” She stirred at his touch and opened her eyes. misty still with sleep. For a moment she looked at him in some doubt; then, as she struggled into a sitting position, she laughed gayly. “Oh, it's really and truly you.” Her glance swept their surroundings. “And are we home now—at your very home? Is that it?" The walis of the lumbermen's hut showed indistinctly through the clear- ing. It was almost dark. The night that comes swiftly in the north lands was folding its mantle like a great soft wing over the whole country, though in the wes! there was still a faint streak of rose, as if the day was sorry to go. and =o it lingered in that little, | tender time between the lights, when one can dream best of all. “Is that home?" she asked again. very softly. “Listen, swateheart., But first take this wee packidge. Aisy, now! Ye musnt't fale the edges—an’ shtow it away in your pocket if ye have wan. Tis not to be lcoked at nor so much as prodded. mind ye. till sunrise to- “ls that home?” she asked again. morry. temimber! An’, second— faith, me second is hardest fer me, fer ‘tis goodby I must be sayin’.” Her lip trembled. “But I'm goin’ with you all the way,” she declared stoutly. “Sure, an’ 1 wish it from me heart. only ’tis partin’ we must be. Ye see, ‘ye can go on, an’ Danny an’ Whitefut will be proud to draw ye, but ’tis most night, an® the way gets bad up yonder. an’ there's a Iake to cross, an’ I'm not always the stiddy driver—to me shame be it said” — “I'd sit very stijl”— “An' ‘twill be cold, bitther cold! Thin I've been thinkin—I didn’t tell ye this afore--but no child has iver seen me house. ‘Tis a thing av drames (an', sure, that's the truth!) Whisper, now, cud ye see it, it wud all split to smith- ereens wid a crack like doom. An’ where wud I be thin? The folks wud have to do widout me, I'm thinkin’ “#The little children—us?’ she asked, round eyed “That wud be the size av it. Av coorse ye cud kape on wid the dep- puties. I've trained thim well, an’ the spirit av Christmas niver dies, the giv- in’ an’ the lovin’, fer the Lord made thim in his own imidge. But ye’d be missin’ me, ye know.” She was very still, the little pucker showing between her anxious brows. “I've. an illigint plan. Yon’s a foine place to spind the night, an’ iv'ry- thing will come right in the mornin’. Oh, ye'll see! An’ ye’ll hang up your shtockin’ same as usuwil. But, first, ye must put that bit there down in the toe av it, an’ ‘twill be Merry Christ- mas all round. Will ye tell me goodby now, swateheart, an’ let me go on to kape me wurrd that I've been afther passin’ sacred-loike?” “Yes,” she said gravely. *I wanted to see Vixen and On-come-it close, but I'll let you go. ‘count o’ the children ev'rywheres.” He lifted her gently to the ground. and she stood quietly at one s8de while he tumbled out the barrel and the bags from the back of the sleigh with great caution. He could not stay for a word. Already he had much time to make up. and discussion of any sort, hospitality even, would retard him.” The light had quite disappeared from the west, and a few pale stars—God’s candles, he called them—were beginning to kindle in the dark above. He stooped to her. “Whin I'm gone, cushla machree. ye'll go to the door an’ they'll let ye in—they’ve foine fellies. °’Tis but a shtep up there, annyhow. Ye can’t niver miss it— see, where the rid light shows t’rough the cracks. An’ ye'll not ferget me, lit- tle wan?" “No — no,” choked. He caught her in his arms and kissed her. But though he held her very close he could not see her face well be- cause of the misty curtain’ that had dropped suddenly before | his eyes. In that moment he real- ized how far. how very far, be- low her thought of him he really | was. He put her down almost roughly, detaching the little clinging fingers with scant ten- | derness and sprang into the sleigh. | An instant, from that vantage point. he looked her way. Then Danny and ! she “An’ ye'll not ferget me, little wan?” . Whitefoot, surprised into using their | best wind by a fierce sting of the whip. dashed into the dark, their bells swing- ing out a sharp, tremulous cry of ; bronze that cut the air like a knife. “Goodby.” she called in a breaking voice. And back from the distance came the answer: “Goodby, little swateheart. ye an’ "'— She stood waiting, listening to the! bells that grew faint and fainter until they were like a chime from fairyland. When at last her loving ears could hear them no longer she turned and trotted obediently to the house. The door was closed, but a narrow thread of light glimmered warmly at the sill. | and a tihy fiery eye peeped out haif-' way up the dark surface. She struck God love 1 18 . the wood with her little clinched fist— ! struck it once, then again. A twig snapping off in the teeth of the frost would have sounded louder. From within there came the noise of ! many voices and great bursts of laugh- ter, but no lessening of the merriment | made room for her appeal. It was a large, roughly finished | room, lighted for the most part by the | great heap of logs that blazed on the | hearth, though a lantern fixed against | the wall at the opposite side, in front | of a tin reflector, shone bravely, as if | to say that it was doing its best de- spite the fact that no one heeded its efforts. [For the occupants of the room, without an exception, were gath- ered about the camboose, or fireplace, where, in the full glow of the leaping flames, a number of stockings were hung—not because it was Christmas eve, but for the more prosaic reason that they must be dried. Every work- ing day showed the same display, the men, on an average, hanging up two or three pairs apiece. Still they were keeping their Christmas eve vigil aft- er a fashion, though it was not in the orthodox way, and, notwithstanding its noise, it lacked the real flavor of the blessed season. “What was that?” Shawe asked sud- denly. “Didn't hear a blessed thing. Fire ahead, Sandy. Ev'ry chap’'s :got a stunt to do this night, an’ the fust lot's fell to you. Come, begin— Where's that lazy raskill Terry? He'd oughter be’n here hours agone.” “Back at Wistar’s,” a young fellow growled. “Told yer what to expect when yer singled him out to fetch the grub. A sorry Christmas we'll have. Any meal left in the bar’l, Cooky?” - ‘“’Nough to make pap fer you in the mornin’, kid.” Cooky responded with a grunt. “so don’t be sheddin’ tears— you an’ yer delikit appetite will pull t'rough. 'Tis plum puddin’ the child was expectin’.” The young fellow laughed almost zood naturedly. “Gorry! What'd I give to smell a plum puddin’, even? There was a Christmas oncet when I'd the taste o’ | one. There was turkey before, an’ the bird was a tiptopper, but it dor’t live In my mem'’ry like the puddin’. Thee. | grimly. ! of his thumb, “they hang up the stock: ————— ceme in with a wreath o’ greens ’bout its brown head, an’ its sides crackin’ open with plums the size o’ Jake's thumb there. An’ there was clouds o’ incinse risin' from it, an’ the smell 0’ the burnin’ sperits an’ the blue flames lickin’ each other with joy at the taste they got—tis before my eyes this bloomin’ minnit, an’ my ears is deaf- ened with the roars the fellers sent up. You could ha’ heard 'em a mile off” — A chorus of prostesting voices inter- rupted further reminiscences. ‘‘Shut up, will yer?” *““I"row him out, some one.” “You've no call to make our mouths water so.” “A pudden.,” a thin faced man said dreamily as the din subsided. “I nev- And Back From the Distance Came the Answer. er seed its like. An’ afire, you say? What was thet fer?” “Why, fer the celebration, ijit!" “Begorra.” another voice broke in, “I'd like to live in the counthry where they’ve the crayther to burn. Did it smell good?" “Smell good?’ Again the young fellow laughed. ¢’Twas better than a gardin full 0’ roses when the wind blows soft an’ warm over ’em. ‘Twas finer an’ more penetratin’ than the o-dick-alone the tenderfoots parfume themselves with. An’ there was the sarse besides, with a dash o’ rum in it to make it slip down easier.” “Sarse!” The ejaculation was a groan. “My things come plain.” “That's about the size o’ it fer ev'ry mother’s son of us,” some one began philosophically. Then, in helpless rage at the turn affairs had taken, he finish: ed with a wail: “Hang thet Terry O'Connor! He'd oughter remembered tomorrer’s Christmas’”— “Christmas is like any other day tc us,” an elderly chopper interposed “It’s only meant fer the kids.” A man near the fire stirred restlessly. “Back there,” he said, with a sweep in’s all in a row—six of ’em!—an’ my woman makes shift to fill ’em, too”— “How they chitter in the mornin’,” | another man chimed in, “before it's reely light. Don’ know as there’s any sound quite so nice as that. was home to hear it—Gord, I do!” “Never hed no little stockin’ hangin’ afore my chimbly.” The occupant of the big barrel chair looked into the blaze thoughtfully as he made the statement. “Baby’s sock was toa teeny that fust year, an’ after”— “Faith, I niver had no chimbly av me own at all,” a reckless voice inter: rupted, with a hard laugh. “Here to- day an’ gone tomorrer an’ divil a sow! to care where I was. It made little differ to me thin, but ’tis a wide wurrld an’ a lonely wan when a man’s gittin' on in the years.” “Only got so fur ez the patty cakin age, ez you might say”—it was th man in the barrel chair who wa speaking again—“but turr’ble over Se RDusde “Where's that lazy raskill, Terry?” masterin’—turr’ble! When ye come to think uv it, there ain’t anything like a baby fer overmasterin’ness. He jes’ makes a clean sweep 0’ ev'ry blessed thing.” Wisht 1 1 ———————————————— —— ——————— ————————————————— = —SH ll “A present, Frenchy.” “But yes, a—a prresent. Zen I must go to woirk, an’ Christmas eet is ovaire for me. ‘Adieu, beaux jours de mon enfance!"™ The leaping firelight fell upon grave faces. Dear, lazy laughter had slip- ped very far away from the warmth and glow. “What's that?” “You're like an ould faymale widdy woman, Shawe, wid your fidgits an’ starts an’ your inquisitiveness. That? Tis an ash fallin’ to the hearth; ’tis a burd askin' to be let in; ’tis Christ- mas come to hunt us up far from home an’ the frien’s we love so dear. Man alive, if you're so set to know what it is, go an’ find out fer yoursilf.” “Yes, go an’ be hanged to you!" The chorus was unanimous. Shawe did not wait for the permis. sion. Go he would. As for being hang- ed, that was quite another matter. He left his place in the warm corner, and, picking his way dexterously over the tangle of outstretched legs, he strode across the room to the door, flinging it wide. The cold air rushed in in a great gust that caused the men to shiver in their places and made some of them swear angrily at him, but he did not heed their words. His ear had earlier caught a faint cry, yet as he stood facing the night his level eyes saw nothing in the darkness. Then the sound came again, and this time quite far below him. His glance fell The next moment he started back in amazement. “Great Scott!” he cried sharply. There was a great creaking of stools and boxes in the room behind him as the men, startled out of their indiffer- ence by his exclamation, turned to see what had occasioned it, those who were farthest away rising to their feet and craving curiously over the shoul ders of their companions in front. Shawe had moved a trifle to one side, and they had an unobstructed view through the open door that framed the glimpse of the dark world without of the strip of snow in the foreground gleaming ruddily with lamp and fire. light, and just where the glow fell brightest stood a little child, her face raised in entreaty. For a long moment they looked. with held breaths, in. ' credulous, wondering, half fearful that the vision would disappear at the least movement on their part. Several of | their number made the quick sign of | | i 4 i { The Frenchman in the corner leaned forward excitedly. “I nevaire hang ze stockin’ up zat time I was what you call a keed,” he cried, “but zere was a leetle tree an’ a Christ chil’ up at ze ver’ top. Zey had eet een ze eglise an’ every chil’ een ze pareesh was made ver’ happy. So for two-t'ree years did I get a—a—what you say?” their creed. and one man covered his eyes with a shaking hand, but no one spoke. Then Shawe stooped to her. “Who are you?’ he asked very gen- tly, touching the little flesh and blood © Busch “Great Scott!” he cried sharply. shoulder with tender fingers. She was no spirit, then. “I'm Santa Claus’ sweetheart. You know Santa Claus. He left some ° things for you out there; then he went away.” Fai Bia Mech deat Yes a hd Chapter VI. : Christmas €ve at Thornby’s. ¢ OTHER o’ Moses, the child . must mane Terry!” one of the men, quicker than the rest, exclaimed. “The ould riprobate! An’ but fer your ears, Shawe, she might ha’ be’n froze shtiff fer all we’d knowed—an’ Christmas day tomorrer.” Shawe drew his breath hard. “Thank God, I did hear!” he said through his closed teeth. Then he lift- ed the small stranger in his arms, and as the thronging men fell back on either side he carried her through the little lane thus formed up to the fire. He put her down gently and knelt be- fore her, chafing her hands and face with rapid touches. After a few mo- ments thus spent he set clumsily to work to unfasten her hood and coat. She kept very still while he knotted instead of unknotted the strings, only her eyes moving from face to face, frankly curious, yet without an atom of fear in their glance. There were forty pairs of eyes to meet, and in each she left a little smile. At last the outer wrappings were cast aside, and, as Betty stood before them, a small, slim fignre, very differ- ent in appearance from the shapeless, roly poly bundle of a short time pre- vious, with her fair hair ruffled into little curls and tendrils that made a soft nimbus about her head, she seem- ed even more like some lovely spirit than they, awed by the strangeness of her coming. had thought her. Yet her first action was quite sufficient to re- move all doubts that she belonged to another sphere. Those inquisitive eyes of hers, taking a survey of the room and its inmates, lighted suddenly upon the stockings dangling before the fire. (Continued on page 2, Section two)
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