by A. A. Milne
* * *
"Your own Mother."
"This letter will smell queer, darling; it will be fumigated before posting."
* * *
It must be owned that when Bertie Fellowes received this letter, which was neither more nor less than a shattering of all his Christmas hopes and joys, that he fairly broke down, and hiding his face upon his arms as they rested on his desk, sobbed aloud. The forlorn boy from India, who sat next to him, tried every boyish means of consolation that he could think of. He patted his shoulder, whispered many pitying words, and, at last, flung his arm across him and hugged him tightly, as, poor little chap, he himself many times since his arrival in England, had wished someone would do to him.
* * *
At last Bertie Fellowes thrust his mother's letter into his friend's hand. "Read it," he sobbed.
* * *
So Shivers made himself master of Mrs. Fellowes' letter and understood the cause of the boy's outburst of grief. "Old fellow," he said at last, "don't fret over it. It might be worse. Why, you might be like me, with your father and mother thousands of miles away. When Aggie is better, you'll be able to go home—and it'll help your mother if she thinks you are almost as happy as if you were at home. It must be worse for her—she has cried ever so over her letter—see, it's all tear-blots."
* * *
The troubles and disappointments of youth are bitter while they last, but they soon pass, and the sun shines again. By the time Miss Ware, who was a kind-hearted, sensible, pleasant woman, came to tell Fellowes how sorry she was for him and his disappointment, the worst had gone by, and the boy was resigned to what could not be helped.
* * *
"Well, after all, one man's meat is another man's poison," she said, smiling down on the two boys; "poor Tom has been looking forward to spending his holidays all alone with us, and now he will have a friend with him. Try to look on the bright side, Bertie, and to remember how much worse it would have been if there had been no boy to stay with you."
* * *
"I can't help being disappointed, Miss Ware," said Bertie, his eyes filling afresh and his lips quivering.
* * *
"No, dear boy, you would be anything but a nice boy if you were not. But I want you to try and think of your poor mother, who is full of trouble and anxiety, and to write to her as brightly as you can, and tell her not to worry about you more than she can help."
* * *
"Yes," said Bertie; but he turned his head away, and it was evident to the school-mistress that his heart was too full to let him say more.
* * *
Still, he was a good boy, Bertie Fellowes, and when he wrote home to his mother it was quite a bright every-day kind of letter, telling her how sorry he was about Aggie, and detailing a few of the ways in which he and Shivers meant to spend their holidays. His letter ended thus:—
* * *
"Shivers got a letter from his mother yesterday with three pounds in it: if you happen to see Uncle Dick, will you tell him I want a 'Waterbury' dreadfully?"
* * *
The last day of the term came, and one by one, or two by two, the various boys went away, until at last only Bertie Fellowes and Shivers were left in the great house. It had never appeared so large to either of them before. The school-room seemed to have grown to about the size of a church, the dining-room, set now with only one table instead of three was not like the same, while the dormitory, which had never before had any room to spare, was like a wilderness. To Bertie Fellowes it was all dreary and wretched—to the boy from India, who knew no other house in England, no other thought came than that it was a blessing that he had one companion left. "It is miserable," groaned poor Bertie as they strolled into the great echoing school-room after a lonely tea, set at one corner of the smallest of the three dining-tables; "just think if we had been on our way home now—how different!"
* * *
"Just think if I had been left here by myself," said Shivers—and he gave a shiver which fully justified his name.
* * *
"Yes—but——" began Bertie, then shamefacedly and with a blush, added, "you know, when one wants to go home ever so badly, one never thinks that some chaps haven't got a home to go to."
* * *
The evening went by—discipline was relapsed entirely and the two boys went to bed in the top empty dormitory, and told stories to each other for a long time before they went to sleep. That night Bertie Fellowes dreamt of Madame Tussaud's and the great pantomime at Drury Lane, and poor Shivers of a long creeper-covered bungalow far away in the shining East, and they both cried a little under the bed-clothes. Yet each put a brave face on their desolate circumstances to the other, and so another day began.
* * *
This was the day before Christmas Eve, that delightful day of preparation for the greatest festival in all the year—the day when in most households there are many little mysteries afoot, when parcels come and go, and are smothered away so as to be ready when Santa Claus comes his rounds; when some are busy decking the rooms with holly and mistletoe; when the cook is busiest of all, and savoury smells rise from the kitchen, telling of good things to be eaten on the morrow.
* * *
There were some preparations on foot at Minchin House, though there was not the same bustle and noise as is to be found in a large family. And quite early in the morning came the great hamper of which Mrs. Fellowes had spoken in her letter to Bertie. Then just as the early dinner had come to an end, and Miss Ware was telling the two boys that she would take them round the town to look at the shops, there was a tremendous peal at the bell of the front door, and a voice was heard asking for Master Egerton. In a trice Shivers had sprung to his feet, his face quite white, his hands trembling, and the next moment the door was thrown open, and a tall handsome lady came in, to whom he flew with a sobbing cry of "Aunt Laura! Aunt Laura!"
* * *
Aunt Laura explained in less time than it takes me to write this, that her husband, Colonel Desmond, had had left to him a large fortune and that they had come as soon as possible to England, having, in fact, only arrived in London the previous day. "I was so afraid, Tom darling," she said in ending, "that we should not get here till Christmas Day was over, and I was so afraid you might be disappointed, that I would not let Mother tell you we were on our way home. I have brought a letter from Mother to Miss Ware—and you must get your things packed up at once and come back with me by the six o'clock train to town. Then Uncle Jack and I will take you everywhere, and give you a splendid time, you dear little chap, here all by yourself."
* * *
For a minute or two Shivers' face was radiant; then he caught sight of Bertie's down-drooped mouth, and turned to his Aunt.
* * *
"Dear Aunt Laura," he said, holding her hand very fast with his own, "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't go."
* * *
"Can't go? and why not?"
* * *
"Because I can't go and leave Fellowes here all alone," he said stoutly, though he could scarcely keep a suspicious quaver out of his voice. "When I was going to be alone, Fellowes wrote and asked his mother to let me go home with him, and she couldn't, because his sister has got scarlet fever, and they daren't have either of us; and he's got to stay here—and he's never been away at Christmas before—and—and—I can't go away and leave him by himself, Aunt Laura—and—"
* * *
For the space of a moment or so, Mrs. Desmond stared at the boy as if she could not believe her ears; then she caught hold of him and half smothered him with kisses.
* * *
"Bless you, you dear little chap, you shall not leave him: you shall bring him along and we'll all enjoy ourselves together. What's his name?—Bertie Fellowes! Bertie, my man, you are not very old yet, so I'm going to teach you a lesson as well as ever I can—it is that kindness is never wasted in this world. I'll go out now and telegraph to your mother—I don't suppose she will refuse to let you come with u
s."
* * *
A couple of hours later she returned in triumph, waving a telegram to the two excited boys.
* * *
"God bless you, yes, with all our hearts," it ran; "you have taken a load off our minds."
* * *
And so Bertie Fellowes and Shivers found that there was such a thing as a fairy after all.
A Christmas Eve in Spain
José María de Pereda
Chapter 1
The last gleam of the sun is dying away, and the air is terribly sharp. It seems as if the barren fields were shivering with cold. The neighboring chimneys send out puffs of smoke, which are swiftly whirled away by the icy north wind that leaves some snow-flakes in exchange. The startled black-bird chirps complainingly from her perch on the wall, or calls anxiously to her mate from the top of an apple-tree. From time to time is heard the melancholy and monotonous cry of the laborer calling his cattle; occasionally the scurrying of wooden shoes over the stones in the alley is perceived, and you need listen no longer, for no other sound indicates that there is any life in that pale and somber landscape.
* * *
In the broad porch of one of the houses that adorn it are two little chaps stretched out upon a heap of dried rushes. They are lying on their stomachs, their faces rest upon their hands, and they are looking into each other's eyes. As they have passed the afternoon frolicking over the yielding material upon which they are now resting, to overcome the cold which they scarcely feel, poorly clad as they are, they need only to blow upon their fingers from time to time.
* * *
One of the boys belongs in the house; the other, next door. It is the first one who suddenly exclaims:
* * *
"I'm going to have fritters to eat, aha!"
* * *
"So am I, too," replies the other.
* * *
"But I'm going to have honey with mine."
* * *
"I'll have something better than that—sugar!"
* * *
"Well, in our house we're going to have a meat stew and some wheat bread to go with it."
* * *
"My father brought yesterday two fishes—tremendous big ones!"
* * *
"My mother is down in the town now to get some lard, some wheat bread, and some cake, and this noon my father brought two jars of white wine, the very best kind. And all the eggs we've had this week are kept for to-day, more than fifteen, as big as that! I tell you what, we're going to spend to-night all of a dollar and thirty-five cents which are saved up!"
* * *
"What does all that amount to! Why, my father brought up from the harbor four dollars, and forty cents besides, and we're going to lay out the whole of it to-night. I say, will you keep a taste of the stew for me, if I'll give you a piece of the fish?"
* * *
"You needn't think I care anything about that! But you have not got a brother who is a student and who is coming home on a vacation this very afternoon, the way I have."
* * *
"But I have got a splendid young bull, and a cow that gives three quarts of milk. Oh, what a lot of it we've got for to-night!"
* * *
"Milk, did you say! Do you want to see two jars of milk right away? I'll show you some worth looking at."
* * *
Up springs the eager boy, with the other one after him, and together they go into the kitchen, looking cautiously about lest Uncle Jeromo, the master of the establishment, should be anywhere about.
* * *
The evening is already coming on, and the boy of the house catches up a brand from the hearth. By dint of much blowing upon it he produces a flickering flame, and by its light they go up to a smoke-begrimed chest that stands underneath a shelf, also blackened by smoke. They raise the cover, and there on the bottom, between heaps of flour, bran, and half of a ham, are seen two large jars filled with milk. The boy of the house looks at his friend with an air of triumph. Both of them fasten their eager eyes upon the jars. Both of them stretch out their right hand, and both moisten their forefinger in the milk, each in his own jar. Continuing to move as if by a common impulse, they draw their arms out of the chest, and stand face to face, sucking their fingers.
* * *
"That's good milk!" says the boy of the house.
* * *
"It's better cream, though," replies his comrade.
* * *
"Did you get the cream?"
* * *
"What do you suppose! I got up every bit of it on my finger."
* * *
At that moment the former recalls with alarm the fearful disturbance his father makes whenever the cream is missing from the daily supply of milk, and remembers the witness to such troubles left on his own ribs by his father's hand. For that reason, fearing a fresh drubbing, and in order to make his own innocence perfectly clear, he flings the brand into the fire, grasps his friend by the trousers, and begins to call out in a tone of the greatest anguish:
* * *
"Father! Father!"
* * *
But the sybaritic prisoner, seized with mortal terror, gives a terrific twist to his jailer's hands, and scuttles out through the yard, licking his chops.
* * *
Uncle Jeromo, who is tiring a wheel out behind the house, hurries in at the sound of the cries, and, not believing his boy's story about the theft of the cream, thinks that the fellow himself has skimmed it, and gives him a couple of resounding blows. The boy shrieks, and the father threatens him with more of the same. In the midst of the cries and warnings the voice of Aunt Simona is heard in the doorway.
* * *
"Oh, was there ever such folks as you! This is the way I always find you."
* * *
"Oh dear, mother, mother!" exclaims the boy, running to cling to the good woman's skirts.
* * *
"What are you crying for, my boy? Who has been beating you?"
* * *
"Mo-mo-mother! It was fa-fa-father!"
* * *
"And you'll get some more of it," murmured the latter, going out to the stable to look after the cattle. "I will teach you to guzzle the cream!"
* * *
"I didn't take it, I tell you! It was Tonu, Tonu Zancuda—oh, dear!"
* * *
"Very likely it was, little angel! He is the sneakingest creature! Come, here's some chestnuts. Now don't cry any more. Your father is too quick. Has the student come?"
* * *
"No, ma'am."
* * *
"God grant that a wolf may not eat him up on the way! But where is your sister?"
* * *
"She went to the fountain."
* * *
"The gadabout! I'll go out and settle her accounts. No, though, I won't, it's no fun going out into the cold at this time of day. Oh that boy of Lambiona's, what a thing he is! Worse luck to him!"
* * *
Muttering words like these, Aunt Simona leaves her sabots at the door of the closet, takes off the baize skirt which she had thrown over her shoulders, hangs it upon a plow-handle which depends from one of the attic floor-beams, and goes into the kitchen, closely followed by the little fellow. The basket which she had brought in under the folds of the skirt she sets down by the fire, throwing on some dried thistles to add to the flame. Then she lights a candle, and takes from the basket a little lard, a jar of honey, and two cents' worth of cinnamon. All these she places upon the shelf within easy reach of her hand, and sets about preparing the Christmas supper. In that operation her daughter soon comes in to aid her, bringing home her two jars of water, and protesting that she has not stopped to talk with a living being, she vows she had not, and no one ever found a lie in her mouth!
