Ho! Ho! Ho! Santa Claus' Reading List

by A. A. Milne

  “And the white man?”

  “I have seen him three times before to-day; first on the second day of last January, when my brother and I were riding home through the bit of wood on my father’s estate. That man was leaning against a tree and my pony nearly stepped on him before I knew he was there, and he seized her bridle and said fiercely, ’Look out there and don’t ride a fellow down!’”

  “And what did you answer?”

  “Let go of my bridle this instant and get out of the path!”

  “Plucky!” laughed some one in the audience.

  “What happened next?” asked the lawyer, and Lulu went on to tell the whole story of the adventure in the wood.

  “That, you have told us, was your first sight of the prisoner calling himself Perry Davis, when did you see him next? and where?”

  “That night, in what we call the strong room where papa’s safe is.”

  She was bidden to tell the whole of that story also, and did so in the same clear, straightforward manner in which she had told it in the magistrate’s office, told it simply, artlessly— as not aware of the bravery and unselfishness of her conduct in attempting the capture of the burglars at the risk of being attacked and murdered by them— and in the same calm, even, distinct tones in which she had spoken at first.

  A murmur of admiration ran through the court-room as she concluded her narrative with, “Papa was asleep and I couldn’t speak just at first for want of breath; but when I put my arm round his neck and laid my face on the pillow beside his, he woke and I told him about the burglars and what I had done.”

  The prisoners had listened with close attention and evident interest.

  “So ’twas her— that chit of a gal, that fastened us in— caught us in a trap, as one may say,” muttered Davis, scowling at her and grinding his teeth with rage. “Pity I didn’t hold on to that ere bridle and kerry her off afore we ventur’d in thar.”

  A warning look from his counsel silenced him, and the latter addressed himself to Lulu.

  “You say you had seen Davis three times before to-day. Where and when did you see him the third time?”

  “In the magistrate’s office, the next morning after he and Ajax had been in our house.”

  “Did you then recognize them as the same men you had seen in the strong room of your home the night before at work at the lock of the safe?”

  “Yes, sir; and Davis as the man who had seized my pony’s bridle in the wood.”

  “But you had not seen Ajax Stone’s face; how then could you recognize him?”

  “No, I had not seen his face, but I had the back of his head and how he was dressed, and I knew I had fastened him in there, and that he didn’t get out till the sheriff took him out; and then I heard his voice and knew it was Ajax’s voice.”

  The cross-questioning went on. It was what Lulu had dreaded, but it did not seem to embarrass or disturb her; nor could she be made to contradict herself.

  Her father’s eyes shone; he looked a proud and happy man as he led her back to her seat, holding her hand in a tender, loving clasp.

  She was surprised and pleased to find Grandma Elsie and Violet sitting with the other relatives and friends. They had come in while she was on the witness stand.

  “Dear child,” Violet said, making room for her by her side, “you went through your ordeal very successfully, and I am very glad for your sake, that it is over.”

  “Yes, my dear, we are all proud of you,” added Grandma Elsie, smiling kindly upon the little girl.

  But there was not time for anything more.

  “Max Raymond,” some one called.

  “Here, sir,” replied the lad, rising.

  “Take the witness stand.”

  “Go, my son, and let us see how well you can acquit yourself,” the captain said in an encouraging tone, and Max obeyed.

  He conducted himself quite to his father’s satisfaction, behaving in a very manly way, and giving his testimony in the same clear, distinct tones and straightforward manner that had been admired in his sister. But having much less to tell, he was not kept nearly so long upon the stand.

  There were other witnesses for the prosecution, one of whom was Capt. Raymond himself.

  He testified that the burglars had evidently entered the house through a window, by prying open a shutter, removing a pane of glass, then reaching in and turning the catch over the lower sash.

  When the evidence on that side had all been heard, the counsel for the accused opened the case for the defense.

  He was an able and eloquent lawyer, but his clients had already established an unenviable reputation for themselves, and the weight of the evidence against them was too strong for rebuttal. Their conviction was a foregone conclusion in his mind, and that of almost every one present, even before he began his speech.

  He had but few witnesses to bring forward, and their testimony was unimportant and availed nothing as disproof of that given by those for the prosecution.

  After the lawyers on both sides had addressed the jury, and the judge had delivered his charge to them, they retired to consider their verdict.

  In a few moments they returned and resumed their seats in the jury box. They found both the accused guilty of burglary, and the trial was over.

  “Is it quite finished, papa?” Lulu asked as they were driving toward home again.

  “What, my child? the trial? Yes; there will be no more of it.”

  “I’m so glad,” she exclaimed with a sigh of relief. “You said they would have to go to the penitentiary if they were found guilty; and the jury said they were; how long will they have to stay there?”

  “I don’t know; they have not been sentenced yet; but it will be for some years.”

  “I’m sorry for them. I wish they hadn’t been so wicked.”

  “So do I.”

  “And that I hadn’t had to testify against them. I can’t help feeling as though it was unkind, and that their friends have a right to hate me for it.”

  “No, not at all. It was a duty you owed the community (because to allow criminals to go unpunished would make honest people unsafe), and indeed to the men themselves; as being brought to justice may prove the means of their reformation. So set your mind at rest about it, my darling; try to forget the whole unpleasant affair, and be happy in the enjoyment of your many blessings.”

  “There’s one thing that helps to make my conscience perfectly easy on the score of having testified against them,” remarked Max, “and that is I couldn’t help myself, but had to obey the law.”

  “True enough,” rejoined his father. “And Lulu was no more a free agent than yourself.”

  “No, sir; but she did more to catch the rogues than anybody else,” Max went on, giving her a merry, laughing glance. “Don’t you wish, sis, that you had let them go on and help themselves to all they wanted, and then leave without being molested?”

  “No, I don’t,” she answered with spirit. “I wouldn’t want papa to lose his money, or Mamma Vi her jewels. Beside they might have gone upstairs and hurt some of us.”

  “We are all much obliged to you, Lulu dear,” Violet remarked, looking affectionately at the little girl. “How brave and unselfish you were! That burglary following so immediately upon the festivities of our delightful Christmas holidays, seemed a most trying and unfortunate afterclap; but we will hope for better things next time.”

  A Stolen Christmas

  Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

  A Stolen Christmas

  “I don't s'pose you air goin' to do much Christmas over to your house.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Luther Ely stood looking over her gate. There was a sweet, hypocritical smile on her little thin red mouth. Her old china blue eyes stared as innocently as a baby's, although there was a certain hardness in them. Her soft wrinkled cheeks were pink and white with the true blond tints of her youth, which she had never lost. She was now an old woman, but people still looked at her with admiring eyes, and probably woul
d until she died. All her life long her morsel of the world had had in it a sweet savor of admiration, and she had smacked her little feminine lips over it greedily. She expected every one to contribute toward it, even this squat, shabby, defiant old body standing squarely out in the middle of the road. Marg'ret Poole had stopped unwillingly to exchange courtesies with Mrs. Luther Ely. She looked aggressive. She eyed with a sidewise glance the other woman's pink, smirking face.

  * * *

  “'Tain't likely we be,” she said, in a voice which age had made gruff instead of piping. Then she took a step forward.

  * * *

  “Well, we ain't goin' to do much,” continued Mrs. Ely, with an air of subdued loftiness. “We air jest goin' to hev a little Christmas tree for the children. Flora's goin' to git a few things. She says there's a very nice 'sortment up to White's.”

  * * *

  Marg'ret gave a kind of affirmative grunt; then she tried to move on, but Mrs. Ely would not let her.

  * * *

  “I dun know as you have noticed our new curtains,” said she.

  * * *

  Had she not! Poor Marg'ret Poole, who had only green paper shades in her own windows, had peeped slyly around the corner of one, and watched mournfully, though not enviously, her opposite neighbor tacking up those elegant Nottingham lace draperies, and finally tying them back with bows of red ribbon.

  * * *

  Marg'ret would have given much to have scouted scornfully the idea, but she was an honest old woman, if not a sweet one.

  * * *

  “Yes, I see 'em,” said she, shortly.

  * * *

  “Don't you think they're pretty?”

  * * *

  “Well 'nough,” replied Marg'ret, with another honest rigor.

  * * *

  “They cost consider'ble. I told Flora I thought she was kind of extravagant; but then Sam's airnin' pretty good wages. I dun know but they may jest as well have things. Them white cotton curtains looked dreadful kind of gone by.”

  * * *

  Marg'ret thought of her green paper ones. She did not hate this other old woman; she at once admired and despised her; and this admiration of one whom she despised made her angry with herself and ashamed. She was never at her ease with Mrs. Luther Ely.

  * * *

  Mrs. Ely had run out of her house on purpose to intercept her and impress her with her latest grandeur — the curtains and the Christmas tree. She was sure of it. Still she looked with fine appreciation at the other's delicate pinky face, her lace cap adorned with purple ribbons, her black gown with a flounce around the bottom. The gown was rusty, but Marg'ret did not notice that; her own was only a chocolate calico. Black wool of an afternoon was sumptuous to her. She thought how genteel she looked in it. Mrs. Ely still retained her slim, long-waisted effect. Marg'ret had lost every sign of youthful grace; she was solidly square and stout.

  * * *

  Mrs. Ely had run out, in her haste, without a shawl; indeed, the weather was almost warm enough to go without one. It was only a week before Christmas, but there was no snow, and the grass was quite bright in places. There were green lights over in the field, and also in the house yards. There was a soft dampness in the air, which brought spring to mind. It almost seemed as if one by listening intently might hear frogs or bluebirds.

  * * *

  Now Marg'ret stepped resolutely across the street to her little house, which was shingled, but not painted, except on the front. Some one had painted that red many years before.

  * * *

  Mrs. Ely, standing before her glossy white cottage, which had even a neat little hood over its front door, cried, patronizingly, after her once again:

  * * *

  “I'm comin' over to see you as soon as I kin,” said she, “arter Christmas. We air dretful busy now.”

  * * *

  “Well, come when ye kin,” Marg'ret responded, shortly. Then she entered between the dry lilac bushes, and shut the door with a bang.

  * * *

  Even out in the yard she had heard a shrill clamor of children's voices from the house; when she stood in the little entry it was deafening.

  * * *

  “Them children is raisin' Cain,” muttered she. Then she threw open the door of the room where they were. There were three of them in a little group near the window. Their round yellow heads bobbed, their fat little legs and arms swung wildly. “Granny! granny!” shouted they.

  * * *

  “For the land sake, don't make such a racket! Mis' Ely kin hear you over to her house,” said Marg'ret.

  * * *

  “Untie us. Ain't ye goin' to untie us now? Say, Granny.”

  * * *

  “I'll untie ye jest as soon as I kin get my things off. Stop hollerin'.”

  * * *

  In the ceiling were fixed three stout hooks. A strong rope was tied around each child's waist, and the two ends fastened securely around a hook. The ropes were long enough to allow the children free range of the room, but they kept them just short of one dangerous point — the stove. The stove was the fiery dragon which haunted Marg'ret's life. Many a night did she dream that one of these little cotton petticoats had whisked too near it, and the flames were roaring up around a little yellow head. Many a day, when away from home, the same dreadful pictures had loomed out before her eyes; her lively fancy had untied these stout knots, and she had hurried home in a panic.

  * * *

  Marg'ret took off her hood and shawl, hung them carefully in the entry, and dragged a wooden chair under a hook. She was a short woman, and she had to stretch up on her tiptoes to untie those hard knots. Her face turned a purplish-red.

  * * *

  This method of restriction was the result of long thought and study on her part. She had tried many others, which had proved ineffectual. Willy, the eldest, could master knots like a sailor. Many a time the grandmother had returned to find the house empty. Willy had unfastened his own knot and liberated his little sisters, and then all three had made the most of their freedom. But even Willy, with his sharp five-year-old brain and his nimble little fingers, could not untie a knot whose two ends brushed the ceiling. Now Marg'ret was sure to find them all where she left them.

  * * *

  After the children were set at liberty she got their supper, arranging it neatly on the table between the windows. There was a nice white table cover, and the six silver teaspoons shone. The teaspoons were the mark of a flood-tide of Marg'ret's aspirations, and she had had aspirations all her life. She had given them to her daughter, the children's mother, on her marriage. She herself had never owned a bit of silver, but she determined to present her daughter with some.

  * * *

  “I'm goin' to have you have things like other folks,” she had said.

  * * *

  Now the daughter was dead, and she had the spoons. She regarded the daily use of them as an almost sinful luxury, but she brought them out in their heavy glass tumbler every meal.

  * * *

  “I'm goin' to have them children learn to eat off silver spoons,” she said, defiantly, to their father; “they'll think more of themselves.”

  * * *

  The father, Joseph Snow, was trying to earn a living in the city, a hundred miles distant. He was himself very young, and had not hitherto displayed much business capacity, although he was good and willing. They had been very poor before his wife died; ever since he had not been able to do much more than feed and clothe himself. He had sent a few dollars to Marg'ret from time to time — dollars which he had saved and scrimped pitifully to accumulate — but the burden of their support had come upon her.

  * * *

  She had sewed carpets and assisted in spring cleanings — everything to which she could turn a hand. Marg'ret was a tailoress, but she could now get no employment at her trade. The boys all wore “store clothes” in these days. She could only pick up a few cents at a time; still she managed to keep the children in comfort, with a roof ove
r their heads and something to eat. Their cheeks were fat and pink; they were noisy and happy, and also pretty.

  * * *

  After the children were in bed that night she stood in her kitchen window and gazed across at Mrs. Luther Ely's house. She had left the candle in the children's room — the little things were afraid without it — and she had not yet lighted one for herself; so she could see out quite plainly, although the night was dark. There was a light in the parlor of the opposite house; the Nottingham lace curtains showed finely their pattern of leaves and flowers. Marg'ret eyed them. “'Tain't no use my tryin' to git up a notch,” she muttered. “'Tain't no use for some folks. They 'ain't worked no harder than I have; Louisa Ely 'ain't never begun to work so hard; but they kin have lace curtains an' Christmas trees.”

  * * *

  The words sounded envious. Still she was hardly that; subsequent events proved it. Her “tryin' to git up a notch” explained everything. Mrs. Luther Ely, the lace curtains, and the Christmas tree were as three stars set on that higher “notch” which she wished to gain. If the other woman had dressed in silk instead of rusty wool, if the lace draperies had been real, Marg'ret would hardly have wasted one wistful glance on them. But Mrs. Luther Ely had been all her life the one notch higher, which had seemed almost attainable. In that opposite house there was only one carpet; Marg'ret might have hoped for one carpet. Mrs. Ely's son-in-law earned only a comfortable living for his family; Marg'ret's might have done that. Worst of all, each woman had one daughter, and Marg'ret's had died.