"It's a long time since I made one of these wee things," he murmured half to himself. "Yet I made plenty, years and years ago, when they were little."
"IT'S A LONG TIME SINCE I MADE ONE OF THESE WEE THINGS."
Nicholas ventured a timid question. "When who were little, master?"
The corners of Marsden's mouth went down again; his eyes turned fierce and angry once more. "My sons," he roared. "I once had two sons, and when they were as big as you, they ran away to sea, and left me all alone, left me to grow old and crabbed, so the children call me Mad Marsden. Children, bah! Do you wonder why I'll have none of them around my house? Do you wonder when I can't stand their baby voices babbling around here, where once . . ." His voice broke, and he buried his old head in his hands.
Nicholas wasn't afraid of him any more; he went over and put his pitying young hands on the old shoulders. "I'll be your son, master; I won't leave you," he whispered.
Marsden lifted his head, and looked at the strong young face with the kind blue eyes bent over him. "You're a good lad, Nicholas. And," he added almost shyly, for it wasn't easy for a harsh man to change so quickly, "I think I'd like to help you with some of those little things you make. We'll make them together these long winter evenings, eh, shall we, Nicholas? So you can go around next Christmas Day in that fine sled of yours. Then you won't leave me alone again, will you, lad?"
He grasped Nicholas' arm almost roughly, then a peaceful expression crept into the lonely old face as the boy answered simply, "No, master, I'll stay here with you just as long as you want me."
So every winter evening saw two heads bent over the work-bench—a gray head with thick, shaggy hair, and the smooth yellow head of the boy. They worked feverishly during the weeks preceding Christmas; and with the old man helping with the carving, Nicholas was able to add delicate little touches to the toys which made them far more handsome than any he had ever made before. He painted the dolls' faces so that their eyes were as blue and their cheeks and lips were as rosy as the little girls who would soon clasp them in their arms; the little chairs and tables were stained with the same soft colors that Marsden used on his own products; the little boys' sleighs and boats and animals were shiny with bright new paints,—red and yellow and green.
So, two nights before Christmas, everything was finished,—a toy for every child in the village was packed in the sled with the steel runners; yet Nicholas and the old man were still working at the bench. This time, they were desperately trying to finish a chest which had been ordered by a wealthy woman in the next village, twenty miles away. She had said definitely that she wanted the chest finished in time for Christmas Day, because she was giving it to her daughter as a betrothal gift and the feast was to be celebrated then. Marsden and Nicholas worked feverishly most of that night and the following day, and there still remained a few little finishing touches, and here it was Christmas Eve. Marsden could have it done in time to be delivered tomorrow, but of course Nicholas would have to borrow the nearest neighbor's horse and drive over with the chest on Christmas Day itself, -the day when he had planned to make his tour of the village with his gifts, to show the children that he had not forgotten them, even though they had not seen much of him during the past year.
"I'm sorry, Nicholas," said old Marsden. "I'd go myself, but I'm not as strong as I used to be, and it's an all- day trip—twenty miles over, then you'll have to wait several hours to rest the horse, and twenty miles back. And with the snow not crusted, it'll be hard going."
Nicholas was sitting in front of the fire, leaning on his elbows, staring thoughtfully into the flames.
"If she only didn't want the chest tomorrow for sure," he said. "And if we had only finished it before today, I could have delivered it sooner, and had plenty of time tomorrow."
"Well," answered his master, "we did promise it, and it has to be delivered. Now the toys weren't promised . . ."
"No, but I always have given them," interrupted Nicholas.
"I was just going to say, lad, that they weren't promised for Christmas Day. Now, you know that little children go to bed early. Why can't you . . ."
"Oh, I understand," cried Nicholas, leaping from his chair. "I deliver the gifts tonight, Christmas Eve, after the children have gone to bed, and when they wake up to morrow morning, they'll find them there, at their doors! Oh, master, that's a wonderful idea! Why, it's even better than before. I never did like the idea of walking up to a house in broad daylight and hearing people thank me and everything. What time is it, quick? Eleven o'clock! I'll have to hurry. Where's my list? Where's my sled?"
So the two rushed around and finally got the sled out in the yard. Nicholas bundled himself up in his close-fitting hat shaped like a stocking, his long belted tunic coat edged with fur, his black leggings and heavy boots, pulled on his mittens, and was off through the snow, dragging the toy-laden sled behind him.
Christmas Eve in the village—a bright winter moon shining in the star-filled sky; glistening white snow banked everywhere—on the roads, on the roof-tops, on the fences, and in the doorways; houses darkened and the inmates all sleeping soundly; not a soul stirring in the streets but one figure, which stole silently from door to door, leaving a pile of tiny objects every place he stopped, until there was nothing left in the bottom of the sled. It was three o'clock on Christmas morning when Nicholas turned away from the last doorway, his sled lighter to pull, his feet tired from dragging through the heavy snow, but happy that it was Christmas morning and he had once more kept his unspoken promise to the children.
NICHOLAS did not leave the wood-carver on Christmas Day, or the next year, or the next. He stayed on in the little cottage, which was now bright and clean, and a happy dwelling for two happy people. For old Marsden had forgotten his grouch in the daily association with Nicholas' sunny disposition; he cheerfully taught Nicholas all he knew of his difficult trade, so that as the boy grew in years and strength, his knowledge of wood-carving soon matched that of his old master. Marsden bought a horse and sleigh for the trips outside of town, which were also used by Nicholas on his Christmas Eve visits to the children in the village. For although the little ones he had played with had grown up and stopped playing with toys, there were new babies in every household every year, and each one was taught to expect from Nicholas, the wood-carver, a little toy on Christmas morning.
One bright summer morning, Nicholas was sitting on a bench outside the cottage door, carving away at a half-finished chair leg and whistling cheerfully as he worked. He was then twenty years old, a tall young man, the yellow hair a little darker, but with the same blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and ready smile. He stopped his work to listen to the birds singing in the trees overhead and to enjoy the warm sunlight shining down on him. Suddenly two children ran up the path leading to the cottage door, bursting with news.
"Nicholas," one of them panted, "Nicholas, there are two men in the village who have been asking where old Marsden lives. They are on their way here now. Who do you suppose they are? They said . . ."
"Hush," said the other child, "here they are now."
Two men, about ten or fifteen years older than Nicholas, were coming slowly up the path. They seemed surprised to see him working at the bench, and one of them spoke.
"Excuse me, but they told us in the village that we would find Bertran Marsden here. If we have made a mistake, . . ."
"No," answered Nicholas, "this is Bertran Marsden's cottage. I am only his apprentice. I'll call him. He has a nap every afternoon now. You see, he's getting rather old."
The two men looked at each other with shamed eyes.
"Yes, he must be old now. Don't disturb him. We'll come back."
"No, here he is now," said Nicholas.
Marsden had appeared in the doorway and was looking from one to the other with puzzled eyes.
One of the men stepped forward. "Father," he began.
"Father!" Marsden tottered a little; Nicholas put out a steadying arm.
"Yes, don't you
remember us, Father? I am Henrik and this is Lons. We left you years ago, but we finally made our fortune and are ready to take you home."
"Take me home!" Old Marsden straightened himself. "This is my home, and you are two strange men to me."
"No, Father," answered Lons. "We are your two sons. We are sorry we left you alone years ago, but boys are thoughtless, and we wanted only the adventure and didn't think how much we might be hurting you. If you'll forgive us now, . . ."
The old man looked at his two sons for a long moment.
"Yes, of course I'll forgive you. If you had come back a few years ago, I couldn't have done it. I have found another son. This is Nicholas, who lives with me, and who does most of my work now."
The sons looked at Nicholas, then back at their father again, uncertain how to go on. Finally Henrik spoke.
"We've just bought a house in the next village, Father. Lons and I have a fishing boat there, and we're doing well. We want you to come there and live with us. We want to make up to you for the years we were away."
Marsden shook his head. "No, my lads; I have my little cottage here, and Nicholas helps me with my work. I don't need anything, and I couldn't live without working."
Lons answered quickly. "But you could go on working in our village, Father. There's no wood-carver there, and if you insist, there are many people who would give you something to do. We so want to have you; we've been planning all through our travels how, when we came home again, we'd take care of you and live with you and make you forget that we were ever heedless boys who ran away for an adventure. And Nicholas here,—why, he could easily take over the business in this village, if he's as good as you say. He's young, and probably ambitious; why don't you give him a chance, Father?"
None of the arguments seemed to make much impression on the old man until the end; then he listened attentively and paused a while before he spoke.
"Yes," he said slowly. "Nicholas deserves something like this. He could do it easily. He's a bright lad . . ."
Nicholas interrupted. "Don't think of me, master. If you don't want to go with them, we'll go on living here together just the same as before. I don't want to take your business."
"There, lad," said Marsden, laying a hand on Nicholas' shoulder, "I don't want to leave you either, but you're young, and youth should be given a chance. Besides," he paused, and looked at the two tall men standing before him, as anxious and nervous as boys, their eyes pleading silently with their father, "besides, these are my own sons, and I think they need me as much as I need them."
Henrik and Lons sprang over to the old man's side.
"Father, does it mean you will . . ."
Marsden nodded his head, grown almost white in the last few years. "Yes, I'll just move along to the next village with you, my sons, and I'll leave this cottage and my tools with my other son, Nicholas."
He put a loving hand on Nicholas' shoulder, and then the four went inside the house to discuss how and when the move would be made.
A week later, Nicholas found himself the owner of a two-room cottage, a perfect set of wood-carver's tools, and a well-established business which should keep him housed, fed, and clothed for life. At first he was lonely in the little cottage after Marsden had left with his sons, but he soon became interested in his work, which kept him so busy he had no time to feel alone. Then, too, there was almost always a child or two chatting to him or playing with its toys on the cottage floor.
Nicholas divided his day now so that he spent only part of his time on the orders he received; the rest of the day and most of the evenings he worked on toys for the next Christmas; for he now had such a long list of children it took months to complete the set of gifts he had to make.
He continued his practice, established the year he had to deliver the chest on Christmas Day, of making his rounds on Christmas Eve; and one year, he was considerably surprised and touched to see that the children had hung on their doors little embroidered bags filled with oats for his horse. So now, instead of leaving the toys piled up in the doorway, he put them in the little bags.
So it was a busy, happy existence that Nicholas led in the little wood-carver's cottage on the outskirts of the village, and as he grew older, the sound of children's voices lifted in their play became dearer and dearer to him; and the children, in their turn, loved to be near the tall, kind man with the light-colored beard whom everybody called Nicholas, the wood-carver.
LAURENS and Friedrik were two little newcomers in the village. Their mother and father were even poorer than most of the other families, which made them poor indeed, because nobody in the village had a great deal of money. Ever since the day of their arrival, they had been met by misfortune. Their father was a fisherman and used to be able to keep his family supplied with enough food to eat and enough fuel to keep them warm; but one day his boat had been caught in a storm, and the heavy mast had fallen on him, paralyzing him so that he had been forced to stay in bed and watch his little family grow thinner and thinner from lack of enough food to eat.
Their neighbors gave them as much of their meager supplies as they themselves could spare, and the mother worked occasionally in the household of the Squire or some of the more well-to-do families of the village, but there were still many meals in the little cottage which consisted solely of a piece of dried bread or fish, or a dish of thin gruel.
Laurens was now the man of the family, although he was only eight years old. He built fires, shoveled the heavy snow from the cottage door, kept the house neat and clean while his mother was out working, and took care of his little brother Friedrik. One of his principal duties was going into the forest and helping the wood-cutter, receiving in return for this service enough wood to keep his family supplied with fuel. He rather enjoyed this task, for he met many of the other boys while he was out. Although he worked while they played, he enjoyed being with children his own age after long hours spent in the house with his sick father and four-year-old brother.
One cold winter afternoon, as he was returning from the forest with his sled piled with the wood he had helped cut, he met a merry group of boys who were building a snow fort a few hundred yards away from the cottage of Nicholas, the wood-carver.
One of the boys noticed the little figure dragging the heavy sled and called out, "Ho there, Laurens! Want to be on our side?"
Laurens paused and looked wistfully at the boys playing in the snow. "I guess not," he answered. "I ought to get this wood home before nightfall."
"Oh, you have plenty of time," one of them replied. "There's a good hour yet before the sun goes down, and we'll help you drag your wood if you'll stay."
Laurens hesitated, then dropped the rope of his sled and joined the group. After all, his mother was home that afternoon, so his father and Friedrik would be taken care of, and there was enough fuel in the house to keep the fire going until evening. And it was a long time since he had played in the snow. So for a merry, carefree hour he forgot the troubles and duties of his house, and was only an eight-year-old boy having a good time. When it was his turn to storm the fort, he joined his side, and with breathless, gay courage, braved the storm of snowballs, climbed the icy walls of the fort, and took noisy possession. Then it was his turn to help his comrades hold the fort, so he warily kept out of sight, watching his chance to rise now and then above the white edge of the stronghold and hurl snowy missiles at the oncoming foe, and pausing every once in a while to make himself a new supply of ammunition.
It was during one of these moments, while he was busy collecting snow and packing it into firm round balls, that he heard a glad shout from both sides, from his comrades inside the fort and his enemies outside,—"Nicholas! Hey, fellows, here's Nicholas!"—and looked up to see the tall figure of the wood-carver approaching the group. As he came nearer, he lifted his mittened hand to wave to the boys; his rosy, kindly face beaming a welcome, his blue eyes twinkling at the sight of the good time everybody seemed to be having.
"Well, well, a snow-fight!" h
e said in his deep voice. "It's a long time since I've had one of them; and when I was a boy, we knew how to take a fort. Now, I'd go about it like this."
"WELL, WELL, A SNOW-FIGHT!"
He stooped swiftly and gathered up a handful of snow, and quickly packing and shaping it in his hands, took the finished snowball, and threw it with sure, accurate aim at the tallest boy behind the fort. It knocked the surprised fellow's hat clean off, and the other side, delighted with this new ally, rushed forward, Nicholas in their midst, and took the fort amid loud shouts and hurrahs.
Laurens looked at the tall man shyly. Of course he knew who Nicholas was; he had heard of him ever since his family had moved into the village last summer. He knew that he was the man who kept the children supplied with toys and gifts on Christmas Day, but of course he also supposed that Nicholas only remembered the children he really knew.
The snow-party started to break up then, as most of the boys had to be home before nightfall, and the sun was already sinking in the west. They started towards home then, accompanying Nicholas as far as his cottage. At the gate, the wood-carver paused a moment, looking over the group with keen eyes that seemed to see everything.
"Is this a new boy in the village?" he asked, laying a hand on Laurens' shoulder, and looking down kindly into the shy brown eyes.
"Yes, his name is Laurens, and he has a little brother Friedrik . . ."
"And his father is paralyzed, and doesn't work, and his mother . . ."
One of the boys dug his elbow sharply into the side of the last speaker.
"Now you've done it," he said angrily. "Why can't you hold your tongue? You've hurt his feelings by talking about his family right out like that. Here, I'm going after him. Come on, fellows."
The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus (Yesterday's Classics) Page 3
