A Little Book for Christmas | Page 6

his younger brother, he might have guessed that John might have been

found beside the newest mound in the churchyard, had one sought him
there. But that idea did not come to William, and after staring into the
blackness for a long time, he reluctantly closed the door. Perhaps the
vagrant could be found in the morning.
No, there had been no father waiting for the prodigal at the end of the
road, and what a difference it had made to that wanderer and vagabond!
II
We leave a blank line on the page and denote thereby that ten years
have passed. It was Christmas Eve, that is, it had been Christmas Eve
when the little children had gone to bed. Now midnight had passed and
it was already Christmas morning. In one of the greatest and most
splendid houses on the avenue two little children were nestled all snug
in their beds in a nursery. In an adjoining room sound sleep had quieted
the nerves of the usually vigilant and watchful nurse. But the little
children were wakeful. As always, visions of Santa Claus danced in
their heads.
They were fearless children by nature and had been trained without the
use of bugaboos to keep them in the paths wherein they should go. On
this night of nights they had left the doors of their nursery open. The
older, a little girl of six, was startled, but not alarmed, as she lay
watchfully waiting, by a creaking sound as of an opened door in the
library below. She listened with a beating heart under the coverlet;
cause of agitation not fear, but hope. It might be, it must be Santa Claus,
she decided. Brother, aged four, was close at hand in his own small crib.
She got out of her bed softly so as not to disturb Santa Claus, or--more
important at the time--the nurse. She had an idea that Saint Nicholas
might not welcome a nurse, but she had no fear at all that he would not
be glad to see her.
Need for a decision confronted her. Should she reserve the pleasure she
expected to derive from the interview for herself or should she share it
with little brother? There was a certain risk in arousing brother. He was
apt to awaken clamant, vociferous. Still, she resolved to try it. For one
thing, it seemed so selfish to see Santa Claus alone, and for another the

adventure would be a little less timorous taken together.
Slipping her feet into her bedroom slippers and covering her nightgown
with a little blanket wrap, she tip-toed over to brother's bed. Fortunately,
he too was sleeping lightly, and for a like reason. For a wonder she
succeeded in arousing him without any outcry on his part. He was
instantly keenly, if quietly, alive to the situation and its fascinating
possibilities.
"You must be very quiet, John," she whispered. "But I think Santa
Claus is down in the library. We'll go down and catch him."
Brother, as became the hardier male, disdained further protection of his
small but valiant person. Clad only in his pajamas and his slippers, he
followed sister out the door and down the stair. They went hand in hand,
greatly excited by the desperate adventure.
What proportion of the millions who dwelt in the great city were
children of tender years only statisticians can say, but doubtless there
were thousands of little hearts beating with anticipation as the hearts of
those children beat, and perhaps there may have been others who were
softly creeping downstairs to catch Santa Claus unawares at that very
moment.
One man at least was keenly conscious of one little soul who, with
absolutely nothing to warrant the expectation, nothing reasonable on
which to base joyous anticipation, had gone to bed thinking of Santa
Claus and hoping that, amidst equally deserving hundreds of thousands
of obscure children, this little mite in her cold, cheerless garret might
not be overlooked by the generous dispenser of joy. With the sublime
trust of childhood she had insisted upon hanging up her ragged
stocking. Santa Claus would have to be very careful indeed lest things
should drop through and clatter upon the floor. Her heart had beaten,
too, although she descended no stair in the great house. She, too, lay
wakeful, uneasy, watching, sleeping, drowsing, hoping. We may have
some doubts about the eternal springing of hope in the human breast
save in the case of childhood--thank God it is always verdant there!

III
Now few people get so low that they do not love somebody, and I dare
say that no people get so low that somebody does not love them.
"Crackerjack," so called because of his super-excellence in his chosen
profession, was, or had been, a burglar and thief;