A Napa Christchild; and Benicias Letters | Page 3

the hemlock and
throwing them into the fire where they crackled with a merry noise and
blazed up, scenting the room with their fragrance of the forest.
As he threw the bits into the fire he sang that melody which the Illyrian
children sing when bearing home their Christmas trees, found always in
the deep forests; it was a song dear to him and the words brought up
memories of all his happy home life and he grew sad as he thought of
the lonely present.
"Deep in the wilds of Illyria's mountains Under a hemlock tree, Good
Spirits buried a wonderful treasure, Long years ago for me. There in the
gloom by a snow-born fountain We found the hemlock tree, Bore it
away with loud notes of pleasure, Hearts overrunning with glee. Here is
my hemlock tree Christchild kiss it for me, Make every branch bear A
gift that is fair, This glossy-leaved hemlock tree, Evergreen hemlock
tree.
Hemlock ne'er blooms unless kissed by the Christchild, Glossy-leaved
hemlock tree! Come little Christchild and breathe on its branches That
its fair blossoms we see; Kissed by the lips of the Heavenly Christchild,
Blessed by the wind so free, Grown o'er the treasure the Good Spirits
planted Wondrous its fruit must be! Here is my hemlock tree,

Christchild kiss it for me. Make every branch bear A gift that is fair,
This glossy-leaved hemlock tree, Evergreen hemlock tree."
"Alas for me," exclaimed Crescimir, "my happy Christchild days are
over and I fear he has forgotten where I live out in Alta California and
will never bring me anything again."
Just as the song was finished, a sound was heard at the door but
Crescimir thinking that it was the wind, gave no attention to it, sitting
down to his supper.
He had not eaten the first spoonful of his bread and milk when the door
opened and by the aid of the firelight, for the draught extinguished the
candle, he saw a pretty, little, golden haired child in a short, white frock
which reached to the knees; the child wore neither hat, shoes, nor
stockings and, what seemed most remarkable, was dry despite the
heavy rain. The little creature as quietly closed the door as he had
opened it, and smiling, walked up to the hearth, spreading out before it
his tiny, pink hands.
[Illustration: Scroll]

II.
As the little visitor stretched out his hands to warm them at the fire, his
shadow formed a flickering cross upon the floor. Crescimir noticed this,
and also wondering at the mysterious advent of the child, which
coming so closely upon his song, caused him almost to think that he
must be dreaming.
"Art thou the Christchild?" he said finally, to the little figure which
stood with its back toward him gazing up at the branch of hemlock
above the fireplace.
The child turned around and looking merrily at Crescimir, broke into a
fit of boisterous laughter, but did not answer.

"Thou art not a very polite little boy, to break into a house this way and
then not answer a simple question. Thou art no Austrian Christchild, I
am sure of that. No matter," he added, as he saw the little face pucker
up for a cry, "wait till we are better acquainted and then we can talk it
all over."
The child smiled again and made a sign indicating that he wanted the
hemlock branch above his head. Crescimir took it down for him and as
soon as the little creature received it, he began hopping about the room,
holding the branch aloft and humming the melody which Crescimir had
just been singing.
"Truly, thou art a strange little elf, but I know how to tell if thou art
mortal. Wilt thou have thy supper?" and he held out a spoonful of the
bread and milk to the dancing figure. The child immediately stopped
his whirling, and running to Crescimir, eagerly ate the food, and then
climbing into his lap, sat there quietly, with expectant face as if
anticipating a share in the rest of the supper. So Crescimir took one
spoonful and the Christchild the next, until the bowl was empty.
"I am glad that thou art come, little one," said Crescimir, as he held the
child in his arms, seated in the wooden armchair before the fire. "Thou
hast made my Christmas Eve a very pleasant one, but I wish that I
could know who thou art and whether thy parents are anxiously
searching for thee this stormy night. Canst thou not speak?"
The child shook his golden head solemnly and began throwing bits of
the hemlock into the flames, watching the blaze they made as if he
could read in it.
Crescimir had spoken in German and the little waif