Nibsy's Christmas, by Jacob A.
Riis
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Title: Nibsy's Christmas
Author: Jacob A. Riis
Release Date: August 9, 2006 [EBook #19014]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIBSY'S
CHRISTMAS ***
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[Illustration: Nibsy as Santa Claus.]
NIBSY'S CHRISTMAS
BY
JACOB AUGUST RIIS
Short Story Index Reprint Series
BOOKS FOR LIBRARIES PRESS
FREEPORT, NEW YORK
First Published 1893
Reprinted 1969
STANDARD BOOK NUMBER: 8369-3073-8
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 71-90590
MANUFACTURED BY HALLMARK LITHOGRAPHERS, INC. IN
THE U.S.A.
* * * * * To Her Most Gracious Majesty Louise Queen of Denmark the
friend of the afflicted and the mother of the motherless in my
childhood's home these leaves are inscribed with the profound respect
and admiration of the Author
* * * * *
NIBSY'S CHRISTMAS
It was Christmas-eve over on the East Side. Darkness was closing in on
a cold, hard day. The light that struggled through the frozen windows
of the delicatessen store, and the saloon on the corner, fell upon men
with empty dinner-pails who were hurrying homeward, their coats
buttoned tightly, and heads bent against the steady blast from the river,
as if they were butting their way down the street.
The wind had forced the door of the saloon ajar, and was whistling
through the crack; but in there it seemed to make no one afraid.
Between roars of laughter, the clink of glasses and the rattle of dice on
the hard-wood counter were heard out in the street. More than one of
the passers-by who came within range was taken with an extra shiver in
which the vision of wife and little ones waiting at home for his coming
was snuffed out, as he dropped in to brace up. The lights were long out
when the silent streets re-echoed his unsteady steps toward home,
where the Christmas welcome had turned to dread.
But in this twilight hour they burned brightly yet, trying hard to pierce
the bitter cold outside with a ray of warmth and cheer. Where the lamps
in the delicatessen store made a mottled streak of brightness across the
flags, two little boys stood with their noses flattened against the
window. Their warm breath made little round holes on the frosty pane,
that came and went, affording passing glimpses of the wealth within, of
the piles of smoked herring, of golden cheese, of sliced bacon and
generous, fat-bellied hams; of the rows of odd-shaped bottles and jars
on the shelves that held there was no telling what good things, only it
was certain that they must be good from the looks of them.
And the heavenly smell of spices and things that reached the boys
through the open door each time the tinkling bell announced the
coming or going of a customer! Better than all, back there on the top
shelf the stacks of square honey-cakes, with their frosty coats of sugar,
tied in bundles with strips of blue paper.
The wind blew straight through the patched and threadbare jackets of
the lads as they crept closer to the window, struggling hard with the
frost to make their peep-holes bigger, to take in the whole of the big
cake with the almonds set in; but they did not heed it.
"Jim!" piped the smaller of the two, after a longer stare than usual; "hey,
Jim! them's Sante Clause's. See 'em?"
"Sante Claus!" snorted the other, scornfully, applying his eye to the
clear spot on the pane. "There ain't no ole duffer like dat. Them's
honey-cakes. Me 'n' Tom had a bite o' one wunst."
"There ain't no Sante Claus?" retorted the smaller shaver, hotly, at his
peep-hole. "There is, too. I seen him myself when he cum to our alley
last----"
"What's youse kids a-scrappin' fur?" broke in a strange voice.
Another boy, bigger, but dirtier and tougher looking than either of the
two, had come up behind them unobserved. He carried an armful of
unsold "extras" under one arm. The other was buried to the elbow in
the pocket of his ragged trousers.
The "kids" knew him, evidently, and the smallest eagerly accepted him
as umpire.
"It's Jim w'at says there ain't no Sante Claus, and I seen him----"
"Jim!" demanded the elder ragamuffin, sternly, looking hard at the
culprit; "Jim! y'ere a chump! No Sante Claus? What're ye givin' us?
Now, watch me!"
With
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