David goes seeking the way to Christmas and finds the Flagman
- by Ruth Sawyer
ALL night long the snow fell, and when David wakened the hilltop was whiter
than ever, if such a thing could be. The tiny prints in the snow that had
marked the trail of the locked-out fairy were gone.
For a moment David wondered if he could have dreamed it all, and then he knew
it could not be just a dream. It must be something more, to bring such good
Christmas news–news that lasted all through the night and wakened him with a
song in his heart and a gladness that a new day had come. And what a day it
was! An orange sun was breaking the gray of the dawn; he could hear the soft
push and pound of Barney's shovel clearing a pathway from the door to the
road, and he knew he could be off early on his skees, down the hill to–where
he did not know. But the fairy had promised that if he should start out
seeking the way to Christmas he would help him.
He dressed quickly to the swinging rhythm of the reel Johanna was lilting in
the kitchen below; for in a little lodge bedroom on a hilltop, with the
thermometer outside many degrees below zero, one does not dally in putting on
one's clothes. He came down to breakfast for the first time since he had left
the old home without having to pretend anything in the way of feelings; and
he found beside his plate a letter from father.
"Barney, the rascal, brought it back with him yesterday and carried it about
in his pocket all evening, never thinking of it once," Johanna explained,
shaking her fist at that guilty person just coming in.
"Sure, the two of us were that busy entertaining fairies last night we hadn't
mind enough for anything else." And Barney winked at David knowingly.
David responded absent-mindedly. His thoughts and fingers were too busy with
the letter to pay much attention to anything else. Father had little time for
boys, as we have already said, but when he did take time the results were
unquestionably satisfactory; the letter proved this. It was a wonderful
letter, full of all the most interesting seeings and doings–just the things a
boy loves to hear about–and yet it was written as any grown-up would write to
another. That was one fine thing about father. When he did have time for boys
he never looked down upon them as small people with little wisdom and less
understanding; he always treated them as equals. But it was what came at the
very last of the letter that brought the joyful smile to David's lips.
Johanna and Barney saw it and smiled to each other.
"Good news, laddy?" Johanna asked.
"There's nothing about coming home, but there's something about Christmas."
David consulted the letter again. "Father says he's been looking around for
some time for just the right present to send for Christmas, and he's just
found it. He thinks I'll like it about the best of anything, and it ought to
get here–unless the steamers are awfully delayed–on Christmas Day."
"That's grand!" Barney beamed his own delight over the news. "What do ye
think it might be, now?"
David shook his head.
"I don't know–don't believe I could even guess. You see, father never bought
me a Christmas present before–he always left mother to choose. He said she
knew more about such things than he did."
"Then ye can take my word for it, if it's the first one he's ever got ye
'twill be the best ye ever had." Barney spoke with conviction, while Johanna
leaned over David's chair and put a loving arm about his shoulder.
"There's some virtue in losing them ye love for a bit, after all, if it makes
one o' them think about ye and Christmas. Sure, there's nothing better in
life to put by in your memory than rare thoughts and fine letters. And, I'm
mortal glad, myself, there's something good coming to ye, laddy, from over
yonder, for many's the time Barney and I have been afeared 'twas a lonesome
Christmas ye'd be finding up here."
And to the great surprise of every one, David included, David answered
cheerfully:
"I don't believe it's half bad. Maybe there's more Christmas round than we
know."
The orange sun had paled to yellow and climbed half the length of the tallest
pine from the crest of the hill when David, bundled and furred, adjusted his
skees outside the lodge door. Carefully he pushed his way over the level
stretch of new snow, for one never knew with new snow just how far one might
go down before striking the crust of the old. A few yards beyond the nearest
clump of evergreen he stopped. From this point the mountain sloped down on
three sides; the fourth carried over the ridge to the neighboring hill. Here
David could look down on the encircling valley; and though the snow lay
unbroken everywhere save on the road leading straight down to the "crossing"
and the village beyond, he could almost vision paths branching out from where
he stood and leading down to the three inhabited dwellings on the mountain's
side.
Which way should he go? Where would he first strike his trail for Christmas?
Would he follow the road or one of the invisible paths? He asked this
silently at first, and then aloud, as if there might be some one near by to
hear; and the answer came in the form of a little gray furry coat, a pair of
alert ears and a long, bushy tail. Yes, David knew in a twinkling it was the
locked-out fairy, come to keep his promise. He did not come close enough for
David to see the round, roguish face under the squirrel cap; but he sat up
and twitched his head in the direction of the road as if he were saying:
"Come along, David, ye couldn't be wishing for a braver day to go
Christmas-hunting. Have ye fetched along your holiday fowling piece and your
ammunition? For 'tis rare sport, I promise ye, a hundred times better than
hunting your furred or feathered brothers. Come along!" And away he hopped
down the road toward the crossing.
David followed, as you or I would, and never stopped till the fairy led him
straight to the flagman's hut and disappeared himself behind the drifts
beyond the track. Without a moment's hesitation David turned the knob of the
door and walked in.
The hut was a small one-room affair, bare, but clean. The walls were
whitewashed and held an array of flags and lanterns, maps and time-tables. An
air-tight stove glowed red at one end of the room, and beside it, with his
feet on the hob, tilted back in his chair, sat the flagman puffing away at an
old meerschaum pipe. He was plainly surprised to see his visitor. His feet
came back to the floor with a bang, his pipe came out of his mouth, and he
stared at David incredulously for a full minute. Then the ends of his
grizzled mustache bristled upward, his mouth opened and twisted the same way,
while his eyes seemed to drop downward to meet it, all the time growing bluer
and more friendly. David took the whole effect to be a smile of welcome and
he responded with out-stretched mittened hand.
"Good morning, sir. It's a–it's a grand day!"
The knotted fist of the flagman accepted the mitten and shook it warmly.
"Vell–vell–it ees the knabelein from the hilltop come to see old Fritz
Grossman. A child again–it ees goot!"
He reached for a little stool, the only other piece of furniture in the room,
and pushed it toward David.
"Come–take off the greatcoat and seet down. It ees long since old Fritz has
had a child to see him. In summer they come sometime from the big hotel, and
from the veelage they used to many come. But now–ach! Now, since the war, eet
ees deefferent. Now I am the enemy–the German–and here every one hate the
German!"
David felt about for something to say and repeated something he had once
remarked: "War makes enemies."
"Ach, ja. But here there ees no war. Here we should all be Americans, and not
hate peebles for the country where they were born. Gott in Himmel, can there
not be one country kept clean of the hate!"
The blue eyes suddenly grew wet, and he blinked them hard and fast to keep
the wetness from spilling over into disgraceful tears.
"Tsa! Old Fritz grow more old woman every day! I not mind but for the
children not coming; and this time here and no little tongues to beg tales of
the Krist Kindlein and the Weihnachtsman from old Fritz."
David drew closer and laid a friendly hand on the flagman's knee.
"I'd like to hear one–I'd like bully well to hear one!"
The flagman croaked gleefully deep down in his throat.
"Zo–but first–I know–the knabelein has a stomach got. All have."
He rose stiffly and reached back of the stove to where hung his own great
bear-coat. From the pocket he brought out a large red apple and handed it to
David.
"There, eat. And you shall hear the tale of anodder apple, a Chreestmas
apple."
The flagman tilted back in his chair again and replaced his feet upon the
hob. David sat with elbows on knees and ate slowly. There was no sound but
the occasional dropping of coals in the stove and the soft, deep guttural of
the flagman's voice. And here is the story as he told it to David–only the
broken German accent and the dropping coals are missing.
Once on a time there lived in Germany a little clock-maker by the name of
Hermann Joseph. He lived in one little room, with a bench for his work, and a
chest for his wood, and his tools, and a cupboard for dishes, and a
trundle-bed under the bench. Besides these there was a stool, and that was
all–excepting the clocks. There were hundreds of clocks: little and big,
carved and plain, some with wooden faces and some with porcelain ones–shelf
clocks, cuckoo clocks, clocks with chimes and clocks without; and they all
hung on the walls, covering them quite up. In front of his one little window
there was a little shelf, and on this Hermann put all his best clocks to show
the passers-by. Often they would stop and look and some one would cry:
"See, Hermann Joseph has made a new clock. It is finer than any of the rest!"
Then if it happened that anybody was wanting a clock he would come in and buy
it.
I said Hermann was a little clock-maker. That was because his back was bent
and his legs were crooked, which made him very short and funny to look at.
But there was no kinder face than his in all the city, and the children loved
him. Whenever a toy was broken or a doll had lost an arm or a leg or an eye
its careless mütterchen would carry it straight to Hermann's little shop.
"The kindlein needs mending," she would say. "Canst thou do it now for me?"
And whatever work Hermann was doing he would always put it aside to mend the
broken toy or doll, and never a pfennig would he take for the mending.
"Go spend it for sweetmeats, or, better still, put it by till Christmas-time.
'Twill get thee some happiness then, maybe," he would always say.
Now it was the custom in that long ago for those who lived in the city to
bring gifts to the great cathedral on Christmas and lay them before the Holy
Mother and Child. People saved all through the year that they might have
something wonderful to bring on that day; and there was a saying among them
that when a gift was brought that pleased the Christ-child more than any
other He would reach down from Mary's arms and take it. This was but a
saying, of course. The old Herr Graff, the oldest man in the city, could not
remember that it had ever really happened; and many there were who laughed at
the very idea. But children often talked about it, and the poets made
beautiful verses about it; and often when a rich gift was placed beside the
altar the watchers would whisper among themselves, "Perhaps now we shall see
the miracle."
Those who had no gifts to bring went to the cathedral just the same on
Christmas Eve to see the gifts of the others and hear the carols and watch
the burning of the waxen tapers. The little clock-maker was one of these.
Often he was stopped and some one would ask, "How happens it that you never
bring a gift?" Once the bishop himself questioned him: "Poorer than thou have
brought offerings to the Child. Where is thy gift?"
Then it was that Hermann had answered: "Wait; some day you shall see. I, too,
shall bring a gift some day."
The truth of it was that the little clock-maker was so busy giving away all
the year that there was never anything left at Christmas-time. But he had a
wonderful idea on which he was working every minute that he could spare time
from his clocks. It had taken him years and years; no one knew anything about
it but Trude, his neighbor's child, and Trude had grown from a baby into a
little house-mother, and still the gift was not finished.
It was to be a clock, the most wonderful and beautiful clock ever made; and
every part of it had been fashioned with loving care. The case, the works,
the weights, the hands, and the face, all had taken years of labor. He had
spent years carving the case and hands, years perfecting the works; and now
Hermann saw that with a little more haste and time he could finish it for the
coming Christmas. He mended the children's toys as before, but he gave up
making his regular clocks, so there were fewer to sell, and often his
cupboard was empty and he went supperless to bed. But that only made him a
little thinner and his face a little kinder; and meantime the gift clock
became more and more beautiful. It was fashioned after a rude stable with
rafters, stall, and crib. The Holy Mother knelt beside the manger in which a
tiny Christ-child lay, while through the open door the hours came. Three were
kings and three were shepherds and three were soldiers and three were angels;
and when the hours struck, the figure knelt in adoration before the sleeping
Child, while the silver chimes played the "Magnificat."
"Thou seest," said the clock-maker to Trude, "it is not just on Sundays and
holidays that we should remember to worship the Krist Kindlein and bring Him
gifts–but every day, every hour."
The days went by like clouds scudding before a winter wind and the clock was
finished at last. So happy was Hermann with his work that he put the gift
clock on the shelf before the little window to show the passers-by. There
were crowds looking at it all day long, and many would whisper, "Do you think
this can be the gift Hermann has spoken of–his offering on Christmas Eve to
the Church?"
The day before Christmas came. Hermann cleaned up his little shop, wound all
his clocks, brushed his clothes, and then went over the gift clock again to
be sure everything was perfect.
"It will not look meanly beside the other gifts," he thought, happily. In
fact he was so happy that he gave away all but one pfennig to the blind
beggar who passed his door; and then, remembering that he had eaten nothing
since breakfast, he spent that last pfennig for a Christmas apple to eat with
a crust of bread he had. These he was putting by in the cupboard to eat after
he was dressed, when the door opened and Trude was standing there crying
softly.
"Kindlein–kindlein, what ails thee?" And he gathered her into his arms.
"'Tis the father. He is hurt, and all the money that was put by for the tree
and sweets and toys has gone to the Herr Doctor. And now, how can I tell the
children? Already they have lighted the candle at the window and are waiting
for Kriss Kringle to come."
The clock-maker laughed merrily.
"Come, come, little one, all will be well. Hermann will sell a clock for
thee. Some house in the city must need a clock; and in a wink we shall have
money enough for the tree and the toys. Go home and sing."
He buttoned on his greatcoat and, picking out the best of the old clocks, he
went out. He went first to the rich merchants, but their houses were full of
clocks; then to the journeymen, but they said his clock was old-fashioned. He
even stood on the corners of the streets and in the square, crying, "A
clock–a good clock for sale," but no one paid any attention to him. At last
he gathered up his courage and went to the Herr Graff himself.
"Will your Excellency buy a clock?" he said, trembling at his own boldness.
"I would not ask, but it is Christmas and I am needing to buy happiness for
some children."
The Herr Graff smiled.
"Yes, I will buy a clock, but not that one. I will pay a thousand gulden for
the clock thou hast had in thy window these four days past."
"But, your Excellency, that is impossible!" And poor Hermann trembled harder
than ever.
"Poof! Nothing is impossible. That clock or none. Get thee home and I will
send for it in half an hour, and pay thee the gulden."
The little clock-maker stumbled out.
"Anything but that–anything but that!" he kept mumbling over and over to
himself on his way home. But as he passed the neighbor's house he saw the
children at the window with their lighted candle and he heard Trude singing.
And so it happened that the servant who came from the Herr Graff carried the
gift clock away with him; but the clock-maker would take but five of the
thousand gulden in payment. And as the servant disappeared up the street the
chimes commenced to ring from the great cathedral, and the streets suddenly
became noisy with the many people going thither, bearing their Christmas
offerings.
"I have gone empty-handed before," said the little clock-maker, sadly. "I can
go empty-handed once again." And again he buttoned up his greatcoat.
As he turned to shut his cupboard door behind him his eyes fell on the
Christmas apple and an odd little smile crept into the corners of his mouth
and lighted his eyes.
"It is all I have–my dinner for two days. I will carry that to the
Christ-child. It is better, after all, than going empty-handed."
How full of peace and beauty was the great cathedral when Hermann entered it!
There were a thousand tapers burning and everywhere the sweet scent of the
Christmas greens–and the laden altar before the Holy Mother and child. There
were richer gifts than had been brought for many years: marvelously wrought
vessels from the greatest silver-smiths; cloth of gold and cloth of silk
brought from the East by the merchants; poets had brought their songs
illuminated on rolls of heavy parchment; painters had brought their pictures
of saints and the Holy Family; even the King himself had brought his crown
and scepter to lay before the Child. And after all these offerings came the
little clock-maker, walking slowly down the long, dim aisle, holding tight to
his Christmas apple.
The people saw him and a murmur rose, hummed a moment indistinctly through
the church and then grew clear and articulate:
"Shame! See, he is too mean to bring his clock! He hoards it as a miser
hoards his gold. See what he brings! Shame!"
The words reached Hermann and he stumbled on blindly, his head dropped
forward on his breast, his hands groping the way. The distance seemed
interminable. Now he knew he was past the seats; now his feet touched the
first step, and there were seven to climb to the altar. Would his feet never
reach the top?
"One, two, three," he counted to himself, then tripped and almost fell.
"Four, five, six." He was nearly there. There was but one more.
The murmur of shame died away and in its place rose one of wonder and awe.
Soon the words became intelligible:
"The miracle! It is the miracle!"
The people knelt in the big cathedral; the bishop raised his hands in prayer.
And the little clock-maker, stumbling to the last step, looked up through dim
eyes and saw the Child leaning toward him, far down from Mary's arms, with
hands outstretched to take his gift.
That night, back in the kitchen of the lodge after supper, David told the
story again to Johanna and Barney. And when he had finished he saw them
looking strangely at each other.
"To think," said Johanna, thoughtfully, "we've been living here for two years
and we never got so much from the old man. And who'd have thought to find
such a tale bundled up in an old bunch of heathen rags and language like
him?"
"Maybe, now, he's not a heathen at all," laughed Barney.
And the others laughed with him. |
Back to Stories Index
|
Download free Kids Calender
Greeting Cards for Kids
|
