The Tar Baby and the Tomahawk: Race and Ethnic Images in American Children's Literature, 1880-1939

"MERRY
CHRISTMAS
TO ALL"

LITTLE HILDA BLAIR stood in the centre of her mother's living-room and shouted for perhaps the hundredth time that day:

"I", said Tommy Tittlebat proudly, "Never twirl my thumbs or talk out loudly."

"My!" said her brother Robert morosely, "don't I wish you were Tommy Tittlebat! Then at least you'd keep still and not talk for hours at a time. Ma, won't you make her keep quiet?"

Hilda began to cry at this. "He insults me, he hurts my feelings. I wish brother Henry would come home." This was in 1918 just after Armistice Dy and Hilda's older brother, Henry, had not yet returned from France.

"I'm so miserable," Hilda sobbed. "I'm the most miserable little girl in the world."

"There, there, now," her mother soothed, "go downstairs and see what Mrs. Wing has for you."

Hilda went at first reluctantly and then more willingly. After all, Mrs. Wing might be making cookies and might give her some. Then she could eat them, every crumb and bit, before
brownies.192012.006.jpg Robert and not give him any. "Not the littlest, teeny bit," she said to herself.

Mrs. Wing was certainly correctly named, for she did so many things at once that she gave the impression of flying. "On-the-wing", the children usually called her in private. She was a small, thin, yellow woman plentifully peppered with brown freckles, with a mass of stiff, wiry hair which grew away from her forehead to be twisted up in a stiff, flat knot. As she was fond of bangs, she wore a "piece" of hair known as a "transformation" over her forehead and down to her eyes. It was not the same color as the rest of her hair, but that meant nothing to Mrs. Wing.

Hilda sidled up to her, "I'm so miserable, Mrs. Wing!"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Wing, flying from the table to the oven, to the party and back before Hilda could sit down. "What you got to worry you? If you want to see somebody really miserable, look at little Edith Jenkins. There's her mother, a widow, her oldest son killed in the war with three small children besides Edith and she only thirteen. There's misery for you. Christmas is comin' on and Edith instead of plannin' like other folks for a merry Christmas, is hopin' that she and her mother will get work enough to do so as to give the rest of the children a decent dinner that day. No turkey or chicken or fixin's, just enough to keep 'em from goin' hungry that one day."

"Why," said Hilda shocked out of her fretfulness, "don't they get enough to eat?"

"Of course they don't." Mrs. Wing with the back of her hand pushed her transformation slightly to one side. "Where they goin' to get it? Edith was in here just now to bring the clothes home. And she cried and cried. 'Oh, Mrs. Wing,' she says, 'they say Merry Christmas to all. How can it be that we should be the only ones not to have a merry Christmas? Oh, if Clarence just hadn't died!'"

"I know," Hilda interrupted soberly. "I miss brother Henry terribly and he isn't dead. It must be awful for Edith. I remember Clarence was kind to her. He used to come by school sometimes and give her pennies. Oh, Mrs. Wing, I'm glad my father's not poor.

Mrs. Wing snorted, "Huh! You'd better be, and lemme tell you somethin,' little girl. You want to stop snifflin' and whinin' every time things don't go to suit you. Otherwise the Lord's goin' to do somethin' to fix you same as he fixed Edith. That poor child! There Clarence was buyin' them a nice house in Taylor Street and now they've had to move into that old shack around in Martin's Place. Reg'lar deathtrap, I call it; if them youngsters should ever drop a match, they'd all be burnt up."

Hilda sat thinking a moment. "I don't see why you said that about the Lord fixing me," she remarked finally. "Edith has always been awful good and yet this happened to her. I know where she lives in Martin's Place and I'm going—" she stopped short—it might not be wise to let Mrs. Wing of one's plans.

"MAMA," she announced a few moments later, "I wish you'd let me give Edith Jenkins my red dress and a doll and the money out of my bank and—"

"Yes, and take 'em all back from her again," her brother interposed. He had had some bitter experiences with his sister in the matter of what he called "Indian-giving."

"Mama, can't he keep still? And can I give her the things?"

Unfortunately, her mother had not been paying very close attention. "We'll see," she said abstractedly.

Hilda was spoilt, it is true, but that was not excuse for being impertinent. "We'll see!" she exclaimed, stamping her foot, her black eyes flashing. "How can anybody be so mean? I want to giver her the things now, this minute!"

"I don't think I'm going to allow you to give anything to anyone," said her mother severely. "You are a very naughty little girl and though it is only half-past six, you are to bed at once. At once, do you understand, Hilda?"

"Yessum," said Hilda.

Robert stood behind his mother and clapped his hands in dumb show. "Baby, baby gotta go to bed," he whispered. "You won't get any chance to play Santa Claus. Ouch!"

Hilda in passing out had pinched him. "I'll show you," she whispered back.

As she lay in her little white bed, her eyes staring at a faint, silver moon, glimmering through the stark branches of the big ash tree outside her window, she could not keep her thoughts off Edith. She could not give away her red dress,—her mother had given her that,—nor could she part company with the big French doll, the gift of her father. She was rather glad of the excuse. But she had three dolls which she had bought herself, —a rag doll, a Japanese doll and—her favorite, of course—
brownies.192012.007.jpg a colored doll, a beautiful brown creature with rosy cheeks and raven hair. Edith should have that she thought and sighed a little. The twin sisters could each have one of the other dolls and she would find one of Robert's toys for little Benny.

"Robert has lots of old things in the garret," she mused. "Or I might take one of his bats or baseball mits. He'd never miss them now that he's so crazy with his old flying-machines. And I can use my money in the bank. I earned it myself, every cent. Edith has got to have a merry Christmas."

When Hilda woke the next morning the first thing that came into her head was "Merry Christmas!"

"Oh, yes," she remembered and went downstairs with her mind made up about Edith. She was very good in school that day and so was dismissed on the minute. On her way home she ran across Sylvester Square, which brought her out two blocks below her own street. Then three blocks south, and there was Martin's Place. Twenty-seven—that was the number. She knocked and Edith let her in.

This was not the Edith she used to know, a merry, bright-eyed, little girl in a clean dress, who used to walk home from school with her in the old days before Clarence and Henry had gone to war. This was a thin, weary-eyed child, still clean but in rags, and with the air and expression of an old woman. The room was tidy but the furniture, a worn horse-hair sofa and a chair or two, was rickety and scratched. There was no carpet on the floor and not a picture on the walls.

"Oh," said Hilda, speaking her mind right out, "Edith, I didn't know you had to live like this!"

She was so honest and so sorry that poor Edith, who had always thought she would rather die than have Hilda know of her condition, burst into tears.

"It isn't for myself I care so much," she said, "it's the other children and my mother. Oh, Hilda, she has to work so hard; she washes,—we do your mother's laundry now, you know,— and she iron and cleans, and people don't pay much. At first I minded dreadfully coming out of school, but now I'd do anything to help her. She has always had a hard time. My father used to drink, and after he died Clarence worked all the time until it looked as though she'd have some comfort. Then along came this horrid war and he's dead, my brother's dead! You remember him, Hilda; he used play ball with your Henry? They were great chums."

"Yes," said Hilda, a little dazed at the awfulness of Edith's condition. She was a very little girl, nearly three years younger than her friend, but it seemed to her that she must make things come right somehow. "I remember Clarence and the other house—"

Edith broke out afresh, "The house in Taylor Street? Now that's gone too, because with Clarence dead my mother couldn't keep on paying for it. For a long time she expected some insurance but although she has written to Washington again and again they never send her anything, just keep putting her off. So we had to come back to this place; it was the only thing my father left my mother. I hate it so," and she gazed with great disfavor about the three-roomed frame shack which was little more than a lean-to.

"But I don't think I would mind so much or Mama either if it weren't for Gertie and Rachel and Benny," she said pointing to the twins and her little brother who hovered near, horror- stricken at the sight of their big sister in tears. They came crowding forward, their little faces, once ruddy bronze, now ashy, and thin with hunger and discomfort. It doesn't seem possible that they aren't to have a merry Christmas, no tree, or anything."

"Listen, Edith," Hilda said desperately, "I can't stay any longer or Robert will miss me and tell Mama and I'll get a scolding. But you come for the clothes on Saturday, don't you? I'll be in the kitchen when you come, with Mrs. Wing, and we'll have a long talk. You're going to have merry Christmas, see if you don't."

HILDA was very quiet for the next few days. "You must be sick," grunted Robert, but she was too deep in thought to pay any attention to him. Besides she had to have him help her. She looked in her bank,—two dollars and nineteen cents there. A talk with Mrs. Wing satisfied her that she could get a fair meal with that. But she wanted a good Christmas dinner. She couldn't steal from her mother—taking Robert's bat and mit for Benny was different; besides he gave her best book of fairy-tales to Cousin Susie once, she'd only be getting even with him for that.

The Saturday before Christmas came and with it Edith and the laundry. The two little girls sat in the kitchen whispering while Mrs.
brownies.192012.008.jpg Wing flew about in her usual busy fashion. "I told Mrs. Blair I had to have some one in to clean the silver today," she told Edith kindly, "so you can stay till after lunch and do that and a few odds and ends. You want to eat now with Edith, Hilda? I guess your mother won't mind. I'll go finish upstairs."

The table was absolutely bare when she returned, but she neither asked questions nor apparently noticed the extra bundle which Edith carried when she took the clothes home.

Hilda stayed with her in the kitchen. "I've got everything all fixed, Mrs. Wing," she said presently. "Edith said she'd rather not have the doll, so I've sold it to Edna Berry who has always wanted it. She gave ma a dollar and fifteen cents for it. Mama said I could help you make ginger cookies and if they turn out well I can give some to Edith for the children. With the money for the doll and that in my bank, I want you please, Mrs. Wing, to buy a chicken and a few vegetables. If Edith's mother doesn't have to work Christmas day she'll cook them, and if she does, Edith can. That will still leave me a little money, won't it?" she queried anxiously. "There's something else I want to do."

Mrs. Wing thought it would. "Not feelin' as miserable as you did a few days ago, are you honey?"

"No'm", Hilda told her, "nowhere near. Funny ain't it, Mrs. Wing? I'm sorry for Edith and yet it makes me happy to be helping her."

"That's it, it always works out that way. The trouble with you is, things have always been too easy for you and if your brother teases or your mother scolds, you think you're in the worst luck in the world."

Hilda nodded, busy thinking. Not even to Mrs. Wing had she told her dearest plan. This was to get a Christmas tree to Edith's house and with her help, trim it for the twins and Benny. It was impossible for her to buy the tree for they were very expensive that year, but she had induced Robert, at a loss of fifty cents from her precious savings, to promise to go back into Larkins' woods and cut one down for her. Robert's one interest in life at this time was to get money to buy material for his flying-machine and even fifty cents was not to be despised.

THE day before Christmas arrived, clear, cold and bright. Hilda's father, Dr. Blair, who had been off to the Tri-State Medical Convention, returned that day with some friends. Mrs. Blair, though not given to paying much attention to the little complaints of her son and daughter, was very careful to see that nothing interfered with their holiday pleasures. So she called them in and explained that their father's guests must leave Christmas morning and she would like to spend Christmas Eve with them.

"And if you wouldn't mind mother's putting off your big time until Christmas Day, she'd be very much pleased," she coaxed.

"Bully for me," shouted Robert, "you know, Ma, the Boy Scouts meet to-night at the Parish House and there are to be games and presents. I'd rather go to that."

"Fine," said his mother, "And Hilda, you don't mind?"

"No'm", said Hilda dutifully. "I think it'll be nice to have change."

"You're sure you're quite well?" he mother asked, a trifle worried. Usually Hilda was not as tractable as this.

"Oh, I'm all right," said Hilda happily. Now everything was perfect. Robert had got the tree and with the aid of some other boys had dragged it into Edith's largest room, without the knowledge of the younger children. The two Blair children were to have supper very early so as to be "out from under foot," Mrs. Wing said. Robert would go off to his scouts and— Hilda knew her mother's parties—she would slip out the back way while the guests were at dinner, would help Edith trim the tree and fix the children's presents. At nine o'clock she'd come in again through the kitchen—perhaps Mrs. Wing would have to know—but by no one else would she ever be missed.

Mrs. Blair trailing through the sitting-room found her little daughter making "snow-balls" and "water-lilies" out of tissue paper. "For the Christmas tree the next day," she thought. "Hilda certainly has changed lately, so serious and thoughtful."

As soon as supper was over and Robert off, Hilda slipped out. "I've got everything," she announced to Edith joyfully a few moments later, holding up her mother's knitting bag crammed to the brim. And so she had. There were trimmings for the tree, ginger cookies, two pieces of pie and some biscuits which Mrs. Wing had let her make. These were a bit dingy in appearance, but still very palatable. Mrs. Wing had brought the chicken and vegetables and sent them to the house with a jar of preserves
brownies.192012.009.jpg taken from her own scanty store. It looked as though were going to be very fine indeed.

"We'll have to get to work right away, Edith," Hilda warned her, "because if my mother misses me, I'll get in a lot of trouble. Let's let the children come in while we are trimming the trees. That will be part of the fun."

The two girls pushed and pulled at the tree with their slender strength until they got it in the desired position. They had no tree-stand in which to balance it so they decided to stand it up in the corner.

"That's a good thing, too," said Hilda, "for some of the branches are a little dry and dead. Robert said this was the best he could do, for most of the small trees had already been cut down and he couldn't manage a large one by himself. So we'll just turn the dry part to the wall."

"Yes," said Edith, "that makes the branches touch the wall and that will hold it up. It's a lovely shape, and don't it smell good? Come and sniff at it, Benny."

They all worked on happily. Besides the "water-lilies" and "snow-balls" there were chains made of links of colored "glazed" paper, strands of tinsel, bits of white cotton for snow and a gold star. The tree soon shone resplendent. And the twins were besides themselves with joy.

"Won't Mama be surprised when she comes home?" shouted Benny.

"I had these extra sheets of tissue paper," said Hilda, "and I'm going to open them up and put them around the bottom of the tree, so as to hide the ugly trunk. That's the way my mother does. Oh, wouldn't it be grand if we had some candles?"

"I want a tandle," lisped on of the twins.

"I know," said Edith, "let's get that little stool and set it in the corner back of the tree and put a lamp on that. Then the light will shine through the branches and that will be prettier than candles."

It took only a moment to carry out these plans. The lamp was really a pretty poor substitute, but it does not take much to satisfy most children, and these five were completely happy.

"It ought to be a little more this side," said Edith critically. "Benny, you crawl in there again and pull it this way. "There!...Oh Benny!"

How it happened they never knew. Perhaps Benny's foot caught in the stool as he came out, perhaps he knocked the lamp with his little shoulder. Anyway, forward toppled the lamp,— the tissue paper caught fire first, then next the dry branches at the back of the tree, then the unplastered walls—in a second the room was in flames!

THE five children huddled together in frightened silence. Benny was the first to come to his senses. The twins were too little to help and the two older children for all their womanliness were reduced to helpless little girls.

"Come!" said Benny, "we must get out and call somebody. Hilda, take the babies, and Edith, you run down to Gower's"—the nearest family, nearly a block away,—"and I'll go to Sullivan's."

Off he flew, but Edith could do nothing. "What will my mother do?" she wailed, shivering on the chilly sidewalk. "Oh, Hilda, we haven't even a house now."

"You stay here," said Hilda starting to run down the deserted street. "I'll go get somebody." No one was at Gower's, as it happened, and no one next door. She remembered then hearing her father say Martin's Place had been a factory neighborhood and when the factory had closed down about a year ago most of the people had moved away.

She turned toward Sylvester Square, her little heart pumping, her short dress flying in the wind, to run straight into two men in uniform walking slowly across the park.

"Hullo, what's this?" said one of them putting out an arm to ward her off. But she clung to him.

"Oh, Mister!" she sobbed. "The house is on fire, and it's all my fault, and I don't dare go home and tell it!" She lifted a face stained with tears and soot toward the electric light.

"Why, it's my kid sister!" said the other young man aghast, picking up her in his arms. "This is Henry, Honey; your big brother just back from France. Don't you know me, Baby? What's this about a fire?"

She was wriggling out of his arms and straining toward Martin's Place. "It's Edith's house. She's so poor, Edith Jenkins, you know, and I tried to help her have a merry Christmas, and instead we've set the house on fire. Now Mrs. Jenkins won't have even a home and her biggest boy Clarence is dead—"

brownies.192012.010.jpg

"Not much he isn't," and the other man who had been standing there stupefied came suddenly to life. "I'm Clarence Jenkins and I ought to know. Beat it, Henry, and I'll come as fast as I can with that kid." Hilda noticed then that he was walking with a cane.

Even then he got there at a surprisingly rapid gait. Benny had been more successful at the Sullivan's and quite a crowd had gathered about the burning dwelling and had managed to pull out a few pieces of furniture and some clothing. But it was useless to try to save the house.

But what did the Jenkins children care bout that when they saw their brother? They crowded around him with such joy and trust, and such pathetic relief on their little, tragic faces that the big-fellow could hardly keep back his tears.

"Where's Mother?" he asked Edith huskily.

"Over to my house," said Hilda promptly. "She was to go there about nine to help Mrs. Wing. It must be that now. Oh, Henry, what do you suppose Mama will say?"

"Not much, I don't think," said Henry," when she sees me and hears that a fine little sister I've got. Come on, kiddies, we'll go home and see what's what."

THEY made a strange procession, the children muffled in ill-fitting wraps borrowed from the Sullivans, and the two soldiers in their soot-stained khaki. Henry carried one twin and Clarence, for all his lameness, the other. Benny walked between Hilda and Edith, really leading them. for both felt sick with fright.

"We'll go in the kitchen," said Hilda tremulously.

"We will not," Henry spoke up. "You don't suppose two fine young men just coming home from war are going to sneak in the back way do you?"

He rang the front bell and Mrs. Jenkins, sent by Mrs. Wing to open the door, screamed so that Dr. Blair and his wife and even the guests came running out into the hall.

"It's Henry!" said his mother.

"It's my son!" said Mrs. Jenkins laughing and crying together. "It's my blessed, blessed boy!"

"Oh," said Henry, "I forgot; Clarence and I were in the same company you know. He saved my life, once,—I'll tell you ll about that some day,—so when he was gassed and badly wounded, although I already had my leave, I got permission to hang around until he was fit to travel, so I could bring him home. There was another Clarence Jenkins in the regiment—"

"Millions of them," murmured our particular Clarence.

"—and the authorities must have confused him with this one. He often used to get Clarence's mail. He really was killed, poor fellow. Anyways, we got in town tonight and I was getting Clarence home so he could give his folks a merry Christmas, but we found this young lady there engaged in doing that already." He pulled his little sister forward, and told all about the tree and the fire. "Mother you must not scold her."

"Scold her!" her mother echoed, pressing the stained, sooty face of her daughter against her dainty gown. "Mother's precious, unselfish darling! It's all my fault. Aren't you proud of her, Father?"

"I should say so," and he bent and kissed her, while Robert, respectful for once, gravely saluted her.

"Edith is brave, too," said Hilda warmly.

"Indeed she is," Dr. Blair answered.

"Mother, don't you think we can find room in this big house for all these folks until Lieutenant Clarence Jenkins gets on his feet?"

"Of course we can. Mrs. Jenkins, I'd love for you and your precious boy to have dinner with us and our precious son tomorrow, and I think Mrs. Wing would like to fix a Christmas dinner so the rest of our young folks can be together and talk over today's adventures."

"Suits me," said Mrs. Wing. She walked over to Clarence, her "transformation" more higgledy-piggledy than ever.

"To think you're back home and alive! It's a miracle, that's what I say."

"It's Merry Christmas to all!" said Edith Jenkins.

brownies.192012.011.jpg

BUNNY COTTON-TAIL'S CHRISTMAS DINNER

RABBITS who live in the South, usually call the fall of the year a hard season, for when the fields are white with cotton, little boys and girls are carried to the fields in big wagons, and as they go up and down the long rows picking the fleecy white locks, the rabbits are often chased or killed, or their little ones are so disturbed that they are forced to leave their snug little homes in the big fields and move to the brier patch and thickets for safety until the cotton has been gathered.

In Farmer Smith's field, it is Bunny Cotton-tail who informs all the other rabbits at the opening of the cotton season, just the time when they must go to their hiding places; and it is Bunny Cotton-tail who informs them when the cotton season is over by giving a big Christmas dinner.

All day long, the little Bunnies must lie very still in their holes, because if they make the least noise, Mama Rabbit gives them a hard shake, or else pulls their tender little ears. Poor little Baby Cotton-tail said one day, as big drops of water hurried down his little brown cheeks, after Mama Cotton-tail had pulled his tiny ears, "I's sorry little boys and dirls have to pick old totton, tause I tain't breeve without making just a little noise, and my ears teep sore all the time."

Sunday was the only day that they could come from their secluded homes and discuss the gossip that each one heard from the passing cotton pickers. Often they pricked their ears and rubbed their noses briskly at their seeming fate. My but it seemed, especially to the little ones, a long time before "Christmas"! They counted and counted, but the nearer it approached, the longer the days seemed to grow. Finally, early one morning before the cotton pickers arrived, they received the glad news that Peter Rabbit, Bunny Cotton-tail's friend, had slipped to Bunny's house to help write and deliver the invitations for the occasion. That whole day, every one's heart felt lighter as he waited, almost breathlessly, for his invitation. How impatient all had grown. About midnight, the long expected message came. There was a rap-tap at each door, and as the door opened, Bunny Cotton-tail or Peter Rabbit politely handed in an invitation, and had each
brownies.192012.012.jpg assure him of his presence; however, no persuasion was necessary. The invitation read:

"You are invited to my party,
On Friday next to be;
Under the big oak at noontime,
Which means we'll soon be free.
Signed—Bunny Cotton-tail."

Friday before Christmas was the day appointed for their big dinner, as Christmas was always spent visiting. Thursday, before the dinner, was a rainy day, and little cotton pickers had to stay at home. So all the rabbits spent part of the day in running from house to house gossiping, and the other part was spent in getting their frocks in trim for the big occasion. Thursday night it rained and rained hard, and how glad they were, because then no one would come to harm them at their annual feast.

Friday morning, all were up early, and found the fields too wet for work, but Apollo soon hitched up his fiery steed, and drove the big red Sun in his chariot across the blue sky with more speed than ever. When noon came all were dressed, and on their way to the big oak. You should have seen them. The lady rabbits had gaily colored ribbons around their necks, while the gentlemen had brushed their hair until it wa shining like satin. Peter Rabbit was looking his best. His hair was brushed as slick as a mole's. He stood at the door and welcomed each guest, while Bunny Cotton-tail and his wife Sally escorted each to a seat. After having a short chat, they were called to the table, and Jack Rabbit was asked to bless the food and those who prepared it. I can't begin to tell you all they had, but I will tell you of a few things.

The table was decorated with white cotton boles, and in the center was a pyramid of green bell peppers with a red cranberry on top of each. A head of fresh lettuce was at each plate, and carrots were placed in rows up and down the long table. They had cabbage in every style, and green peas were served abundantly. All were happy; everything went well, and they laughed heartily as each told his well prepared joke.

But in their hurry, they forgot to put out a spy to warn them in case anyone should approach. In fact, they forgot everything but that dinner. They had never been so royally entertained. Everything was so different from their last dinner. But the big red Sun had dried the fields sufficiently for picking, and the little cotton pickers were carried back to the fields in the afternoon. As the long wagons rolled into the field, the little boys and girls jumped out, grabbed their sacks, threw them across their shoulders, and began picking. As the rows were so very long, they were allowed to rest at the end of each. Of all the children Baby Tom had more time than any to waste, for he was too small to do much good, but he always found them a good resting place. He had gotten midway his row when he spied the big, leafless oak tree in the distance. He knew that some of the roots had grown on top of the ground and would furnish them with nice seats. As they neared the end of their rows, Tome shouted:

"Hey! All of you. We'll rest under the big oak tree."

The big roots were quite inviting for a nice rest. Every hand waved, and each head nodded, which assured Tom that the place was settled upon. When they reached the end of their rows, all started in a trot for the oak. Dooley being the largest, ran the fastest, and was the first to see the Bunnies at dinner. He motioned his comrades to stop, but their speed was almost too great to check, but each stopped as quickly as possible. Dooley pointed to the rabbits, and as soon as the children saw them, they were eager for a chase.

Just at the time when the poor Bunnies felt at peace with all the world, little did they know that their fate was so near at stake. But Dooley finally persuaded the children to let him tell them about what hard times poor rabbits had during the cotton season. Soon all sat down quietly and listened attentively. With a pathetic expression on his little face, Dooley
brownies.192012.013.jpg told them how poor rabbits had to hide away during the cotton season and how hard it was for them to find enough to eat and how some naughty boys stole the little Bunnies from their mothers. He told them also of many, many other hardships which the rabbits had to endure and when he had finished his story he saw that he had won his case, for each little face expressed the desired sentiments. So the rabbits were left unharmed to enjoy the Christmas niceties that had been prepared by the gallant Bunny Cotton-tail.

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HOW LITTLE BUD FOUND CHRISTMAS

LITTLE Bud lived in an alley—one of those alleys you have heard of or read about that are peopled with that unfortunate class of mortals whose souls are as unlovely as their surroundings. Kindhearted people sometimes visit these alleys, but Bud could not remember any kinder faces than those of the dogs that often ran through and who always stopped, smiled at him through their eyes, and wagged their tails as he patted their heads.

The people of the alley all had hard faces like Jim, Bud's big papa into whose soul the alley atmosphere had entered and settled. Bud seldom saw him except early in the morning or late at night when he did not fall asleep from weariness before his arrival. He was only four years old.

In the alley there was mud—ugly, dark mud—and it was always under the feet of little Bud as he sat in the doorway of the place where he and Jim lived. But overhead there were stars— bright, glorious, twinkling stars that smiled and blinked down at him as he gazed up at them from his doorway at nights.

If he had gazed down at the mud under his feet perhaps the alley would have crept into his soul, but like a little plant in a dark cellar that always looks toward the light, so little Bud always looked upward and the stars that he saw at night beamed into his soul a heavenly glory and strength.

Most persons looking at him would have seen nothing beyond a dirty little black boy, but any one with a sight strengthened by experience and sympathy would have seen just what we see when we behold the black bulb of a lily. We see beyond the bulb the loveliness and purity inside.

Among the stars that shone on him at night there was a very bright star that Bud loved and felt in his soul that it loved him. Whenever it appeared he would laugh and cry out with delight and the mud and dark shadows of the alley were nothing to him as long as he could look up at his star. He was just as sure as he could be that it was twinkling and smiling right at him and into his little soul would creep a great gladness. Many great and wise men have gazed upon the stars and they gave to them nothing greater than was given to the soul of little Bud.

Now there came a time when it was not so pleasant to sit outside and watch the stars, but little Bud didn't mind the cold. When darkness came he would wrap his ragged little coat around him and sit outside waiting until his friend would appear. Coming in late several times, Jim found him sitting in the door asleep with his little coat drawn closely around him and his face turned toward the stars. Jim imagined that he was afraid to stay in by himself and the stars told him no better.

One day when it was very chilly and a drizzling rain was falling, little Bud looked upward from his window and longed for the night that would bring his shining friend.

Night came, dark and cloudy and with a chill that would have kept any small person but Bud inside. Drawing on his ragged little coat, he crept outside in the cold and looked upward, watching for his star.

Long he sat there looking for his friend, but no benign ray showed itself in the clouded sky. How long he sat there he did not know nor wonder, for the stars had taught him their eternal patience, and he neither sighed nor murmured but kept a steadfast gaze on the darkened heavens.

Finally his eyelids lowered and sleep came upon him. In his sleep he beheld very near him the star for which he longed. He cried out with joy and stretched out his hands to it but the star moved away, gently beaming on him all the while.

Little Bud opened his eyes and saw no sign of any stars in the sky. Suddenly there came into his mind this thought. Somewhere, must be his bright, shining star and he would go forth, somewhere, and find it!

Immediately he started up the alley, into which he had never traveled much farther than his own door. The drizzling rain commenced falling again, but for a long time he took no notice of it as his short, little legs carried him to the opening of the alley.

Suddenly there came into his mind a fear. Suppose Jim should come upon him as he was going to seek his star! It was late, but little Bud did not know that it would be still later
brownies.192012.018.jpg before Jim would get in. It was Christmas Eve night and Jim and his companions were out making merry after the fashion of those into whose souls the alley had crept. Little Bud had never heard of Christmas. Jim gave little thought to him save leaving food for him to eat during the day.

On and on he ran. He had now left the opening of the alley and had reached a dirty, paved street. He knew not where he was going, but he felt sure that he was going to find his star somewhere. So he kept on, looking upward with the image of his star in his heart.

Now the rain had turned into a snow and the feathery flakes were fast covering the pavement. Little Bud was becoming conscious of the cold but pressing his lips tightly together he ran on, looking upward.

Finally, when he had gone what must have been a great distance, for the street were clean and the lights brighter, he found himself nearing a house from which a bright light shone, sending forth a ray that cheered his little heart as the star had done.

Walking up to the place and looking in the window, he beheld a crowd of little boys and girls dancing around a tree—if it were tree! Bud wasn't sure. It looked to him like a tree on which were a hundred stars. He stood there mutely transfixed.

Suddenly, looking at the top of the tree, he beheld another star—a larger and brighter star. Oh, it was his very own star that he had come so far to find! It had left the sky to come and shine upon this tree and he had found it! He cried out with delight and stretched forth his little hands toward the window.

The children inside stopped and looked out of the window, gazing with surprise on the earnest, upturned face of little Bud.

Quickly the door opened and out came a lady with the kindest face he had ever seen. She gently led him inside, but he took no notice of the other children, only keeping his eyes on what was to him the wonder of wonders. Mrs. Chase, for that was the name of the Mother-matron of this children's home to which Bud's journey had led him, tried to learn something about him but he could tell very little, and indeed there was little to be told other than what was very apparent.

Touched by his silent adoration of the Christmas tree, she drew him gently to her and told him the story that you know and that is being told at this time every year to children all over the world. How his eyes glistened as she told him of the shepherds who watched their flocks by night and the journey of the Wise Men led by the star. How his little heart warmed within him as she told of the star resting over the birth-place of the Christ-child who had come from heaven to gladden all lives, especially such little souls as he.

Afterwards when a clean little Bud was put into a clean little bed in a room with some of the children, he looked out of the window at the sky and, to his great joy, saw that the black clouds had disappeared and his bright, friendly stars were in their places. Yes, and there too was his very bright star. Looking down into the room they had left, he saw the tree all dark. So the star had left it and gone back home.

Little Bud was awakened in the morning by the music of a Christmas carol sung by some of the children. Dreamily he listened to the words:

Later he heard the bells peal out loud and sweet their message "Peace on earth, good will to men." In little Bud's heart there was a great peace. Christmas had truly come to him— not just for a day but to stay with him always, and you may be sure that he never lived in the dark alley again.

brownies.192012.030.jpg

JIM'S THEORY OF SANTA CLAUS

"NO, there ain't no Santa Claus at all," Jim assured himself and then went to his mother's room to tell about it.

"Well, Jim," his mother said, "some news for mother?"

"Ma, there ain't no real Santa Claus at all. I know there ain't and I don't believe in him."

"Why Jim!" his mother gasped, "Don't you know you must not say that? Why, If Santa Claus should hear you he wouldn't even come near this house Christmas, and there you'd be without a single toy on Christmas day."

"But there ain't none," Jim assured her. "So he can't bring no toys. I know all about it. Pa just buys those toys and things from the store, 'cause I heard him say how much my wagon cost. I know, I know; you can't fool me."

"It's not a matter of fooling, but you must not talk so fast. Wait until you really know. Why—"

"But why are there so many?" Jim interrupted. "I know when I was down in Newark yesterday I saw about fifty Santa Clauses, and there's only supposed to be one. In every store and on every corner there was a different Santa Claus. Now how can that be? I know, there ain't none."

"Oh, Jim, you should never talk like that. Why you don't know what you're saying. Come here and let me tell you all about it. You don't know quite as much as you think you do."

Jim went over to his mother and settled himself in the big chair ready to listen, not because he wanted to but because he had to obey.

"Of course there is but one real Santa Claus," his mother explained, "and you see a good many more."

"Yes and—"

"Just a minute, please. Now do you think that Santa Claus himself could make toys enough for all the children in the world? And how could he, without any helpers, visit all the homes in one night? At one time there was but the one Santa Claus, the real one, and he did all the work all alone, but the world got so large and there were so many children that he had to have helpers. All these men you see are Santa Claus' helpers."

"Well, why do they dress like Santa Claus and call themselves Santa Claus? They ain't."

"Those suits are the uniforms that all of Santa Claus' helpers have to wear in order that we may know them when we see them. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Jim slowly. He really hated to think he didn't know everything, and he had never thought about Santa Claus having helpers.

"And as for the names," his mother continued, "it's much easier for the children to remember the one name than it would be to remember all their different names."

"Well that might be true, but Santa Claus does not bring toys to all the children; he couldn't," protested Jim. "Folks just go and buy them from the stores."

"Now there's where you're wrong again. Santa Claus has a great big factory up at the North Pole where he and his helpers live. They make toys in that factory. Then he sends a sample of each toy to every factory in the country and the different factories make the toys just as Santa Claus has all the toys shipped to the different stores. You know he has to have some place to put the toys and the stores are the place for them. Then the children go to the stores, pick out what they want, then write Santa Claus so he'll know what to bring."

"But he doesn't bring what you write for," argued Jim. "He didn't bring that base-ball suit I asked for."

"Well wouldn't you expect him to use some judgement? Do you suppose if you should ask for a carving knife that he would bring it to a little boy like you? What on earth would you do with it?"

"No, but a base-ball suit, what was wrong with that?"

"You were too small and Santa Claus knew you'd soon outgrow it and a suit like that costs too much."

"There, I told you so!" Jim exclaimed. "I knew you bought those things. Uh-huh! I know all about it."

"Why of course papa has to pay for them. Did you think Santa Claus could afford to give all those toys away? How could he ever pay
brownies.192012.031.jpg his helpers? What kind of a millionaire did you think he was? Why I never heard of such a thing.

"Let me tell you how it is," his mother explained. "You write Santa Claus a letter. He looks it over and decides on the things he thinks you should have. Then he asks your papa if he can pay for all those things. If papa agrees, then Santa Claus puts them on his order and send them to you. But papa has to pay for them."

"Well, then, what good is Santa Claus, anyway?"

"If there were no Santa Claus there'd be no toys and nobody to fill children's stockings."

Jim was so disappointed to find that he didn't know as much as he thought, that he just made believe he didn't believe in Santa Claus, although he really did, and he just shouted, "I don't believe in Santa Claus! There ain't none, and if there is he don't need to bring me no toys, 'cause papa has bought them and the store will send them."

Just then Jim heard a voice in the chimney say, "All right, Jimmy; you don't have to believe, and I won't even stop here tonight. We'll see if the store sends any toys!"

"Oh," cried Jim. "I believe! I was only fooling; I believe!"

And he shouted so loud that he scared himself. He jumped up with a start and rubbed his eyes. "Gee," he said, "I'm glad that was only a dream! I'll run downstairs and see if it's real or not."

There in the living-room was a great big Christmas tree and all the toys Jim had written for. And let me tell you, if there had ever been any doubt in Jim's mind as to whether there was a real Santa Claus or not, it was all cleared away that day.

brownies.192012.032.jpg

THE STORY OF THE LITTLE TIN HORN

GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON

IT was Christmas morning. Tommy Brown sprang out of bed and ran joyfully to his stocking, which hung by the fire place, from the top of which pointed a bright tin horn, the goal of his wishes. He immediately began a wild and triumphant tooting, but suddenly he stopped short in amazement, for there, seeming to glide from the very heart of the horn, was a tiny fairy who looked upon him with a smile.

Before Tommy could collect his scattered
brownies.192012.033.jpg [illustration - "What does the clear book say about the cheerful giver?"] wits the fairy spoke thus: "The Fairy Queen wishes you to attend her at once in the Court of Fancy-clime. Shall we take the rainbow and obey?" With that she clapped her hands and Tommy saw a tinted rainbow appear at his feet.

As in a dream he found himself consenting, and they were soon whirling swiftly, far above the church spires, through the downy clouds that melted as they passed.

At length the rainbow settled in a field of blooming buttercups and the little fairy said, "Welcome to Fancy-clime."

Stains from far-away zithers came softly, and above them rose the shrill voice of children singing. The words were sweet but strange to Tommy.

He was ushered at once into the presence of the Queen who greeted him from her shell-like throne, her black eyes shining like stars from her red-gold face. Like a daffodil she seemed in her pale-yellow foam robe. "Welcome, little world-boy," she cried with quick glances. "What is that you hold so closely in your hand?"

"My new horn," was the stammered reply. "I only got it this morning. Santa brought it."

Then the fairy clapped her hands and Tommy saw a strange sight. Suddenly a cloud appeared and as swiftly disappeared, and Tommy gazed in amazement upon a poor, little, ragged girl. She was looking toward her empty stocking, which hung by the fire-place in a bare and cheerless room. Tommy gazed earnestly at the scene before him, forgetting the fairies and his strange trip—forgetting everything but the sorrow of the little girl. Finally she turned her eyes away from the empty stocking and saw Tommy, at the same time spying his little tin horn, as he thought. Her eyes widened, she took a step forward, and putting her thin brown finger in her mouth, stood waiting.

Tommy thought deeply for a moment, then stepping forward boldly, said, "Oh, little girl, do take my Christmas horn; it makes beautiful music."

Smiles were rippling upon the little girl's face as she took from Tommy's hand—not a horn but a beautiful doll, her heart's dearest wish.

Then the scene faded and Tommy found himself looking into the pleased face of the daffodil
brownies.192012.034.jpg Queen who spoke thus: "Where have you been, Tommy?"

"I do not know, Queen Fairy, but I thought I saw a poor little girl who had no Christmas gift. I gave her my horn but it turned into a doll. I do not understand."

The fairy nodded her thick curls and questioned further, "Are you sorry that you gave your horn away?"

"Oh, no!" cried Tommy, "I am glad I gave it to the little girl."

Just then a fairy bearing a book with glass leaves appeared. "Read," said the Fairy Queen. "What does the clear book say about the cheerful giver?"

"He who gives freely and joyfully becomes the child of all the fairies. Although he gives away, he keeps, and happiness is always round about him."

Here the fairy closed the book and disappeared. The Fairy Queen then said:

Tommy, to his great amazement, saw that he was still holding in his hand the little tin horn which he thought was lost to him. He was about to raise it to his lips when the Fairy Queen said, "Wait!"

She clapped her hands and immediately Tommy saw the self-same rainbow which had brought him to Fancy-clime, sailing gently to his feet. At the same moment appeared the little fairy who had attended him there. She took him by the hand and they seated themselves on the rainbow which rose softly, and in a trance Tommy found himself standing before his Christmas stocking, rubbing his eyes in wonderment.

His mother had come into his room and seeing Tommy so dazed said, "What ails you, Tommy-boy?"

"I've had a wonderful trip, mother dear, to Fancy-clime where the fairies live, and they gave me a strange gift. I can give to anyone whatever he wishes. Try me."

His mother laughed and waving her hands in the air sang:

Tommy flourished his horn and blew softly—then do you know a very wonderful thing happened—a fine coach with real horses, four of them, stood restlessly pawing the earth in front of their little cottage, and Tommy's mother gazed in astonishment. Tommy's eyes widened too as he saw it, but he said, "Wish on, mother dear."

And as she wished, Tommy blew upon his horn enough presents for themselves and all the village folk beside.