  It was to be a particularly jolly Christmas in Danny’s home this year, for his soldier uncle was going to be there, and two or three little cousins. His mother had made some big plum puddings; the house was decorated with holly and mistletoe; and, to put the final touch of perfection, it was snowing, and the boys would be able to make a snow man on Christmas afternoon. Danny was very happy—all seemed perfect. But on the morning of Christmas Eve a letter came by post that altered things. The letter was from Danny’s Uncle Bill. It was a sad letter. It told how Bill and his wife, who had looked forward to a happy Christmas, would have a dull and sad one. Their son, expected home from Germany, could not get leave. They had both been so ill with influenza that Bill had not been able to work, and was therefore terribly hard up; and his wife had been unable to go out and buy anything to make Christmas jolly. Bill was a woodcutter, and lived in a little tiny old cottage on the edge of a wood, about five miles from Danny’s home. As Danny listened to his mother reading the letter aloud a thought came into his mind. At first he tried to send it away, and not to see it, but a voice within him said, “You’re a Cub, and when good ideas come to you, you ought not to tell them to go away. It is giving in to yourself. If you are selfish, you will not enjoy your Christmas.” So Danny let the thought come back, and presently he told it to his mother. “Mother,” he said, “will you pack up some nice things in a basket? Then I will start off after breakfast, and walk over to poor Uncle Bill’s. And I’ll decorate up all their house with holly, and go and do shopping for Aunt Bridget, and then I’ll spend Christmas with them, and try and cheer them up and make them forget they’re disappointed ’cos Ted hasn’t come home.” Danny’s mother was surprised. “You’re a good boy to think of it,” she said. “But have you forgotten the Cubs’ party on Christmas evening?” “No,” said Danny, “I haven’t forgotten it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled, to pretend he didn’t mind at all about missing the Christmas party, where all his fellow Cubs would be enjoying themselves. “I’ll be sorry to miss Uncle Jim,” he said. “Tell him so, mother, won’t you? And keep me a bit of plum pudding. But I must go and cheer up poor Uncle Bill.” And so half an hour later he started off to tramp the long five miles, a kit-bag full of good things slung over his shoulder. The snowflakes fell soft and white, and the feeling of Christmas was in the air. And Danny was very happy—far happier than he had expected to be this Christmas. . . . . . . . . As he tramped along the snowy roads he was thinking of the strange story of Uncle Bill, and the bad luck that had seemed to follow him. Bill’s father had been a man who owned a good deal of property, and a very clever man too, able to earn much money. But from boyhood he had been a miser. His one thought had been to earn gold and then store it away in secret, and count it up and gloat over it; but never spend more than he possibly could help, and never, never give any away. And so he brought up his children in rags, and often they had to go hungry and barefoot. He sold his property, to get more gold, and lived in a miserable little house by a wood. At last his three boys, tired of this wretched life, ran away from home and went to sea. Two of them were drowned, and Bill found himself the only remaining member of his family, with the exception of his sister, Danny’s mother, who had married and left home. When Bill was twenty-one he received a message saying that his father was dead, and that all the gold he had amassed during his life would now belong to his son. So, feeling he was a very rich man, he married a nice girl from the little Irish seaport where he was staying, and returned home as quickly as possible. But when he reached his native village he learnt the bad news that the miser had died without leaving any will, and had hidden his gold so well that no one could find it. All that poor Bill inherited was a little old cottage and a woodcutter’s ax. There was nothing for it but to make the best of a bad job, and settle down in the little house and become a woodcutter. And so Bill and his young wife did their best to make a comfortable home of the old place; but it was a hard life, and it was difficult always to be contented when they knew that somewhere thousands of golden sovereigns lay hidden that should have belonged to them. One son was born to them, and now he was nineteen, and had been fighting in France for the last year. . . . . . . . . It had been a long tramp, but at last Danny found himself in the wood on the borders of which was Uncle Bill’s cottage. There was plenty of lovely holly covered with berries in this wood; and up in an oak tree Danny saw some mistletoe. So, putting down his bundle and taking out his knife, he climbed the tree and cut down a great bunch of it, and then filled his arms with holly. He looked like the very spirit of Christmas as he stood in the doorway of Uncle Bill’s house, the snow thick on him, his red muffler making a bright patch of colour, his arms full of holly and mistletoe, and a great bulging kit-bag, slung across his back. The little room of the cottage looked dull and dismal. Only a tiny fire burned feebly in the great open fireplace. Bill and his wife, looking pale and ill, sat one each side, in silence. But Danny’s appearance seemed to work a miracle. He had brought the spirit of youth to the house. Before long they were all laughing. He and Uncle Bill were putting up holly above the pictures, and hanging the mistletoe in the chimney-corner. And Bridget was unpacking the kit-bag. Before long Danny had been out and chopped some logs, so that a fire was roaring and crackling up the chimney, and sending sparks flying like fire-fairies. “This is something like Christmas,” said Uncle Bill, as they sat down to a good dinner from what Danny had brought, though the plum pudding and mince pies were being kept for Christmas Day. After dinner Danny started off for the village to buy the things Aunt Bridget needed. By the time he had finished his shopping and was starting back again for the woodcutter’s, the sun had set, in a glory of red, beyond the snowy trees, and blue dusk was quickly closing in. . . . . . . . . As Danny passed the last house in the village he was surprised to see a figure standing in the garden. He had noticed this house before, as he passed, and had seen that it stood empty, the windows shuttered, the doors locked, and everything deserted. Coming nearer, he looked curiously at the figure. It was that of a very, very old man, thin and bent, with a long white beard, and long white hair. He was shaking his head and talking to himself in a most sorrowful voice. “A sorry thing, a sorry thing,” he was saying, “to be gone eighty year old and never a corner to lay your head on Christmas Eve.” Danny stopped, filled with pity for the aged man. “Hullo, grandad!” he said, “is there anything I can do for you?” The old man shook his head mournfully. “Nay, nay,” he said, “I be eighty year old, and I’ve walked nine mile to spend Christmas with me gran’son, and now I come to his house and find it empty. I haven’t got nowhere to lay me head this night, and not a penny to pay for a lodging. It’s dying of cold I’ll be, a-lying in a ditch all night.” And he took out a big red handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his eyes. It was too sad to think of this! Somehow a happy Christmas must be provided for this old man, so pathetically like Father Christmas himself! Danny knew the charitable spirit that Uncle Bill always showed, and the warm, generous heart of his Irish aunt, and so he felt sure they would welcome this poor old stranger. “Come home with me, grandad,” he said, “you’ll find a roaring log fire, and an armchair in the chimney corner, and to-morrow you shall eat Christmas pudding.” The old man looked almost dazed with surprise. He peered closer at Danny. “Is it a Christmas fairy you are, out of the wood?” he said in a whisper. This was splendid, to be taken for a fairy! “Yes,” said Danny, laughing; and taking the aged man’s cold, gnarled old hand, he led him through the wood to his uncle’s house. “Shure,” cried his aunt as she opened the door. “I do believe he’s afther bringing us Faither Christmas himself.” Danny soon explained, and Bill and Bridget gave the old stranger a warm welcome. “They do say,” exclaimed Bridget, “that if you welcome a stranger on Christmas Eve, he may be an Angel.” “’Tain’t no Angel as I be,” said the old man, shaking his head. And then he laughed, and he had little, twinkling eyes. “If there be an Angel about, ’tis yourself, or the boy here.” Every one was hungry that night, and supper was a cheery meal. But after supper came the time Danny longed for. The lamp was put out (to save the oil), and the bright, dancing firelight glowed in the quaint little room, with its crooked beams and uneven floor. In the deep chimney-corner, one on each side, sat Bill and Bridget, and enthroned in the large armchair before the fire sat the ancient stranger, puffing contentedly at a long clay pipe. Danny was curled up on the rabbit-skin rug. “Now,” he said, his eyes dancing with expectation, “now for stories.” So, to the accompaniment of crackles from the logs, Bill recounted many a strange and thrilling yarn of his sailor days. At last he was silent. “Grandad,” said Danny, turning to the ancient stranger, “will you tell us a story? A mysterious one. I’m sure there were fairies and hobgoblins when you were a boy, long, long ago. Or, do you know a ghost story?” The old man nodded his head. “Yes,” he said, “there were fairies, sure enough, when I was a boy. But I was not a good enough boy to see them. But a hobgoblin I did see, once. ’Twas on just such a night as this—Christmas Eve, with snow on the ground,—and ’twas but a stone’s throw from this very house.” This was splendid! Danny turned round and fixed his eyes on the old man’s face. “Tell us, tell us,” he whispered. . . . . . . . . “I was born in this here village,” he said, “and here I married a lass. And here my son was born. And ’twas on his first Christmas he fell ill of the croup. Very near death he was, and my wife begged me to run fast as I could to fetch the doctor. The shortest way was through this here wood, and though I was afeared something terrible of the little people as might come after me in the dark, still for love of the boy I came this way. “’Twas moonlight, and, as I reached the end of the wood, just about outside of this house, I breathed again with relief. But too soon—for when I got to the Druids’ Oak (you know it, for sure—that big old oak, the last of the wood), I saw a hobgoblin.” The old man made an impressive pause. Danny was gazing at him, round-eyed. “What was it like?” he said. “’Twas dressed all in a black cloak, with a hood over its head, and it had a great bag on its back. It was up in the Druids’ Oak, and just before I got to it, it dropped to the ground, light as a feather, and ran quickly into the shadows. I was half mad with fear, and, calling on the saints to protect me, I ran and never stopped till I reached the doctor’s house. That story is true, by all that’s holy. I swear ’tis true.” “How big was the hobgoblin?” asked Danny. “Near as big as you,” said the old man. “I thought they was smaller, so it frightened me the more. “I told the story to one and another in the village, and some laughed at me, but one or two, very solemn-like, told me they had seen that hobgoblin, too. They said that ’twas very lucky to see it, but one must not talk of it to any man. One man told me that the next day he went by daylight past the same tree, and in the snow found a gold piece, which was just what he was sorely needing. He was sure ’twas the hobgoblin had put it there for him. And sure enough, my baby was cured from croup from that time.” “Do you think the hobgoblin still lives in the oak?” asked Danny, “and still comes out on Christmas Eve.” “Yes,” said the ancient stranger, “hobgoblins live for five hundred years. This one is still in the oak as likely as not. And they used to say he always comes out on Christmas Eve.” “Oh,” cried Danny. “I wish I could see him! Perhaps he would bring luck to Uncle Bill.” The great log fire was beginning to burn low. The ancient stranger was beginning to nod. The church clock struck ten through the stillness of the clear night, while the earth slept beneath its counterpane of snow. “Time to turn in,” said Bill. He took the aged stranger and led him to the little room that would have been Danny’s, but which Danny had insisted should be given to the stranger, saying he could sleep very well on the rabbit-skin rug before the fire. “I think I shall go and look for the hobgoblin,” said Danny. “’Tis foolishness you are talking, child,” said Bridget. “There do be no hobgoblins in this country. If you must be afther getting good luck for me and your oncle, go to midnight Mass and pray for us! ’Tis more likely ye will get what ye do be wantin’ there than from hobgoblins.” . . . . . . . . But when all was still and the stranger was snoring, and the line of yellow light under Bill and Bridget’s door had vanished, Danny got softly up from the skin before the fire, and put on his cap and coat and muffler, took down a lantern from the wall, and put a box of matches in his pocket. Then he unbarred the door, and let himself out into the snowy night. A few minutes later he was standing in the shadows, gazing with awe and expectation at the Druids’ Oak, where it stood, gnarled and ancient, in the moonlight. For some time he stood there watching, but it was very cold, and he grew impatient. Walking with silent steps over the snow, he went up to the tree, and laid his hand on the rough, knobbly trunk. The night was perfectly still, the moon shone steady and white, and at that moment the church clock struck eleven, slowly and clearly. Danny shuddered. This was the hour for ghosts and hobgoblins to prowl. The next hour—twelve to one o’clock—would be the holy hour, when we remember the birth of the Divine Babe. The last stroke of eleven had scarcely died away when there was a scraping, scrabbling sound from the very heart of the oak, seemingly coming from beneath Danny’s hand. He started, and his heart seemed to miss a beat, and then race on. Something within him seemed to say “Run, run,” and his legs almost obeyed, but his will was stronger than his instinct, and remembering that he was a Cub and must not give in to himself, he stood his ground, only drawing a little into the shadow. He watched the tree intently—was he at last to see a hobgoblin? Something black moved in the stumpy branches, at the top of the thick, low trunk. Then with a hoot, a great owl floated out, on soft, silent wings, and flew swiftly away into the shadows. Danny breathed hard. For a while he did not move; then, giving way once more to his impatience, he went up to the tree. It was curious that the scraping sound should have seemed to come from the very heart of the trunk; it must be a hollow tree, he told himself. Then that was where the hobgoblin lived. Perhaps he had changed himself into an owl, and flown away on his midnight adventures! An idea suddenly struck Danny. He would climb the tree, and see if it was possible to get down into its hollow inside. He would then find the home of the hobgoblin, and perhaps the mysterious door into fairy-land! He lit his lantern and hooked it on a branch; then climbed up by the knots which seemed to form little steps. Yes, sure enough the tree was hollow. There was a hole down into its inside just big enough for a boy to squeeze through. Danny tied a piece of string to his lantern, and let it down through the hole. Carefully he lowered it until at last it rested on the ground. Then he peered down. To his amazement he found that a little ladder led down the inside of the tree! Without a moment’s hesitation he descended the ladder. The tree was like a tiny round room inside, and in the floor at his feet was a hole with a little, narrow staircase leading down. Danny pinched himself. Was he dreaming? No, he was certainly awake. Could this really be the way into fairy-land? He had only half believed in the hobgoblin all the time. But now he began to think it must really all be true. Taking up his lantern, he carefully descended the steps, one by one—there were ten of them—and found himself in a little kind of grotto. The walls were of earth and full of gnarled tree roots. The grotto was empty, except for a rough wooden chest that looked as if it had been made by someone who was not a very good carpenter. With trembling hands Danny raised the lid and looked in. A number of large leather bags were ranged, side by side, at the bottom, and among them was a stout leather book. Breathing hard, Danny lifted out one of the bags. It was very heavy. He placed it on the floor and it chinked. Then he untied the string, and put his hand in. It was a fistful of glittering coins that he drew forth! Suddenly it all flashed into his mind. The miser and his hidden money—this must have been his hiding-place! Where the hobgoblin came in he did not know or care. All that mattered was that he had found the hidden treasure that belonged to Uncle Bill, and would make him a rich man. One by one Danny lifted out the leather bags. “There must be thousands of pounds there,” he told himself. The sovereigns were funny looking ones, with the head of Queen Victoria when quite young on them. Last of all he took out the fat, leather book. Then, very carefully, he managed to hoist one bag after another up the tree, and dump it down on the snow. At last he climbed down himself. Very softly he carried his treasure into the cottage. Looking for somewhere to put the bags, an idea struck him and he hung them in a row on the nails in the high mantelshelf, over the great open hearth. How pleased Uncle Bill would be: what a wonderful Christmas surprise! And with that thought it struck Danny how good it was of God to have let him find the missing money for his uncle. He glanced at the clock. A quarter to twelve it said. Aunt Bridget had said he should go to midnight Mass and pray for their luck to come back. Now he could do better than that, he could go and thank God for having given it back! Putting on his cap once more, he hurried out along the snowy path, and turned into the warm, lighted church. Never had he thanked God so fervently for anything. But soon he forgot all about the money, in the wonderful sense of Christmas morning, and the new realization of the Little Christ born to be the Brother and the Saviour of men. Very sleepily he stumbled home, and curled up on the rug before the red glow of smouldering logs. . . . . . . . . “How soundly he sleeps,” said Uncle Bill, the next morning as he lighted the lamp and bent over Danny. Bridget laughed, and shook him by the shoulders. Danny opened his eyes and sat up. His first thought was to look up at the mantelpiece. Yes, there hung the bags. “Thank God,” he said, “I was afraid it was a dream.” Bill and Bridget looked up too. “What are they?” said Bill, a puzzled expression on his face, “plum puddings?” Danny laughed. “No, no,” he said. “Look!” He unhooked a bag, and shook out the shining contents on to the rabbit skin rug. The sovereigns gleamed and glinted in the lamplight. Bill and Bridget stood speechless. Then Danny explained all that had happened. At last they examined the book. It was inscribed at the beginning with the miser’s name, in a little crabbed handwriting. And there were entries made every Christmas Eve, beginning with Christmas, 1830. Each Christmas there was a larger sum to record, until at last in 1898 was entered £3,100. “And it’s all yours, uncle,” said Danny, smacking Bill on the back. Bill’s heart was too full to speak, at first; but Bridget had plenty to say—all that they would do with it—all that this would mean for the boy’s future and their old age. . . . . . . . . The stranger joined them at breakfast. “Didn’t I tell you he was Father Christmas or a Holy Angel?” said Bridget. “See what he has brought us.” “Nay, ’tis the lad,” said the ancient stranger. “I said ’e was a fairy. Or, maybe, ’twas the hobgoblin—he always brings luck; and the owl who flew out of the tree was him, as likely as not.” Bill was a pious man, not given to belief in such things. “No,” he said, “’twas the Holy Child, bringing us a Christmas gift, for love of the boy here, who was willing to give up his happy Christmas at home to come and cheer up his poor old uncle.” “And to give his bed to an old, lonely stranger,” added the old man. Danny flushed. “No, no,” he said, “it wasn’t for my sake. But I do think uncle is right about it being a Christmas present. I went to midnight Mass to thank for it.” Aunt Bridget kissed him for the twentieth time, and Bill cleared his throat, which seemed rather husky. “But what about the hobgoblin, really?” said Danny. “Grandad, here, swears he saw him; and you see it was true about the Druids’ Oak being a wonderful tree.” Bill went to a big press in the corner of the room. “I think I know who the hobgoblin was. Come here, son,” he added. Danny went to him, and behind the door of the cupboard Uncle Bill arrayed him in an old black cloak and hood. “Now, hang a bag over your shoulder, and hurry across the room, bent-up like, and see if grandad don’t think he’s seeing his hobgoblin again,” he said. Danny obeyed, and the old man started up. “’Tis him, ’tis him!” he said, “the very same.” They all laughed. “My father,” said Bill, “was a very small, thin, little old man, not much bigger than Danny. ’Twas him you saw, fetching back his money on Christmas Eve to count it, and enter it in his book.” The old man was nodding his head slowly. “So, after all I’ve never seen a hobgoblin,” he said. “I’m eighty year old—I shall die afore I get another chance.” “Never mind, grandad,” said Bridget, “ye’ll be afther seeing the Angels then, so it’ll be all right.” |
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