“AN’ the shtar danced whin I was born—”

“That was because you were Santa Claus,” laughed the little maid.

“Faith, ’twas because I was mesilf—jest a slip av a babe that wud have gladdened your eyes to see. ’Twas a happy shtar, an’ it came geekin’ in at the windy,—An’ how are ye, me broth av a b’y?’ it seemed to say; an’ I, not knowin’ the spache av the wurrld, jest shmiled back for an answer. A shmile, or a laugh, is the best spache afther all, an’ don’t ye fergit it. Why, even the brute dorgs know the differ betwixt glum looks an’ cheerful ones. An’ the shtar wasn’t to be bate by a dorg, not it! Iv’ry blessed wurrd that lay in me heart an’ cudn’t git to me tongue’s end—the way bein’ thin unknown—was clear to it, an’ twinkle, twinkle, hop, skip, jump it wint, a-twangin’ its little fiddle in chune to its steps. Me mither’s mither—may the peace av hivin be her sowl’s rist!—near dhropped me aff her knees wid amazemint, fer niver had she beheld such divarshions; an’ by reason av the same she ran the pins into me body, mishtakin’ it fer a cushion, but niver a whoop did I let forth, bein’ all took up mesilf wid the joy av the shtar. Sure, she cud have made a clove apple av me intoirely an’ I wudn’t have been none the wiser. She rectified her mishtake did she, an’ if she’d been in doubts that all the saylestial fandarago was in me honor, she saw the truth av it thin. ‘Mavourneen,’ she sez to me mither, ‘there’s a little happy shtar widout in the hivins doin’ a quick-shtep, an’ up an’ down the middle, an’ ballings to corners all because av this new-born babe who’s laughin’ wid the humor av it—’ ‘An’ why not?’ sez me mither, wid a certain fierceness in the soft voice av her. ‘Why shudn’t the whole firmymint be set into a commotion av gladness because av him? Faith, if ye cud pennythrate to me heart,’ sez she, ‘ye’d see it dancin’ as niver was. Bring him here to me arrms, alanna, that I may cuddle him clost, so’s he can fale the bate av it.’ Thin the ould woman did as she was bid, an’ me mither—now the saints bless her swate sowl!—held me till her side an’ talked to me low, whilst the joy av her heart crept insid’yus like into me own, an’ it’s lived there iver since.”

“What did she say? Did she call you Santa Claus?”

“Faith, she didn’t—not thin, nor aftherwards. She called me Cushla ma-chree,—which manes Pulse av me Heart,—an’ Jool, an’ Precious, an’ Light av me Eyes—”

“But those are my own names, truly, all but the first one, and Heart’s Content, and—”

“Ah, the mithers—bless thim! There does be but one langwidge they spake the wurrld over. Don’t I know the truth av it? An’ the haythins as well, that haven’t a wurrd av English to their names—God pity thim, though he made thim an’ gave thim their gibberish, too—they say the same thing in their outlandish tongue, an’ the little haythins undershtand as well as you an’ me. Heart’s Contint, an’ Wurrld’s Blessin’ an’—”

“‘Dear my little own,’—only muvver made that up speshilly for me; she told me so—”

“Did she, now? Begorra, the familiarity av it sounds like music in me ears. I remimber me own mither whisperin’ something akin to it wanst whin I snuggled clost to her. Whist! ’tis out av their falin’s fer us that they do be gettin’ the wurrds afther all, an’ that’s betther than learnin’ thim from the books. Whin ye come to think av it, it ain’t to be wondered at that there’s a sort av fam’ly raysimblince betwixt thim, seein’ as their hearts are av the same complexion. Oh, there ain’t annything annyw’eres like a mither’s love.”

For just a little minute the eyes blazing with fun took on a misty twinkle, and something like a shadow crossed the old man’s face, making it seem strangely grave; but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was his merry self once more.

“It must have been a most ’normous long while ago when you were a baby,” the child said, inspecting him shyly.

“It was, me darlint; it was the beginnin’ av toime—fer me.”

“Somehow I never thought of you as a baby at all,” she went on, plainly distressed. “Oh, what ever did the little children do then for Santa Claus? There was never any other, was there?”

“Niver a wan, Swate Eyes. I’m the original, simon-pure Santa Claus, an’ no mishtake. Troth, they had to get on the best they cud widout me; an’ a sorry toime they had av it, wan an’ all. Thin I came, an’ the wurrld was a different place iver afther—so me mither towld me.”

The child breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m so glad I got born when I did. I shouldn’t have liked to be borned before you came. I’m half-past six, you know. Who filled your stocking?” she demanded the next moment, as the new idea occurred to her.

“Divil a wan I had to hang up whin I was a spalpeen; ’twas bare-futted an’ bare-legged I wint.”

“But Christmas,”—the little maid’s lip trembled,—“what did you do at Christmas?”

“’Twas like anny plain, ordinary iv’ry day to me, agra, an’ no differ; except that wanst in jest so often me mither hid a plum in the bit cake she was afther makin’ fer me, an’ I’d the joy av searchin’ it out mesilf, same as ye’d seek out a naydle in a hayrick. An’ toimes it was fat, an’ toimes ag’in ’twas like the shadder av itsilf; but glory be! I niver missed it. An’ ’twas so good, fat or lane, that I used to drame I’d give iv’ry child in the wurrld a cake all shtuffed wid plums whin I growed up—”

“That was what put it into your head to be Santa Claus.”

The man cast a sidelong glance at his companion’s eager face.

“S’pose so,” he muttered.

“But the star knew all along, and that’s why it danced and couldn’t keep still.” She stole her hand into the curve of his arm, and gave it a soft little squeeze. “Tell me ’bout that first time,” she coaxed.

“What first toime?”

“When you went Santa Clausing. Were you very long growing up?”

“’Twas a terrible long spell from the b’y’s ind, an’ a terrible short wan from the man’s,—all av which you’ll undershtand whin your hair is me own color. But ’twas over an’ done wid sooner or late, an’ there I was a man grown, though the heart av me has always been like a child’s because av the shtar—”

“And ’cause you belong to us.”

“’Tis a Solymon King av Sheba ye are, alanna. Well, I wint about me work, an’ I toiled up an’ down the wurrld; but the goin’ was joyful like, ’count av the fun I left in me wake, an’ iv’rywheres folks seemed powerful glad to see me.”

“I tried to keep awake last Christmas Eve,” she broke in shrilly, “after muvver hanged up my stocking, but the sandman would come. I’d been awake so long that when he crept in in his long gray cloak and with his bag on his back, I thought it was truly you, and my heart went thumpety thump. But he shook out the sand—sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle. ‘To-night of all nights you must sleep,’ he said; and I cried ‘No,’ and closed my eyes quick, so’s the sand couldn’t get in; and when I opened them the next minute it was quite morning—not yellow morning, you know, but just the baby light that comes first. Then very soft, so’s not to ’sturb muvver, I crawled out of bed, ’cause it made me incontented to lie still, and there was my stocking, full to the brim. I knew who’d filled it—” She stopped in her recital to smile at him and to pat his arm again. “Then I climbed up on a chair to take it down, and muvver laughed out loud. ‘Come back to bed, dear my little own,’ she said; ‘bring the stocking, and cuddle down warm and snug in blanket land.’ So I did; and she kissed me and I kissed her, and we both said ‘Merry Christmas’ to each uver. She went fast asleep again, but cert’inly you couldn’t expect a little girl could sleep. I felt all my presents; muvver says us little folks have eyes in our finger tips; and every minute the light grew brighter, and then—I really saw! Dear, dear Santa Claus, how could you ’member just what I wanted?” She rubbed her dimpling cheek ecstatically against the old sleeve. “But you didn’t put anything in muvver’s stocking,” she added softly.

He could not meet her reproachful glance.

“’Twas in a hurry I was,” he mumbled, “an’ me bastes shtampin’ widout in the cowld—”

“Oh, she didn’t know,” the child interrupted, “’cause when she was tight asleep I found her stocking, and I put that very rosy-cheeked apple you’d put in mine quite far, far down in hers, and some nuts, too. Cert’inly I couldn’t give her the little doll or the picture book, ’cause grown-ups don’t care for such things, really; but things to eat are different. You don’t mind, do you?”

He did not answer. For the moment it almost seemed as if he had not heard. His head was turned quite away.

“And she was s’prised—oh! you can’t think—and glad, too; so glad her eyes got all shiny and bright. But you can’t guess what happened next. She said, ‘Bless my Santa Claus.’ Wasn’t that funny? And then she kissed me most ’s if she ’spected.”

Danny and Whitefoot felt a sudden queer twitch on the reins—a compelling touch that made them both swerve out of the direction they were taking. It was almost as if their driver meant them to turn around. Much earlier in the day, when they first left Wistar’s, for instance, such a command would not have appeared singular; but coming at a time when the tavern lay so far behind as to be forgotten, when the world seemed a blanket of drift and down and glistening silver, with no house in sight, the action was at least puzzling to their equine minds. They stopped instantly, however, the noise of their bells hushed into silence. Whitefoot turned a wondering face upon his master, and almost immediately Danny looked protestingly around. The man met their gaze half guiltily. Beyond—oh, very far beyond—lay Merle, with its Christmas fun,—Merle, where he must be that night, or his name would be the jibe of the countryside; and back of them—a good twelve miles, perhaps fifteen, they had jogged on at such a steady pace—was that solitary house. If he turned round it must be good-by to Merle; it would be impossible for Danny and Whitefoot to make the journey again without rest. He shifted the reins from one hand to the other.

“Why are we stopping?” asked the child.

He looked at her in some perplexity, then his brow cleared.

“To give the bastes their feed; they’re perishin’ wid hunger, so they are, the saints fergive me,” he answered, in a relieved tone, glad to postpone his decision for a time.

He threw back the robes as he spoke, and sprang out on the ground. Where they had stopped the narrow, lane-like road widened for a considerable space into a plain again and a well, not far distant from the track, now furnished water for the team, after which a bag at the back of the sleigh poured forth grain into the pails; and when these were set before the horses they fell to work as if Terry’s words were in danger of coming true. The child watched the proceedings with wide eyes.

“They’re only just very woolly horses, after all,” she said, with a tinge of disappointment in her voice, “in the books they’re reindeer.”

“Sure, the reindeers is at home savin’ up forninst this night. I cudn’t be dhrivin’ thim in the broad daylight, alanna dear; folks wud think us a thravellin’ circus widout the elefunt. Begorra, ’tis shtarvin’ I am mesilf, an’ I’ll take my Alfred-Davy ye’re in the same boat. We’ll be afther havin’ a snack oursilves an’ a dhrop av somethin’ warmin’. Tumble back into the sleigh, mavourneen, an’ wrap yoursilf up clost till I shpread the tablecloth ag’inst the bankquid.”

The tablecloth, as was speedily disclosed, was nothing more than a very greasy newspaper, which was wrapped around a huge pile of sandwiches, each with a rim of bacon showing darkly between its thick slices of bread, a hunk of cheese, and some fat crackers; but the finest damask under other circumstances would not have seemed half so beautiful in her eyes. And she had no quarrel with the coarse fare. Hunger, after all, is the best sauce for appetite that can be served with any meal, and it is more apt to come in with the plain dishes than with the elaborate ones, as Santa Claus and his little sweetheart proved.

“Faith, I cud ate a nail wid relish if nothin’ else was handy,” he laughed, as he made his first onslaught on the sandwich he was holding, and lessened it by a third, “but this is a dish to set before a king, so tinder an’ tasty as it is. Take a rale thry at it, me darlint; ye do be nibblin’ sech little grand lady bites ye’ll niver be t’rough. ’Tis wan sandwidge I’ve put away already, an’ ye but embarkin’ on the top roof av yours. Here’s the second to kape ye comp’ny, Brown Eyes.” He took an enormous mouthful, and smiled at her, while he was rendered speechless, and she smiled back, mute, too, from a similar reason.

“Did ye iver taste betther?” he made out to ask.

“Never,” she answered promptly; and she really spoke the truth. Sawdust eaten in such companionship would have seemed as palatable as sugar, and the present food was like the ambrosia of the high gods. Even those delicious sandwiches that her mother made for her sometimes, with the little slice of ham blushing faintly between the dainty pieces of bread where the butter lay like a filmy, glistening veil, had never seemed so good and satisfying as these big grown-up ones eaten under the high blue sky in that country of snow and ice.

As soon as the sandwiches had disappeared Santa Claus covered a cracker with bits of cheese like nuggets of gold, and presented it to her with a bow as if she were a queen. It seemed a fitting crown to the feast, though apparently he had quite other ideas of a crown, as was soon shown. When the crackers and cheese were all eaten, and even the last crumb chased home and captured, he put his hand into the breast of his coat and drew out a flat, dark bottle which he regarded with loving eyes.

“Here’s me beauty,” he cried; “here’s what’s to top aff a faste a king wudn’t disdain; here’s something he wudn’t give the go-by to, not he!”

“What is it?” the little maid asked curiously.

“What is it? Troth, ’twud take an hour by the clock to tell all the names it has the wurrld over; an’ some is good, an’ some is bad—the names, I’m manin’. Merry-go-down an’ Tangle-legs,—that’s shlander’us! an’ Water av Health, an’ Odivvy, as the Frenchies say, which is the same as Water av Life; but I’m not so much fer water in it mesilf, likin’ it nate. Then there’s Oil av Gladness an’—Sure ye shall have the first taste, mavourneen, as ’tis fit an’ proper—ladies always lead. Come, shtand up an’ give us the toast—”

“The toast—” she looked around bewildered; “why, we’ve eaten all the bread, and there isn’t any fire—”

“This is the fire an’ the bread too,” roared Santa Claus. “Bless your innercent sowl, me dear, ’tis a propysition I’m afther askin’ ye fer. Whist now, the fellies at the tavern sit ’round, an’ before they drink wan will git up an’ say, a-wavin’ av his glass, ‘Here’s to him’—namin’ some wan prisint; or ‘Here’s to honist hearts an’ true;’ or ‘Here’s to thim at home, God love thim!’ an’ we all drink to it. So now thin, Swate Eyes, spake quickly, an’ drink long, an’ pass the bottle spadily if ye love me, fer iv’ry minnit’s an hour till it quinches me thirst.”

She got to her feet quite gravely, her eyebrows drawn together in the little pucker they always made when she was thinking very hard; and first she looked up at the sky, and then around at the stretch of land where the sparkles under the crusted snow flashed like so many imprisoned diamonds, and then at the sky again as if for inspiration. Finally her glance rested upon him, leaning forward, regarding her with his merry smile.

“Why, here’s to you,” she cried, “our very own, ownest Santa Claus.”

She tipped the bottle against her lips as she finished speaking, gurgled a little, choked, spluttered—

“Saints above! child, howld your hand stiddy,” Terry shouted. “’Tis your hood-shtrings an’ your coat as is gettin’ all that precious elixir, an’ iv’ry dhrop av it a jool.”

“Oh, take it away very quick,” she gasped. “I’m sorry to spill it, but it’s most dreffly horrid.”

“Aisy, me darlint, aisy! There’s no accountin’ fer tastes, as the ould woman said when she kissed her cow. It’s a quare wurrld this is; but sure, ’tis a most glorious dispinsation av Providince that we don’t all be thinkin’ alike. See! I’ll have to take your share as well as me own. An’ first, here’s me hand on me heart to your toast, an’ the honor av it; ’tis proud I am at this minnit, an’ next, here’s to ye—shtandin’—here’s to the best thing a man can have in this wurrld,—the love av a little child.”

She stood up facing him, and bowed as he had done.

“Here’s me hand on me heart to your toast,” she echoed, “an’ the honor of it, ’tis proud I am at this minute.”

Then she climbed back on the seat and watched him with round eyes as he tilted his head very far back and took a deep draught. If his attack on the sandwiches had astonished her, this new conduct awakened all her wonder. As he took the bottle from his lips he uttered a sigh which immediately slipped into a loud guffaw at sight of her expression.

“You can’t like it,” she shuddered.

“I’m not quarrellin’ wid the taste,” he answered, “an’ annyway, ’tis by the docthor’s orders I do be takin’ a dhrop av the crayther, to kape the cold out an’ the warm in. A nip once in jest so often, the wise ould man sez, an’ don’t improve on the occasions, mind ye! But sure, there’s a toast I haven’t yet given, an’ that’s to our next merry meetin’, an’ may it come sooner than ’tis expected.”

He neither looked nor bowed her way; indeed, the words were addressed to his familiar spirits, and his eyes were fixed solely upon what he held in his hand. After a moment he put the bottle back in his breast, and buttoned his coat securely across.

“An’ now to juty, swateheart,” he cried, springing out of the sleigh, “the raypast is over, an’ the horses have gorged thimsilves like magisthrates, the rapaycious gossoons! Come, be shpry, an’ lind a hand wid the pails.”

She did not wait to be told twice, but bustled around delightedly, helping him stow the buckets among the dingy bags and barrels which formed the prosaic load this Santa Claus carried.

“Jest food forninst to-morry fer the shantymen,” he explained, as she prodded the bulging sacks with inquisitive fingers. “They axed me to fetch along their Christmas dinner. Oh, they knowed their man. An’ I, that obligin’, cudn’t say no till thim. If I’d hardened me heart like Phareyo we wudn’t be knowin’ aitch other this blessed minnit; so ’tis glad I am that I’m mild as a mid-summer night by nature an’ dishposition. Let’s limber up a bit afore we shtart ag’in on our thravels; ’tis shtiff I am in the fate av me. All hands down the middle, sashy to corners. Gintlemin, take your pardners—gintlemin twirl your gurrls! Ladies change!”

He roared out the calls, as he had so often done in the different taverns when he sat with his fiddle beneath his chin and played such enlivening strains that nobody who heard them could keep still. This time, however, he was going to cut pigeon-wings himself, and do wonderful double-shuffles; and he needed both hands to swing his little thistledown of a partner, so the old fiddle lay undisturbed in the bottom of the sleigh, while he whistled and sang the tunes with great gusto.

It was a scene unlike any he had ever known. Instead of the long, low rooms with the candles, set a-row in bottles, spluttering through the haze of dust and giving out, besides their meagre light, a smell of dripping tallow, where the air was noisy with the scraping and pounding of many feet, and shouts and laughter rose on every side, was this wide, beautiful place with its pure white carpet and the roof of blue far, far above. Its remote walls were hung with white, where the low hills climbed skyward. And nearer, where the woods began, tall snow-crowned trees stood, their branches shining with frost. Clumps of bushes, with here and there a stunted isolated tree, dressed in the same glittering garments, took on fantastic shapes as if they were spectators; nor were they the only ones,—the furtive little people of the forest in feathers and fur peeped out from their shelter to watch with all their eyes, and then to murmur under their breaths: “How mad these mortals be!”

Terry stood at one side of the road some distance beyond the sleigh, and opposite him, her face aglow with excitement, her eyes like twin stars, the child waited. As he bowed with a great flourish, bringing his old cap to rest over his heart, she swept him a curtsey so low that her skirts stood stiffly out on the ground,—“a cheese” she would have called it; then the next instant she sprang to her feet again and poised on tip-toe, watching eagerly for his signal.

“Now,” he called, “now, thin, darlint, ready.”

She raised her right hand high in air, as if to meet the one he extended toward her, and skimmed across the shimmering floor close, close to him; their fingers met, clasped, parted—and she was in his place and he in hers. Then dipping, bowing, swaying, they advanced, retreated, advanced again; passed each other, now disdaining hands, each twisting and turning alone as if the other did not exist; then repentant, meeting, joining forces, and with hands crossed, setting off together—oh! happy word—in swift sliding steps that scarcely touched the ground, so light they seemed; and up the road and down the road they went, laughing, shouting, singing. It was the maddest, merriest dance! The snow whirled up from their flying feet in soft clouds, and lo! each tiniest particle was a fairy; the air was full of graceful bending shapes fluttering here and there, there and here, until at last, quite tired out, they dropped to earth again to twinkle and sparkle, chattering softly to one another of the fun they had had. Only an old man and a small child light of heart and heels dancing out there in the wide country, do you say? Oh, no! oh, no! Santa Claus and his little sweetheart; and, as if that were not happiness enough, there were the others besides,—the snow fairies (and no dancers are like them anywhere), and the spirits of the plains sending back the gay music and laughter, and the spirits that dwell in the woods in their soft shadowy robes winding between the trees in a stately measure, and the spirits of the wind laughing softly among the snow-laden, ice-gemmed branches, and the spirit of the high blue sky smiling down on everything.

Hitherto the little maid had only danced by herself, or with her shadow, or her dolls,—those rather unsatisfactory partners whose limp legs went every which way; but she was happy at all times because she kept the fairy, Content, in her breast. Now joy came to her in larger fashion. She waved her hand to sparkling earth and smiling sky as she darted up and down like some belated butterfly caught tenderly up into the heart of winter, a bit of glowing color. She saw the dancers in the clearing,—young eyes are sharp eyes, surely!—and I think she caught glimpses, too, of the shy woodland creatures peering out in open-mouthed amazement; she blew a kiss toward them, anyway. Tired? Not a bit. Tired? She could dance forever. Faster, faster, faster, like the little red top at home she spun, and then slower, slow-er, and more slowly. The little top always did that just before it hummed off to sleep. Faster again, slow—Two strong arms caught her and flung her up quite high toward the sky; how blue it was! Then—how blue Santa Claus’ eyes were, and how they twinkled, giving back the picture of herself! She laughed into them gayly, and his deep merriment echoed her flute-like notes. Swiftly he carried her to the sleigh, wrapped her close in the thick rug again, then sprang to his place, and gathered up the reins.

“Och, ’tis the most thriminjious shtepper-out ye are,” he cried. “’Twas the iligantest shport in the wurrld, bar none. Go on, me b’ys.”

Jingle, jangle went the bells; sober music surely, after what had gone before. It was like the little tune when the dance is done and the lights are burning low that, no matter how jolly it may be, still sounds sad, because in and out of its lilt run the words: “Good-by, pleasure, good-by.”

Jingle, jangle clashed the bells as Danny and Whitefoot settled very gravely to their work. On and on they went, through the woods and over the barren stretches, but always toward the north. There was no thought of turning back.