IT was with heavy hearts that Max and Thekla prepared on Christmas Eve to fulfil their promise to the kind Month. Only six days lay between them and the dreaded separation; for on the New Year the Ranger was to come, and it was hard to be hopeful and patient while such sorrow drew near. There was no laughter, no frolic, as they dragged in the great fir-bough, and set it up against the door where December had directed. When it was placed, they pulled their stools to the fire and remained for a while quite silent. Both were thinking of the kind old hands which last year had hung nuts and apples on the tree, and helped to light the Christmas candles. There were no tapers now, no filberts, or green and rosy fruits,—only the fir-bough with its damp, fresh smell, and themselves sitting sadly beside the hearth.

“It is getting late,” said Thekla, at last, throwing on a fresh fagot. “I suppose the Christ-child has a great, great deal to do.”

“Or perhaps he has forgotten all about us,” added Max, despondingly.

But at that moment, as if to contradict his words, a footstep sounded at the door. The latch was raised and loudly rattled. “Hallo!” cried a voice. “Where are you all? Grandfather, children,—show a light, somebody!” And then the door opened, and plump into the middle of the tree came a young man, head foremost, as if he had dropped from the clouds.

For a moment he sat there, the green boughs framing in his ruddy face and bright yellow hair. Then he picked himself up, and exclaimed, “Well, there’s a welcome home! I didn’t expect to be made into a Christmas Angel so soon.—Max!” (wonderingly). “Is it Max? Thekla!—can it be little Thekla? Why don’t you speak? Don’t you know me? Have you forgotten Fritz?”

“Fritz!” cried the little ones. “Not our Fritz who went away so long ago?” “The very same bad shilling come again,” laughed the big brother, catching Thekla in his arms and almost squeezing her to death with a hug. “But why do you look so astonished? Didn’t Grandfather get my letter? And where is the Grandfather?” beginning to collect himself. But then he caught the look on Max’s face, and saying “Ah!” he suddenly turned very pale, and releasing Thekla sat down in the nearest chair.

“When?” he asked at length, raising his face from the hands with which he had hidden it.

“A month ago,” said Max; but Thekla, putting her arm round on the new brother’s arm, added softly, in the very words of December, “Don’t be so sorry, dear Fritz. He has gone where he is young again.”

Late into the night did they all sit over the fire, while Fritz told the story of his seven long years of absence. It seemed to the children very exciting; for Fritz had twice been shipwrecked, had seen a buffalo, and only just escaped being killed by an Indian! He had been very poor too, and suffered such hardships that he could not bear to write home the tidings of his ill-luck. But now things were better. Out on the Western frontier of the United States (here Max and Thekla smiled at each other and thought of “Chusey”) he had found employment and kind friends, and managed to save from his wages enough to buy a little farm. He told of the oaks, the noble rivers, the plentiful food and rich soil, the splendid colors of the autumn forest.

“And it is your home as well as mine,” continued Fritz. “I came back on purpose to fetch you. Oh! if Grandfather had but lived to see the day! Max shall work on the farm with me; and before he knows it he will have earned one of his own. And you, my fairy, shall keep house for us both in true German fashion; and we will all be so happy! What do you say, Liebchen? Shall it be so? Will you and Max come with me?”

Ah! wouldn’t they? Here was a Christmas gift indeed,—a home, a brother! Did ever mortal tree bear so fine a present before? They embraced Fritz over and over again, Thekla promising between her kisses to be such a housewife,—so orderly, so busy! Sauer-kraut he should never be without, nor cabbage soup, nor any thing else that was nice. And just then something droll happened which Fritz did not see, but the children did. The door opened gently a little way, and through the crack appeared the head of December, nodding and winking above the fallen fir-bough, and beaming with smiles. He pointed to Fritz’s back and then to the tree, with an “I told you so” air, noiselessly clapped his hands, and withdrew, just as Fritz shivered, and said, “Bless me, the wind has blown the door open!”

One week later a large ship weighed anchor in a port, and upon her deck stood our two children and their new brother. There was no one to see them go. All their few farewells had been spoken in the distant village and beside Grandfather’s grave. But as the heavy cables swung and heaved, and the vessel, released from bondage, moved slowly from the harbor, upon the slope of a snow-covered hill beneath which she passed, amid the nodding pines which crowned the top, a group of figures suddenly appeared. They were the twelve Months come to wave farewell to the children. There was January, disdainful as ever; sweet, rosy June; February, his honest nose reddened by the keen wind; May and April, clasping each other’s waists like a pair of school-girls. When they saw Max and Thekla on the deck, a little chorus of laughter, exclamation, and “Good-bys” could be heard. Thekla caught the sound of March’s wild “Ha! ha!” the rich voice of September; April’s gleeful laugh, as she flung a handful of violets at the ship, and her sob when they fell, as of course they did, into the water, and were borne out to sea. A moment,—no more. The children had time for only one glad smile of recognition, before the vision vanished and was gone. And no one else on the deck observed any thing but the sun dancing on the snow, the dark evergreens, and a few tossing leaves of bright color which still clung to the bare boughs of an oak-tree.

“Dear, dear Months,—how good they have been to us!” whispered Thekla, as the hill faded from view.

And the ship spread her white wings, and sailed away to the New World.

Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son.

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