AS Christmas drew near Tommy was full of expectancy. In the windows of the village shops pictures of Santa Claus were now displayed. Santa Claus was a tall old gentleman with flowing beard and long, white hair; he wore a bright red cloak, and on his back was a sack almost bursting with the pressure of the toys it held.

Like the other children of Draeth, Tommy flattened his turned-up nose against the shop windows and looked at the treasures within; looked until he could see no longer because of his breath upon the glass. A vigorous rubbing with his coat sleeve set matters right once more, and again his roving fancy pitched first on one then on another of the toys beyond his reach.

It was about a week before Christmas, and Mrs. Tregennis was preparing Tommy for his nightly wash in the zinc bath in front of the kitchen fire.

“Mammy,” he said, thoughtfully surveying his toes when the home-knitted stockings had been pulled off inside out. “I be growin’ so that they stockin’s be rather small for I, same as my vestises.”

“Your vestises, Tommy Tregennis, do be run up in the wash, but I see nothin’ at all wrong with they stockin’s; they’m good stockin’s, ’n ’ll do you my son for a month o’ Sundays.”

Tommy’s diplomacy had failed. His lip trembled slightly. “Mammy, when Santy Claus do come down the bedroom chimbley ’n finds this tiddely stockin’ hangin’ on the rail, he’ll not be able to slip in even ’n orange, let ’lone a drum.”

“That’s so, ma handsome.” Mrs. Tregennis knitted her brow in perplexed thought.

“’ll tell you what, ma lovely,” she said after a few moments’ pause. “We’ll hang a big stocking of your Daddy’s on the rail instead.”

This suggestion brought no comfort to Tommy.

“Then he’ll go ’n think as how ’tis Daddy’s stockin’,” he objected; “’n he’ll be puttin’ in pipes, ’n baccy, ’n things; ’n I don’t want they—leastways, not yet,” he added as an afterthought. “I wants a drum.”

Mammy understood the difficulty. “Well,” she said, after another and a longer pause, “we’ll hang up your Daddy’s stockin’, but we’ll write on a bit of paper ’Little Tommy Tregennis’, ’n pin it on the leg, ’n the old gentleman’ll never know no better.”

Tommy was pleased with this plan. Before going to sleep, however, he stipulated that Daddy’s stocking should be well darned before it was hung up, so that no little gift could escape either by way of the heel or the toe.

Three days before Christmas the children were discussing Santa Claus at school.

Jonathan Hex, who was bigger than the rest, scoffed openly: “There warn’t no Santy Claus,” he said, “it was just fathers and mothers it was, as came in when you were asleep ’n rammed the things in the stockin’ ’n crep’ out again on tippety toes.”

The other children were indignant at such unbelief, and Jonathan was obliged to retract, otherwise he would have been excluded from the circle gathered round the fire.

Jimmy Prynne had a grievance against the size of chimneys in Draeth. Jimmy was six, and easily remembered previous Christmases. Last year, for instance, he found only a tiny box of chocolates in his stocking, and his mother had read him a letter that came along with it; in fact he had the letter at home now:

“Dear Jimmy Prynne (it ran)

“This is only a littel preasant because there ant no room in your chimeney if you want something biger you must have your chimeney widenered before next year.

“From

“Santy Claus.”

David Williams was also six. He was Jimmy Prynne’s cousin and he, too, remembered last Christmas. He had a note from Santy in his stockin’, too, and nothin’ else. Santy had wrote as he couldn’t possibly get down the chimberley because it was such a tight squeeze. He cried, he remembered, and he was cold because they had no fire. His Mammy had said she expected Santy would be thinner next time, and slip down right enough. However they’d gone into a new house now, and the hole was wider for he’d poked up to see.

Tommy went home that evening greatly disturbed. There were so many things he wanted, and he felt very doubtful indeed about their chimney for the bedroom grate was small.

That night when Mrs. Tregennis kissed him and said “Good-night and bless ee” to her surprise Tommy asked for the candle to be left “jus’ a minute or two, Mammy!” The voice was so pleading that she gave way.

Tommy listened to her footstep on the stair and for once was quite glad when he heard her reach the bottom, pass into the kitchen and close the door.

Very softly he then crept out of bed and tiptoed across the room.

Round the fireplace was a high old-fashioned fender. Tommy stretched over this and tried to thrust one arm up the chimney. It seemed to be rather wide but his arm was short, and did not reach very far.

In the corner was Mammy’s best umbrella. Seizing this he returned to the grate and poked the umbrella upwards. Almost at once it came in contact with something soft. Tommy was distinctly alarmed. Could it be some robber-man waiting there quietly, oh, so quietly, until he was asleep; waiting to slip down the chimney quite noiselessly and carry him silently off? He nearly screamed for Mammy in his fright.

After Christmas Tommy would be six, and at six a boy must be brave like David ’n the giant. So Tommy summoned all his courage and again thrust the umbrella upwards. The contact this time partially displaced the obstruction in the chimney, and a piece of sacking slipped into view. Then, indeed, Tommy’s heart stood still. He realized at once what had happened. Santy’s rounds this year were evidently unusually heavy, so he was secretly putting sacks of toys in chimneys beforehand, so that when Christmas Eve came his work would be partly done.

Tommy took hold of the free end of the sacking and pulled gently, but the bag was wedged too firmly to move. He then stepped inside the fender, and this time using both hands he really put his back into the work. The third tug released the sack which burst open as it fell and bits of screwed-up paper were littered in all directions.

“The packin’ of the presents,” Tommy had time to think before fate overtook him.

Sitting there inside the fender he was pelted with bits of mortar and loose stones, tickled with feathers and old starlings’ nests, suffocated with falling soot, as the accumulation of years, set free by the fall of the stuffed sack, fell upon him with terrifying speed.

Then he lifted up his voice and wept, crying loudly for Mammy; a frightened little boy upon whose face soot mingled with tears as he sat there, utterly cowed, inside the high old-fashioned fender. At the cry Mrs. Tregennis rushed upstairs and burst into the room, prepared indeed for the worst, but not prepared for anything quite so bad as that which she actually found.

“’Tis just mad I be with ee, Tommy Tregennis,” and she spoke through tight lips. “There’s a horrid little sight you be and the room not fit for a Christian to sleep in, what call had you to go pokin’ up chimneys, ’n where ’m I to put you now?”

Tommy’s sobs were becoming more subdued. “Wanted to see how wide the chimberly was,” he spluttered, “’n I found Santy’s sack here for me.”

“Santy’s sack, indeed,” said an angry Mammy; “I’ll Santy’s sack you my son if you go playin’ they monkey tricks. That’s a sack to keep my grate clean, so as bits shan’t fall down, and it’s stuck there for years before we came here to live; ’n you must go pryin’ and meddlin’, you shammock, you!” Mrs. Tregennis shook Tommy as she lifted him out of the grate and over the fender. “Here’s a fine set to for your tired Mammy. Downstairs you go! Clear!”

A clean night-shirt was aired for Tommy while he had his second bath. He was then wrapped up in Daddy’s winter coat and plumped into the rocking-chair in the corner by the fire.

It took Mrs. Tregennis a good half-hour to make the bedroom fit for use and when she came downstairs again Tommy was fast asleep. Tenderly she raised him to carry him back to bed. As her arms enfolded him a long, sobbing sigh escaped from quivering lips, while a tear rolled slowly down his cheek.

“My lamb,” she murmured, “my own precious lamb! This Christmas is goin’ to be a better time ’n last, ’n you’ll have things in your stockin’, ma handsome, drum an’ all!” Having well tucked in the bed clothes Mrs. Tregennis took up the candle, and left her son to the healing of the night.