On a certain twenty-fourth day of December, about four o'clock in the afternoon, if you had been looking in at the front windows of the Merchants' and Manufacturers' Bank, in the city of Smokopolis, you would have seen a big book, lying open on a desk, shut itself up with a sounding smack, spring into the air, and go flying to its place on the shelf of the vault in the rear of the counting-room.
While you were wondering what might be the matter with the big book, you would suddenly discover that its remarkable antics were due to the agency of a little man whom you had hardly noticed before, whose chubby hands had closed the book, lifted it above his head, and borne it swiftly to its resting-place. Now that the big book is out of sight, you get a better look at the little man, as he skips back from the vault, plucks a pen from one ear and a pencil from the other, lays them down upon the rack of his inkstand, and then steps briskly across the floor again to the anteroom, whence he brings forth a gray overcoat with fur collar; into this he quickly plunges, and sets a visorless sealskin cap daintily on his head. All these movements are swift and sure, but noiseless; you would scarcely hear his step if you were in the counting-room; he opens the door of the anteroom, and shuts it without any clatter; he is as spry and as sly and as silent as a humming-bird.
Little? Well, I should say so! About five feet three in his high-heeled boots; plump figure; ruddy face with no suspicion of beard; bright gray eyes; curling chestnut hair; nose like a Seckel pear; and pursy little bud of a mouth, ready on the shortest notice to blossom into a smile. How old? I give it up. If I should say that he is twenty you would believe it; and if I should put him down at forty you would not dispute it. He is one of those plump, fresh, cheery people who never grow old.
He has donned his overcoat, and stands pulling on his fur gloves and looking out of the window at the softly-falling snow before any of the clerks have discovered his movements. Then Finch, the paying-teller, looks up quickly and says with a smile: "Hello, Ben! Off for the night?"
"Yes, and for the morrow, too," answers the little man in a chirping tone.
"Of course. A good holiday to you, old chap! You've earned it, if anybody has."
"Thank you, sir. Your saying so will help to make it merry."
"Good-night, Ben!"
"Merry Christmas, Ben!"
Such are the hearty words that follow him as he hurries away. It is evident that he is a favorite among his fellows.
As he walks up the busy street, dodging the porters rushing out of the stores with boxes and bundles, and the shoppers hurrying home with their hands full of parcels, and their eyes still turning to the bright show-windows, he gets ever and anon a bow and a friendly word from the persons whom he meets--greetings which he returns with a sprightly courtesy. Two clerical-looking gentlemen pause and shake hands with him, the one introducing him to the other. It is the Doctor Adams of the Third Presbyterian Church who knows the little man, and who tells his companion, after they have parted with him, something of his history. Let us listen:
"Benoni Benaiah Benjamin, that is his name," says the Doctor, laughing.
"My, what a name!" answers the other. "Is he a Hebrew, pray?"
"Oh, no; he is the son of a Puritan Yankee who settled in Western Pennsylvania years ago. He was an only child, and his father and mother were killed in a railway accident when he was about twelve years old; the company gave him a position as train newsboy and kept a kindly watch over him; he was steady and frugal, saved his money and took a term or two at a commercial college; then he took a place as bookkeeper in a bank down street, and has now been there ten years. He is a first-class bookkeeper and one of the best known and best loved men in the city. I don't know why he is so popular. He is very quiet, one of the properest little men you ever saw; never says or does an undignified thing; never takes a prominent part in public affairs; never blows his trumpet on the streets when he bestows his alms, so nobody knows what charitable deeds he may do, though there is a general impression that he is a very generous giver. Whatever good he does he manages to keep well hidden. I don't think I have another man in my church whose influence is, on the whole, more salutary and helpful than that of little Ben Benjamin."
Meantime the little man, whose ears might have burned if they had not been tingling with the keen Christmas frost, has turned into a broad avenue, and is hurrying homeward. The snow falls faster and faster; the sleighing, which was somewhat worn, will be thoroughly repaired.
Through the gate that opens before a pretty cottage the little man passes, and lets himself in with a latch-key at the front door. A kindly faced old lady comes forward to meet him, takes from his hands his scarf and his cap, and leads him into the little drawing-room, where a bright fire is glowing in the grate. Good Mrs. Snowden has had Ben Benjamin as her sole boarder for ten years, and the business interest of the landlady and the stately courtesy of the hostess are by this time wholly swallowed up in the motherly affection with which she has learned to regard him. He has taken in her heart the place that belonged to her own son, who died just before Ben came to live with her. The rocking-chair that he likes is drawn up by the fire, and the evening paper lies within reach on a stand at his elbow. But the little man shows no interest in the news of the day; his mind is evidently preoccupied. He sits with his feet upon the fender, looking into the blazing coals, and musing while the fire burns.
"It is snowing fast, Mr. Benjamin," the landlady ventures.
"Very fast; fast enough to make a lovely Christmas counterpane in an hour. An inch or two must have fallen already."
"Will you drive to-night, as usual?"
"Certainly; the ponies need exercise, and I don't mind the snow."
"When Thomas came in, after feeding the ponies," Mrs. Snowden continues, "he said that an expressman had just brought a barrel addressed to you to be left at the stable. Christmas gifts for the ponies, I dare say."
"Likely enough!" laughed Ben. "Of course Santa Claus wouldn't forget them."
The maid now announces supper. After it is finished Ben dons his overcoat and his warm Arctic overshoes, and is ready for his customary evening drive.
"Don't sit up for me," he says carelessly to Mrs. Snowden. "I shall take a long drive to-night, and it may be late before I return."
The landlady lifts her eyebrows slightly; this is unwonted behavior; but her confidence in her protégé allows no questioning. So Ben sallies forth, bidding her good-night, and leaving her to speculate on his mysterious performance.
It must, by this time, be as evident to my readers as it was to Mrs. Snowden that there is something unusual on the mind of our hero; and it is impossible any longer to hide the secret which he had so carefully concealed. The truth is that this quiet, kindly, proper little man has determined that tonight, for once in his life, he will go off on a regular lark. He has been cherishing this purpose for three or four weeks. Perhaps the first suggestion of it came into his mind on the afternoon when the snow first fell. He was driving along Elm Avenue in his cute little cutter, drawn by the prancing brown ponies that are now so well known in Smokopolis, when he heard, through the resonant air that often accompanies a snowstorm, a little girl standing on a corner say to her companion: "My! wouldn't he make a lovely Santa Claus!"
"Wouldn't he though!" exclaimed the other. "He's just the right size."
"And what a jolly little face, too! Only Santa Claus has whiskers, I think."
Ben laughed softly when he heard it, and then kept thinking it over.
Wouldn't it be fun to be a veritable Santa Claus, and go about giving gifts?--not to take anybody into the secret, of course; to surprise everybody with presents that nobody could account for; or, perhaps, to let them have a glimpse of the messenger, hurriedly depositing his favors and swiftly departing, unheralded and unexplained. The more he thought of it, the more he was fascinated by the notion. But it would not do to attempt it here in Smokopolis; he would almost certainly be discovered. It could only be done in some secluded country place where there were no throngs and no gas-lamps on the streets. Springdale--that was the very place! It was a village thirteen miles north of the city; one long street running east and west, crossed at its western extremity by the Gridiron Railway, and lying sheltered and secure from the noises of the world in a lovely valley, the abode of peace. The houses on either side the long street were well separated; and there was not enough movement on the street to interfere with such a shadowy visitation as Ben was contemplating. So the plan had gradually shaped itself in his mind.
He would collect, one by one, a large number of gifts of all sorts, suitable for old and young; on Christmas eve, after dark, he would steal away to Springdale, watch his chances, and make his distribution in ways that might then be opened to him. The barrel which had been delivered that afternoon at the stable contained the store which was thus to be dispensed. He had purchased these gifts in many places; and had kept them in a private closet of his own in the basement of the bank building; the expressman had brought the barrel to the stable by his order. This is the secret that is hidden in the breast of Benoni Benaiah Benjamin, as he bids Mrs. Snowden good-night, and trots briskly down the garden walk in the direction of the stable, where the brown ponies, Dunder and Blixen, who know their master's step, are whinnying to give him greeting. These ponies are almost the only luxury little Ben allows himself; they have been in his possession now for four years; and every day, after banking hours, Ben is whirling along some country road behind them, filling his lungs with the sweet air of the hills and his heart with the pure delight of motion.
Ben opens the stable-door, and is greeted by an audible horse-giggle from the ponies, as they take from his fingers the accustomed lump of sugar with great gusto, and rub their brown cheeks against his red cheeks in a very loving fashion.
Ben now lights his lantern, casts off his overcoat, seizes a hatchet, and quickly unheads the mysterious barrel; then he transfers its contents to his sleigh, carefully placing them so that he may easily lay his hands on them--dolls in one pile, games in another, books by themselves, toys for the little folk in a separate heap, two or three warm little shawls for the shoulders of old ladies (shawls such as Ben had given to his landlady last winter and found her often rejoicing in), and a variety of miscellaneous articles of which he hopes to make some fitting disposal. From the bottom of the barrel he pulls out a white cap, made of the fur of the Arctic fox, and a flowing white wig and beard. Arrayed in these disguises, he glances at his face as revealed in the bit of looking-glass that Thomas keeps for his stable toilet, and breaks into a gleeful laugh. Suddenly he checks himself, covers his mouth with his hands, and goes dancing across the stable floor. Such a jolly little Santa Claus as he is, with his keen eyes, his little dumpling of a nose, and his red cheeks blooming out of this shock of white hair! His fur coat will complete the costume.
"Hey, Dunder! Ho, Blixen!" he softly cries, as he confronts the ponies. "Did you ever see Santa Claus?"
The ponies answer with a snort, starting back in their stalls, but Ben's voice re-assures them. Quickly now he flings on the harness, from which he removes the bells; and tucking his gray fur lap-robe carefully around his treasures, he puts his lighted lantern between his feet, underneath the robe, and drives away. Out through the alley, across the street, and down another unfrequented lane he slips swiftly along, and soon is beyond the street-lamps, out in the open country. Dunder and Blixen are in their gayest mood; they fill their nostrils with the winter wind, and spin away right merrily.
It is now about seven o'clock, and there are thirteen miles to cover; but Ben does not wish to reach Springdale too early; the ponies will easily make it by half-past eight. Dearborn Woods, a stretch of forest three miles long, lies just ahead of him; and Dunder and Blixen plunge into its somber arches at a brisk pace. It is a familiar road to them, and they are wont to quicken their gait when they enter its shadows. Now the long-pent-up mirth of the little man can safely effervesce, and his cheery laugh rings through the woods in clear, melodious laughter.
"Oho! ho! ho!" he cries; "isn't this a jolly lark, indeed? Who would ever have suspected you, Benoni Benjamin, of cutting this kind of caper? What would Doctor Adams and the church folk say if they caught you in this ridiculous rig? But they won't catch you, eh? No; they wont. Ho! ho! ho! The Doctor said one day in the Bible class that Ben in Hebrew words means son of something or other: Benoni Benaiah Benjamin, what are you the son of tonight? I have it. The college boys sing it:
- "I'm the son of a son of a
- Son of a son of a
- Son of a gambolier."
That's what I am? Hey! Oho! ho!"
The little man trolls his merry stave--it happens to be all he knows of the song--over and over again, and laughs and shouts till Dunder and Blixen catch the infection, and, shaking their heads and snorting vociferously, they break into a gallop. If there had been any elves or goblins in Dearborn Woods that night they would surely have come forth from their hiding-places at the sound of Ben Benjamin's laughter, but neither they nor any of humankind responded to his merriment; and when he emerged from the woods and the lights of the farm-houses began to reappear by the roadside, his jubilation was subdued to a merry little laugh, and the ponies sped over the snow with scarcely a sound.
The soft-falling snow slowly increases in depth as they go northward, and the driver compels his eager coursers to take a more leisurely pace. At this rate, six or eight inches of snow will be added during the night to the well-worn sleighing--more than enough for Christmas uses. Thus far Ben has neither met nor overtaken a single wayfarer; but, as he reaches the top of a long hill, he sees a light approaching from the direction of Springdale. It is Doctor Horton, the physician of that village, going out on some professional errand and carrying his lantern in his buggy.
"Here's a go!" says Ben to himself. "How shall we dodge that lantern? It's some old covey that will want to talk, I'll venture. Look alive there, Blixen; you and Dunder must get me out of this."
The light draws near, and as the horses meet, the Doctor turns the light of the lantern full on Ben's face. His own eyes are as big as dollars.
"Je-ru-sha!" he exclaims (it is the only expression of the sort he allows himself). "What's this, anyhow?"
The passage is somewhat narrow, and Ben is giving strict attention to his ponies. His only answer is a little gurgling laugh.
"Who are you? What's your name? Where on earth did you come from?" cries Doctor Horton hurriedly, his voice quivering a little.
"Oho! ho! ho!" laughed Ben, with a tone as musical and as gay as the horns of Elfland.
"Good-natured laugh!" says the Doctor; "nothing impish in that, I'll guarantee."
In a moment, the travelers are well past each other, and Ben's ponies are trotting down the hill.
"I say!" cries the Doctor, turning on his seat and holding up his lantern.
"Say on!" cries Ben hilariously.
"I've a mind to follow," says the Doctor aloud, turning his horse's head. But Ben's little ponies spring into their best gait, showing the Doctor at once how vain it would be for him with his aged steed to undertake the pursuit. Down the hill they go at a tearing pace, while the voice of Ben is borne back on the wings of the wind:
- "I'm the son of a son of a
- Son of a son of a
- Son of a gambolier."
"Well," ejaculated the Doctor, drawing a long breath, "you are about the spryest little spook I have met in my travels. None of the Smokopolis boys are likely to be off on this lonely road at this time of night, and you don't belong in Springdale, that I know. You're a conundrum, and I give you up. But I don't believe that you are bent on mischief. Too gay a laugh, and too merry an eye for that." And turning his horse's head southward, the Doctor jogs on.
After this Ben meets no travelers until he turns the corner, near the blacksmith shop, at the eastern extremity of Springdale street. Here a belated farmer, upon an empty wood-rack, scans the small establishment inquisitively, but it is dark, and Ben has flung the corner of his lap-robe over his head, so that the gaze of the curious rustic is scantily rewarded. Now he is driving down the village street, and the shafts of light are shot athwart the way, through the falling snow, from the windows of the houses on either side. In default of street lamps, all the villagers open their shutters and draw their curtains, in the winter evenings, that the light of the fireside may guide and cheer the traveler.
It is now nine o'clock, for the deepening snow has somewhat retarded our amateur Santa Claus. But it is a very good time for him to make a _reconnoissance_ of the village. Through these open windows he can gain many hints as to the best disposition of his bounty. He will drive carefully and slowly down on one side of the wide street and back on the other, keeping his eyes open and noting the houses; then he will go round again, a little later, and make his distribution.
"Steady, Dunder! Slowly, Blixen!" he says softly: "let's look a minute!" They are stopping before a low, broad cottage, with sloping roof; a white-haired woman is sitting by the evening lamp. "That gray shoulder-shawl will fit you beautifully!" says Ben. A little girl about eight years old is sitting by the side of the old lady--grandmother and granddaughter beyond a doubt: the maiden is working away for dear life on some bit of worsted, and glancing stealthily over her shoulder, now and then, at her father who sits reading on the other side of the table. "Good!" chuckles Ben, who takes in the situation at a glance; "you shall have one of the work-boxes, little Busy-fingers!" So while the ponies stand, he writes by the light of his lantern, under the lap-robe, on two cards, "For the old Lady," and, "For the fair-haired Girl,"--pins the one on the shawl, and shuts the other into the work-box; makes a bundle of them, and lays them together in a corner of the sleigh. So he goes from house to house, picking out the presents, slipping them into big paper bags that he has provided; one bag for each house, and piling the bags in regular order in his sleigh. Some of the houses refuse to give him any clue to the age and quality of their occupants; but before he has made the circuit of the street he has found places for all his small wares, and he feels well assured that the greater number of them will be fittingly bestowed. A good half-hour has been taken in this reconnoissance; when it is finished he scuds back toward the eastern end of the street to begin the distribution. Very few pedestrians have appeared on the sidewalks, and these he has managed to dodge by skillfully tarrying in the dark places between the houses until they were past. But now, a boy of ten, carrying a bundle, and whistling blithely, plunges out from the walk and cries:
"Let me ride?"
Ben is too good-natured to refuse, and the boy fastens himself to the side of the sleigh, clinging to his bundle.
"Slick little team you have there," he says.
"Well, I reckon!" answers Ben in his tuneful falsetto.
"Can they go?" asks the boy.
"Yes, pretty well for little fellows."
Ben wishes to answer no more questions, so he quickly reverses the order of the colloquy and becomes inquisitor himself.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Jack Kilbourne."
"Any relation to Jack the Giant-Killer?"
"Oh, yes; I'm his great-grandfather's second cousin," answers Jack, promptly.
"Oho! ho!" laughs Ben. "You're an old one, you are! Any younger ones at your house?"
"Yes, _sir!_ We've a new boy baby there not four weeks old. And then there's Sis; she's been up to Grandma's now for a month, and she's comin' down tonight on the 'commodation. There's the whistle now!"
"Is she coming alone?"
"Yes; Uncle Tom's put her on the train, and Papa will meet her at the depot."
"What's her name?"
"Lil."
"How old is she?"
"'Bout five or six, I guess."
"Where do you live?"
"Right up there; big white house; left hand side."
All the while, Jack's eyes have been on the ponies; he has not once raised them to the driver's face, and he could have seen but little if he had, for they have been passing a space vacant of houses, where all was dark. But now, just as they are drawing near to Jack's home, the ruling passion of the boy seizes its last chance to utter itself:
"Let's see 'em go!"
Nothing loth, Ben whistles to the ponies, and they spring at once into a rattling pace. Jack is delighted, but his delight is only momentary; they are opposite his house in ten seconds, and the ponies are reined in to let him dismount. He lifts his eye to the face of the charioteer just as the light from the window strikes it, and the look of amazement that overspreads his countenance tickles Ben to the very end of his toes.
"Oho! ho! ho!" laughs the little man, while the boy suddenly relaxes his hold upon the sleigh and tumbles backward into the snow. Quick as a flash he picks himself up and peers through the storm at the flying apparition.
"Je-mi-ma Cripps!" gasps Jack; "if that isn't the old fellow himself, then I hope I may never see him!"
The boy rushes into the house, while the little man speeds away to the upper end of the street to set forth on his benignant errand.
"W-w-what d' ye think I saw just now?" cries Jack, bursting into his mother's room, his teeth fairly chattering.
"Sh-h! my son, you'll wake the baby. But what was it?" asks the pale lady hurriedly, perceiving the boy's excitement.
"S-s-a-anta Claus!"
"Santa Claus? Where is he? How do you know?" asks the mother, her anxious look relaxing into an expression of curiosity and amusement.
"Right out here in the street. I rode up with him from down there by Billy Townsend's house."
"Rode with him?"
"Y-y-es 'm! I caught on his sleigh an' rode with him. He had the cutest little ponies!"
"What did he say to you?" queries Mrs. Kilbourne, beginning to laugh.
"D-don't know what he did say," stammers Jack; "it scared everything out o' my head when I saw him. Never looked up at all to see who it was till we were right opposite our house, 'n' then the light shone right into his face. My! What a cunning little chap. I don't believe he's more 'n that high,"--and Jack measures with his hand a stature less than his own,--"and his face and his eyes look as if he were about five years old, and his hair and whiskers look as if he were about five hundred; and he had a little fur cap and a fur coat, I think; and he laughed--you ought to have heard him laugh!"
"What made him laugh?"
"To see how s'prised I was, I guess. He asked me 'f I was any relation to Jack the Giant-Killer, 'n I told him I was his great-grandfather, or something. I thought he was poking fun at me, 'n' I thought I'd give him as good as he sent. Cracky! If I'd known who it was that I was talkin' to, I'd have been a little more pertickler 'bout what I said. He was a jolly little chap, anyhow."
"O Jack!" cries his mother, "your imagination must have made most of this. I can hardly believe that you have really seen anything quite so strange as you describe."
"Now, Mother Kilbourne!" replies Jack, deeply grieved and somewhat indignant; "I guess I have eyes and ears; and I guess I know what I see with my eyes and hear with my ears; and I tell you, it is just exactly as I've told you. I never b'lieved in Santa Claus before; but when a fellow hangs on to his sleigh and rides with him a quarter of a mile or so, then he knows; and there's no use talking."
"Well, my son, it is very curious, I admit. But I wish your father would come. He must have had time to walk here since the train arrived. Is it still snowing hard?" asks the lady as she rises and walks slowly to the window, and, shutting her face between her hands, gazes out into the storm.
"Deed it is!" answers Jack. "Snow's most up to my knees now. Sis will have a gay time wading through it."
"Your father will be obliged to carry her, I fear," replies Mrs. Kilbourne. "I think," she adds, after a moment, "that he must have stopped by the way at Judge Gray's; I know that there was some matter of important business between them. Our little Lil will be very tired, I fear."
Jack sits looking into the glowing grate, and asking his mother all sorts of questions about the legend of St. Nicholas; who he was, anyhow; if he was really a man; and when he lived; and how long ago; and what he did; and what about the Bible stories that tell of spirits and angels that appeared to men--a sharp fire of puzzling questions, which his mother answers, dubiously and absently, for her heart is a little troubled about the child for whose coming she waits impatiently.
Meanwhile Ben is speeding upon his errand of good-will with many a merry experience. Halting his ponies in front of each favored house he seizes the parcel prepared for its inmates, runs to a lighted window, taps on the pane, holds aloft his treasure in full sight, makes a low bow, skips to the door and lays it down upon the sill, and then jumps into his cutter and is off in a twinkling. The children run to the window half in terror, half in transport; they gaze after the vanishing sprite with their hearts in their mouths; then they go timidly to the door and take with undissembled glee the goods so mysteriously provided for them. As for the older folks, they are as much puzzled as the children; no one can find any clue to the identity of this unearthly visitant. If Ben could have looked into all these homes, and could have heard the admiring outcries, and could have known how much of surprise and curiosity and innocent mirth and thankfulness his pranks were producing, he would have been fully satisfied with the success of his experiment. Finally he arrives in front of Mr. Kilbourne's gate, for he has reserved a part of his bounty for the children whose descriptive list Jack has given him. There is a light tap on the window which opens upon the veranda, and Mrs. Kilbourne starts. There he is, in full view, bowing low, waving his parcel in the air, then bounding away with the spring of an antelope.
"There, Mother Kilbourne!" cries Jack, his teeth chattering again; "n-now what have you to say?"
"Blessings on us!" exclaims the pale lady; "what does it mean?"
"They reach the window, like all the rest, just in time to see the ponies trot away, and to verify Jack's description in every detail.
"Well, I never!" cries Mrs. Kilbourne. "Run to the door, Jack, and see what he has left!"
"A rubber rattle for the baby, a volume of "Baby World" for Lil, and "Historic Boys" for Jack--these were the gifts drawn forth from the paper bag with great delight and wonderment.
"Now you'll own up, won't you, Mother?" demands Jack triumphantly. "I didn't imagine it all, did I?"
"No, Jack; you are a good reporter; your account was very accurate."
"Well, how do you explain him?"
"I can't explain him," answers the mother. "I haven't the least idea who he is--some good being, I am sure."
"Right you are!" says Jack, in a tone the solemnity of which strangely contrasts with his school-boy phraseology. "But here comes Father and Lil!"
The boy runs to admit the tardy comers, but his father is alone. "Where's Lil?" cries Jack, as he opens the door.
"Isn't she here?" demands Mr. Kilbourne anxiously.
"No, sir; we thought you went to the station after her."
Mr. Kilbourne pushes into the room, where the pale mother stands, trembling and anxious.
"We shall find her soon," he says. "Didn't that Johnson boy bring you my note?"
"What note? No! Nobody brought any note," cries Mrs. Kilbourne.
"The young rascal! I sent him with a line to tell you that I could not leave my office at that hour, and that Jack must go to the train for Lillie."
"And so the poor child found no one waiting for her there. Where can she have gone?"
"Wait!" cries the father. "I'll telephone to Wilkinson at the depot. That's where she is beyond a doubt. He has taken her into his office to keep her till we arrive."
Mr. Kilbourne rushes to the telephone.
"Hello, Central! Give me the Gridiron depot. That you, Wilkinson? Kilbourne talking. Did my little girl come down on the accommodation train from Smokopolis?--What?--Didn't what?"
Mr. Kilbourne turns away from the telephone rather pale, with an anxious look about his eyes; but, for his wife's sake, he says cheerfully:
"Well; Wilkinson says that he saw a little girl step off the rear end of the train; the conductor helped her off and told her to run into the waiting-room; Wilkinson had some baggage to look after, and when he was through with that the child was out of sight. He supposed that some one had come for her."
"O my poor little lamb!" cries the mother, piteously. "Where is she? Out in this merciless storm! What shall I do?"
"Don't cry, Mother!" says Jack, cheerily. "She's down the street somewhere; she's gone into somebody's house."
"They would have sent us word," says Mrs. Kilbourne, hopelessly.
"Well, we'll find her, anyhow," says Jack.
Mr. Kilbourne has been thinking hard with knitted brows and compressed lips. Now he speaks: "Jack, you stay here, and take care of your mother. I'll go down street. As soon as I get word of her, I'll call to you from the nearest telephone."
He gently leads the trembling lady to the sofa, and turns to go.
Hark! the gate is opening! There is a quick footstep on the porch--on the veranda! Mr. Kilbourne pauses; Mrs. Kilbourne springs to her feet. There he is--the same little man, and Lil is in his arms! He tosses her above his head; he lets her gently down upon the veranda; he makes the same low boy; he springs from the porch and runs away.
Mr. Kilbourne rushes to the door.
"Hello!" he cries. "Who are you, my friend? Say!--won't you let me----?"
But the little man is in the sleigh and the ponies are in motion. All they hear is Ben's laugh as he drives away. "Oho! ho! ho!"
Mr. Kilbourne picks up the little girl, who stands half dazed upon the porch, and hurries into the house. Her mother clasps the child in her arms and covers her face with kisses. Poor little bairn! Her garments are wet and her curls are matted with snow, but her eyes are bright.
"Wasn't it beautiful for Santa Claus to bring me home?" she cries.
"Yes, my darling; where did he find you?"
"Oh, up here in the road. Papa wasn't there when the train stopped, an' I was in such a hurry to go home I started right off; an' I went along down that way, an' then I turned into the street."
"The little midget!" exclaims Mr. Kilbourne, "she went off up Long Lane!"
"There wasn't any houses," continues the little wanderer, "so I kept going on, an' on; an' it snowed so I couldn't see; an' by and by I came to another road--"
"Yes, she must have turned out on the Smokopolis road," shouts Jack.
"An' I kept going on, an' then I was tired, an' I sat down on a log to rest, an' I heard a team coming--and it was Santa Claus--and he turned an' brought me home."
"How did he know where your home was?" asked the father.
"Oh, he asked me what was my name, and I told him it was Lillie Kilbourne, and he said:
"'Oh, yes, I know where you live! I've been to your house once tonight.'"
"How did you know it was Santa Claus?" asked her mother.
"Why, I saw him, didn't I? When he lifted up the robe to tuck me in, there was a lantern between his legs--he said it was his stove--an' the light shined right up into his face, an' I saw him as plain as anything. 'Sides, I asked him if he wasn't Santa Claus, an' he laughed and said, 'That's what some folks call me!'"
"I don't know whether he is a saint or an angel," says Mrs. Kilbourne, solemnly; "but this I know, my darling, he has been a messenger of good to us."
"But what did he mean when he said he had been here before tonight?" asks Mr. Kilbourne.
Now it is Jack's turn to talk. While his mother strips off the wet garments and puts the little girl into her warm bed Jack rehearses to his father, open-eyed with wonder, the tale of the evening, with which we are familiar. His father listens, questions, shakes his head, and gives it up.
Many of the gossips of Springdale wondered that night, and the next day, and are wondering still, over this mystery, but they are not likely soon to unravel it, for the ponies went leisurely back that night to Smokopolis. It was about one o'clock when they began munching their oats in their comfortable stalls; the wig and the beard that had formed so perfect a disguise were hidden in the granary; the little man let himself softly in at Mrs. Snowden's front door, and went noiselessly to his room. It was a happy heart that beat, on that early Christmas morning, in the breast of Benoni Benaiah Benjamin; but the secret of its happiness will never be discovered, for his laughing lips will not open to reveal it, even in his dreams.
More Washington Gladden Short Stories
