Whilst you were sleeping, little Dear-my-Soul, strange things
happened; but that I saw and heard them, I should never have believed
them. The clock stood, of course, in the corner, a moonbeam floated
idly on the floor, and a little mauve mouse came from the hole in the
chimney corner and frisked and scampered in the light of the moonbeam
upon the floor. The little mauve mouse was particularly merry;
sometimes she danced upon two legs and sometimes upon four legs, but
always very daintily and always very merrily.

“Ah, me!” sighed the old clock, “how different mice are nowadays from
the mice we used to have in the good old times! Now there was your
grandma, Mistress Velvetpaw, and there was your grandpa, Master
Sniffwhisker,—how grave and dignified they were! Many a night have I
seen them dancing upon the carpet below me, but always the stately
minuet and never that crazy frisking which you are executing now, to
my surprise—yes, and to my horror, too.”

“But why shouldn’t I be merry?” asked the little mauve mouse.
“To-morrow is Christmas, and this is Christmas eve.”

“So it is,” said the old clock. “I had really forgotten all about it.
But tell me, what is Christmas to you, little Miss Mauve Mouse?”

“A great deal to me!” cried the little mauve mouse. “I have been very
good a very long time: I have not used any bad words, nor have I
gnawed any holes, nor have I stolen any canary seed, nor have I
worried my mother by running behind the flour-barrel where that horrid
trap is set. In fact, I have been so good that I’m very sure Santa
Claus will bring me something very pretty.”

This seemed to amuse the old clock mightily; in fact, the old clock
fell to laughing so heartily that in an unguarded moment she struck
twelve instead of ten, which was exceedingly careless and therefore to
be reprehended.

“Why, you silly little mauve mouse,” said the old clock, “you don’t
believe in Santa Claus, do you?”

“Of course I do,” answered the little mauve mouse. “Believe in Santa
Claus? Why shouldn’t I? Didn’t Santa Claus bring me a beautiful
butter-cracker last Christmas, and a lovely gingersnap, and a
delicious rind of cheese, and—and—lots of things? I should be very
ungrateful if I did not believe in Santa Claus, and I certainly shall
not disbelieve in him at the very moment when I am expecting him to
arrive with a bundle of goodies for me.

“But why shouldn’t I be merry?” asked the little mauve
mouse.
“To-morrow is Christmas, and this is Christmas eve.”

“I once had a little sister,” continued the little mauve mouse, “who
did not believe in Santa Claus, and the very thought of the fate that
befell her makes my blood run cold and my whiskers stand on end. She
died before I was born, but my mother has told me all about her.
Perhaps you never saw her; her name was Squeaknibble, and she was in
stature one of those long, low, rangy mice that are seldom found in
well-stocked pantries. Mother says that Squeaknibble took after our
ancestors who came from New England, where the malignant ingenuity of
the people and the ferocity of the cats rendered life precarious
indeed. Squeaknibble seemed to inherit many ancestral traits, the most
conspicuous of which was a disposition to sneer at some of the most
respected dogmas in mousedom. From her very infancy she doubted, for
example, the widely accepted theory that the moon was composed of
green cheese; and this heresy was the first intimation her parents had
of the sceptical turn of her mind. Of course, her parents were vastly
annoyed, for their maturer natures saw that this youthful scepticism
portended serious, if not fatal, consequences. Yet all in vain did the
sagacious couple reason and plead with their headstrong and heretical
child.

“For a long time Squeaknibble would not believe that there was any
such archfiend as a cat; but she came to be convinced to the contrary
one memorable night, on which occasion she lost two inches of her
beautiful tail, and received so terrible a fright that for fully an
hour afterward her little heart beat so violently as to lift her off
her feet and bump her head against the top of our domestic hole. The
cat that deprived my sister of so large a percentage of her vertebral
colophon was the same brindled ogress that nowadays steals ever and
anon into this room, crouches treacherously behind the sofa, and
feigns to be asleep, hoping, forsooth, that some of us, heedless of
her hated presence, will venture within reach of her diabolical claws.
So enraged was this ferocious monster at the escape of my sister that
she ground her fangs viciously together, and vowed to take no pleasure
in life until she held in her devouring jaws the innocent little mouse
which belonged to the mangled bit of tail she even then clutched in
her remorseless claws.”

“Yes,” said the old clock, “now that you recall the incident, I
recollect it well. I was here then, in this very corner, and I
remember that I laughed at the cat and chided her for her awkwardness.
My reproaches irritated her; she told me that a clock’s duty was to
run itself down, not to be depreciating the merits of others! Yes, I
recall the time; that cat’s tongue is fully as sharp as her claws.”

“Be that as it may,” said the little mauve mouse, “it is a matter of
history, and therefore beyond dispute, that from that very moment the
cat pined for Squeaknibble’s life; it seemed as if that one little
two-inch taste of Squeaknibble’s tail had filled the cat with a
consuming passion, or appetite, for the rest of Squeaknibble. So the
cat waited and watched and hunted and schemed and devised and did
everything possible for a cat—a cruel cat—to do in order to gain her
murderous ends. One night—one fatal Christmas eve—our mother had
undressed the children for bed, and was urging upon them to go to
sleep earlier than usual, since she fully expected that Santa Claus
would bring each of them something very palatable and nice before
morning. Thereupon the little dears whisked their cunning tails,
pricked up their beautiful ears, and began telling one another what
they hoped Santa Claus would bring. One asked for a slice of
Roquefort, another for Neufchatel, another for Sap Sago, and a fourth
for Edam; one expressed a preference for de Brie, while another hoped
to get Parmesan; one clamored for imperial blue Stilton, and another
craved the fragrant boon of Caprera. There were fourteen little ones
then, and consequently there were diverse opinions as to the kind of
gift which Santa Claus should best bring; still, there was, as you can
readily understand, an enthusiastic unanimity upon this point, namely,
that the gift should be cheese of some brand or other.

“‘My dears,’ said our mother, ‘what matters it whether the boon which
Santa Claus brings be royal English cheddar or fromage de Bricquebec,
Vermont sage, or Herkimer County skim-milk? We should be content with
whatsoever Santa Claus bestows, so long as it be cheese, disjoined
from all traps whatsoever, unmixed with Paris green, and free from
glass, strychnine, and other harmful ingredients. As for myself, I
shall be satisfied with a cut of nice, fresh Western reserve; for
truly I recognize in no other viand or edible half the fragrance or
half the gustfulness to be met with in one of these pale but aromatic
domestic products. So run away to your dreams now, that Santa Claus
may find you sleeping.’

“The children obeyed,—all but Squeaknibble. ‘Let the others think
what they please,’ said she, ‘but I don’t believe in Santa Claus.
I’m not going to bed, either. I’m going to creep out of this dark hole
and have a quiet romp, all by myself, in the moonlight.’ Oh, what a
vain, foolish, wicked little mouse was Squeaknibble! But I will not
reproach the dead; her punishment came all too swiftly. Now listen:
who do you suppose overheard her talking so disrespectfully of Santa
Claus?”

“Why, Santa Claus himself,” said the old clock.

“Oh, no,” answered the little mauve mouse. “It was that wicked,
murderous cat! Just as Satan lurks and lies in wait for bad children,
so does the cruel cat lurk and lie in wait for naughty little mice.
And you can depend upon it that, when that awful cat heard
Squeaknibble speak so disrespectfully of Santa Claus, her wicked eyes
glowed with joy, her sharp teeth watered, and her bristling fur
emitted electric sparks as big as marrowfat peas. Then what did that
blood-thirsty monster do but scuttle as fast as she could into
Dear-my-Soul’s room, leap up into Dear-my-Soul’s crib, and walk off
with the pretty little white muff which Dear-my-Soul used to wear when
she went for a visit to the little girl in the next block! What upon
earth did the horrid old cat want with Dear-my-Soul’s pretty little
white muff? Ah, the duplicity, the diabolical ingenuity of that cat!
Listen.

“In the first place,” resumed the little mauve mouse, after a pause
that testified eloquently to the depth of her emotion,—”in the first
place, that wretched cat dressed herself up in that pretty little
white muff, by which you are to understand that she crawled through
the muff just so far as to leave her four cruel legs at liberty.”

“Yes, I understand,” said the old clock.

“Then she put on the boy doll’s fur cap,” said the little mauve mouse,
“and when she was arrayed in the boy doll’s fur cap and Dear-my-Soul’s
pretty little white muff, of course she didn’t look like a cruel cat
at all. But whom did she look like?”

“Like the boy doll,” suggested the old clock.

“No, no!” cried the little mauve mouse.

“Like Dear-my-Soul?” asked the old clock.

“How stupid you are!” exclaimed the little mauve mouse. “Why, she
looked like Santa Claus, of course!”

“Oh, yes; I see,” said the old clock. “Now I begin to be interested;
go on.”

“Alas!” sighed the little mauve mouse, “not much remains to be told;
but there is more of my story left than there was of Squeaknibble when
that horrid cat crawled out of that miserable disguise. You are to
understand that, contrary to her sagacious mother’s injunction, and in
notorious derision of the mooted coming of Santa Claus, Squeaknibble
issued from the friendly hole in the chimney corner, and gambolled
about over this very carpet, and, I dare say, in this very moonlight.”

“I do not know,” said the moonbeam faintly. “I am so very old, and I
have seen so many things—I do not know.”

“Right merrily was Squeaknibble gambolling,” continued the little
mauve mouse, “and she had just turned a double back somersault without
the use of what remained of her tail, when, all of a sudden, she
beheld, looming up like a monster ghost, a figure all in white fur!
Oh, how frightened she was, and how her little heart did beat! ‘Purr,
purr-r-r,’ said the ghost in white fur. ‘Oh, please don’t hurt me!’
pleaded Squeaknibble. ‘No; I’ll not hurt you,’ said the ghost in
white fur; ‘I’m Santa Claus, and I’ve brought you a beautiful piece of
savory old cheese, you dear little mousie, you.’ Poor Squeaknibble was
deceived; a sceptic all her life, she was at last befooled by the most
palpable and most fatal of frauds. ‘How good of you!’ said
Squeaknibble. ‘I didn’t believe there was a Santa Claus, and—’ but
before she could say more she was seized by two sharp, cruel claws
that conveyed her crushed body to the murderous mouth of mousedom’s
most malignant foe. I can dwell no longer upon this harrowing scene.
Suffice it to say that ere the morrow’s sun rose like a big yellow
Herkimer County cheese upon the spot where that tragedy had been
enacted, poor Squeaknibble passed to that bourn whence two inches of
her beautiful tail had preceded her by the space of three weeks to a
day. As for Santa Claus, when he came that Christmas eve, bringing
morceaux de Brie and of Stilton for the other little mice, he heard
with sorrow of Squeaknibble’s fate; and ere he departed he said that
in all his experience he had never known of a mouse or of a child that
had prospered after once saying that he didn’t believe in Santa
Claus.”

“Well, that is a remarkable story,” said the old clock. “But if you
believe in Santa Claus, why aren’t you in bed?”

“That’s where I shall be presently,” answered the little mauve mouse,
“but I must have my scamper, you know. It is very pleasant, I assure
you, to frolic in the light of the moon; only I cannot understand why
you are always so cold and so solemn and so still, you pale, pretty
little moonbeam.”

“Indeed, I do not know that I am so,” said the moonbeam. “But I am
very old, and I have travelled many, many leagues, and I have seen
wondrous things. Sometimes I toss upon the ocean, sometimes I fall
upon a slumbering flower, sometimes I rest upon a dead child’s face. I
see the fairies at their play, and I hear mothers singing lullabies.
Last night I swept across the frozen bosom of a river. A woman’s face
looked up at me; it was the picture of eternal rest. ‘She is
sleeping,’ said the frozen river. ‘I rock her to and fro, and sing to
her. Pass gently by, O moonbeam; pass gently by, lest you awaken
her.’”

“How strangely you talk,” said the old clock. “Now, I’ll warrant me
that, if you wanted to, you could tell many a pretty and wonderful
story. You must know many a Christmas tale; pray, tell us one to wear
away this night of Christmas watching.”

“I know but one,” said the moonbeam. “I have told it over and over
again, in every land and in every home; yet I do not weary of it. It
is very simple. Should you like to hear it?”

“Indeed we should,” said the old clock; “but before you begin, let me
strike twelve; for I shouldn’t want to interrupt you.”

When the old clock had performed this duty with somewhat more than
usual alacrity, the moonbeam began its story:

“Upon a time—so long ago that I can’t tell how long ago it was—I
fell upon a hill-side. It was in a far distant country; this I know,
because, although it was the Christmas time, it was not in that
country as it is wont to be in countries to the north. Hither the
snow-king never came; flowers bloomed all the year, and at all times
the lambs found pleasant pasturage on the hill-sides. The night wind
was balmy, and there was a fragrance of cedar in its breath. There
were violets on the hill-side, and I fell amongst them and lay there.
I kissed them, and they awakened. ‘Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?’
they said, and they nestled in the grass which the lambs had left
uncropped.

“A shepherd lay upon a broad stone on the hill-side; above him spread
an olive-tree, old, ragged, and gloomy; but now it swayed its rusty
branches majestically in the shifting air of night. The shepherd’s
name was Benoni. Wearied with long watching, he had fallen asleep; his
crook had slipped from his hand. Upon the hill-side, too, slept the
shepherd’s flock. I had counted them again and again; I had stolen
across their gentle faces and brought them pleasant dreams of green
pastures and of cool water-brooks. I had kissed old Benoni, too, as he
lay slumbering there; and in his dreams he seemed to see Israel’s King
come upon earth, and in his dreams he murmured the promised Messiah’s
name.

“‘Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?’ quoth the violets. ‘You have come
in good time. Nestle here with us, and see wonderful things come to
pass.’

“‘What are these wonderful things of which you speak?’ I asked.

“‘We heard the old olive-tree telling of them to-night,’ said the
violets. ‘Do not go to sleep, little violets,’ said the old
olive-tree, ‘for this is Christmas night, and the Master shall walk
upon the hill-side in the glory of the midnight hour.’ So we waited
and watched; one by one the lambs fell asleep; one by one the stars
peeped out; the shepherd nodded and crooned, and crooned and nodded,
and at last he, too, went fast asleep, and his crook slipped from his
keeping. Then we called to the old olive-tree yonder, asking how soon
the midnight hour would come; but all the old olive-tree answered was
‘Presently, presently,’ and finally we, too, fell asleep, wearied by
our long watching, and lulled by the rocking and swaying of the old
olive-tree in the breezes of the night.

“‘But who is this Master?’ I asked.

“‘A child, a little child,’ they answered. ‘He is called the little
Master by the others. He comes here often, and plays among the flowers
of the hill-side. Sometimes the lambs, gambolling too carelessly, have
crushed and bruised us so that we lie bleeding and are like to die;
but the little Master heals our wounds and refreshes us once again.’

“I marvelled much to hear these things. ‘The midnight hour is at
hand,’ said I, ‘and I will abide with you to see this little Master of
whom you speak.’ So we nestled among the verdure of the hill-side, and
sang songs one to another.

“‘Come away!’ called the night wind; ‘I know a beauteous sea not far
hence, upon whose bosom you shall float, float, float away out into
the mists and clouds, if you will come with me.’

“But I hid under the violets and amid the tall grass, that the night
wind might not woo me with its pleading. ‘Ho, there, old olive-tree!’
cried the violets; ‘do you see the little Master coming? Is not the
midnight hour at hand?’

“‘I can see the town yonder,’ said the old olive-tree. ‘A star beams
bright over Bethlehem, the iron gates swing open, and the little
Master comes.’

“Two children came to the hill-side. The one, older than his comrade,
was Dimas, the son of Benoni. He was rugged and sinewy, and over his
brown shoulders was flung a goatskin; a leathern cap did not confine
his long, dark curly hair. The other child was he whom they called the
little Master; about his slender form clung raiment white as snow, and
around his face of heavenly innocence fell curls of golden yellow. So
beautiful a child I had not seen before, nor have I ever since seen
such as he. And as they came together to the hill-side, there seemed
to glow about the little Master’s head a soft white light, as if the
moon had sent its tenderest, fairest beams to kiss those golden curls.

“‘What sound was that?’ cried Dimas, for he was exceeding fearful.

“‘Have no fear, Dimas,’ said the little Master. ‘Give me thy hand, and
I will lead thee.’

“Presently they came to the rock whereon Benoni, the shepherd, lay;
and they stood under the old olive-tree, and the old olive-tree swayed
no longer in the night wind, but bent its branches reverently in the
presence of the little Master. It seemed as if the wind, too, stayed
in its shifting course just then; for suddenly there was a solemn
hush, and you could hear no noise, except that in his dreams Benoni
spoke the Messiah’s name.

“‘What sound was that?’ cried Dimas, for he was
exceeding fearful.”

“‘Thy father sleeps,’ said the little Master, ‘and it is well that it
is so; for that I love thee Dimas, and that thou shalt walk with me in
my Father’s kingdom, I would show thee the glories of my birthright.’

“Then all at once sweet music filled the air, and light, greater than
the light of day, illumined the sky and fell upon all that hill-side.
The heavens opened, and angels, singing joyous songs, walked to the
earth. More wondrous still, the stars, falling from their places in
the sky, clustered upon the old olive-tree, and swung hither and
thither like colored lanterns. The flowers of the hill-side all
awakened, and they, too, danced and sang. The angels, coming hither,
hung gold and silver and jewels and precious stones upon the old
olive, where swung the stars; so that the glory of that sight, though
I might live forever, I shall never see again. When Dimas heard and
saw these things he fell upon his knees, and catching the hem of the
little Master’s garment, he kissed it.

“‘Greater joy than this shall be thine, Dimas,’ said the little
Master; ‘but first must all things be fulfilled.’

“All through that Christmas night did the angels come and go with
their sweet anthems; all through that Christmas night did the stars
dance and sing; and when it came my time to steal away, the hill-side
was still beautiful with the glory and the music of heaven.”

“Well, is that all?” asked the old clock.

“No,” said the moonbeam; “but I am nearly done. The years went on.
Sometimes I tossed upon the ocean’s bosom, sometimes I scampered o’er
a battle-field, sometimes I lay upon a dead child’s face. I heard the
voices of Darkness and mothers’ lullabies and sick men’s prayers—and
so the years went on.

“I fell one night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of ghostly
pallor. A thief was dying on the cross, and this was his wretched
face. About the cross stood men with staves and swords and spears, but
none paid heed unto the thief. Somewhat beyond this cross another was
lifted up, and upon it was stretched a human body my light fell not
upon. But I heard a voice that somewhere I had heard before,—though
where I did not know,—and this voice blessed those that railed and
jeered and shamefully entreated. And suddenly the voice called
‘Dimas, Dimas!’ and the thief upon whose hardened face I rested made
answer.

“Then I saw that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked criminal there
remained but little of the shepherd child whom I had seen in all his
innocence upon the hill-side. Long years of sinful life had seared
their marks into his face; yet now, at the sound of that familiar
voice, somewhat of the old-time boyish look came back, and in the
yearning of the anguished eyes I seemed to see the shepherd’s son
again.

“‘The Master!’ cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that he
might see him that spake.

“‘O Dimas, how art thou changed!’ cried the Master, yet there was in
his voice no tone of rebuke save that which cometh of love.

“Then Dimas wept, and in that hour he forgot his pain. And the
Master’s consoling voice and the Master’s presence there wrought in
the dying criminal such a new spirit, that when at last his head fell
upon his bosom, and the men about the cross said that he was dead, it
seemed as if I shined not upon a felon’s face, but upon the face of
the gentle shepherd lad, the son of Benoni.

“And shining on that dead and peaceful face, I bethought me of the
little Master’s words that he had spoken under the old olive-tree upon
the hill-side: ‘Your eyes behold the promised glory now, O Dimas,’ I
whispered, ‘for with the Master you walk in Paradise.’”

Ah, little Dear-my-Soul, you know—you know whereof the moonbeam
spake. The shepherd’s bones are dust, the flocks are scattered, the
old olive-tree is gone, the flowers of the hill-side are withered, and
none knoweth where the grave of Dimas is made. But last night, again,
there shined a star over Bethlehem, and the angels descended from the
sky to earth, and the stars sang together in glory. And the
bells,—hear them, little Dear-my-Soul, how sweetly they are
ringing,—the bells bear us the good tidings of great joy this
Christmas morning, that our Christ is born, and that with him he
bringeth peace on earth and good-will toward men.

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