It was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. “Hush!” said Dick Bullen, holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of Johnny from his adjacent closet: “Oh, dad!”

The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he reappeared. “His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad,” he explained, “and he wants rubbin’.” He lifted the demijohn of whiskey from the table and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined their contents, and said hopefully, “I reckon that’s enough; he don’t need much. You hold on, all o’ you, for a spell, and I’ll be back;” and vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whiskey. The door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly audible:—

“Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst?”

“Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it’s most powerful from yer to yer. Rub yer, dad.”

A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny:—

“Hevin’ a good time out yar, dad?”

“Yes, sonny.”

“Tomorrer’s Chrismiss,—ain’t it?”

“Yes, sonny. How does she feel now?”

“Better. Rub a little furder down. Wot’s Chrismiss, anyway? Wot’s it all about?”

“Oh, it’s a day.”

This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again:—

“Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to everybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar’s a man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o’ Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things to chillern,—boys like me. Puts ‘em in their butes! Thet’s what she tried to play upon me. Easy, now, pop, whar are you rubbin’ to,—thet’s a mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn’t she, jest to aggrewate me and you? Don’t rub thar—Why, dad!”

In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sigh of the near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct. Johnny’s voice, too, was lowered as he went on: “Don’t you take on now, for I’m gettin’ all right fast. Wot’s the boys doin’ out thar?”

The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests were sitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and a lean buckskin purse on the table. “Bettin’ on suthin’,—some little game or ‘nother. They’re all right,” he replied to Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing.

“I’d like to take a hand and win some money,” said Johnny reflectively, after a pause.

The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiar formula, that if Johnny would wait until he struck it rich in the tunnel, he’d have lots of money, etc., etc.

“Yes,” said Johnny, “but you don’t. And whether you strike it or I win it, it’s about the same. It’s all luck. But it’s mighty cur’o's about Chrismiss,—ain’t it? Why do they call it Chrismiss?”

Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his guests, or from some vague sense of incongruity, the Old Man’s reply was so low as to be inaudible beyond the room.

“Yes,” said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest, “I’ve heerd o’ him before. Thar, that’ll do dad. I don’t ache near so bad as I did. Now wrap me tight in this yer blanket. So. Now,” he added in a muffled whisper, “sit down yer by me till I go asleep.” To assure himself of obedience he disengaged one hand from the blanket, and, grasping his father’s sleeve, again composed himself to rest.

For some moments the Old Man waited patiently. Then the unwonted stillness of the house excited his curiosity, and without moving from the bed he cautiously opened the door with his disengaged hand, and looked into the main room. To his infinite surprise it was dark and deserted. But even then a smoldering log on the hearth broke, and by the upspringing blaze he saw the figure of Dick Bullen sitting by the dying embers.

“Hello!”

Dick started, rose, and came somewhat unsteadily toward him.

“Whar’s the boys?” said the Old Man.

“Gone up the canon on a little pasear. They’re coming back for me in a minit. I’m waitin’ round for ‘em. What are you starin’ at, Old Man?” he added, with a forced laugh; “do you think I’m drunk?”

The Old Man might have been pardoned the supposition, for Dick’s eyes were humid and his face flushed. He loitered and lounged back to the chimney, yawned, shook himself, buttoned up his coat and laughed. “Liquor ain’t so plenty as that, Old Man. Now don’t you git up,” he continued, as the Old Man made a movement to release his sleeve from Johnny’s hand. “Don’t you mind manners. Sit jest whar you be; I’m goin’ in a jiffy. Thar, that’s them now.”

There was a low tap at the door. Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded “Good-night” to his host, and disappeared. The Old Man would have followed him but for the hand that still unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He could have easily disengaged it; it was small, weak and emaciated. But perhaps because it was small, weak and emaciated he changed his mind, and, drawing his chair closer to the bed, rested his head upon it. In this defenceless attitude the potency of his earlier potations surprised him. The room flickered and faded before his eyes, reappeared, faded again, went out, and left him—asleep.

Meantime Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted his companions. “Are you ready?” said Staples. “Ready,” said Dick; “what’s the time?” “Past twelve,” was the reply; “can you make it?—it’s nigh on fifty miles, the round trip hither and yon.” “I reckon,” returned Dick shortly. “Whar’s the mare?” “Bill and Jack’s holdin’ her at the crossin’.” “Let ‘em hold on a minit longer,” said Dick.

He turned and reentered the house softly. By the light of the guttering candle and dying fire he saw that the door of the little room was open. He stepped toward it on tiptoe and looked in. The Old Man had fallen back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and his hat pulled over his eyes. Beside him, on a narrow wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanket that hid all save a strip of forehead and a few curls damp with perspiration. Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glanced over his shoulder into the deserted room. Everything was quiet. With a sudden resolution he parted his huge mustaches with both hands, and stooped over the sleeping boy. But even as he did so a mischievous blast, lying in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindled the hearth, and lit up the room with a shameless glow, from which Dick fled in bashful terror.

His companions were already waiting for him at the crossing. Two of them were struggling in the darkness with some strange misshapen bulk, which as Dick came nearer took the semblance of a great yellow horse.

It was the mare. She was not a pretty picture. From her Roman nose to her rising haunches, from her arched spine hidden by the stiff machillas of a Mexican saddle, to her thick, straight, bony legs, there was not a line of equine grace. In her half blind but wholly vicious white eyes, in her protruding under-lip, in her monstrous color, there was nothing but ugliness and vice.

“Now, then,” said Staples, “stand cl’ar of her heels, boy, and up with you. Don’t miss your first holt of her mane, and mind ye get your off stirrup quick. Ready!”

There was a leap, a scrambling, a bound, a wild retreat of the crowd, a circle of flying hoofs, two springless leaps that jarred the earth, a rapid play and jingle of spurs, a plunge, and then the voice of Dick somewhere in the darkness. “All right!”

“Don’t take the lower road back onless you’re pushed hard for time! Don’t hold her in down hill. We’ll be at the ford at five. G’lang! Hoopa! Mula! GO!”

A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road, a clatter in the rocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.

- – - – -
Sing, O Muse, the ride of Richard Bullen! Sing, O Muse, of chivalrous men! the sacred quest, the doughty deeds, the battery of low churls, the fearsome ride and gruesome perils of the Flower of Simpson’s Bar! Alack! she is dainty, this Muse! She will have none of this bucking brute and swaggering, ragged rider, and I must fain follow him in prose, afoot!

It was one o’clock, and yet he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill. For in that time Jovita had rehearsed to him all her imperfections and practised all her vices. Thrice had she stumbled. Twice had she thrown up her Roman nose in a straight line with the reins, and, resisting bit and spur, struck out madly across country. Twice had she reared, and, rearing, fallen backward; and twice had the agile Dick, unharmed, regained his seat before she found her vicious legs again. And a mile beyond them, at the foot of a long hill, was Rattlesnake Creek. Dick knew that here was the crucial test of his ability to perform his enterprise, set his teeth grimly, put his knees well into her flanks, and changed his defensive tactics to brisk aggression. Bullied and maddened, Jovita began the descent of the hill. Here the artful Richard pretended to hold her in with ostentatious objurgation and well-feigned cries of alarm. It is unnecessary to add that Jovita instantly ran away. Nor need I state the time made in the descent; it is written in the chronicles of Simpson’s Bar. Enough that in another moment, as it seemed to Dick, she was splashing on the overflowed banks of Rattlesnake Creek. As Dick expected, the momentum she had acquired carried her beyond the point of balking, and, holding her well together for a mighty leap, they dashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing current. A few moments of kicking, wading, and swimming, and Dick drew a long breath on the opposite bank.

The road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain was tolerably level. Either the plunge into Rattlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire, or the art which led to it had shown her the superior wickedness of her rider, for Jovita no longer wasted her surplus energy in wanton conceits. Once she bucked, but it was from force of habit; once she shied, but it was from a new, freshly-painted meeting-house at the crossing of the country road. Hollows, ditches, gravelly deposits, patches of freshly-springing grasses, flew from beneath her rattling hoofs. She began to smell unpleasantly, once or twice she coughed slightly, but there was no abatement of her strength or speed. By two o’clock he had passed Red Mountain and begun the descent to the plain. Ten minutes later the driver of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and passed by a “man on a Pinto hoss,”—an event sufficiently notable for remark. At half past two Dick rose in his stirrups with a great shout. Stars were glittering through the rifted clouds, and beyond him, out of the plain, rose two spires, a flagstaff, and a straggling line of black objects. Dick jingled his spurs and swung his riata, Jovita bounded forward, and in another moment they swept into Tuttleville, and drew up before the wooden piazza of “The Hotel of All Nations.”

What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly a part of this record. Briefly I may state, however, that after Jovita had been handed over to a sleepy ostler, whom she at once kicked into unpleasant consciousness, Dick sallied out with the barkeeper for a tour of the sleeping town. Lights still gleamed from a few saloons and gambling houses; but, avoiding these, they stopped before several closed shops, and by persistent tapping and judicious outcry roused the proprietors from their beds, and made them unbar the doors of their magazines and expose their wares. Sometimes they were met by curses, but oftener by interest and some concern in their needs. It was three o’clock before this pleasantry was given over, and with a small waterproof bag of India rubber strapped on his shoulders Dick returned to the hotel. And then he sprang to the saddle, and dashed down the lonely street and out into the lonelier plain, where presently the lights, the black line of houses, the spires, and the flagstaff sank into the earth behind him again and were lost in the distance.

The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and cold, the outlines of adjacent landmarks were distinct, but it was half-past four before Dick reached the meeting-house and the crossing of the country road. To avoid the rising grade he had taken a longer and more circuitous road, in whose viscid mud Jovita sank fetlock deep at every bound. It was a poor preparation for a steady ascent of five miles more; but Jovita, gathering her legs under her, took it with her usual blind, unreasoning fury, and a half hour later reached the long level that led to Rattlesnake Creek. Another half hour would bring him to the Creek. He threw the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped to her, and began to sing.

Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would have unseated a less practised rider. Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped from the bank, and at the same time from the road before her arose a shadowy horse and rider. “Throw up your hands,” commanded the second apparition, with an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him. He knew what it meant, and was prepared.

“Stand aside, Jack Simpson. I know you, you d——d thief! Let me pass, or—”

He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight in the air with a terrific bound, throwing the figure from her bit with a single shake of her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on the impediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman rolled over in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundred yards away. But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet, dropped helplessly at his side.

Without slacking his speed he lifted the reins to his left hand. But a few moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths that had slipped in the onset. This in his crippled condition took some time. He had no fear of pursuit, but, looking up, he saw that the eastern stars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky. Day was upon him. Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot the pain of his wound, and, mounting again, dashed on towards Rattlesnake Creek. But now Jovita’s breath came broken by gasps, Dick reeled in his saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.

Ride, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustion from a loss of blood, or what? He was dazed and giddy as he swept down the hill, and did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken the wrong road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?

It was. But the brawling creek he had swam a few hours before had risen, more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless river between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night Richard’s heart sank within him. The river, the mountain, the quickening east, swam before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. In that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little room at Simpson’s Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots, and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashed into the yellow water. A cry arose from the opposite bank as the head of a man and horse struggled for a few moments against the battling current, and then were swept away amidst uprooted trees and whirling driftwood.

- – - – -
The Old man started and woke. The fire on the hearth was dead, the candle in the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody was rapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the dripping, half-naked figure that reeled against the doorpost.

“Dick?”

“Hush! Is he awake yet?”

“No; but Dick—”

“Dry up, you old fool! Get me some whiskey, quick!” The Old Man flew, and returned with—an empty bottle! Dick would have sworn, but his strength was not equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the handle of the door, and motioned to the Old Man.

“Thar’s suthin’ in my pack yer for Johnny. Take it off. I can’t.”

The Old Man unstrapped the pack, and laid it before the exhausted man.

“Open it, quick.”

He did so with trembling fingers. It contained only a few poor toys,—cheap and barbaric enough, goodness knows, but bright with paint and tinsel. One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievably ruined by water; and on the third—ah me! there was a cruel spot.

“It don’t look like much, that’s a fact,” said Dick ruefully … “But it’s the best we could do…. Take ‘em Old Man, and put ‘em in his stocking, and tell him—tell him, you know—hold me, Old Man—” The Old Man caught at his sinking figure. “Tell him,” said Dick, with a weak little laugh,—”tell him Sandy Claus has come.”

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson’s Bar, and fell fainting on the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly after, touching the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable love. And it looked so tenderly on Simpson’s Bar that the whole mountain, as if caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.

 BRET HARTE

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There was a time when the spirit of Christmas was of the present. There is a period when most of it is of the past. There shall come a day perhaps when all of it will be of the future. The child time, the present; the middle years, the past; old age, the future.

Come to my mind Christmas Days of long ago. As a boy again I enter into the spirit of the Christmas stockings hanging before my fire. I know what the children think to-day. I recall what they feel.

Passes childhood, and I look down the nearer years. There rise before me remembrances of Christmas Days on storm-tossed seas, where waves beat upon the ice-bound ship. I recall again the bitter touch of water-warping winter, of drifts of snow, of wind-swept plains. In the gamut of my remembrance I am once more in the poor, mean, lonely little sanctuary out on the prairie, with a handful of Christians, mostly women, gathered together in the freezing, draughty building. In later years I worship in the great cathedral church, ablaze with lights, verdant and fragrant with the evergreen pines, echoing with joyful carols and celestial harmonies. My recollections are of contrasts like those of life—joy and sadness, poverty and ease.

And the pictures are full of faces, many of which may be seen no more by earthly vision. I miss the clasp of vanished hands, I crave the sound of voices stilled. As we old and older grow, there is a note of sadness in our glee. Whether we will or not we must twine the cypress with the holly. The recollection of each passing year brings deeper regret. How many have gone from those circles that we recall when we were children? How many little feet that pattered upon the stair on Christmas morning now tread softer paths and walk in broader ways; sisters and brothers who used to come back from the far countries to the old home—alas, they cannot come from the farther country in which they now are, and perhaps, saddest thought of all, we would not wish them to come again. How many, with whom we joined hands around the Christmas tree, have gone?

Circles are broken, families are separated, loved ones are lost, but the old world sweeps on. Others come to take our places. As we stood at the knee of some unforgotten mother, so other children stand. As we listened to the story of the Christ Child from the lips of some grey old father, so other children listen and we ourselves perchance are fathers or mothers too. Other groups come to us for the deathless story. Little heads which recall vanished halcyon days of youth bend around another younger mother. Smaller hands than ours write letters to Santa Claus and hear the story, the sweetest story ever told, of the Baby who came to Mary and through her to all the daughters and sons of women on that winter night on the Bethlehem hills.

And we thank God for the children who take us out of the past, out of ourselves, away from recollections that weigh us down; the children that weave in the woof and warp of life when our own youth has passed, some of the buoyancy, the joy, the happiness of the present; the children in whose opening lives we turn hopefully to the future. We thank God at this Christmas season that it pleased Him to send His beloved Son to come to us as a little child, like any other child. We thank God that in the lesser sense we may see in every child who comes to-day another incarnation of divinity. We thank God for the portion of His Spirit with which He dowers every child of man, just as we thank Him for pouring it all upon the Infant in the Manger.

There is no age that has not had its prophet. No country, no people, but that has produced its leader. But did any of them ever before come as a little child? Did any of them begin to lead while yet in arms? Lodges there upon any other baby brow “the round and top of sovereignty?” What distinguished Christ and His Christian followers from all the world? Behold! no mighty monarch, but “a little child shall lead them!”

You may see through the glass darkly, you may not know or understand the blessedness of faith in Him as He would have you know it, but there is nothing that can dim the light that radiates from that birth in the rude cave back of the inn. Ah, it pierces through the darkness of that shrouding night. It shines to-day. Still sparkles the Star in the East. He is that Star.

There is nothing that can take from mankind—even doubting mankind—the spirit of Christ and the Christmas season. Our celebrations do not rest upon the conclusions of logic, or the demonstrations of philosophy; I would not even argue that they depend inevitably or absolutely upon the possession of a certain faith in Jesus, but we accept Christmas, nevertheless; we endeavour to apply the Christmas spirit, for just once in the year; it may be because we cannot, try as we may, crush out utterly and entirely the divinity that is in us that makes for God. The stories and tales for Christmas which have for their theme the hard heart softened are not mere fictions of the imagination. They rest upon an instinctive consciousness of a profound philosophic truth.

What is the unpardonable sin, I wonder? Is it to be persistently and forever unkind? Does it mean perhaps the absolute refusal to accept the principle of love which is indeed creation’s final law? The lessons of the Christmastide are so many; the appeals that now may be made to humanity crowd to the lips from full minds and fuller hearts. Might we not reduce them all to the explication of the underlying principle of God’s purpose to us, as expressed in those themic words of love with which angels and men greeted the advent of the Child on the first Christmas morning, “Good will toward men?”

Let us then show our good will toward men by doing good and bringing happiness to someone—if not to everyone—at this Christmas season. Put aside the memories of disappointments, of sorrows that have not vanished, of cares that still burden, and do good in spite of them because you would not dim the brightness of the present for any human heart with the shadows of old regrets. Do good because of a future which opens possibilities before you, for others, if not for yourselves.

Brethren, friends, all, let us make up our minds that we will be kindly affectioned one to another in our homes and out of them, on this approaching Christmas day. That the old debate, the ancient strife, the rankling recollection, the sharp contention, shall be put aside, that “envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness” shall be done away with. Let us forgive and forget; but if we cannot forget let us at least forgive. And so let there be peace between man and man at Christmas—a truce of God.

Let us pray that Love shall come as a little child to our households. That He shall be in our hearts and shall find His expression in all that we do or say on this birthday of goodness and cheer for the world. Then let us resolve that the spirit of the day shall be carried out through our lives, that as Christ did not come for an hour, but for a lifetime, we would fain become as little children on this day of days that we may begin a new life of good will to men.

Let us make this a new birthday of kindness and love that shall endure. That is a Christmas hope, a Christmas wish. Let us give to it the gracious expression of life among men.

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THE COMING OF THE PRINCE

“Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!” said the wind, and it tore through
the streets of the city that Christmas eve, turning umbrellas inside
out, driving the snow in fitful gusts before it, creaking the rusty
signs and shutters, and playing every kind of rude prank it could
think of.

“How cold your breath is to-night!” said Barbara, with a shiver, as
she drew her tattered little shawl the closer around her benumbed
body.

“Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!” answered the wind; “but why are you
out in this storm? You should be at home by the warm fire.”

“I have no home,” said Barbara; and then she sighed bitterly, and
something like a tiny pearl came in the corner of one of her sad blue
eyes.

But the wind did not hear her answer, for it had hurried up the street
to throw a handful of snow in the face of an old man who was
struggling along with a huge basket of good things on each arm.

“Why are you not at the cathedral?” asked a snowflake, as it alighted
on Barbara’s shoulder. “I heard grand music, and saw beautiful lights
there as I floated down from the sky a moment ago.”

“What are they doing at the cathedral?” inquired Barbara.

“Why, haven’t you heard?” exclaimed the snowflake. “I supposed
everybody knew that the prince was coming to-morrow.”

“Surely enough; this is Christmas eve,” said Barbara, “and the prince
will come to-morrow.”

Barbara remembered that her mother had told her about the prince, how
beautiful and good and kind and gentle he was, and how he loved the
little children; but her mother was dead now, and there was none to
tell Barbara of the prince and his coming,—none but the little
snowflake.

“I should like to see the prince,” said Barbara, “for I have heard he
was very beautiful and good.”

“That he is,” said the snowflake. “I have never seen him, but I heard
the pines and the firs singing about him as I floated over the forest
to-night.”

“Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!” cried the wind, returning boisterously to
where Barbara stood. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, little
snowflake! So come with me.”

And without any further ado, the wind seized upon the snowflake and
hurried it along the street and led it a merry dance through the icy
air of the winter night.

Barbara trudged on through the snow and looked in at the bright things
in the shop windows. The glitter of the lights and the sparkle of the
vast array of beautiful Christmas toys quite dazzled her. A strange
mingling of admiration, regret, and envy filled the poor little
creature’s heart.

“Much as I may yearn to have them, it cannot be,” she said to herself,
“yet I may feast my eyes upon them.”

“Go away from here!” said a harsh voice. “How can the rich people see
all my fine things if you stand before the window? Be off with you,
you miserable little beggar!”

It was the shopkeeper, and he gave Barbara a savage box on the ear
that sent her reeling into the deeper snowdrifts of the gutter.

Presently she came to a large house where there seemed to be much
mirth and festivity. The shutters were thrown open, and through the
windows Barbara could see a beautiful Christmas-tree in the centre of
a spacious room—a beautiful Christmas-tree ablaze with red and
green lights, and heavy with toys and stars and glass balls and other
beautiful things that children love. There was a merry throng around
the tree, and the children were smiling and gleeful, and all in that
house seemed content and happy. Barbara heard them singing, and their
song was about the prince who was to come on the morrow.

“This must be the house where the prince will stop,” thought Barbara.
“How I would like to see his face and hear his voice!—yet what would
he care for me, a ‘miserable little beggar’?”

So Barbara crept on through the storm, shivering and disconsolate, yet
thinking of the prince.

“Where are you going?” she asked of the wind as it overtook her.

“To the cathedral,” laughed the wind. “The great people are flocking
there, and I will have a merry time amongst them, ha, ha, ha!”

And with laughter the wind whirled away and chased the snow toward the
cathedral.

“It is there, then, that the prince will come,” thought Barbara. “It
is a beautiful place, and the people will pay him homage there.
Perhaps I shall see him if I go there.”

“This must be the house where the prince
will stop,”
thought Barbara.

So she went to the cathedral. Many folk were there in their richest
apparel, and the organ rolled out its grand music, and the people sang
wondrous songs, and the priests made eloquent prayers; and the music,
and the songs, and the prayers were all about the prince and his
expected coming. The throng that swept in and out of the great edifice
talked always of the prince, the prince, the prince, until Barbara
really loved him very much, for all the gentle words she heard the
people say of him.

“Please, can I go and sit inside?” inquired Barbara of the sexton.

“No!” said the sexton gruffly, for this was an important occasion with
the sexton, and he had no idea of wasting words on a beggar child.

“But I will be very good and quiet,” pleaded Barbara. “Please may I
not see the prince?”

“I have said no, and I mean it,” retorted the sexton. “What have you
for the prince, or what cares the prince for you? Out with you, and
don’t be blocking up the door-way!” So the sexton gave Barbara an
angry push, and the child fell half-way down the icy steps of the
cathedral. She began to cry. Some great people were entering the
cathedral at the time, and they laughed to see her falling.

“Have you seen the prince?” inquired a snowflake, alighting on
Barbara’s cheek. It was the same little snowflake that had clung to
her shawl an hour ago, when the wind came galloping along on his
boisterous search.

“Ah, no!” sighed Barbara in tears; “but what cares the prince for
me?”

“Do not speak so bitterly,” said the little snowflake. “Go to the
forest and you shall see him, for the prince always comes through the
forest to the city.”

Despite the cold, and her bruises, and her tears, Barbara smiled. In
the forest she could behold the prince coming on his way; and he would
not see her, for she would hide among the trees and vines.

“Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!” It was the mischievous, romping wind once
more; and it fluttered Barbara’s tattered shawl, and set her hair to
streaming in every direction, and swept the snowflake from her cheek
and sent it spinning through the air.

Barbara trudged toward the forest. When she came to the city gate the
watchman stopped her, and held his big lantern in her face, and asked
her who she was and where she was going.

“I am Barbara, and I am going into the forest,” said she boldly.

“Into the forest?” cried the watchman, “and in this storm? No, child;
you will perish!”

“But I am going to see the prince,” said Barbara. “They will not let
me watch for him in the church, nor in any of their pleasant homes, so
I am going into the forest.”

The watchman smiled sadly. He was a kindly man; he thought of his own
little girl at home.

“No, you must not go to the forest,” said he, “for you would perish
with the cold.”

But Barbara would not stay. She avoided the watchman’s grasp and ran
as fast as ever she could through the city gate.

“Come back, come back!” cried the watchman; “you will perish in the
forest!”

But Barbara would not heed his cry. The falling snow did not stay her,
nor did the cutting blast. She thought only of the prince, and she ran
straightway to the forest.

II

“What do you see up there, O pine-tree?” asked a little vine in the
forest. “You lift your head among the clouds to-night, and you tremble
strangely as if you saw wondrous sights.”

“I see only the distant hill-tops and the dark clouds,” answered the
pine-tree. “And the wind sings of the snow-king to-night; to all my
questionings he says, ‘Snow, snow, snow,’ till I am wearied with his
refrain.”

“But the prince will surely come to-morrow?” inquired the tiny
snowdrop that nestled close to the vine.

“Oh, yes,” said the vine. “I heard the country folks talking about it
as they went through the forest to-day, and they said that the prince
would surely come on the morrow.”

“What are you little folks down there talking about?” asked the
pine-tree.

“We are talking about the prince,” said the vine.

“Yes, he is to come on the morrow,” said the pine-tree, “but not until
the day dawns, and it is still all dark in the east.”

“Yes,” said the fir-tree, “the east is black, and only the wind and
the snow issue from it.”

“Keep your head out of my way!” cried the pine-tree to the fir; “with
your constant bobbing around I can hardly see at all.”

“Take that for your bad manners,” retorted the fir, slapping the
pine-tree savagely with one of her longest branches.

The pine-tree would put up with no such treatment, so he hurled his
largest cone at the fir; and for a moment or two it looked as if there
were going to be a serious commotion in the forest.

“Hush!” cried the vine in a startled tone; “there is some one coming
through the forest.”

The pine-tree and the fir stopped quarrelling, and the snowdrop
nestled closer to the vine, while the vine hugged the pine-tree very
tightly. All were greatly alarmed.

“Nonsense!” said the pine-tree, in a tone of assumed bravery. “No one
would venture into the forest at such an hour.”

“Indeed! and why not?” cried a child’s voice. “Will you not let me
watch with you for the coming of the prince?”

“Will you not chop me down?” inquired the pine-tree gruffly.

“Will you not tear me from my tree?” asked the vine.

“Will you not pluck my blossoms?” plaintively piped the snowdrop.

“No, of course not,” said Barbara; “I have come only to watch with you
for the prince.”

Then Barbara told them who she was, and how cruelly she had been
treated in the city, and how she longed to see the prince, who was to
come on the morrow. And as she talked, the forest and all therein felt
a great compassion for her.

“Lie at my feet,” said the pine-tree, “and I will protect you.”

“Nestle close to me, and I will chafe your temples and body and limbs
till they are warm,” said the vine.

“Let me rest upon your cheek, and I will sing you my little songs,”
said the snowdrop.

And Barbara felt very grateful for all these homely kindnesses. She
rested in the velvety snow at the foot of the pine-tree, and the vine
chafed her body and limbs, and the little flower sang sweet songs to
her.

“Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!” There was that noisy wind again, but this time
it was gentler than it had been in the city.

“Here you are, my little Barbara,” said the wind, in kindly tones. “I
have brought you the little snowflake. I am glad you came away from
the city, for the people are proud and haughty there; oh, but I will
have my fun with them!”

Then, having dropped the little snowflake on Barbara’s cheek, the wind
whisked off to the city again. And we can imagine that it played rare
pranks with the proud, haughty folk on its return; for the wind, as
you know, is no respecter of persons.

“Dear Barbara,” said the snowflake, “I will watch with thee for the
coming of the prince.”

And Barbara was glad, for she loved the little snowflake, that was so
pure and innocent and gentle.

“Tell us, O pine-tree,” cried the vine, “what do you see in the east?
Has the prince yet entered the forest?”

“The east is full of black clouds,” said the pine-tree, “and the winds
that hurry to the hill-tops sing of the snow.”

“But the city is full of brightness,” said the fir. “I can see the
lights in the cathedral, and I can hear wondrous music about the
prince and his coming.”

“Yes, they are singing of the prince in the cathedral,” said Barbara
sadly.

“But we shall see him first,” whispered the vine reassuringly.

“Yes, the prince will come through the forest,” said the little
snowdrop gleefully.

“Fear not, dear Barbara, we shall behold the prince in all his glory,”
cried the snowflake.

Then all at once there was a strange hub-bub in the forest; for it
was midnight, and the spirits came from their hiding-places to prowl
about and to disport themselves. Barbara beheld them all in great
wonder and trepidation, for she had never before seen the spirits of
the forest, although she had often heard of them. It was a marvellous
sight.

So Barbara fell asleep.

“Fear nothing,” whispered the vine to Barbara,—”fear nothing, for
they dare not touch you.”

The antics of the wood-spirits continued but an hour; for then a cock
crowed, and immediately thereat, with a wondrous scurrying, the elves
and the gnomes and the other grotesque spirits sought their
abiding-places in the caves and in the hollow trunks and under the
loose bark of the trees. And then it was very quiet once more in the
forest.

“It is very cold,” said Barbara. “My hands and feet are like ice.”

Then the pine-tree and the fir shook down the snow from their broad
boughs, and the snow fell upon Barbara and covered her like a white
mantle.

“You will be warm now,” said the vine, kissing Barbara’s forehead. And
Barbara smiled.

Then the snowdrop sang a lullaby about the moss that loved the violet.
And Barbara said, “I am going to sleep; will you wake me when the
prince comes through the forest?”

And they said they would. So Barbara fell asleep.

III

“The bells in the city are ringing merrily,” said the fir, “and the
music in the cathedral is louder and more beautiful than before. Can
it be that the prince has already come into the city?”

“No,” cried the pine-tree, “look to the east and see the Christmas day
a-dawning! The prince is coming, and his pathway is through the
forest!”

The storm had ceased. Snow lay upon all the earth. The hills, the
forest, the city, and the meadows were white with the robe the
storm-king had thrown over them. Content with his wondrous work, the
storm-king himself had fled to his far Northern home before the dawn
of the Christmas day. Everything was bright and sparkling and
beautiful. And most beautiful was the great hymn of praise the forest
sang that Christmas morning,—the pine-trees and the firs and the
vines and the snow-flowers that sang of the prince and of his promised
coming.

“Wake up, little one,” cried the vine, “for the prince is coming!”

But Barbara slept; she did not hear the vine’s soft calling nor the
lofty music of the forest.

A little snow-bird flew down from the fir-tree’s bough and perched
upon the vine, and carolled in Barbara’s ear of the Christmas morning
and of the coming of the prince. But Barbara slept; she did not hear
the carol of the bird.

“Alas!” sighed the vine, “Barbara will not awaken, and the prince is
coming.”

Then the vine and the snowdrop wept, and the pine-tree and the fir
were very sad.

The prince came through the forest clad in royal raiment and wearing a
golden crown. Angels came with him, and the forest sang a great hymn
unto the prince, such a hymn as had never before been heard on earth.
The prince came to the sleeping child and smiled upon her and called
her by name.

“Barbara, my little one,” said the prince, “awaken, and come with me.”

Then Barbara opened her eyes and beheld the prince. And it seemed as
if a new life had come to her, for there was warmth in her body and a
flush upon her cheeks and a light in her eyes that were divine. And
she was clothed no longer in rags, but in white flowing raiment; and
upon the soft brown hair there was a crown like those which angels
wear. And as Barbara arose and went to the prince, the little
snowflake fell from her cheek upon her bosom, and forthwith became a
pearl more precious than all other jewels upon earth.

And the prince took Barbara in his arms and blessed her, and turning
round about, returned with the little child unto his home, while the
forest and the sky and the angels sang a wondrous song.

The city waited for the prince, but he did not come. None knew of the
glory of the forest that Christmas morning, nor of the new life that
came to little Barbara.

Come thou, dear Prince, oh, come to us this holy Christmas time! Come
to the busy marts of earth, the quiet homes, the noisy streets, the
humble lanes; come to us all, and with thy love touch every human
heart, that we may know that love, and in its blessed peace bear
charity to all mankind!

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