: Santa Claus' Sweetheart by Clark Imogen - Christmas stories; Santa Claus Juvenile fiction

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SANTA CLAUS' SWEETHEART

ENTER SANTA CLAUS

Terry O'Connor always declared he was born under a happy star, and he also maintained that at the time of his coming into the world it had danced for very joy. This statement, which no matter how much others might doubt but could not dispute, he had direct from his mother's mother, who was present on that most auspicious occasion, and had observed the unusual conduct of the stellar body from the window. And, moreover, as if to establish quite conclusively the connection between the shining merriment in the skies and the advent of the little child on earth, the first thing the baby did was to smile. Old Mrs. Mulcahey knew what she was talking of. She had seen many new-born children in her time, and all of them, with the exception of her small and only grandchild, had worn such doleful countenances that a less hopeful person than herself would have been cast into despair. Whether that dazzling, dancing star had blinded her eyes, or had given them a truer vision, who shall say? She had seen--what she had seen! A little joyful slip of humanity come valiantly into this world of trouble, equipped from the outset with the sign-royal of a light heart.

It was the humblest of cradles; but to it, as to all cradles--so runs the old belief--had trooped, unseen, the good fairies with their gifts, and hither also had come the wicked fairy, who is seldom absent at such times, and whose malignant generosity mars all the gracious giving, making possession only too often of doubtful value. Here, as elsewhere, she wreaked her evil will so that the little child grew to be a man known through the countryside as a good-for-naught. That was the extent of her work, however; she was powerless to prevent another testimony. He was also known as a kindly, happy-go-lucky fellow, his own worst enemy, but the friend of all the world. Such was the record of five-and-sixty years, and such it would be to the end.

Terry dragged his squirrel cap closely down about his ears, and pulled the collar of his fur coat up to meet it, shutting out the shouts that rose from the group of idlers gathered around the roaring fire in Wistar's tavern. Not even Ulysses, on that memorable voyage of his past the sirens, ever strove so vigorously to dull his hearing as did this little commonplace man, who was generally in thrall to his own pleasures. In spite of the laughter which reached him in faint bursts, he strode resolutely to the door and let himself out into the still, white world. For a moment his will, nerved as it seldom was, faltered; back of him, through the open door, he could see the gleaming eye of the fire winking and blinking in friendly wise; the grinning human faces turned his way, jovial as they were, were less alluring, though he knew what comfort lay in their mirth, and what additional comfort would be passed from lip to lip as the hours went by. He was not unfamiliar with such scenes, but the knowledge that the morrow would be Christmas and his rude sleigh contained what would go to the needs, and also to the meagre pleasuring of the shantymen at Thornby's logging-camp, as well as another and still more potent thought, lent an unusual firmness to his step. He was not sure of himself even then, however, though he cleared the distance with a bound which landed him in the centre of his waiting sleigh, and shook out the reins with a wild halloo that startled the placid old horses and made them whirl forward on the frozen road with the friskiness of youth. The noise of the hurried departure brought the men within the tavern running to the open door, to stand there bare-headed, gaping at the diminishing speck which they knew--and did not know. A man of determination, surely, and hitherto their acquaintance had been with one who never could say "no," or a quarter of a "no," on any occasion--the real Terry O'Connor.

Meanwhile, as the sorry-looking nags sobered down to their everyday gait, the man back of them knew which was the real self. His own conduct, despite the fact that he held its key, had surprised him even more than it had his companions; and as his thoughts turned longingly to the spot he had just quitted, he let his grasp slacken on the reins. It was better that the horses should take their own way for a while; he could not quite trust himself. Presently, however, when no backward glance revealed the tavern, and all around the country lay wrapped in the white silence of winter, he gathered the lines more firmly between his fingers and called a jovial word of encouragement. His voice rang out loud and far-reaching,--the only sound to break the stillness save the monotonous sing-song of the sleigh bells that struck a vibrant note on the clear air, and the sharp crunching of the hardened snow under the passing hoofs. Another man in Terry's place, doing his duty against his inclination, would have performed the task stolidly if there were no one by to applaud his action and recognize what a fine fellow he was. With Terry it was different. Once starting out to do a thing he carried his own lightness of heart into the matter, which was probably the result of being born under a happy star.

There were other reasons in this instance, besides the performance of his duty, to make Terry happy. He had never heard that duty done is the soul's fireside; indeed, had he been consulted on the subject he would have frankly cast his vote for Wistar's fireside with the hot toddy going around at blessed intervals rather than for any warmth that might come from his soul because of his own well-doing. He knew little of his soul, and cared less; that was something, according to him, to be reserved for the time when illness, or old age, should overtake him. At present, with his lusty health and his gay heart that was bubbling over with youth despite his years, he disregarded the acquaintance entirely. He had turned his face resolutely toward the north and to the north he would go, though first the provisions would be duly left at the camp; but he had no intention of remaining there himself. A glass of grog--another--they could scarcely offer him less than two!--and he would be away again. Like a beacon, out of the distance, beckoning to him was the jollity up at Merle. It was there he meant to keep the Christmas Eve vigil and, moreover, win the bet Narcisse V?lin had made. For Narcisse, smarting under what he termed "a slight to hees honor-r," had declared that Terry would never be able to leave Wistar's tavern and the jolly crowd assembled there, and the shantymen would be obliged to do without their Christmas cheer because they had chosen so unworthy a bearer instead of a more capable man--he would mention no names!--and then with an evil laugh he had made a heavy wager that his words would come true.

Terry shivered momentarily under his furs, though he was so well wrapped up that the cold was powerless to reach him. How nearly had Narcisse been right, how nearly had he--Terry O'Connor--been the loser. The grog was so good at Wistar's, and Baptiste, the most famous story-teller of them all, had just come in with a new and wonderful adventure at his tongue's end, and the glow of the fire was like a gentle hand soothing one into forgetfulness. Then suddenly he had remembered the packed sleigh without with Danny and Whitefoot waiting patiently, though mournfully shaking their bells from time to time to remind him of themselves, of his duty, and, more than all, of Narcisse. The latter thought was the real spur to goad him out of the ease into which he had fallen. So he had left the tavern, and the surprise his action had caused filled him with great glee.

"They'll niver be t'rough talkin' av it," he chuckled aloud, "niver! They'll say whin they tell their shtories 'twas the year, ye mind, whin Terry, the little jool av a man, wudn't stay along wid us though we besached most beguilin', an' the grog was that edifyin' 'twas its own monymint. He wint out into the piercin' cold did that brave little felly"--Terry's chest swelled with pardonable pride--"because he'd passed his say-so. He's a square sowl is the lad, though there do be some avil-minded folks as give out that he an' his promises don't walk on the same side av the way--now the howly saints fergive thim!" He flapped the reins on the horses' backs.

"Hi, there, me byes!" he shouted. "'Tis a fine supper ye'll be havin', an' Narcisse V?lin will be afther payin' the score. Kape a-goin', me beauties. The moon will be up whin we go into Merle, an' ye'll be dhroppin' wid fatague; but aisy! now--aisy!--there won't be anny work to-morry, childer--oh, jist ye wait an' see! They'll be afther thinkin' we ain't comin', an' Narcisse will say in his Frenchy way: 'Bieng! didn't I tol' ye so? The bet is mine, an' little Terry'll have to pay up; ye can't put no daypindince in a man av his build iver--' An' whilst the avil wurrds are dhroppin' from his mouth I'll walk in on thim all as inconsequenshul-like as if I was goin' to a fair. That's the toime the laugh will be wid me, an' Narcisse will want to slink aff to some remoted place. Oh, there does be no sinse at all to make wagers onlesst ye be sure av winnin'--thin ye can make thim big--"

The thought so pleased him that he laughed boisterously, and flicked the horses with the whip, much as a man would nudge his neighbor with a friendly elbow at some witticism; then, his merriment abating a trifle, he began to sing.

Suddenly he broke off in his song, and his fingers closed tightly over the slack reins; the horses felt the authoritative touch and came to an instant standstill. Before them lay the road which here led across the open country, though farther on it wound through the woods and over the low hills. Back of them, three good miles by now, was the little settlement with Wistar's tavern as a nucleus, while to the left stretched the plain empty of all sign of life; and to the right there was the same level whiteness, broken only by a solitary house which fronted the road at some distance away and seemed like a belated straggler, held captive by the relentless bonds of winter, as it peered longingly in the direction of the small town from whose companionship it was forever set apart. There was an air of forlornness about it, surrounded as it was by all that glitter of ice and glint of frost, though the chimney smoke curling slowly up through the sharp air told of a certain homely cheer within. It was off the beaten track, however, and despite the fact that Terry had halted he made no attempt to give evidence of his presence by so much as a shout. Out of the earth, almost beside him, there had unexpectedly risen a small figure, and he now found himself staring into a child's eager face.

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