 The Orphans' Dream of Christmas by Anonymous. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. It was Christmas Eve and lonely by a garret window high, where the city chimneys barely spared a hand's breath of the sky. Sad a child in age but weeping, with a face so small and thin, that it seemed too scant a record to have eight years traced therein. Oh, grief looks most distorted when his hideous shadow lies, on the clear and sunny life-stream that doth fill a child's blue eyes. But her eye was dull and sunken, and the white in cheek was gaunt, and the blue veins on the forehead were the penciling of want. And she wept for years like jewels, till the last year's bitter gall, like the acid of the story, in itself had melted all. But the Christmas time returned as an old friend, for whose eyes she would take down all the pictures sketched by faithful memory. Of those brilliant Christmas seasons, when the joyous laugh went round, when sweet words of love and kindness were no unfamiliar sound, when, lit by the log's red luster, she her mother's face could see, and she rocked the cradle sitting on her own twin brother's knee. Of her father's pleasant stories of the riddles and the rhymes, all the kisses and the presents that had marked those Christmas times, twas as well that there was no one, for it were a mocking strain, to wish her a merry Christmas, for that could not come again. How there came a time of struggling, when, in spite of love and faith, grinding poverty would only in the end give place to death. How her mother grew heartbroken when her toil-worn father died, took her baby in her bosom, and was buried by his side. How she clung unto her brother as the last spar from the wreck, but stern death had come between them while her arms were round his neck. There were now no loving voices, and if few hands offered bread, there were none to rest in blessing on the little homeless head. Or, if any gave her shelter, it was less of joy than fear, for they welcomed crime more warmly to the self-same room with her. But at length they all grew weary of their sick and useless guest. She must try a work-house welcome for the helpless and distressed. But she prayed, and the unsleeping in his ear that whisper caught. So he sent down sleep, who gave her such a respite as she sought. Drew the fair head to her bosom, pressed the wedded eyelids close, and with softly falling kisses lulled her gently to repose. Then she dreamed the angels, sweeping with their wings the sky aside, raised her swiftly to the country where the blessed ones abide. To a bower all flushed with beauty by a shadowy arcade, where a mellowness like moonlight by the tree of life was made, where the rich fruit-sparkled star-like and pure flowers of fadeless dye poured their fragrance on the waters that in crystal beds went by, where bright hills of pearl and amber closed the fair green valleys round, and with rainbow light but lasting where their glistening summits crowned. Then that distant burning glory made a gorgeousness of light, the long vista of archangels could scarce chasten to her sight. There sat one, and her heart told her, twas the same who, for our sin, was once born a little baby in the stable of an inn. There was music, oh such music, they were trying the old strains, that a certain group of shepherds heard on old Judea's planes. But when that divinist chorus to a softened trembling fell, love's true ear discerned the voices that on earth she loved so well. At a tiny grotto's entrance a fair child her eyes behold, with his ivory shoulders hidden, neath his curls of living gold. And he asks them, is she coming, but ere anyone can speak, the white arms of her twin brother are once more about her neck. Then they all come round her greeting, but she might have well denied that her beautiful young sister is the poor pale child that died, and the careful look hath vanished from her father's tearless face, and she does not know her mother, till she feels the old embrace. Oh, from that ecstatic dreaming must she ever wake again, to the cold and cheerless contrast, to a life of lonely pain. But her maker's sternest servant to her side on tiptoe stepped, told his message in a whisper, and she stirred not as she slept. Now the Christmas morn was breaking with a dim, uncertain hue, and the chilling breeze of mourning came the broken window through, and the hair upon her forehead was it lifted by the blast, or the brushing wings of seraphs with their burden as they passed. All the festive bells were chiming to the myriad hearts below, but that deep sleep still hung heavy on the sleeper's thoughtful brow. To her quiet face the dream light had a lingering glory given, but the child herself was keeping her Christmas day in heaven. End of The Orphan's Dream of Christmas by Anonymous. Recording by Tom Noons. 1. He was only a little bit of a chap, and so when for the first time in his life he came into close contact with the endless current of human things, it was as hard for him to stay put, as for some wayward little atom of flotsam and jetsam, to keep from tossing about in the surging tides of the sea. His mother had left them there in the big toy shop, with instructions not to move until she came back while she went off to do some mysterious errand. She thought, no doubt, that with so many beautiful things on every side to delight his eye and hold his attention, strict obedience to her commands would not be hard. But alas, the good lady reckoned not upon the magnetic power of attraction of all those lovely objects in detail. She saw them only as a mass of wonders which, in all probability, would so dazzle his vision as to leave him incapable of movement. But little Billy was not so indifferent as all that. When a phonograph at the other end of the shop began to rattle off melodious tunes and funny jokes, in spite of the instructions he had received, off he pattered as fast as his little legs would carry him to investigate. After that, forgetful of everything else, finding himself caught in the constantly moving stream of Christmas shoppers, he was born along in the resistless current until he found himself at last out upon the street, alone, free, and independent. It was great fun at first. By and by, however, the afternoon waned. The sun, as if anxious to hurry along the dawn of Christmas day, sank early to bed, and the electric lights along the darkening highway began to pop out here and there, like so many merry stars come down to earth to celebrate the gladdest time of all the year. Little Billy began to grow tired, and then he thought of his mama, and tried to find the shop where he had promised to remain quiet until her return. Up and down the street he wandered until his little legs grew weary, but there was no sign of the shop, nor of the beloved face he was seeking. Once again, and yet once again after that did the little fella traverse that crowded highway, his tears getting harder and harder to keep back. And then, joy of joys, whom should he see walking slowly along the sidewalk but Santa Claus himself? The saint was strangely decorated with two queer looking boards, with big red letters on them, hung over his back and chest. But there was still that same kindly gray-bearded face, the red cloak with the fur trimmings, and the same dear old cap that the children's friend had always worn in the pictures of him that Little Billy had seen. With a glad cry of happiness Little Billy ran to meet the old fellow and put his hand gently into that of the saint. He thought it very strange that Santa Claus's hand should be so red and cold and rough, and so chapped, but he was not in any mood to be critical. He had been face to face with a very disagreeable situation. Then, when things had seemed blackest to him, everything had come right again, and he was too glad to take more than a passing notice of anything strange and odd. Santa Claus, of course, would recognize him at once, and would know just how to take him back to his mama at home. Wherever that might be. Little Billy had never thought to inquire just where home was. All he knew was that it was a big gray stone house on a long street somewhere, with a tall iron railing in front of it, not far from the park. How do you do, Mr. Santa Claus? said Little Billy, as the other's hand unconsciously tightened over his own. Why, how do you do, Kitty? replied the old fellow, glancing down at his newfound friend with surprise gleaming from his deep-set eyes. Where did you drop from? Oh, I'm out, said Little Billy bravely. My mama left me a little while ago while she went off about something, and I guess I got losted. Very likely, returned the old saint with a smile. Little two-by-four fellas are apt to get losted when they start in on their own hook, especially days like these with such crowds hustling around. But it's all right now, suggested Little Billy, hopefully. I'm found again, ain't I? Ah, yes indeedy. You've found all right, Kitty, Santa Claus agreed. I'm pretty soon you'll take me home again, won't you? said the child. Sureest thing you know, answered Santa Claus, looking down upon the bright but tired little face with a comforting smile. What might your address be? My what? asked Little Billy. Your address, repeated Santa Claus. Where do you live? The answer was a ringing peal of childish laughter. As if you didn't know that! cried Little Billy, giggling. Ha, ha! laughed Santa Claus. Can't fool you, can I? It would be funny if, after keeping an eye on you all these years since you was a babby, I didn't know where you lived, eh? Have a funny, agreed Little Billy. But tell me, Mr. Santa Claus, what sort of boy do you think I've been? He added with a shade of anxiety in his voice. Pretty good. Pretty good, Santa Claus answered, turning in his steps and walking back again along the path he had just traveled, which Little Billy thought was rather a strange thing to do. You've got more white marks than black ones. A good many more. A hundred and fifty times as many kitty. Fact is, you're all right. Way up among the good boys. Though once or twice last summer, you know. Yes, I know, said Little Billy meekly. But I didn't mean to be naughty. That's just what I said to the bookkeeper, said Santa Claus. And so we gave you a gray mark, half white and half black. That doesn't count either way for or against you. Thank you, sir, said Little Billy, much comforted. Don't mention it. You are very welcome, kitty, said Santa Claus, given the youngster's hand a gentle squeeze. Why do you call me kitty when you know my name is Little Billy? asked the boy. Ah, that's what I call all good boys, explained Santa Claus. You see, we divide them up into two kinds, the good boys and the naughty boys. And the good boys we call kitties. And the naughty boys we call caddies. And there you are. Just then Little Billy noticed for the first time the square boards that Santa Claus was wearing. What are you wearing those boards for, Mr. Santa Claus? he asked. If the lad had looked closely enough, he would have seen a very unhappy look come into the old man's face. But there was nothing of it in his answer. All those are my new fangle back and chest protect is my lad, he replied. Sometimes we have bitter winds blowing at Christmas, and I have to be ready for them. And when due for Santa Claus to come down with the sneezes at Christmas time, you know, no sirree. This board in front keeps the wind off my chest, and the one behind keeps me from getting rheumatism in my back. They are a great protection against the weather. I'll have to tell my papa about them, said Little Billy, much impressed by the simplicity of this arrangement. We have a glassboard in the front of our automobile to keep the wind off Henry. He's our shuffer, but papa wears a fur coat, and sometimes he says the wind goes right through that. He'll be glad to know about these boards. I shouldn't wonder, smiled Santa Claus. They aren't very becoming, but they are mighty useful. You might save up your pennies and give your papa a pair like them for his next Christmas. Santa Claus laughed as he spoke, but there was a catch in his voice, which Little Billy was too young to notice. You felt letters printed there, said the boy, peering around in front of his companion at the lettering on the board. What did they spell? You know I haven't learned to read yet. And why should you know how to read at your age, said Santa Claus? You're not more than five last month, said Little Billy proudly. It was such a great age. My, as old as that, cried Santa Claus. Well, you are growing fast. Why, it don't seem more than yesterday that you was a pink-cheap babby, and here you are big enough to be out alone. That's more than my little boy is able to do. Santa Claus shivered slightly, and Little Billy was surprised to see a tear glistening in his eye. Why, have you got a little boy? he asked. Yes, Little Billy, said the saint. A poor white-faced little chap, about a year older than you who— Well, never mind, kitty. He's a kitty, too. Let's talk about something else, or I'll have icicles in my eyes. You didn't tell me what those letters on the board spell, said Little Billy. Merry Christmas to everybody, said Santa Claus. I have the words printed there so that everybody can see them, and if I miss wishing anybody a merry Christmas, he'll know I meant it just the same. You're awful kind, aren't you, said Little Billy, squeezing his friend's hand affectionately. It must make you very happy to be able to be so kind to everybody. Two. Santa Claus made no reply to this remark, beyond giving a very deep sigh, which Little Billy chose to believe was evidence of a great inward content. They walked on now in silence, for Little Billy was beginning to feel almost too tired to talk, and Santa Claus seemed to be thinking of something else. Finally, however, the little fellow spoke. I guess I'd like to go home now, Mr. Santa Claus, he said. I'm tired, and I'm afraid my mama will be wondering where I've gone to. That's so, my little man, said Santa Claus, stopping short in his walk up and down the block. No mother will be worried for a fact, and your father, too. I know how I'd feel if my little boy got lost and hadn't come home at dinnertime. I don't believe you know where you lived, though. Now, honest, come. Fast up, Billy. You don't know where you live, do you? I guess I do, said Little Billy. It's in the big gray stone house with the iron friends in front of it, near the park. Ah, that's easy enough, laughed Santa Claus nervously. Anybody could say he lived in a gray stone house with a fence around it near the park. But you don't know what street it's on, nor the number either. I'll bet fourteen wooden giraffes against a monkey on a stick. No, I don't, said Little Billy, frankly. But I know the number in our order-mobile. It's N-Y. Fine, laughed Santa Claus. If you really were lost, it would be a great help to know that, but not being lost as you ain't, why, of course, we can get along without it. It's clear you don't know your last name, though. I do too know my last name, blurted Little Billy. It's the Billy. That's the last one they gave me, anyhow. Santa Claus reflected for a moment, eyeing the child anxiously. I don't believe you even know your papa's name, he said. Yes I do, said Little Billy indignantly. His name is Mr. Harrison. Well, you are a smart little chap, cried Santa Claus gleefully. You got it right the very first time, didn't you? I really didn't think you knew. But I don't believe you know where your papa keeps his bake shop, where he makes all those nice cakes and cookies you eat. But he began to laugh again. You can't fool me, Mr. Santa Claus, he said. I know my papa don't keep a bake shop just as well as you do. My papa owns a bank. Splendid, made of tin, I suppose, with a nice little hole at the top to drop pennies into, said Santa Claus. No, it ain't either, retorted Little Billy. It's made of stone and it has more than a million windows in it. I went down there with my mama to papa's office the other day, so I guess I don't know. Well, I should say so, said Santa Claus. Nobody better. By the way, Billy, what does your mama call your papa? Billy, like you, he added. Oh, no indeed, returned Little Billy. She calls him Papa. Except once in a while when he was going away, then she says, Goodbye, Tom. Fine again, said Santa Claus, blowing upon his fingers for now that the sun had completely disappeared over in the west, it was getting very cold. Thomas Harrison banker, he muttered to himself. What, with the telephone book and the city directory, I guess we can find our way home with Little Billy. Do you think we can go now, Mr. Santa Claus? Asked Little Billy. For the cold was beginning to cut through his little coat, and the Sandman had started to scatter the sleepy seeds all around. Yes, so re-returned Santa Claus promptly, right away off now instantly at once. I'm afraid I can't get my reindeer here in time to take us up to the house, but we can go in the cars. I don't know whether we can or not come to think of it. Do you happen to have ten cents in your pocket? Santa added with an embarrassed air. You see, I've left my pocketbook in the sleigh with my toy-pack, and besides, mine is only toy money, and they won't take that on the cars. I got twenty-five cents, said Little Billy proudly, as he dug his way down into his pocket and brought the shining silver piece to light. You can have it if you want it. Thank you, said Santa Claus, taking the proffered coin. We'll start home right away, only come in here first while I telephone to Santaville, telling the folks where I am. He led the little fellow into a public telephone station, where he eagerly scanned the names in the book. At last it was found. Thomas Harrison, 7654 Plaza. And then, in the seclusion of the telephone booth, Santa Claus sent the gladdest of all Christmas messages over the wire to two distracted parents. I have found your boy wandering in the street. He is safe, and I will bring him home right away. Three. Fifteen minutes later, there might have been seen the strange spectacle of a foot-sourced Santa Claus leading a sleepy little boy up Fifth Avenue to a cross street, which shall be nameless. The boy vainly endeavored to persuade his companion to come in and meet Mama. Na, Billy, the old man replied sadly. I must hurry back. You see, Kitty, this is my busy day. Besides, I never go into a house except through the chimney. I wouldn't know how to behave going in at a front door. But it was not to be as Santa Claus willed, for little Billy's Papa, and his Mama, and his brothers and sisters, and the butler and the housemaids, and two or three policemen were waiting at the front door when they arrived. Aha! said one of the police, seizing Santa Claus roughly by the arm. We have landed you all right. Where have you been with this boy? You let him alone, cried little Billy, with more courage than he had ever expected to show in the presence of a policeman. He's a friend of mine. That's right, Officer, said little Billy's father. Let him alone. I haven't entered any complaints against this man. But you ought to look out for these fellas, Mr. Harrison, returned the officer. First thing you know, they'll be making a trade of this sort of thing. I'm no grafter, retorted Santa Claus indignantly. I found the little chap wandering along the street, and as soon as I was able to locate where he lived, I brought him home. That's all there is to it. He knew where I lived all along, laughed little Billy. Only he pretended he didn't, just to see if I knew. You see, sir, said the officer, it won't do him any harm to let him cool his heels. It is far better that he should warm them, Officer, said Mr. Harrison kindly, and he can do that here. Come in, my man, he added, turning to Santa Claus with a grateful smile. Just for a minute, anyhow. Mrs. Harrison will wish to thank you for bringing our boy back to us. We have had a terrible afternoon. That's all right, sir, said Santa Claus modestly. It wasn't anything, sir. I didn't really find him. It was him who has found me. He took me for the real thing, I guess. Nevertheless, Santa Claus, led by little Billy's persistent father, went into the house. Now that the boy could see him in the full glare of many electric lights, his furs did not seem the most gorgeous things in the world. When the flapping front of his red jacket flew open, the child was surprised to see how ragged was the thin gray coat it covered. And as for the good old saint's comfortable stomach, strange to say, it was not. I... I wish you all a merry Christmas, faltered Santa Claus. But I really must be going, sir. Nonsense, cried Mr. Harrison, not until you've got rid of this chill. And I can't stay, sir, said Santa Claus. I'll lose my job if I do. Well, what if you do? I'll give you a better one, said the banker. I can't. I can't, faltered the man. I've got a little Billy of my own at home waiting for me, sir. If I hadn't... he added fiercely. Do you suppose I'd be doing this? He pointed at the painted boards and shuttered. It's him as kept me from... From the river, he muttered hoarsely. And then this dispenser of happiness to so many millions of people all the world over sank into a chair, and covering his face with his hands wept like a child. I guess Santa Claus is tired, Papa, said little Billy, snuggling up closely to the old fellow and taking hold of his hands sympathetically. He's been mocking a lot today. Yes, my son, said Mr. Harrison gravely. These are very busy times for Santa Claus, and I guess that as he still has a hard night ahead of him, James had better ring up Henry and tell him to bring the car around right away so that we may take him back to his little boy. We'll have to lend him a fur coat to keep the wind off, too, for it is a bitter night. Oh, said little Billy. I haven't told you about these boards he wears. He has them to keep the wind off, and they're fine, Papa. Little Billy pointed to the two sign boards which Santa Claus had leaned against the wall. He says he uses them on cold nights, the lad went on. They're writing on them, too. Do you know what it says? Yes, said Mr. Harrison, glancing at the boards. It says, if you want a good Christmas dinner for a quarter, go to Smithers Cafe. Little Billy roared with laughter. Papa's trying to fool me. This is you did when you pretended not to know where I lived, Santa Claus. He said, looking up into the old fellow's face, his own content is brimming over with mirth. You might as well think he can't read, though, the lad added hastily. He's only joking. Ah, no, indeed. I shouldn't have thought that, replied Santa Claus, smiling through his tears. I've been joking, have I? said Little Billy's Papa. Well then, Mr. Billiam, suppose you inform me what it says on those boards. Merry Christmas to everybody, said Little Billy proudly. I couldn't read it myself, but he told me what it said. He hasn't printed there so that if he misses saying it to anybody, they'll know he means it just the same. I drove, Mr. Santa Claus, cried Little Billy's Papa, grasping the old man warmly by the hand. I owe you ten million apologies. I haven't believed in you for many a long year, but now, sir, I take it all back. You do exist, and by the great horn spoon, you are the real thing. Four. Little Billy had the satisfaction of acting as host to Santa Claus at a good luscious dinner, which Santa Claus must have enjoyed very much because, when explaining why he was so hungry, it came out that the poor old chap had been so busy all day that he had not had time to get any lunch. No, not even one of those good dinners at Smithers' Café to which Little Billy's father had jokingly referred, and after dinner Henry came with the automobile, and bidding everybody good night, Santa Claus and Little Billy's Papa went out of the house together. Christmas morning dawned, and Little Billy awoke from wonderful dreams of rich gifts and of extraordinary adventures with his newfound friend to find the reality quite as splendid as the dream things. Later, what was his delight when a small boy, not much older than himself, a pale, thin but playful little fellow, arrived at the house to spend the day with him, bringing with him a letter from Santa Claus himself. This was what the letter said. Dear Little Billy, you must not tell anybody except your papa and your mama, but the little boy who brings you this letter is my little boy, and I am going to let you have him for a play-fella for Christmas Day. Treat him kindly for his papa's sake, and if you think his papa is worth loving, tell him so. Do not forget me, Little Billy. I shall see you often in the future, but I doubt you will see me. I am not going to return to 23rd Street again, but shall continue my work in the land of Yule and the palace of Goodwill, whose beautiful windows look out upon the homes of all good children. Goodbye, Little Billy, and the happiest of happy Christmases to you and all of yours. Affectionately, Santa Claus. When Little Billy's mama read this to him that Christmas morning, a stray little tear ran down her cheek and fell upon Little Billy's hand. Why, what are you crying for, mama? he asked. With happiness, my dear little son, his mother answered. I was afraid yesterday that I might have lost my little boy forever, but now you have an extra one thrown in for Christmas, haven't you? said Little Billy, taking his new playmate by the hand. The visitor smiled back at him with a smile so sweet that anybody might have guessed that he was the son of Santa Claus. As for the latter, Little Billy has not seen him again, but down at his father's bank there is a new messenger named John, who has a voice so like Santa Claus's voice that whenever Little Billy goes down there in the motor to ride home at night with his papa, he runs into the bank and has a long talk with him, just for the pleasure of pretending that it is Santa Claus he is talking to. Indeed, the voice is so like that once a sudden and strange idea flashed across Little Billy's mind. Have you ever been to 23rd Street, John? he asked. 23rd Street, replied the messenger, scratching his head as if very much puzzled. What's that? Why, it's a street, said Little Billy rather vaguely. Well, to tell you the truth, Billy, said John, I've heard tell of 23rd Street, and they say it is a very beautiful and interesting spot. But you know, I don't get much chance to travel. I've been too busy all my life to go abroad. Abroad! roared Little Billy, grinning at John's utterly absurd mistake. Why, 23rd Street ain't abroad, it's uptown near, uh, near 22nd Street. Really? returned John, evidently tremendously surprised. Well, well, well, who'd have thought that? Well, if that's the case, sometime when I get a week off, I'll have to go and spend my vacation there. From which Little Billy concluded that his suspicion that John might be Santa Claus in disguise was entirely without foundation, in fact. End of Santa Claus and Little Billy by John Kendrick Bangs. Recording by Tom Noons. Snap Dragons by J. H. Ewing. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michael Maggs. Snap Dragons. Mr. and Mrs. Scratch. Once upon a time there lived a certain family of the name of Scratch. It has a Russian or Polish look, and yet they most certainly lived in England. They were remarkable for the following peculiarity. They seldom seriously quarreled, but they never agreed about anything. It is hard to say whether it were more painful for their friends to hear them constantly contradicting each other, or gratifying to discover that it meant nothing and was only their way. It began with the father and mother. They were a worthy couple and really attached to each other, but they had a habit of contradicting each other's statements and opposing each other's opinions, which, though mutually understood and allowed for in private, was most trying to the bystanders in public. If one related an anecdote, the other were break in with half a dozen corrections of trivial details of no interest or importance to anyone, the speakers included. For instance, suppose the two dining in a strange house, a Mrs. Scratch, seated by the host and contributing to the small talk of the dinner table, thus, oh yes, very changeable weather indeed. It looked quite promising yesterday morning in the town, but it began to rain at noon. A quarter past eleven, my dear, Mr. Scratch's voice would be heard to say from several chairs down in the corrective tones of a husband and father. And really, my dear, so far from being a promising morning, I must say it looked about as threatening as it well could. Your memory is not always accurate in small matters, my love. But Mrs. Scratch had not been a wife or mother for fifteen years, to be snuffed out at one snap of the marital snuffers. As Mr. Scratch leaned forward in his chair, she leaned forward in hers, and defended herself across the intervening couples. Why, my dear Mr. Scratch, you said yourself the weather had not been so promising for a week. What I said, my dear, pardon me, was that the barometer was higher than it had been for a week. But as you might have observed if these details were in your line, my love, which they are not, the rise was extraordinarily rapid, and there is no sure sign of unsettled weather. But Mrs. Scratch is apt to forget these unimportant trifles, he added, with a comprehensive smile ran the dinner table. Her thoughts are very properly absorbed by the more important domestic questions of the nursery. Now, I think that's rather unfair on Mr. Scratch's part, Mrs. Scratch would chirp, with a smile quite as affable and general as her husband's. I'm sure he's quite as forgetful and inaccurate as I am, and I don't think my memory is a taller bad one. You forgot the dinner hour when we were going out to dine last week, nevertheless, said Mr. Scratch. And you couldn't help me when I asked you, was the sprightly retort, and I'm sure it's not like you to forget anything about dinner, my dear. The letter was addressed to you, said Mr. Scratch. I sent it to you by Jemima, said Mrs. Scratch. I didn't read it, said Mr. Scratch. Well, you burnt it, said Mrs. Scratch, and as I always say, there's nothing more foolish than burning a letter of invitation before the day, for one is certain to forget. I've no doubt you always do say it, Mr. Scratch remarked with a smile, but I certainly never remember to have heard the observation from your lips, my love. Whose memories in fault there? asked Mrs. Scratch triumphantly, and as at this point the ladies rose, Mrs. Scratch had the last word. Indeed, as may be gathered from this conversation, Mrs. Scratch was quite able to defend herself. When she was yet a bride, and young and timid, she used to collapse where Mr. Scratch contradicted her statements, and set her story straight in public. Then she hardly ever opened her lips without disappearing under the domestic extinguisher. But in the course of fifteen years she had learned that Mr. Scratch's bark was a great deal worse than his bite, if indeed he had a bite at all. Thus snubs that made other people's ears tingle had no effect whatever on the lady to whom they were addressed, for she knew exactly what they were worth, and had by this time become fairly adept at snapping in return. In the days when she succumbed she was occasionally unhappy, but now she and her husband understood each other, and having agreed to differ, they unfortunately agreed also to differ in public. Indeed, it was the bystanders who had the worst of it on these occasions. To the worthy couple themselves the habit had become second nature, and in no way affected the friendly tenor of their domestic relations. They would interfere with each other's conversation, contradicting assertions, and disputing and disputing conclusions for a whole evening. And then when all the world and his wife thought that these ceaseless sparks of bickering must blaze up into a flaming quarrel as soon as they were alone, they would bowl amiably home in a cab, criticising the friends who were commenting upon them, and as little agreed about the events of the evening as about the details of any other events whatsoever. Yes, the bystanders certainly had the worst of it. Those who were near wish themselves anywhere else, especially when appealed to. Those who were at a distance did not mind so much. A domestic squabble at a certain distance is interesting, like an engagement viewed from a point beyond the range of guns. In such a position one may someday be placed oneself. Moreover, it gives a touch of excitement to a dull evening to be able to say sought a voce to one's neighbour, do listen, the scratches are at it again. Their unmarried friends thought a terrible abyss of tyranny and aggravation must lie beneath it all, and bless their stars that they were still single and able to tell a tale their own way. The married ones have more idea of how it really was and wished in the name of common sense and good taste that Scratch and his wife would not make fools of themselves. So it went on, however, and so I suppose it goes on still, for not many habits are cured in middle age. On certain questions of comparative speaking their views were never identical, such as the temperature being hot or cold, things being light or dark, the apple tarts being sweet or sour. So one day Mr. Scratch came into the room, rubbing his hands and planting himself at the fire with bitterly cold it is today to be sure. Why, my dear William, said Mrs. Scratch, I'm sure you must have got a cold. I feel a fire quite oppressive myself. You were wishing you'd a seal-skin jacket yesterday, when it wasn't half as cold as it is today, said Mr. Scratch. My dear William, why the children were shivering the whole day and the wind was in the north? Due east, Mrs. Scratch. I know by the smoke, said Mrs. Scratch, softly but decidedly. I fancy I can tell an east wind when I feel it, said Mr. Scratch, jocosely to the company. I told Jemima to look at the weather-cock, murmured Mrs. Scratch. I don't care a fig for Jemima, said her husband. On another occasion Mrs. Scratch and the lady friend were conversing. We met him at the Smiths, a gentleman-like, agreeable man about forty, said Mrs. Scratch, in reference to some matter interesting to both ladies. Not a day over thirty-five, said Mr. Scratch from behind his newspaper. Why, my dear William, his hair's grey, said Mrs. Scratch. Plenty of men are grey at thirty, said Mr. Scratch. I knew a man who was grey at twenty-five. Well, forty or thirty-five it doesn't much matter, said Mrs. Scratch, about to resume her narration. Five years matter a good deal to most people at thirty-five, said Mr. Scratch, as he walked towards the door. They would make a remarkable difference to me, I know. And with a jocular air Mr. Scratch departed, and Mrs. Scratch had the rest of the anecdote her own way. The little scratches. The spirit of contradiction finds a place in most nurseries, though to a varying degree in different ones. Children snap and snarl by nature like young puppies, and most of us can remember taking part in some such spirited dialogues as the following. I will, you dent. You can't, I dare. You shall, I shall tell my ma. You won't. I don't care if you do. It is the part of wise parents to repress these squibs and crackers of juvenile contention, and to enforce that slowly-learn lesson, that in this world one must often pass over and put up with things in other people, being oneself by no means perfect. Also that it is a kindness and almost a duty to let people think and say and do things in their own way occasionally. But even if Mr. and Mrs. Scratch had ever thought of teaching all this to their children, it must be confessed that the lesson would not have come with a good grace from either of them, since they snapped and snarled between themselves as much or more than their children in the nursery. The two eldest were the leaders in the nursery squibbles. Between these a boy and a girl, a ceaseless war of words was waged from morning to night, and as neither of them lacked ready wit, and both were in constant practice, the art of snapping was cultivated by them to the highest pitch. It began at breakfast, if not sooner. You've taken my chair. It's not your chair. You know it's the one I like, and it was in my place. How do you know it was in your place? Never mind, I do know. No, you don't. Yes, I do. Suppose I say it was in my place. You can't, for it wasn't. I can if I like. Well, was it? Shant tell you. Ah, that shows it wasn't. No, it doesn't. Yes, it does. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The direction of their daily walks was a fruitful subject of difference of opinion. Let's go on the common today, nurse. Oh, don't let's go, there were always going on the common. I'm sure we're not. We've not been there for ever so long. Oh, what a story. We were there on Wednesday. Let's go down Gypsy Lane. We never go down Gypsy Lane. Why, we're always going down Gypsy Lane, and there's nothing to see there. I don't care. I won't go on the common, and I should go and get Papa and say we're to go down Gypsy Lane. I can run faster than you. That's very sneaking, but I don't care. Papa, Polly's called me a sneak. No, I didn't, Papa. You did. No, I didn't. I only said it was sneaking of you to say you'd run faster than me, and get Papa to say we were to go down Gypsy Lane. Then you did call him sneaking, said Mr. Scratch, and you're a very naughty, ill-mannered little girl. You're getting very troublesome, Polly, and I shall have to send you to school, where you'll be kept in order. Go where your brother wishes at once. For Polly and her brother had reached an age when it was convenient, if possible, to throw the blame of all nursery differences on Polly. In families where domestic discipline is rather fractious than firm, there comes a stage when the girls almost invariably go to the wall because they will stand snubbing, and the boys will not. Domestic authority, like some other powers, is apt to be magnified on the weaker class. But Mr. Scratch would not always listen even to Harry. If you don't give it me back directly, I'll tell about your eating the two magnum bonums in the kitchen garden on Sunday, said Master Harry, on one occasion. Telltale tit, your tongue shall be slit, and every dog in the town shall have a little bit, quitted his sister. Ah, you've called me a telltale, now I'll go and tell Papa. You got into a fine scrape for calling me names the other day. Go then, I don't care. You wouldn't like me to go? I know. You dent, that's what it is. I dare. Then why don't you? Oh, I am going, but you'll see what will be the end of it. Polly, however, had her own reasons for remaining stolid, and Harry started. But when he reached the landing he paused. Mr. Scratch had especially announced that morning that he did not wish to be disturbed, and though he was a favourite Harry had no desire to invade the dining-room at this crisis. So he returned to the nursery and said with a magnanimous air, I don't want to get you into a scrape, Polly. If you'll beg my pardon I won't go. I'm sure I shan't, said Polly, who was equally well-informed as to the position of affairs at headquarters. Go if you dare. I won't if you want me not, said Harry, discreetly waving the question of apologies. But I'd rather you went, said the obturant Polly. You're always telling tales. Go until now, if you're not afraid. So Harry went. But at the bottom of the stairs he lingered again and was meditating how to return with most credit to his dignity. When Polly's face appeared through the banisters and Polly's sharp tongue goaded him on, ah, I see you, you're stopping. You dent go. I dare, said Harry, and at last he went. As he turned the handle of the door Mr. Scratch turned round. Please, papa, Harry began. Get away with you, cried Mr. Scratch. Didn't I tell you I was not to be disturbed this morning? What an extra—! But Harry had shut the door and withdrawn precipitately. Once outside he returned to the nursery with dignified steps and an air of apparent satisfaction, saying, You're to give me the bricks, please. Who says so? Why, who should say so? Where have I been, pray? I don't know and I don't care. I've been to papa. There. Did he say I was to give up the bricks? I've told you. No, you've not. I shan't tell you any more. Then I'll go to papa and ask. Go by all means. I won't if you tell me truly. I shan't tell you anything. Go and ask if you dare, said Harry, only too glad to have the tables turned. Polly's expedition met with the same fate and she attempted to cover her retreat in a similar manner. Ah, you didn't tell. I don't believe you asked papa. Don't you? Very well. Well, did you? Never mind. Etc. Etc. Etc. Meanwhile, Mr. Scratch scalded Mrs. Scratch for not keeping the children in better order. And Mrs. Scratch said it was quite impossible to do so when Mr. Scratch spoiled Harry as he did and weakened her, Mrs. Scratch's, authority by constant interference. Differences of sex gave point to many of these nursery squabbles, as it so often does to domestic broils. Boys will never do what they're asked, Polly would complain. Girls are such unreasonable things, was Harry's retort. Not half so unreasonable as the things you ask. Ah, that's a different thing. Women have got to do what men tell them, whether it's reasonable or not. No, they've not, said Polly. At least, that's only husbands and wives. All women are inferior animals, said Harry. Try ordering mama to do what you want and see, said Polly. Men have got to give orders and women have to obey, said Harry, falling back on the general principle, and when I get a wife I'll take care I make her do what I tell her. But you'll have to obey your husband when you get one. I won't have a husband, then I can do as I like. Oh, won't you? You'll try to get one I know. Girls always want to be married. I'm sure I don't know why, said Polly. They must have had enough of men if they have brothers. And so they went on, ad infinitum with ceaseless arguments that proved nothing and convinced nobody and a continual stream of contradiction that just fell short of downright quarrelling. Indeed, there was a kind of snapping even less near to a dispute than in the cases just mentioned. The little scratches, like some other children, were under the unfortunate delusion that it sounds clever to hear little boys and girls snap each other up with smart sayings, and old and rather vulgar plays upon words as these. I'll give you a Christmas box. Which ear will you have it on? I won't stand it. Pray take a chair. You shall have it tomorrow, tomorrow never comes. And so if a visitor kindly began to talk to one of the children, another was sure to draw near and take up all the first child's answers with smart comments and catches that sounded as silly as they were tiresome and impertinent. And ill-mannered as this was, Mr. and Mrs. Scratch never put a stop to it. Indeed, it was only a caricature of what they did themselves. But they often said, We can't think how it is the children are always squabbling. The Scratch's dog and the hot tempered gentleman. It is wonderful how the state of mind of a whole household is influenced by the heads of it. Mr. Scratch was a very kind master, and Mrs. Scratch was a very kind mistress, and yet their servants lived in a perpetual fever of veritability that just fell short of discontent. They jostled each other on the back stairs, said sharp things in the pantry, and kept up a perennial warfare on the subject of the duty of the sexes with the general man-servant. They gave warning on the slightest provocation. The very dog was infected by the snapping mania. He was not a brave dog, he was not a vicious dog, and no high-breeding sanctioned his pretensions to arrogance. But, like his owners, he had contracted a bad habit, a trick which made him the pest of all timid visitors, and indeed of all visitors whatsoever. The moment any one approached the house, on certain occasions when he was spoken to, and often in no traceable connection with any cause at all, Snapp the mongrel would rush out and bark in his sharp little voice. If the visitor made a stand, he would band away sideways on his four little legs, but the moment the visitor went on his way again, Snapp was at his heels. He barked at the milkman, the butcher's boy, and the baker, though he saw them every day. He never got used to the washer-woman, and she never got used to him. She said he put her in mind of that their black dog in the pilgrim's progress. He sat at the gate in summer and yapped at every vehicle and every pedestrian who ventured to pass on the high-road. He never but once had the chance of barking at burglars, and then, though he barked long and loud, nobody got up, for they said it's only Snapp's way. The scratchers lost a silver teapot, a stilt and cheese, and two electro-christening mugs on this occasion, and Mr. and Mrs. Scratch dispute who it was who discouraged reliance on Snapp's warning to the present day. One Christmas time a certain hot-tempered gentleman came to visit the scratchers, a tall, sandy, energetic young man who carried his own bag from the railway. The bag had been crammed rather than packed after the woent of bachelors, and you could see where the heel of a boot distended the leather and where the bottle of shaving cream lay. As he came up to the house, out came Snapp as usual. Yap, yap, yap. Now the gentleman was very fond of dogs, and he had borne this greeting some dozen of times from Snapp, who, for his part, knew the visitor quite as well as the washerwoman, and rather better than the butcher's boy. The gentleman had good, sensible, well-behaved dogs of his own, and was greatly disgusted with Snapp's conduct. Nevertheless he spoke friendly to him, and Snapp, who had had many a bit from his plate, could not help stopping for a minute to lick his hand. But no sooner did the gentleman proceed on his way than Snapp fluid his heels in the usual fashion. Yap, yap, yap. On which the gentleman, being hot-tempered and one of those people with whom it is, as they say, a word and a blow and the blow first, made a dash at Snapp, and Snapp, taking to his heels, the gentleman flung his carpet-bag after him. The bottle of shaving cream hit upon a stone and was smashed. The heel of the boot caught Snapp on the back, and sent him squealing to the kitchen, and he never barked at that gentleman again. If the gentleman disapproved of Snapp's conduct, he still liked less the continual snapping of the scratch family themselves. He was an old friend of Mr. and Mrs. Scratch, however, and knew that they were really happy together, and it was only a bad habit which made them constantly contradict each other. It was in allusion to their real affection for each other, and their perpetual disputing that he called them their snapping turtles. When the war of words waxed hottest at the dinner-table between his host and hostess, he would drive his hands through his shock of sandy hair and say, with a comical glance out of his umber eyes, Don't flirt, my friends, it makes a bachelor feel awkward. And neither Mr. nor Mrs. Scratch could help laughing. With the little Scratches his measures were more vigorous. He was very fond of children and a good friend to them. He grudged no time or trouble to help them in their games and projects, but he would not tolerate their snapping up each other's words in his presence. He was much more truly kind than many visitors, who think it polite to smile at the sourciness and forwardness which ignorant vanity leads children so often to show off before strangers. The civil acquaintances only abuse both children and parents behind their backs for the very bad habits which they helped to encourage. The hot tempered gentleman's treatment of his young friends was very different. One day he was talking to Polly and making some kind inquiries about her lessons, to which she was replying in a quiet and sensible fashion, when up came Master Harry and began to display his wit by comments on the conversation and by snapping at and contradicting his sister's remarks to which she retorted, and the usual snap dialogue went on as usual. Then you like music, said the hot tempered gentleman. Yes, I like it very much, said Polly. Oh, do you, Harry Broke-In, then what are you always crying over it for? I'm not always crying over it, yes you are. No, I'm not. I only cry sometimes when I stick fast. Your music must be very sticky for you're always stuck fast. Hold your tongue, said the hot tempered gentleman. With what he imagined to be a very waggish air Harry put out his tongue and held it with his finger and thumb. It was unfortunate that he had not time to draw it in again before the hot tempered gentleman gave him a stinging box on the ear which brought his teeth rather sharply together on the tip of his tongue, which was bitten in consequence. It's no use speaking, said the hot tempered gentleman, driving his hand through his hair. Children are like dogs, they are very good judges of their real friends. Harry did not like the hot tempered gentleman a bit the less because he was obliged to respect and obey him, and all the children welcomed him boisterously when he arrived that Christmas which we have spoken of in connection with his attack on Snap. It was on the morning of Christmas Eve that the China punch-bowl was broken. Mr. Scratch had a warm dispute with Mrs. Scratch as to whether it had been kept in a safe place, after which both had a brisk encounter with a housemaid who did not know how it happened, and she, flouncing down the back passage, kicked Snap, who forthwith flew at the Gardner as he was bringing in the horseradish for the beef, who stepped backwards, trod upon the cat, who spat and swore, and went up the pump with her tail as big as a fox's brush. To avoid this domestic scene the hot tempered gentleman withdrew to the breakfast room and took up a newspaper. By and by Harry and Polly came in, and they were soon snapping comfortably over their own affairs in a corner. The hot tempered gentleman's umber eyes had been looking over the top of his newspaper at them for some time before he called. Harry, my boy, and Harry came up to him. Show me your tongue, Harry, said he. What for, said Harry, you're not a doctor. Do as I tell you, said the hot tempered gentleman, and, as Harry saw his hand moving, he put his tongue out with all possible haste. The hot tempered gentleman sighed. Ah, he said in depressed tones, I thought so. Polly, come and let me look at your balls. Polly, who had crapped up during this process, now put out hers, but the hot tempered gentleman looked gloomier still, and shook his head. What is it? cried both the children. What do you mean? And they seized the tips of their tongues in their fingers to feel for themselves. But the hot tempered gentleman went slowly out of the room without answering, passing his hands through his hair and saying, Ah, hum, and nodding with an air of grave foreboding. Just as he crossed the threshold, he turned back and put his head into the room. Have you ever noticed that your tongues are growing pointed? he asked. No. cried the children in alarm. Are they? If ever you find them becoming forked, said the gentleman, in solemn tones, let me know. With which he departed, gravely shaking his head. In the afternoon the children attacked him again. Do tell us what's the matter with our tongues. You were snapping and squabbling just as usual this morning, said the hot tempered gentleman. Well, we forgot, said Polly. We don't mean anything you know. But never mind that now, please, tell us about our tongues, what is going to happen to them. I am very much afraid, said the hot tempered gentleman, in solemn, measured tones, that you are both of you fast going to the dogs, suggested Harry, who was learned in Kant expressions. Dogs, said the hot tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his hair. Bless your life, though, nursing half so pleasant. That is, unless all dogs were like snap, which mercifully they are not. No, my sad fear is that you are both of you rapidly going to the snap dragons. And not another word would the hot tempered gentleman say on the subject. Christmas Eve In the course of a few hours Mr and Mrs. Scratch recovered their equanimity. The punch was brewed in a jug and tasted quite as good as usual. The evening was very lively. There were a Christmas tree, yule cakes, log, and candles, firmity, and snap-dragon after supper. When the company was tired of the tree, and had gained an appetite by the hard exercise of stretching to high branches, blowing out dangerous tapers, and cutting ribbon and pack-thread in all directions, supper came with its welcome cakes and firmity and punch, and when firmity somewhat pulled upon the taste, it must be admitted to boast more sentiment than flavour as a Christmas dish. The yule candles were blown out, and both the spirits and the pallets of the party were stimulated by the mysterious and pungent pleasures of snap-dragon. Then as the hot tempered gentleman warmed his coattails at the yule log, a grim smile stole over his features as he listened to the sounds in the room. In the darkness the blue flames leaped and danced. The raisins were snapped and snatched from hand to hand, scattering fragments of flame hither and thither. The children shouted as the fiery sweet-meats burned away the mawkish taste of the firmity. Mr. Scratch cried that they were spoiling the carpet. Mrs. Scratch complained that he had spilt some brandy on her dress. Mr. Scratch retorted that she should not wear dresses so susceptible of damage in the family circle. Mrs. Scratch recalled an old speech of Mr. Scratch on the subject of wearing one's nice things for the benefit of one's family and not reserving them for visitors. Missed Scratch remembered that Mrs. Scratch's excuse for buying that particular dress when she did not need it was her intention of keeping it for the next year. The children disputed as to the credit for courage and the amount of raisins due to each. Snap barked furiously at the flames, and the maids hustled each other for good places in the doorway, and would not have allowed the manservant to see at all, but he looked over their heads. Stuh! stuh! at it! at it! chuckled the hot tempered gentleman in undertones. When he said this, it seemed as if the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Scratch rose higher in matrimonial repartee, and the children's squabbles became louder, and the dog yelped as if he were mad, and the maids' contest was sharper, while the snap-dragon flames leaped up and up, and blue fire flew about the room like foam. At last the raisins were finished, and the flames were all but out, and the company withdrew to the drawing-room. Only Harry lingered. Come along, Harry, said the hot tempered gentleman. Wait a minute, said Harry. You are better come, said the gentleman. Why, said Harry? There's nothing to stop for. The raisins are eaten. The brandy is burnt out. No, it's not, said Harry. Well, almost. It would be better if it were quite out. Now, come. It's dangerous for a boy like you to be alone with the snap-dragons tonight. Fiddlesticks, said Harry. Go your own way, then, said the hot tempered gentleman, and he bounced out of the room, and Harry was left alone. He crept up to the table, where one little pale blue flame flickered in the snap-dragon dish. What a pity it should go out, said Harry. At this moment the brandy bottle on the sideboard caught his eye. Just a little war, murmured Harry to himself, and he uncorked the bottle and poured a little brandy onto the flame. Now, of course, as soon as the brandy touched the fire, all the brandy and the bottle blazed up at once, and the bottle split to pieces, and it was very fortunate for Harry that he did not get seriously hurt. A little of the hot brandy did get into his eyes and made them smart, so that he had to shut them for a few seconds. But when he opened them again, what a sight he saw! All over the room the blue flames leaped and danced as they had leaped and danced in the soup-plate with the raisins, and Harry saw that each successive flame was the fold in the long body of a bright blue dragon, which moved like the body of a snake, and the room was full of these dragons. In the face they were like the dragons one sees made of very old blue and white china, and they had forked tongues, like the tongues of serpents. They were most beautiful in colour, being sky blue. Lobsters who have just changed their coats are very handsome, but the violet and indigo of a lobster's coat is nothing to the brilliant sky blue of a snap dragon. How they leaped about! They were forever leaping over each other like seals in play. But if it was play at all with them it was of a very rough kind, for as they jumped they snapped and barked at each other, and their barking was like that of the barking canoe in the zoological gardens, and from time to time they tore the hair out of each other's heads with their claws and scattered it about the floor, and as it dropped it was like the flecks of flame people shake from their fingers when they are eating snap dragon raisins. Harry stood aghast. What fun! said a voice close by him, and he saw that one of the dragons was lying near, not joining in the game. He had lost one of the forks of his tongue by accident and could not bark for a while. I'm glad you think it funny, said Harry. I don't. That's right, snap away, sneered the dragon. You're a perfect treasure. They'll take you in with them the third round. Not those creatures, cried Harry. Yes, those creatures, and if I hadn't lost my bark, I'd be the first to lead you off, said the dragon. Oh, the game will exactly suit you. What is it, please? Harry asked. You better not say please to the others, said the dragon, if you don't want to have all your hair pulled out. The game is this. You have always to be jumping over somebody else, and you must either talk or bark. If anybody speaks to you, you must snap in return. I need not explain what snapping is. You know. If anyone by accident gives a civil answer, a claw full of hair is torn out of his head to stimulate his brain. Nothing can be funnier. I dare say it suits you capitally, said Harry, but I'm sure we shouldn't like it. I mean men and women and children. It wouldn't do for us at all. Wouldn't it? said the dragon. You don't know how many human beings dance with dragons on Christmas Eve. If we are kept going in a house till after midnight, we can pull people out of their beds and take them to dance in Vesuvius. Vesuvius, cried Harry. Yes, Vesuvius we came from Italy originally, you know. Our skins are the colour of the Bay of Naples. We live on dried grapes and ardent spirits. We have glorious fun in the mountain sometimes. Oh, what snapping and scratching and tearing! Delicious! There are times when the scrubling becomes too great and Mother Mountain won't stand it and spits us all out and throws cinders after us. But this is only at times. We had a charming meeting last year, so many human beings and how they can snap. It was a choice party so very select. We always have plenty of saucy children and servants, husbands and wives too, and quite as many of the former as the latter, if not more. But besides these we had two vestriman, a country postmaster who devoted his talents to insulting the public instead of learning the postal regulations, three cab men and two fares, two young shop girls from a Berlin wool-shop in a town where there was no competition, four commercial travellers, six landladies, six old Bailey lawyers, several widows from Almshouses, seven single gentlemen, and nine cats who swore at everything, a dozen sulphur-coloured screaming cockatoos, a lot of street children from a town, a pack of mongrel cars from the colonies who snapped at the human being's heels, and five elderly ladies in their Sunday bonnets with prayer-books who have been fighting for good seats in church. Dear me, said Harry, if you can find nothing sharper to say than dear me, said the dragon, you will fare badly, I can tell you. Why, I thought you'd a sharp tongue, but it's not forked yet, I see. Here they are, however, off with you, and if you value your curls, snap. And before Harry could reply, the snap-dragons came on with their third round, and as they passed they swept Harry with them. He shuddered as he looked at his companions. They were as transparent as shrimps, but of this lovely cerulean blue, and as they leaped they barked. Huff, huff! Like barking ganous, and when they leaped Harry had to leap with them. Besides barking they snapped and wrangled with each other, and in this Harry must join also. Pleasant, isn't it? said one of the blue dragons. Not at all, snapped Harry. That's your bad taste, snapped the blue dragon. No, it's not, snapped Harry. Then it's pride and perverseness, you want your hair combing. Oh, please don't, shrieked Harry, forgetting himself. On which the dragon clawed a handful of hair out of his head, and Harry screamed, and the blue dragons barked and danced. That major hair curled, isn't it? asked another dragon, leaping over Harry. That's no business of yours, Harry snapped, as well as he could for crying. It's more my pleasure than business, retorted the dragon. Keep it to yourself then, snapped Harry. I mean to share it with you when I get hold of your hair, snapped the dragon. Wait till you get the chance, Harry snapped, with desperate presence of mind. Do you know whom you're talking to? ruled the dragon, and he opened his mouth from ear to ear, and shot out his fork-tongue in Harry's face. And the boy was so frightened that he forgot to snap and cry piteously, oh, I beg your pardon, please don't. On which the blue dragon clawed another handful of hair out of his head, and all the dragons barked as before. How long the dreadful game went on Harry never exactly knew. Well-practiced as he was in snapping in the nursery, he often failed to think of a retort, and paid for his unreadiness by the loss of his hair. Oh, how foolish and wearisome all this rudeness in snapping now seemed to him, but on he had to go, wondering all the time how near it was to twelve o'clock, and whether the snapped dragons would stay till midnight, and take him with them to Vesuvius. At last, to his joy, it became evident that the brandy was coming to an end. The dragons moved slower, they could not leap so high. And at last, one after another, they began to go out. Oh, if they only all of them get away before twelve, thought poor Harry. At last there was only one. He and Harry jumped about and snapped and barked, and Harry was thinking with joy that he was the last, when the clock in the hall gave that whirring sound which some clocks do before they strike, as if it was clearing its throat. Oh, please go! screamed Harry in despair. The blue dragon leaped up and took such a clawful of hair out of the boy's head that it seemed as if part of the skin went too. But that leap was his last. He went out at once, vanishing before the first stroke of twelve, and Harry was left on his face on the floor in the darkness. Conclusion When his friends found him there was blood on his forehead. Harry thought it was where the dragon clawed him, but they said it was a cut from a fragment of the broken brandy bottle. The dragons had disappeared as completely as the brandy. Harry was cured of snapping. He had had quite enough of it for a lifetime, and the catch contradictions of the household now made him shudder. Polly had not had the benefit of his experiences, yet she improved also. In the first place, snapping, like other kinds of quarrelling, requires two parties to it, and Harry would never be a party to snapping any more. And when he gave civil and kind answers to Polly's smart speeches, she felt ashamed of herself and did not repeat them. In the second place, she heard about the snap-dragons. Harry told her all about it, and to the hot tempered gentleman. Now, do you think it's true? Polly asked the hot tempered gentleman. Oh, ha! said he, driving his hands through his hair. You know I warned you you were going to the snap-dragons. Harry and Polly snubbed the little ones when they snapped, and utterly discountenanced snapping in the nursery. The example and admonitions of elder children are a powerful instrument of nursery discipline, and before long there was not a sharp tongue amongst all the little scratches. But I doubt if the parents were ever cured. I don't know if they heard the story. Besides, old habits are not easily cured when one is old. I fear Mr. and Mrs. Scratch have yet got to dance with the dragons. End of Snap-Dragons by J. H. Ewing. and have been ill, I have made you a story all for yourself, a new one that nobody has read before. And the quearest thing about it is that I heard it in Gloucestershire, and that it is true, at least about the tailor, the waistcoat, and the no more twist. Christmas 1901. The Taylor of Gloucester. In the time of swords and periwigs and full-skirted coats with flowered lapets, when gentlemen wore ruffles and gold-laced waistcoats of padwa-soy and taffeta, there lived a tailor in Gloucester. He sat in the window of a little shop in Westgate Street, cross-legged on the table, from morning till dark. All day long, while the light lasted, he sewed and snippeted, piecing out his satin and pompadour and loot-string—stuffs had strange names, and were very expensive in the days of the Taylor of Gloucester. But although he sewed fine silk for his neighbours, he himself was very, very poor—a little old man in spectacles, with a pinched face, old crooked fingers, and a suit of threadbare clothes. He cut his coats without waste, according to his embroidered cloth. They were very small ends and snippets that lay about on the table. Too narrow breaths for naught, except waistcoats for mice, said the Taylor. One bitter cold day, near Christmas time, the Taylor began to make a coat. A coat of cherry-coloured, corded silk, embroidered with pansies and roses, and a cream-coloured satin waistcoat, trimmed with gauze and green worsted chenille, for the mayor of Gloucester. The Taylor worked and worked, and he talked to himself. He measured the silk and turned it round and round, and trimmed it into shape with his shears. The table was all littered with cherry-coloured snippets. No breath at all, and cut on the cross—it is no breath at all. Tippets for mice and ribbons for mobs for mice, said the Taylor of Gloucester. When the snowflakes came down against the small leaded window-panes and shut out the light, the Taylor had done his day's work. All the silk and satin lay cut out upon the table. There were twelve pieces for the coat and four pieces for the waistcoat, and there were pocket flaps and cuffs and buttons all in order. For the lining of the coat there was fine yellow taffeta, and for the buttonholes of the waistcoat there was cherry-coloured twist. And everything was ready to sew together in the morning, all measured and sufficient, except that there was wanting just one single skein of cherry-coloured twisted silk. The Taylor came out of his shop at dark, for he did not sleep there at nights. He fastened the window and locked the door and took away the key. No one lived there at night but little brown mice, and they run in and out without any keys. For behind the wooden wane-scots of all the old houses in Gloucester there are little mouse staircases and secret trap-doors, and the mice run from house to house through those long narrow passages. They can run all over the town without going into the streets. But the Taylor came out of his shop and shuffled home through the snow. He lived quite nearby, in College Court, next the doorway to College Green, and although it was not a big house, the Taylor was so poor that he only rented the kitchen. He lived alone, with his cat, it was called Simkin. Now all day long while the Taylor was out at work, Simkin kept house by himself, and he also was fond of the mice, although he gave them no satin for coats. Meow, said the cat, when the Taylor opened the door. Meow. The Taylor replied, Simkin we shall make our fortune, but I am warned to a-ravelling. Take this groat, which is our last four pence, and, Simkin, take a china-pipkin, buy a pen worth of bread, a pen worth of milk, and a pen worth of sausages. And, oh, Simkin, with the last penny of our four pence, buy me one pen worth of cherry-coloured silk, but do not lose the last penny of the four pence, Simkin, or I am undone and warned with red paper, for I have no more twist. Then Simkin again said, meow, and took the groat and the pipkin and went out into the dark. The Taylor was very tired, and beginning to be ill. He sat down by the hearth, and talked to himself about that wonderful coat. I shall make my fortune, to be cut by us. The mayor of Gloucester is to be married on Christmas day in the morning, and he hath ordered a coat, and an embroidered waist-cut to be lined with yellow taffeta, and the taffeta suffiseth. There is no more left over in snippets than will make tippets from ice. Then the Taylor started, for suddenly interrupting him from the dresser at the other side of the kitchen came a number of little noises. What can that be? said the Taylor of Gloucester, jumping up from his chair. The dresser was covered with crockery and pipkins, willow pattern plates, and teacups and mugs. The Taylor crossed the kitchen and stood quite still beside the dresser, listening and peering through his spectacles. Again from under a teacup came those funny little noises. Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap, tip. This is very peculiar, said the Taylor of Gloucester, and he lifted up the teacup, which was upside down. Outstepped a little live lady mouse, and made a curtsy to the Taylor, then she hopped away down off the dresser and under the wainscot. The Taylor sat down again by the fire, warming his poor cold hands and mumbling to himself. The waist-cut is cut out from peach-coloured satin, timbre stitch and rose buds in beautiful floss silk. Was I wise to entrust my last fourpence to Simpkin? One in twenty buttonholes of cherry-coloured twist. But all at once from the dresser there came other little noises. Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap, tip. This is passing extraordinary, said the Taylor of Gloucester, and turned over another teacup which was upside down. Outstepped a little gentleman mouse, and made a bow to the Taylor, and then from all over the dresser came a chorus of little tapings, all sounding together and answering one another, like watch-beetles in an old worm-eaten window-shutter. Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap, tip. And out from under teacups and from under bowls and basins, stepped other and more little mice, who hopped away down off the dresser and under the wainscot. The Taylor sat down close over the fire, lamenting, one and twenty buttonholes of cherry-coloured silk, to be finished by noon of Saturday, and this is Tuesday evening. Was it right to let loose those mice, undoubtedly the property of Simpkin? Alack, I am undone, for I have no more twist. The little mice came out again and listened to the Taylor. They took notice of the pattern of the wonderful coat, they whispered to one another about the taffeta lining and about the mouse tippets, and then all at once they all ran away together down the passage behind the wainscot, squeaking and calling to one another as they ran from house to house. And not one mouse was left in the Taylor's kitchen when Simpkin came back with the pipkin of milk. Simpkin opened the door and bounced in with an angry growl like a cat that is vexed, for he hated the snow and there was snow in his ears and snow in his collar at the back of his neck. He put down the loaf and the sausages upon the dresser and sniffed. Simpkin said to Taylor, where is my twist? But Simpkin sat down the pipkin of milk upon the dresser and looked suspiciously at the teacups. He wanted his supper of fat little mouse. Simpkin said the Taylor, where is my twist? But Simpkin hid a little parcel privately in the teapot and spit and growled at the Taylor. And if Simpkin had been able to talk, he would have asked, where is my mouse? A lack I am undone, said the Taylor of Gloucester, and went sadly to bed. All that night long Simpkin hunted and searched through the kitchen, peeping into cupboards and under the wane-scot and into the teapot where he had hidden that twist. But still he found never a mouse. Whenever the Taylor muttered and talked in his sleep, Simpkin said, and made strange horrid noises as cats do at night. For the poor old Taylor was very ill with a fever, tossing and turning in his four-post bed. And still in his dreams he mumbled, no more twist, no more twist. All that day he was ill and the next day and the next. And what should become of the cherry-coloured coat? In the Taylor's shop in Westgate Street the embroidered silk and satin lay cut out upon the table, one in twenty buttonholes, and who should come to sew them when the window was barred and the door was fast locked? But that does not hinder the little brown mice. They run in and out without any keys through all the old houses in Gloucester. Out of doors the market folks went trudging through the snow to buy their geese and turkeys and to bake their Christmas pies. But there would be no Christmas dinner for Simpkin and the poor old Taylor of Gloucester. The Taylor lay ill for three days and nights, and then it was Christmas Eve, and very late at night. The moon climbed up over the roofs and chimneys and looked down over the gateway into college court. There were no lights in the windows, nor any sound in the houses. All the city of Gloucester was fast asleep under the snow. And still Simpkin wanted his mice, and he mewed as he stood beside the four-post bed. But it is in the old story that all the beasts can talk in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning, though there are very few folk that can hear them or know what it is they say. When the cathedral clock struck twelve, there was an answer, like an echo of the chimes, and Simpkin heard it, and came out of the Taylor's door and wandered about in the snow. From all the roofs and gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand merry voices singing the old Christmas rhymes, all the old songs that ever I heard of, and some that I don't know, like Whittington's bells. First and loudest the cocks cried out, Dame, get up and bake your pies. Oh, dilly, dilly, dilly! sighed Simpkin. And now in a garret there were lights and sounds of dancing, and cats came from over the way. Hey, diddle, diddle, the cat in the fiddle. All the cats in Gloucester except me, said Simpkin. Under the wooden eaves the starlings and sparrows sang of Christmas pies, the jackdaws woke up in the cathedral tower, and although it was the middle of the night the throssels and robins sang. The air was quite full of little twittering tunes. But it was all rather provoking to poor hungry Simpkin. Particularly he was vexed with some little shrill voices from behind a wooden lattice. I think that they were bats, because they always have very small voices, especially in a black frost when they talk in their sleep like the Taylor of Gloucester. They said something mysterious that sounded like, Buzz, quote the blue fly, hum, quote the bee, Buzz and hum they cry and so do we. And Simpkin went away shaking his ears as if he had a bee in his bonnet. From the Taylor's shop in Westgate came a glow of light, and when Simpkin crept up to peep in at the window it was full of candles. There was a snippeting of scissors and snappeting of thread, and little mouse voices sang loudly and gaily. Four and twenty tailors went to catch a snail, the best man amongst them durst not touch her tail. She put out her horns like a little kylokow, run, tailors, run, or shall have you only now. Then without a pause the little mouse voices went on again. Siv my ladies out, meal, grind my ladies flower, put it in a chest, not let it stand an hour. Mew, meew! interrupted Simpkin, and he scratched at the door. But the key was under the Taylor's pillow, he could not get in. The little mouse only laughed and tried another tune. Three little mice sat down to spin, pussy passed by and she peeped in. What are you at, my fine little men, making coats for gentle men? Shall I come in and cut off your threads, though no, Miss Pussy, you'd bite off our heads. Mew, meew! cried Simpkin. Hey, little dinkety, answered the little mice. Hey, little dinkety, poppety, pet, the merchants of London they wear scarlet, silk in the collar and gold in the hem, so merrily march the merchant men. They clicked their thimbles to mark the time. But none of the songs pleased Simpkin. He sniffed and mewed at the door to the shop. And then I bought a pipkin and a popkin, a slipkin and a slopkin, all for one far thing, and upon the kitchen dresser added the rude little mice. Mew, scratch, scratch, scuffled Simpkin on the window sill. While the little mice inside sprang to their feet and all began to shout at once in little twittering voices, no more twist, no more twist. And they barred up the window shutters and shot out Simpkin. But still through the nicks in the shutters he could hear the click of thimbles and little mouse voices singing, no more twist, no more twist. Simpkin came away from the shop and went home, considering in his mind. He found the poor old tailor without fever, sleeping peacefully. Then Simpkin went on tiptoe and took a little parcel of silk out of the teapot, and looked at it in the moonlight. And he felt quite ashamed of his badness compared with those good little mice. When the tailor awoke in the morning the first thing he saw upon the patchwork quilt was a skein of cherry-coloured twisted silk, and beside his bed stood the repentant Simpkin. A lack I am warned to a-ravelling, said the tailor of Gloucester, but I have my twist. The sun was shining on the snow when the tailor got up and dressed, and came out into the street with Simpkin running before him. The starlings whistled on the chimney stacks, and the throssels and robins sang, but they sang their own little noises, not the words they had sung in the night. A lack, said the tailor, I have my twist, but no more strength nor time than will serve to make me one single buttonhole, for this is Christmas day in the morning. The mayor of Gloucester shall be married by noon, and where is his cherry-coloured coat? He unlocked the door of the little shop in Westgate Street, and Simpkin ran in like a cat that expects something. But there was no one there. Not even one little brown mouse. The boards were swept clean. The little ends of thread and the little silk snippets were all tidied away and gone from off the floor. But upon the table—oh, joy!—the tailor gave a shout. There, where he had left plain cuttings of silk, there lay the most beautifulest coat and embroidered satin waistcoat that ever were worn by a mayor of Gloucester. There were roses and pansies upon the facings of the coat, and the waistcoat was worked with poppies and cornflowers. Everything was finished, except just one single cherry-coloured buttonhole. And where that buttonhole was wanting, there was pinned a scrap of paper, with these words in little teeny-weeny writing. No more twist. And from then began the luck of the tailor of Gloucester. He grew quite stout, and he grew quite rich. He made the most wonderful waistcoats for all the rich merchants of Gloucester, and for all the fine gentlemen of the country round. Never were seen such ruffles or such embroidered cuffs and lapettes. But his buttonholes were the greatest triumph of it all. The stitches of those buttonholes were so neat, so neat. I wonder how they could be stitched by an old man in spectacles with crooked old fingers and a tailor's thimble. The stitches of those buttonholes were so small, so small. They looked as if they had been made by Little Mice, end of The Tailor of Gloucester by Beatrix Potter, recording by Maria Casper. The Rocking Hymn from George Withers Halleluy. This is a Libberbox recording. All Libberbox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libberbox.org, recording by Chad Horner from Libberbox. A Rocking Hymn. Sweet baby, sleep, what ails my dear, what ails my darling, thus to cry. Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, to hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep. Be still, my dear, sweet baby, sleep, thy blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy father, dear, his holy spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep, whilst thus thy lullaby I sing, for the great blessings ripening be. Thine eldest brother is a king, and hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fair, for whosoever thee offends, by thy protector threatened are, and God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep, when God with us was dwelling here, in little babes he took delight, such innocence as thou, my dear, or ever precious in his sight. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. A little infant once was he, and strength in weakness, then, was laid upon his virgin mother's knee, that power to thee might be conveyed. Sweet baby, then, forbear to sleep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. In this life-reality, and thy need, he friends and helpers doth prepare, which thee shall cherish clothing feed, for of thy will they tender are. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. The king of kings, when he was born, had not so much for outward ease. By him such dressings were not worn, nor such like swaddling, clothes as these. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. Within a manger lodged thy lord, where oxen lay and asses fed. Warm rooms we do to thee afford. An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. At once, that he did then sustain. The purchase wealth might be for thee. And by his torments and his pain, thy rest in ease secured thee. My baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. Thy haste yet more to perfect this, a promise, and an earnest God, of gaining everlasting bliss. Though thy, my babe, perceivest it not. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep. Be still, my babe, sweet baby, sleep. End of The Rocking Hymn