This Way to Christmas. Ruth Sawyer

been paying to my art,” and the fairy cocked his head and whisked his tail and hopped about in the most convincing fashion.

      David held his sides and rocked back and forth with merriment. “It’s perfect,” he laughed; “simply perfect!”

      “Aye, ’tis fair; but I’ve not mastered the knack o’ the tail yet. I can swing it grand, but I can’t curl it up stylish. I can fool the mortals easy enough, but ye should see the looks the squirrels give me sometimes when I’m after trying to show off before them.”

      There was nothing but admiration in David’s look of response. “The coat fits you splendidly,” he said.

      “Sure—’tis as snug as if it grew on me. But I miss my pockets, and I’m not liking the color as well as if it were green.”

      David laughed again. “Why, I believe you are as Irish as Johanna.”

      “And why shouldn’t I be? Faith, there are worse faults, I’m thinking. Now tell me, laddy, what’s ailing ye? Ye’ve been more than uncommon downhearted lately.”

      “How did you know?”

      “Could a wee fairy man be watching ye for a fortnight, coming and going, and not know?”

      “Well, it’s lonesomeness; lonesomeness and Christmas.” David owned up to it bravely.

      “’Tis easy guessing ye’re lonesome—that’s an ailment that’s growing chronic on this hillside. But what’s the matter with Christmas?”

      “There isn’t any. There isn’t going to be any Christmas!” And having at last given utterance to his state of mind, David finished with a sorrowful wail.

      “And why isn’t there, then? Tell me that.”

      “You can’t make Christmas out of miles of snow and acres of fir-trees. What’s a boy going to do when there aren’t any stores or things to buy, or Christmas fixings, or people, and nobody goes about with secrets or surprises?”

      The fairy pushed back the top of his head and the gray ears fell off like a fur hood, showing the fairy’s own tow head beneath. He reached for his thinking-lock and pulled it vigorously.

      “I should say,” he said at last, “that a boy could do comfortably without them. Sure, weren’t there Christmases long before there were toy-shops? No, no, laddy. Christmas lies in the hearts and memories of good folk, and ye’ll find it wherever ye can find them!”

      David shook his head doubtfully.

      “I don’t see how that can be; but even suppose it’s true, there aren’t even good folk here.”

      The fairy grinned derisively and wagged his furry paw in the direction of the lights shining on the hillside:

      “What’s the meaning of that, and that, and that? Now I should be calling them good folk, the same as ye here.”

      “Hush!” David looked furtively toward the door that led into the kitchen. “It wouldn’t do to let Johanna hear you. Why, she thinks—”

      The fairy raised a silencing paw to his lips.

      “Whist, there, laddy! If ye are after wanting to find Christmas ye’d best begin by passing on naught but kind sayings. Maybe ye are not knowing it, but they are the very cairn that mark the way to Christmas. Now I’ll drive a bargain with ye. If ye’ll start out and look for Christmas I’ll agree to help ye find the road to it.”

      “Yes,” agreed David, eagerly.

      “But there’s one thing ye must promise me. To put out of your mind for all time these notions that ye are bound to find Christmas hanging with the tinsel balls to the Christmas tree or tied to the end of a stocking. Ye must make up your mind to find it with your heart and not with your fingers and your eyes.”

      “But,” objected David, “how can you have Christmas without Christmas things?”

      “Ye can’t. But ye’ve got the wrong idea entirely about the things. Ye say now that it’s turkey and plum-cake and the presents ye give and the presents ye get; and I say ’tis thinkings and feelings and sayings and rememberings. I’m not meaning, mind ye, that there is anything the matter with the first lot, and there’s many a fine Christmas that has them in, but they’ll never make a Christmas of themselves, not in a thousand years. And what’s more, ye can do grand without them.”

      David rubbed his forehead in abject bewilderment. It was all very hard to understand; and as far as he could see the fairy was pointing out a day that sounded like any ordinary day of the year and not at all like Christmas. But, thanks to Johanna, David had an absolute faith in the infallibility of fairies. If he said so it must be true; at least it was worth trying. So he held out his hand and the fairy laid a furry paw over the ball of his forefinger in solemn compact.

      “It’s a bargain,” David said.

      “It is that,” agreed the fairy. “And there’s nothing now to hinder my going.”

      He pulled the gray ears over his tow head again until there was only a small part of fairy left.

      “Don’t ye be forgetting,” he reminded David as he slipped through the window. “I’ll be on the watch out for ye the morrow.”

      David watched him scramble down the bush, stopping a moment at the bottom to gather up the remainder of the nuts, which he stuffed away miraculously somewhere between his cheek and the fur. Then he raised a furry paw to his ear in a silent salute.

      “Good-by,” said David, softly, “good-by. I’m so glad you came.”

      And it seemed to him that he heard from over the snow the fairy’s good-by in Gaelic, just as Barney or Johanna might have said it: “Beanacht leat!”