The Santa Claus Family

THE SANTA CLAUS FAMILY.

OU don’t believe in Santa Claus? I didn’t when I was as little as you, but I did when I was seven, and I do now I’m twenty and seven. “Why?” Because I’ve seen her. What are you laughing at? “Santa Claus isn’t a her? He’s a man?” Ah! That’s what you think. I know better.

You want to hear about her, do you? Well, ask mummy if Uncle Tom may tell you just one story before you go to bed. “Mummy’s coming to listen, too.” Umph! This story wasn’t meant for mummy; but she was always an inquisitive person! When I was a nice fat little baby she stuck a pin in me to see if I’d squeak. You can ask granny, if you don’t believe me. Mummy may laugh now; but she didn’t then—not after granny came in!

The story happened at Christmas time, when I was a very naughty little boy of seven, almost as naughty as Bob, though that doesn’t seem possible! My father was abroad, and your mummy had scarlet fever, and granny was nursing her; and they sent me to stay with an old lady named Munson, who had been granny’s nurse. She had grown very old, and the servant who waited on her was very old, too. So she hadn’t much time to look after a very tiresome little boy. She even forgot to buy the Christmas present that granny sent the money for; but we won’t talk about that, because it will upset granny if we do.

You can guess I was pretty dull. It rained for about a week, and even when it was fine they wouldn’t let me go out for fear I should catch a cold. So I spent most of my time rubbing my nose against the window and watching the street; and especially I watched for the beautiful young lady next door. I thought she was like a princess in a story, and I think so still; and you can tell your mummy not to look so inquisitive, because I don’t know the beautiful lady’s name, and I jolly well wish I did. No, Bob, “jolly well” is not a bad swear. Neither is “jolly miserable”; and that’s how I felt.

On Christmas Day I felt worse, for I’d hung up my stocking the night before, and when I went to look in the morning there was nothing in it. I’m not going to say if I cried, because boys have no business to cry; but if ever a little boy felt jolly well down on his luck, I did. I stared out of the window and saw all the people who passed looked happy and smiling, and that made me feel more miserable. When the beautiful lady came home from church she laughed at me and waved her hand and called, “A Merry Christmas, dear!” And then—well, if I did cry any time it was then. Why, Eva, you little goose! There’s nothing to cry about now. Suppose you give Uncle Tom a kiss to make up for it? There!

I didn’t eat much dinner, and the old servant was cross about that, and I flew into a temper and said I wished I was dead, and she got cross about that, and she went out and banged the door, and then—mind, I don’t say I did cry, but if I did that was the time. I was sitting in the armchair in front of the fire, and I think I was saying to myself that I wanted “mummy”—my mummy, you know, not yours. Yes, I mean granny—and there was a knock at the door, and Santa Claus walked in!

He had a long red cloak trimmed with white fur—rather like the opera cloaks that ladies wore then—and a wreath of holly on his head. I said he was a lady, did I? Oh, I say all sorts of funny things! He had a long white beard, and he carried a staff and a lot of packages, and he spoke in a deep voice, like your mummy does when she’s playing “bears” with you.

“Tommy,” he said, “I’m Santa Claus!” And he gave me all the parcels—five of them!

There was a clockwork engine, and a box of bricks, and a box of tops, and two men who wrestled when you pulled a string—Santa Claus knelt down on the floor and showed me how to do it—and some reins to play horses. I danced and laughed till I saw the reins, and then I—I didn’t laugh.

“Oh, Santa Claus!” I said. “Sissy is ill in bed; and its scarlet fever; and perhaps I shan’t never have her to play horses with any more!”

Santa Claus picked me up and sat in the armchair and hugged me, and his beard came off, and he was the beautiful, beautiful lady from next door!

“Sissy will get well,” she told me; “and you shall come in and play with me this afternoon. I love playing horses!”

I said, “And I love you!” I remember it very particularly because I’d never said that to a lady before, and I’ve never said it to one since. And directly after I said, “I love you better than if you were Mr. Santa Claus,” and she said, “I’m Miss Santa Claus, Tommy,” and then she kissed me, and I kissed her. “Ever done that since?” I believe mummy whispered to you to ask that! You can tell mummy that she’s a great deal too curious.

The beautiful lady took me into her house and played horses and wild Indians, and building houses with cards, and seeing who could blow the other’s house down first; and when I was tired of playing she took me on her lap and told me stories, and when it was. quite late she took me home—to Mrs. Munson’s, I mean; and when she was going I kissed her, and I said, “I think you are lovely, and when I am a man I will marry you.”

She kissed me again and said, “I am afraid I shall be too dreadfully old, darling; but I tell you what you can do. You can marry someone else who is like me.”

I said, “Yes, Miss Santa Claus; and I won’t ever marry anyone unless she is like you exactly!” Do you know I have said that every Christmas ever since. Mummy may shrug herself as much as she pleases, but I never will. So it’s no use her telling me that I’m “getting on” and ought to settle down,

“Afterwards?” There wasn’t any proper afterwards. Aunt Annie came for me the next morning, and took me to her house, and was very, very kind to me. I ran in next door to say good-bye to Miss Santa Claus, but she was out. I have never seen her again, and I have never seen the lady who is like her “exactly.” I don’t think there can be such a lady. Miss Santa Claus was so very lovely.

“Try to find her?” Of course I have! There’s a man making inquiries now. If you don’t see me at the Christmas dinner to-morrow you'll know I’ve heard of Miss Santa Claus and gone off to see her. If real things happened properly, like they do in stories, she ought to have a little boy who wants a Santa Claus, and I ought to be Mr. Santa Claus to him, don’t you think?

Now it’s half-past bedtime! I'll carry Eva and Bob, and mummy can take Boy. Up you go. What, Bella? Yes, my dear. Gospel true, every word of it. Yes. It is ridiculous, but, do you know, Bella, if I met a girl like she was, I’d marry her to-morrow! Good-night, kiddies. Eh? Mr. Santa Claus? Well, I warn you, if you call me that, I shall act up to the name. Good-night!

Yes, dears. It is a funny Christmas with daddy away. Poor old daddy! So far from us all, and working so hard to try to make money for us! Do you know, I expect he is more worried at being unable to send us money to buy “Santa Clauses” with than we are at going without them. I’m very glad that we wrote him all those nice letters, aren’t you? I expect he has the mail now. Well, well! I think we have been pretty brave, don’t you? “You think I am pretty and brave!” Oh, Dick, dear! I shall write that down on a piece of paper, and put the date and “That is what my big son said of his mother!” Stop, stop, stop, children! You’ll make your old mother vainer than ever! No, no, no! Mercy! I won’t say “old.” Your young mother. Of course I’m young with you all around me. Still it’s a different sort of young, you know. There was a time when I looked exactly like Sis looks now; when I was eighteen; and there’s somebody looking for Sis for that very reason, if he hasn’t forgotten. He vowed that he would marry somebody who was exactly like me when he grew up. He was such a nice little fellow. He said that your young mother was lovely!

“Tell you about him?” Very well. It happened at Christmas-time, when I was Sis’s age—nearly nineteen. He was a little boy who came to live with an old person next door, because his sister had scarlet fever. He was a pretty little fellow, with curly hair, and he was about seven years old. The old lady next door had been a nurse, and some of the ladies she had nursed gave her a sort of pension, and believe her sons helped her. So she was not very poor. I think she had been a nice woman, and fond of children, but she had grown too old to do much for the little boy, and her servant was an old cross-patch. So am afraid the little boy was very dull and lonely. He used to look out of the window all day, and I used to smile at him. I should have liked to ask if I could have him in to tea, and play with him, but I thought the old cross- patch servant would tell me to mind my own business; and they never let him out, so I couldn’t talk to him.

On Christmas Day, when I came home from church, he was at the window as usual. I called out to him to wish him a merry Christmas, and instead of answering he ran away from the window, and I thought that he was crying. I said so to my mother, and the housemaid heard.

“And no wonder, miss,” she said. “I was speaking to the woman next door, and she mentioned she’d forgotten to get the Santa Claus that his mother sent the money for. It'll be just as good to-morrow, she says. It’s plain she doesn’t know much about children and the store they set on hanging up their little stockings!”

“Oh,” I said, “the poor little boy!” I very nearly cried myself. “I will run round to Mr. Harmer’s”—that was a toyshop—“and buy him some presents and take them in. I don’t care how rude the woman is. I shan't come away till I’ve given them to him.”

I went to the shop—at least, I went to the house. The shop was shut, because it was Christmas Day; but when I explained to Mr. Harmer, he got the toys for me, and as soon as dinner was over I took them in. Father teased me about it, but he was pleased with me really, you know, and afterwards he gave me most of the money that I had spent, and called me “Miss Santa Claus”; and that put a bright idea into my head. I do have ideas sometimes!

“Why,” I cried, “of course, I’ll dress up as Santa Claus!”

And I did. I wore my red opera cloak, and made a wreath of ivy for my hair, and stuck some holly in, as if I was a Christmas pudding. I rubbed my cheeks hard to make them red—your young mother had more colour then—and I took a big stick of my father’s for a staff. The cross-patch servant jumped when she saw me.

“I’m Miss Lane, from next door.” I told her, “and I’ve come to give these toys to the little boy; and I want to have him to tea and play with him. I am sure he is lonely.”

She told me a rigmarole about what a lot she did for him, and grumbled a good deal, but she let me go upstairs to him. He was very pleased with the toys; and my beard fell off—I forgot to tell you about the beard. My mother made it out of a piece of an old sheepskin mat. And I told him I was Miss Santa Claus, and took him home to tea and supper, and we had fine games, and when I had carried him back, and was saying good-bye, he said that when he grew up he would marry me!

I laughed inside myself, because, you see, I was going out to the Cape the next month to marry father. Of course I didn’t laugh at him. I told him that I was too old, but he could marry someone else instead. Then he said that he would never marry anyone unless she was exactly like me. … Do you know, he said it as if he meant it with all his dear little heart! He was such a darling little chap!

An aunt took him away the next day, and they gave me a wrong address, and my letter came back; and next month I went off to marry daddy, and I have never seen the little boy since. I expect he’s forgotten Miss Santa Claus. it’s twenty years ago, and he was very young. If he hasn’t, I’m afraid he won’t be able to marry anyone, unless he finds Miss Sissy Santa Claus. … If life went like stories that is just what would happen. I don’t believe any girl was ever so like her mother as you are, Sis—like I was, I mean. … You dear silly! I’m just an old Mrs. Santa Claus now. … Whoever is that knocking? … Why? … Whatever are the children making such an uproar about? … Mr. Santa Claus! … Toys for you? … I—really. … Are you little Tommy? …My dear boy! … You're rather big to call that, but, you see, you were little. … The kindness wasn’t much, Tommy. I mean, Mr.? … Then you shall remain “Tommy.” … This is my eldest daughter, the Miss Santa Claus of to-day. Don’t you think she is very like me, as I was. … As I am? I don’t believe it, but I like to be told so. … Yes, I am much the same at heart, I hope; and you—you have treasured up my little kindness all these twenty years, and you have taken all this trouble and come to be my children’s Mr. Santa Claus. … Bless you, Mr.—Tommy! … No,no! I’m just an old Mrs. Santa Claus.

,—You will be surprised to hear that I am engaged. I think my engagement is just the prettiest story that ever was, so I am going to tell you about it.

He came to our house a fortnight ago, on Christmas Day, dressed up as Santa Claus. He was a little boy who was staying next door to my dear lovely mummy twenty years ago, and he was lonely and uncared for, and mummy dressed up as “Miss Santa Claus”—she had just been telling us about it when he came—and took him presents, and had him to tea and played with him. You can see that she was just the same sweet darling then as she is now. And he said he would marry her when he grew up, but she said she would be too old, and then he declared he would never marry anyone unless she was exactly like mummy. He says I am, and so does everybody.

He proposed two days ago, but he says that he made up his mind to do it the moment he saw me in the passage under the lamp. I didn't make up my mind till long after—nearly half an hour—when he had washed the red off his face, and taken off his Santa Claus beard and cloak.

You see, I knew he must be very nice. He had employed a detective to trace mother, and when he found that father had had losses—but he is doing splendidly in Australia, he writes, and we received quite a big cheque on Boxing Day—he found out all about us, and bought Christmas presents for us, and dressed up as “Mr. Santa Claus,” and came. I am so glad. I love him very much, Minnie, darling!

Mother says we shall be a regular Santa Claus family—Mr. Santa Claus and Miss Santa Claus, and Mrs. Santa Claus and all the little Santa Clauses; and when I said, “You’ve left out darling daddy,” she laughed at me.

“Daddy,” she said, “is all the Santa Clauses rolled into one; and—and—” do you know, mother blushed like a girl, and looked like one—“I’ve my own pet name for daddy, and I shan’t tell you, and I won’t call him anything else, not even in fun!”

I think daddy and mummy are more than Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. They love doing things for everybody all the year round. My Mr. Santa Claus is like that, too, and I am going to try to be like them all. Your loving friend,.