Olaf And Astrid's Christmas Eve

by Evaleen Stein

Once upon a time, in a small village in a far-away country, lived a little brother and sister, named Olaf and Astrid. Most of the village folk had comfortable cottages, with thatched roofs and cozy chimney corners; but the home of Olaf and Astrid was only a tumble-down hut by the edge of the road; for they were very poor. Their father was dead, and their mother, who was not strong, was obliged to toil all day long to keep them in bread; and it was only hard, black bread at that. All day long—stitch, stitch, stitch—she sewed at the work brought to her by her more well-to-do neighbors; and while she toiled, the children, who were bright, cheerful little souls, did their best to help. Every day Astrid tidied up the hut, while Olaf would trudge off to the near-by forest to gather faggots to burn; and it meant many weary loads for the little boy; for it was near Christmas time, and the winter was very cold. Nevertheless, though the wind whistled through the crevices of the hut, they managed always to keep a bit of fire on the hearth, and they did not complain if their bread was scanty and their fingers often numb with frost.

When the day before Christmas came, Olaf and Astrid went out with the village folk to the forest to gather the ground-pine and juniper berries which everybody liked to twine into pretty, green garlands to brighten their homes and make gay their windows against the time for lighting the Christmas candles. For you know that when, on the blessed Christmas-eve, the dear Christ-child comes down from heaven and softly treads the earth again, it pleases him to have those who love him set candles in their windows to cheer and guide him on his way.

As now the merry folk strayed through the forest, looking for the pine and juniper, there was much happy chatter of the beautiful Christmas trees trimmed and waiting for the morrow and of all the holiday goodies being made ready for the great day. Poor little Olaf and Astrid listened in silence, as they filled their arms with the trailing greens; but they thought that, even though they had neither tree nor sweetmeats, at least they could garland their window and set a light for the Christ-child.

But, alas, when dusk fell, and from the village windows one by one the tall wax candles—kept for the blessed night—began to twinkle, the poor children looked in vain for something to light. All they could find was the half-burned end of a tallow candle—the last in the house. The mother sighed; but, "Never mind," she said, "set it in the window. At least it will show the dear Christ-child that we love him."

"And perhaps it will light him a few steps on his way," said Astrid.

"Yes," said Olaf, "and if he comes on the road through the forest, ours will be the first light he will see! Do you think he will come that way, mother?"

"I cannot tell, my child," answered the mother, as, gathering up her work, she drew her chair near the window. She had many stitches to take before it was finished, and must sew as long as possible by the Christ-child's light; for she had no other. The wind blew in around the chinks of the window, and made the candle flame leap and flicker; but she drew her threadbare shawl closer about her shoulders and bravely stitched on.

Meantime the children had gone to the tiny bedroom, as she had bidden them; but, as they lay on their straw bed, they were not asleep. They were whispering together about how wonderful it was that the Christ-child should come down to earth for that one night; and, "Oh," cried Astrid, "how I wish we could see him!"

Olaf thought a moment, and then said, "I believe we could if we tried."

"But how?" said Astrid. "You know last year we watched, but the snow blew against the window pane, so nothing was to be seen!"

"Well," replied Olaf, "if we walked out in the road, perhaps we could see him; and, if he reaches the village from this side, it might be we would meet him as he comes out of the forest."

Astrid drew a long breath. "But—but—," she said, "do you think mother will let us?"

"We can ask her," answered Olaf. "But we will get ready first." For Olaf, being a boy, was bolder than Astrid and always took the lead.

Hurriedly they sprang out of bed and eagerly dressed themselves in their carefully patched little garments, put on their thin stockings and worn little shoes, and then went into the other room. But their poor, tired mother was sitting motionless by the window. The work had fallen from her numb fingers, and, her head drooped on her breast, she slept in spite of herself.

As the children stood irresolute, "Poor mother!" they whispered. "We will not waken her. We will not be gone long. Surely the Christ-child will soon be coming, and we shall be back before she misses us."

Then quietly they opened the door, and closing it softly behind them, stepped out into the night. They looked anxiously down the long village street, and, though the snow was falling, here and there they caught the twinkle of the wax candles; but no Christ-child could they see. Then they turned and looked toward the dark road beyond the village; for their hut stood on its outskirts.

"Somehow," said Olaf, "it seems to me that he will come through the forest and down this road to the village. Let us walk along it a little way, and maybe we shall meet him."

Astrid shivered a little, but she did not want Olaf to think her a coward; so, putting her hand in his, she trudged along beside him. Soon the wind, which had been blowing in fitful gusts, rose to a fierce gale, whirling the heavy snow in their faces and chilling them with bitter cold. As they tried vainly to make their way against the cruel blast, at last Astrid began to sob. "Oh, Olaf," she cried, "let us go back!"

By this time Olaf, too, was quite willing to turn back; but where? The blinding snow hid all the twinkling candles from sight, and everywhere it was very dark. They had no idea where their own little hut stood, for they had quite lost their way. On and on they stumbled, every moment their little bodies growing colder and colder in the piercing wind. By and by they found themselves in the great forest, and now and again, as they tried to feel for some path, they would bruise their little hands against the icy trunks of the giant trees.

All the while the bitter cold was creeping closer and closer around their hearts and the chill white flakes falling faster and faster as they wandered on, till at last, in despair, they were about to sink down in a snowdrift to die. But just as they had given up all hope, suddenly a low, murmuring voice reached their ears. It was like the soft whispering of pine boughs in summer, only clearer and plainer, and it came from a young fir tree growing near by. "Come hither, little ones," it murmured, "and nestle under my boughs! I will shelter you."

Tremblingly the shivering children groped their way toward the friendly voice, and, sinking down in the snow, crept beneath the fir branches, which, as it was a young tree, grew very near the ground. Immediately the soft green boughs seemed to close about and caress them. The icy chill thawed from around their hearts and the warm blood tingled to their finger-tips.

Before long the fir boughs began murmuring and whispering again, as if they had something wonderful to tell; but as neither Olaf nor Astrid could quite understand them, presently their eyes began to blink as they nestled in their cozy little shelter. Perhaps they slept a little; but soon they sat up very wide awake, for the most marvelous white light was beginning to stream through the rustling branches.

"Can it be the moon?" whispered Astrid. Olaf peered from out their shelter; but, though the snow had ceased to fall, he could see no moon,—only the bleak, cloudy sky.

Yet brighter and brighter grew the strange white light. It was like the whiteness of thousands of Easter lilies, flooding the fir tree with a dazzling radiance. And all at once the children were overwhelmed with happiness; they did not know why, but their little hearts seemed fairly bursting with joy. Never in all their lives had they felt so glad. The fir tree, too, seemed filled with joy; for its soft whispering had changed to a flute-like, silvery singing, high and sweet and thrilling with gladness, and all its little icy cones were clapping together with a tinkling music.

Wonder-struck, the children crept out a little way from beneath its boughs, so they could look up at it; for the most marvelous things were happening. As the lovely white light poured over it, they saw that the snow on its topmost branches had turned into a glittering golden star; all the filmy threads of hoar-frost which had covered it became shimmering silver and gold cobwebs; while, as they looked, they could see all the little icy cones swelling—some into pink-cheeked apples of sugar, others into gilded nuts or cornucopias of sugar-plums. And then all the feathery green boughs broke into the strangest blossoming. Suddenly they were hung with the gayest and most bewitching playthings.

As Olaf and Astrid gazed at the marvelous tree, more beautiful than anything they had ever dreamed of, with little cries of delight they reached out their arms toward it, as if they would hug it to their breasts, though they did not venture to touch it. But, even as they stretched out their arms, they felt them filled with the wonderful sweetmeats and playthings. As they sank back with joyous sighs of content, slowly the white radiance began to pale—and pale; and then a great drowsiness came upon the children, and, still clasping their treasures close to their hearts, they crept back beneath the fir boughs and fell asleep.

At daybreak there came a tinkle of sleigh-bells through the forest; for a traveler from a distant village was on the road early. As he drove along between the great pines and hemlocks, all at once he noticed the young fir tree. Not that there was anything strange about it, as it stood green and feathery, laden only with little drifts of snow; but under its boughs there was a bright gleam of scarlet.

The traveler stopped his sleigh, and, going to the spot, what should he see but Olaf and Astrid still sound asleep! They were dressed in little red coats with shining buttons, and warm caps and mittens. On Olaf's feet were red-topped boots, such as he had long wished for, and Astrid wore pretty little shoes of scarlet leather. The pockets of their coats were stuffed with sugar-plums and sweetmeats, and the children were still hugging their wonderful toys.

The traveler looked at them in utter amazement. At first he thought they must be frozen, lying there in the bitter cold. But, as he stooped to lift them from the snow, they opened happy eyes and smiled at him. "How now!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "Who are you, and how came you here?"

"Please, sir," said Olaf, gathering his wits together, "we are Olaf and Astrid, and we came out to see the Christ-child." Here he caught sight of all his new finery, and was dumb with surprise. So, too, was Astrid, who was so bewildered that she could answer no more questions. The traveler decided they were children from the village who must have strayed from home, and he was about to lift them into the sleigh when suddenly he paused; for he had noticed something in the snow where a drift had left it smooth. "Where," he asked Olaf, "is the other child who was with you?"

"There was no one but Astrid, sir," answered Olaf.

"But look!" said the traveler sharply. "There must have been another; for here in the snow are the prints of little bare feet!"

But, even as they stared at these, tiny white flames seemed to play over them, melting the snow; and where every footprint had been there sprang up a tuft of violets. At this the traveler uncovered his head and knelt in the snow beside them.

When he rose to his feet, he said no more, but, placing the children in the sleigh, drove to the village; and when Olaf pointed out their hut, he took them to the door and softly opened it. The mother, still sitting by the window, started from her sleep; for so weary had she been that all night long she had not wakened. The candle had burned to its socket, and the faggots on the hearth were only a heap of ashes; but, in spite of the wintry cold, the room was warm and pleasant, and the work, which had fallen from her tired fingers, lay finished and folded in her lap.

The traveler went on to the village inn for his Christmas breakfast; and, when he told the strange things he had seen, the news quickly flew from mouth to mouth, and soon all the villagers were flocking to the little hut. There, when they saw Olaf's and Astrid's wonderful gifts, and heard the marvelous happenings of the night, they looked at each other in awe, and whispered one to another: "Surely it was no other than the blessed Christ-child himself who passed through the forest last night and took compassion on these fatherless little ones!"

And then more than one face among them reddened with shame, as they remembered how selfish and thoughtless they themselves had been to let their poor neighbors suffer. Right away they set to work with hammers and saws, and stopped up the chinks and made the little hut warm and comfortable; for how better, they said, could they keep the Christ-child's birthday? Then they saw to it that the rickety little table held a share of their own Christmas cheer.

Nor did the good villagers, now that they had wakened up, forget their kindnesses, and day by day the poor mother found her burdens lightened by many a helping hand. And, as for Olaf and Astrid, why, there were no happier children in all the world!