The Good Year

by Evaleen Stein

Supper was over, the pewter porringers and platter put back on the dresser shelves, and the curtains drawn over the farmhouse windows so as to keep out the chill wind; for it was the very last of December, and in Norway the winter nights are always long and cold.

Grandfather was sitting on the big settle close to the hearth, and Arne and Olga had crept up, one on either side of him. It was the time when they loved to talk to him, or perhaps listen to a story or two before going to their queer little beds, which were built into the wall, like cupboards, their polished doors open now and shining in the firelight.

Two red-cheeked apples were roasting on the hearth, and as the flames from the blazing logs leaped and flickered, they lighted up the brick oven beside the settle and the carved and painted rafters overhead. From these hung strands of onions, and dried herbs, and odd, flat loaves of bread, each with a hole through the middle and strung on a slender pole. Mingled with and half hiding these things, were the green holiday garlands of pine, which still decked the house. The firelight flickered also on the gay wooden cradle where baby Hilda lay sleeping, and on the deal table beyond, where stood a pretty fir-tree that had shed its Christmas gifts but was still bright with tinsel and paper flowers.

The children's father and mother had gone to the village church for the last service of the year, and as now Arne and Olga drew closer to Grandfather, they all sat dreaming a while, and then Arne spoke; "Grandfather," he said, "it is nearly another year, isn't it?"

"Yes, lad," answered Grandfather.

"And," went on Arne, "you must remember ever so many New Years?"

"Yes, indeed!" agreed Grandfather, with a half-sad smile; for he was very old and his hair was quite white. "Would you like me to tell you about some New Year I remember?"

"Oh yes, please do!" put in Olga, and Grandfather, stroking her yellow curls, began to think.

"Well, well," he said presently, "I will tell you about the one we village folk (you know I lived in the village then) called 'The Good Year.' That was long and long ago," he added, with a sigh. "I must have seen fifty others since that one." Then, brightening up, he went on: "It was the thirty-first of December, just like now, and at midnight the little New Year lay rocking in his cradle up in the sky."

"Was it like Hilda's, with tulips painted on the rockers and bluebirds on the sides?" asked Olga.

"Why, yes," said Grandfather, "I dare say it was, only finer. Maybe it was made of gold like the stars, or silver like the moon; I am not sure. But at any rate, suddenly the little New Year sat up listening. There was a great shrieking of whistles and ringing of church-bells. 'Boom! Boom!' drums were being beaten by the young men watching with the old bell-ringer up in the belfry, and everywhere rose a confused sound of shouting voices, though he could make out the words, 'Happy New Year! Happy New Year! We wish you a happy New Year!'

"The little New Year laughed merrily. 'Ho! Ho!' he cried. 'It is time I was flying down there to earth. They seem to be giving me a hearty welcome, and hoping I will be happy. Well, I am sure I mean to be!' And again he laughed, as flinging off his starry coverlid, he sprang from his cradle and began fluttering his pretty white wings, that glistened like the little wings one sees in pictures of baby angels.

"But before he could fly to the earth, two heavy objects thrust themselves, one in either hand. The first was a big, old-fashioned scythe, and the other an hour-glass, in which the golden-brown sand was already beginning to trickle from one half to the other."

"Why did he have those things to carry?" asked Arne.

"That was what the little New Year wanted to know," replied Grandfather. "He frowned, and tried to let go of them, but he could not. 'Not so fast, young sir!' said the scythe. 'You must take me along!'"

"'But why?' asked the little New Year, in surprise.

"'Because,' answered the scythe, 'all the years since the beginning of the world have carried me. You see, down there on earth a certain number of people must die every year, and it is your business once in a while to swing me, just as a mower cutting grass in the meadow; and when you do, the people will die, just as the grass and flowers wither away after the mowing.'

"'But,' cried the little New Year, shrinking back, for he was a kindly little soul, 'I do not want to make anybody die! Why must I?'

"'That I cannot tell,' answered the scythe, after a moment's pause. 'But it seems to be the way of the world, and you cannot escape it. However, when you reach the earth, you can put me down between whiles; for I know I am heavy to carry, and of course you mustn't be swinging me all the time, or there would be nobody left there.'

"The little New Year frowned again, but said no more. But when he looked at the hour-glass, he smiled. 'Oh,' he said, 'when I get to a good place, I will empty it out and make a fine sand pile to play in!'

"'Indeed you will not!' said the hour-glass. 'You must take me along, for I am very important to you. My sand is divided into twelve parts, one for each month, and when they have all run from one half of me to the other, your time is up, and you must die, just like everybody else. My January sand is already trickling down, so you had better hurry up with your work.'

"'Dear me!' said the little New Year, looking a trifle blank, 'My baggage is surely not very cheerful! But never mind, perhaps in twelve months I shall be tired of tugging these things around, and quite ready to stop.' And with a brave little cry, 'Come on, January!' he plunged straight down to earth, a gust of white, sparkling snowflakes whirling around him as he went."

"Where did he land?" asked Arne.

"Why," said Grandfather, "that was the odd part of it. It was right in our village, which happened, to be just underneath his cradle."

"Did you see him?" inquired Olga.

"No," replied Grandfather. "Didn't I tell you that he had on a cap that made him and his scythe and glass invisible to everybody but babies? You know babies always like each other, and so little New Years always smile when they see one. You just watch Hilda tomorrow and see if you don't find her looking into the air and laughing as if she saw another baby. Of course," added Grandfather, "I have lived through so many years, that once in a while, when perhaps their caps have tumbled off for a minute, I have caught a glimpse of them, but not often.

"Well, as I was telling you, the little New Year came straight to our village. To be sure, he had to fly all over the world and see that it was January everywhere, and attend to all manner of affairs, but years are wonderfully quick about things, so he could do his work in a twinkling and still have a good deal of time to spend with us. I think he specially liked our village because it was so pretty and peaceful and was the first place he came to on earth. Of course, too, that first morning he felt very important, for everybody was going around, calling on each other, and talking about him, and eating sugar-cake and drinking elderberry wine in his honor.

"The children all got out their sleds, some of them brand new from Santa Claus and with the red paint still fresh and bright, and how they all laughed and shouted! And all the while, though none of them knew it, the little New Year was romping with them. Sometimes when they dragged their sleds up hill, they wondered what made them so heavy, never dreaming that the little New Year had jumped on them; and often, when they thought it was passing sleigh-bells, it was really his merry, silvery laughter that they heard."

"I should think he would have been pretty heavy to pull up hill with that big scythe and hour-glass!" said Olga.

"Well," said Grandfather, "he didn't carry the scythe all the time, but put it down whenever he could. Old Lars Anderson declared that as he came through the forest that day he saw a queer old-fashioned scythe hanging on an oak tree. But one never could be quite sure of what old Lars said, though of course the scythe might have been there and become visible when the little New Year let go of it.

"And it wasn't only the children the little New Year played with. When he got tired of romping with them, he flew to the pond at the edge of the village, where the young men and girls were skimming by on their shining skates.

There, with his silvery laugh, he would tuck up his little white mantle, and sliding along in his little bare feet,—for he did not mind the cold—pouf! he would push against some flying couple who thought themselves the finest skaters in the world, and over they would tumble, wondering how it could possibly have happened! Sometimes he would mischievously put his hour-glass down in front of them, and bump! over they would go! But they were always well wrapped up in thick coats and furs, so nobody was hurt, and their peals of merry laughter only added to the fun.

"Then in the long January evenings, when the young folks of the village would gather together and dance, and play blind-man's-buff, and twirl-the-platter, and cut-the-oats, the little New Year would often be there playing with them, and nobody knew, only that then they always had the best times of all.

"When the January sand was all run out and February began, the New Year was no longer so little, but growing very fast. Still he frolicked with the children, and caused the snow that fell to be so very moist and soft that never were there finer snow-men than the boys and girls made. Often when they were rolling the big balls for these, they wondered that they grew so fast and that it was so easy to push them along. That was because the New Year was helping them. And then, when a snow-man was finished, and, running into the house, they would bring out bits of charred fagots from the hearth and make two black eyes for his round white face and perhaps find a clay pipe for his mouth, the New Year would laugh like a chime of sleigh-bells."

"The snow-man we made yesterday has eyes like that, and a pipe," said Arne, "only it was hard to make him stay together; the snow was so dry."

"Ah, ha!" said Grandfather, with a twinkle in his eye, "so that is what has become of my pipe? I missed it today."

Arne reddened, "But Grandfather," he said, "you know it was only your old pipe; we thought maybe, as it was holiday time, you would be smoking your good one."

"To be sure," said Grandfather, good-naturedly, though he really liked the old one best. "You may bring it to me now, Arne."

The little boy slid from his seat and, running to a shelf, took down the pipe with a wonderful silver lid and two tassels of scarlet and green. Grandfather carefully filled it, and lighting it with a coal from the hearth, puffed slowly two or three times before he replied to Olga's question, "But what else did the New Year do?"

"Well," he said presently, "he did a great many things. Sometimes he amused himself by piling up the snow on all the forest trees, and the thatched roofs in the village, and the gate-posts and well-sweeps till it looked as if the whole world was made of white flakes. But the prettiest thing of all that he did was to fly about at night and cover everything with ice, so that in the morning, when the sun shone, the brightness everywhere was like the dazzling light of millions of diamonds. Of course other years have done this also, and you children have seen these wonderful icy mornings, but never were there so many, or such magic ones, as in the time of The Good Year. And then, when the nights were clear and starry, he loved to get Jack Frost, and between them such beautiful white pictures as they painted on our village windows!"

"Did you see our windows today, Grandfather?" asked Olga. "One of them had a frost picture of a mountain and a river, and some houses, and a little pasture all full of woolly sheep!"

"Yes," said Arne, "and we heated a copper penny at the hearth, and played that we burned down the houses when we held it on them and melted a hole to see through!"

Grandfather smiled gently as he puffed slowly at his pipe, still thinking of The Good Year. Then he went on, "When March came with his blustering winds, The Good Year saw to it that they blew only the dead limbs from the forest trees, so there were always plenty of fagots and even the poorest village people could keep blazing fires on their hearths. Then, by and by, the April sands began to run; and The Good Year—for by this time people no longer called him the New Year, but had begun already to give him the name he afterward went by—breathed a warm breath over the earth, and 'Crack! Crack!' the ice began to melt and break in the river and crash over the cataract in great glittering sheets. Then everywhere the buds started to swell, till puff! out burst the cherry blossoms, and, by and by, the pear and apple bloom."

At this, "Oh!" said Olga, "I almost forgot our apples!" And, jumping down from the settle, she went to the dresser and taking two of the pewter porringers and putting into them the roasted apples, their red skins fairly bursting with savory juice, she gave one to Arne,—for Grandfather did not wish any—and with the other for herself, climbed back to her place. As the children slowly dipped their spoons into the porringers, enjoying their holiday treat, Grandfather went on, "The trees were a sight, the pink and white flowers so thick on every bough that there was hardly room for them to burst open. The village folk all said, 'See, what a wonderful year for fruit!' Then one day, when The Good Year was off attending to matters in a distant part of the world, along came Jack Frost meaning to play an evil trick.

"He had grown jealous of hearing The Good Year praised, and determined to do something to injure his fair name. He had made up his mind to nip all the pretty blossoms so they could not grow, and no one that season would have any pears or apples or cherries. At dusk of that day all the village knew that he had come, for he made the air so cold; and then, when the stars began to twinkle, they were in despair, because Jack Frost always chooses starry nights for his work.

"But just as he was about to blight all the pink and white trees, The Good Year came flying back, and seizing him by his shining coat,—it looked like white wool, but was all made of hoar-frost—he shook him soundly. 'Jack Frost,' he said, 'I thought you were my friend; but you are a wicked fellow to slip here while I was away, and try to do this evil deed! It is all right for you to make the grass and trees sparkle on autumn mornings and to paint the window-panes in winter, but you know very well you have no business to show yourself when the April sand is running in my hour-glass, and you shall not spoil my village people's fruit-trees! Now go away!' And with that he shook him again, and then putting him down, he swayed his hour-glass so the April sand was stirred, and at once a cloud came and a warm rain began to fall, and Jack Frost ran away as fast as he could, for fear he would melt, and he dared not show himself again till autumn."

"I am glad Jack Frost didn't nip our apple-tree this year!" said Arne, as he dipped up the last spoonful from his porringer. "You know he did the spring before, Grandfather, and we had no apples."

"Yes," said Grandfather, "I remember. After The Good Year chased him away, he was afraid to show himself in the spring for a long time. Then came some bad years, who let him do as he pleased, and since then he has been growing tricky again, and one never knows just what he will do."

"Go on about The Good Year," said Olga, as she put down the porringers.

"Well, let me see," said Grandfather. "Oh yes, it was the May sand that soon began to run, and the woods were carpeted with big, blue violets on long pale green stems, and golden cuckoo-buds, and white wind-flowers, and the children filled their May-baskets and hung them on everybody's door. Then they went to the green and sang and danced around the May-pole which the village folk had raised and trimmed with gay garlands. And I remember how pretty little Elsa, the apothecary's daughter, looked as she danced in her white sprigged frock and red shoes; and how Hendrick, the parson's little boy, held her hand tightly all the while and danced with her and looked at her as if he thought her sweeter than a Christmas sugar-plum! That was a great Maytime for fairy rings, too; every day the big meadow would be full of the tall circles of deep green grass showing where the fairies had danced by moonlight; and you know when the fairies dance a great deal it always means a lucky season."

"I wish I could see some fairies!" said Olga wistfully.

"Bless me!" cried Grandfather, in surprise. "Have you never? Why, I had seen a number when I was no bigger than you. Of course I can't see them now, because it's only to children the fairies ever show themselves."

"I saw one last summer," said Arne.

"Where?" asked Olga, enviously.

"It was one day when I was going through the forest," answered Arne, "and under a big hemlock tree there was a tuft of moss and something bright that I thought was some kind of a flower I had never seen before. But when I came nearer, I saw it was a fairy sitting in a little spot of sunlight and singing all to himself."

"How big was he?" asked Olga.

"Why, I should think he would have been about half as high as my knee if he had stood up, and he had on a little green suit with a red cap and mantle. In a minute he spied me, and jumped away and hid under a toad-stool, and I went on and pretended not to see him, for I didn't want to frighten him."

"That was right," said Grandfather, "for fairies are generally kind, friendly little creatures, and it would be a pity to frighten them. It is pretty to see them; and that fairy of yours, Arne, reminds me of one I saw when I was about your size. This one was sitting in the forest, too, only he was dressed all in sky-blue, and what do you suppose he was doing?"

"I don't know," said Arne.

"Well," said Grandfather, "a white butterfly was resting on his knee, and the fairy had a dewy buttercup in one hand, and a little wisp of grass like a paint-brush in the other. With this he was mixing the golden powder in the heart of the buttercup with the drops of dew and painting the butterfly's wings a beautiful bright yellow. I knew then where the pretty yellow butterflies came from."

"Do you think the fairies paint all the butterflies?" asked Olga.

"I have no doubt of it," answered Grandfather. And then, as the little wreaths of smoke floated upward from his pipe, he went on. "But I haven't finished yet about The Good Year. You know his June sand was beginning to run and he was fairly well grown by that time; for years have to grow very fast, as they are always quite old at the end of the twelve months. So, as the year had passed his childhood, he was more interested in the doings of the young people than of the boys and girls as he had been at first.

"When the roses were all in bloom and midsummer night came, there was a full moon, and all the young folks went to dance on the village green where the May-pole had been. It was a fine sight, the girls looking so handsome in their holiday bodices and starched petticoats, and their gay flowered kerchiefs and embroidered aprons; and the young men in their velvet jackets and knee breeches with silver braid and buttons.

"The Good Year watched them for a while, and then he quietly flew over to the church and into the belfry where the big bell was hanging. 'My friend,' he said, 'you have a fine deep voice, and I remember how musically you rang the night I was born. And I have heard you calling the people to church on Sundays. But are there not other things for which you ring?'

"'Yes,' answered the bell, slowly and softly, 'I sometimes toll for funerals.'

"'No, no!' cried The Good Year quickly, with a sudden frown, 'that is not what I mean! You shall not toll again so long as I live! You know I have never used my scythe in this village, and I never shall.'

"And didn't he, Grandfather?" asked Arne, opening his eyes.

"No," said Grandfather, "that was the strange thing! Not a single person in the village died that whole year! Such a thing has never happened before or since, and wasn't that reason enough to call him 'The Good Year'? Of course he had to use his scythe somewhere in the world, but it seemed he could not bear to harm any one in our village. So when he said to the bell that he would not hear it toll, it was dumb with amazement, but soon recovered itself and tinkled, as with soft laughter, when he asked again, 'But is there not something else for which you ring?'

"'To be sure,' answered the bell, 'there are weddings!'

"'That is it!' said The Good Year, in a pleased tone. 'I want to hear you peal for a wedding. Is it possible that none of those handsome young people down there on the green are thinking of such a thing?'

"'Of course they are!' answered the bell. 'I know of several young couples who would like nothing better. But none of them are ready yet to marry, except Jan Viborg down there—that tall, awkward fellow in the green jacket—and Frieda, the school-master's daughter,—he is dancing with her now; she is the prettiest girl in the village'—

"Jan Viborg, and Frieda?" interrupted Olga, sitting up straight.

"Why, Grandfather, that was your name, and—and Grandmother's!"

"Well, child," went on Grandfather, with a dreamy smile, "perhaps it was,—but the bell wasn't through talking. 'Jan,' it said, 'has a small farm at the edge of the village, and he has built a little wooden house with his own hands, and has carved its beams and rafters and door-posts, and he has made carved chairs, and a bench, and table, and a clothes-press and dresser all ready to begin housekeeping; and Frieda's linen-chest is filled with fine things of her own spinning and weaving, and her bridal crown and silver necklace are all ready, and a wonderful embroidered apron for her wedding day, and yet they have not married though they have been betrothed these three years.'

"'What is the matter?' asked The Good Year.

"'Well,' answered the bell, 'Jan's little farm is not quite paid for, and for two years the harvest has failed so he could not free the debt, and they have been afraid to marry till they knew this summer's harvest would be plentiful.'

"'Oh,' said The Good Year, 'if that is all that troubles them, they need have no fear; I will see to the harvest.' With that, he slyly caught hold of the bell-rope and softly rang a joyous peal or two, as for a wedding.

"The young folks down on the green heard it, and stopped dancing, to listen. 'Hark!' they said, 'it must be the midsummer fairies ringing the bell!' And then they laughed and chattered of the pranks the fairies play on midsummer night,—but Jan and Frieda took it for a luck sign; they pressed each other's hands and looked into each other's faces, and—well—never mind what they said, but all fear about the debt and the harvest vanished, and it was settled the church-bell should really peal for a wedding in a week's time."

"And did they have it then?" asked Arne.

"Yes, indeed!" said Grandfather. "And never was there so beautiful a bride as Frieda, or so proud and happy a bridegroom as Jan." Grandfather still spoke of himself that way, for looking back so many years to his own youth, it seemed to him almost like talking of some one else.

"You know, Grandfather," said Olga, "Mother keeps Grandmother Frieda's bridal crown and necklace and embroidered apron in the chest yonder, and she says when I grow up and am married, I am to wear them, just as she and Grandmother did on their wedding days." But Grandfather did not hear; his thoughts had flown back to the time, scarcely more than a twelvemonth from his own wedding, when there came a cruel year who swung his scythe in the happy village, till at last the church-bell tolled for beautiful Frieda's funeral, and Grandfather was left with her little baby girl, who was to grow up and be the mother of Arne and Olga.

Grandfather's eyes were misty with tears, but, straightening up, he hastily brushed them away so the children might not see them; and then stirring the ashes of his pipe, which he had quite forgotten for a while, with a brave smile he went on. "Of course Frieda and Jan had a fine wedding feast for the village folk, and there was music and dancing all day long. The little children, too, played and frolicked and enjoyed it all, and I must tell you what happened the very next day. You remember I told you how Hendrick, the parson's son, and Elsa, the apothecary's daughter, danced together around the May-pole? Well, Hendrick was eight years old and Elsa six, and they had been sweethearts ever since they could toddle. So the day after the wedding they decided they would like to be married too. The parson's children had a playhouse in the corner of the garden, and Hendrick said they could live in that; then Elsa ran to her home and filled the pockets of her little apron with sugar buns which she said would do for their wedding cake, and they were all ready.

"But when Hendrick went in to ask his father to marry them, the parson only laughed and told him to run out and play. Of course Hendrick was angry," went on Grandfather, smiling a bit to himself, "but Elsa told him not to mind it, for she had an uncle who was a parson and lived in the next village, only ten miles away. She said he always gave them sugar-plums at Christmas time and told them pretty stories, and she was quite sure he would marry them and not make fun of them. So, taking hold of hands, the poor little things set out.

"Elsa did not know the way, only that they must cross the river at the edge of the village. When they reached it, Hendrick looked about for a boat, and saw an old skiff, with one oar in it, tied to a tree on the bank. He managed to unfasten it, and they both climbed in and Hendrick tried to lift the oar; but he could do nothing with it, and the skiff began to drift down the river."

"But the cataract, Grandfather?" interrupted Olga. "They might go over it!"

"Yes," said Grandfather, gravely, "that was just the trouble, for it would have been certain death. The skiff kept drifting nearer and nearer, and soon the children heard the roar of the falling water, and they were terribly frightened. Elsa began to scream, and a woodcutter in the forest beyond heard her, and throwing down his ax, he hurried toward the river. He was terror stricken when he saw the skiff with the two helpless children, for he had no boat, and even if he had had one, it seemed impossible to save them.

"But just when the woodcutter had given up hope, The Good Year, who had been looking after the grain fields beyond the forest, came flying along and saw the danger."

"What did he do?" asked Arne.

"Why," replied Grandfather, "he quickly whirled his hour-glass round and round, just as he did when he caught Jack Frost, only faster; and the June sand, which was running in a smooth stream, suddenly twisted and fell all topsy-turvy, and immediately a great funnel-like black cloud rolled up in the sky and a fierce blast of wind rushed up the river. Stronger and stronger it blew, till, with the force of a hurricane, catching the little skiff as if it were an egg-shell, it tossed it up on the bank and out jumped the children, not two yards from the brink of the cataract! The wood-cutter gathered them in his arms and carried them all the way home, though they were a good load. He said that when the wind blew along the river, the mist from the cataract rose like two great white wings;— he did not know it, but they were the wings of the The Good Year."

"I suppose his invisible cap came off when he was twisting the hour-glass," said Olga, "so the wood-cutter could see the wings."

"I dare say that was the way of it," said Grandfather.

"Did Hendrick and Elsa ever get married?" went on the little girl.

"To be sure!" answered Grandfather. "But that was years after, when they grew up, and a handsome young couple they were."

"Did The Good Year keep his promise about the harvest?" asked Arne.

"Of course he kept his promise," said Grandfather. "All through July and August the wheat and oats and barley grew and ripened, till the fields looked like gold and silver. When the sun shone too hot, The Good Year shook his hour-glass till showers came, and there was no burning drought as in the bad years before. In the autumn, when everything from all the fields and orchards was gathered, and the village folk trimmed the church for the harvest festival, never were seen such golden sheaves or such red-cheeked apples; and everybody thanked the good God for sending them such a wonderful year. And not only was there plenty for the village, but plenty for the forest creatures, too; so the wolves were satisfied to stay in their hiding places and did not trouble us."

"Why, Grandfather," said Arne, with round eyes, "would they come out of the forest then?"

"Indeed they would!" answered Grandfather. "In those days, when their food was scarce, they would often come at night and rob our sheep-folds; and sometimes, when things were very bad with them, they would even venture boldly into the village in broad daylight."

"Did you ever see one do that?" asked Olga.

"No," said Grandfather, "I didn't see it myself, but I remember well one day when it happened. It was the time of a bad year, and little Lief, the shop-keeper's son, was playing in the door-yard of their cottage, which was on the edge of the village, when suddenly a gaunt, hungry wolf came running from the forest, and seizing little Lief's jacket in his teeth, was about to carry him off. But little Lief screamed so loud that his elder brother heard him, and hurrying out with a big cudgel bravely drove away the wolf. Little Lief was so frightened that it was many weeks before he would play outdoors again, and then he never would go alone. Indeed, all the rest of that year, the village people were afraid to let their children out of their sight."

Arne and Olga each drew a long breath, and "Oh!" cried Olga, "I should think you would have been glad of a Good Year that kept the wolves away!"

Grandfather puffed at his pipe in silence for a few minutes, and then he said, "But he was growing old and tired, and by the time the December sand began to run, his hair and long beard were as white as his mantle, and every day the scythe and hour-glass seemed to be heavier to carry. Of course the things he must look after over all the world were a great care to him, and though he tried hard, he could not please everybody, especially as now and then he was obliged to swing the great scythe. But he was pleased when he heard the people of our village call him 'The Good Year'; he would smile to himself, and say how glad he was that he had been able at least to make this little place happy. There was only one thing more he wanted to see, and that was that we had a merry Christmas. 'After that,' he would say to himself, 'when my time is up, I shall be quite ready and willing to go.' "And did you have a fine Christmas? So fine as ours?" asked Arne.

"Indeed, yes!" answered Grandfather, "the merriest ever seen! The harvest had been so bountiful, that the week before Christmas when we went to put up our sheaves of oats and barley for the birds, it wasn't only to the cottage roofs we fastened them, as you children did, but we tied them, besides, in a golden fringe all around the eaves, and clusters nodded from even the fence posts; and the snow-birds came in great flocks for their holiday feast. And there was not a house in the village but had its Yule-log wound with greens, and a Christmas tree all trimmed with paper flowers and gay tinsel."

"I don't believe they were any prettier than ours!" said Olga, looking toward the table where the fir-tree twinkled in the firelight.

"No, no, child, perhaps not," said Grandfather, "only everybody had one; and you know this year some folks in the village are too poor to trim a tree. And then how we danced and sang and feasted!" he went on, his mind, as old people's are apt to do, still dwelling on the golden past.

"Did you have boiled fish and roast goose, like we have on Christmas?" asked Olga again.

"Yes," answered Grandfather, "and fresh cinnamon bread, and sweet cheeses, and sugar cake, and ale and nuts and red apples. And then, in the evening, two little boys went around singing pretty carols, just as you and Svend Hardin did this year, Arne. Little Hendrick, the parson's son was one, and I forget the other."

"Were they dressed in white, like we were, and did they carry a star lantern and dolls?" interrupted Arne.

"Yes," said Grandfather, "they wore little white suits, and Hendrick carried a lantern shaped like a star, in memory of the Star of Bethlehem, and the other little boy held two dolls dressed to represent the blessed Christ-child and his Mother, and the lads sang so sweetly,—though not sweeter than you did, Arne," added Grandfather, patting his hair—"and everybody praised them and gave them cakes and sugar-plums.

"When the happy Christmas was over, The Good Year smiled contentedly; his last wish had been fulfilled and he was quite satisfied to go, for he knew the December sands were almost run. But the village people mourned about it. They said he had made them so happy, they wished he would never fly away. I think we dreaded the New Year a bit, for one never knows what sorrows the new-comer may have in store.

"When The Good Year saw that there was only a tiny trickle of sand left in the upper half of his hour-glass, he folded his white mantle about him and put down the scythe, which he knew he would soon be rid of; and we village folk went to the church, where your father and mother are now, to watch until midnight, just as they are doing.

"After the parson had finished the service, we all sat quietly till from the belfry came the first stroke of twelve, and the young men up there with the old bell-ringer began to beat on their drums.

"Then we opened the door, and looked out across the snowy fields. Far away a white mist seemed to be rising. Up and up it floated, higher and higher. Some thought they could see in it two shining white wings, others a trailing white mantle, but nobody could tell for certain. Higher and higher it rose, drifting lightly across the moon, and then beyond a cluster of golden stars, till at last it vanished in the deep blue midnight sky. So it was that The Good Year passed away from earth."

When he had finished the story, Grandfather shut the silver lid of his holiday pipe and smoothed its gay tassels; then, leaning his head back on the settle, he closed his eyes; Arne and Olga crept up closer, nestling at either side of him, and soon all three were fast asleep. They slept so soundly that they did not hear when the bell struck for midnight, nor the booming of the New Year's drums. Nor did they hear the merry tinkling of the little silver bells as presently the sleighs went flying by, taking the farmer folk to their homes. Indeed, they only wakened when the door opened and in came the father and mother, shaking off a flurry of twinkling snowflakes as they entered, and calling out, "A Happy New Year! A Happy, Happy New Year!"