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from The Canadian Courier,
vol I, no 04 (1906-dec-22), pp30-31

ERMANN pressed his nose against the window pane until it was quite flat and white like a china button; but though he stared through the glass with all his might he could see very little — only the two tall poplar trees, the dark marsh, the lighter track which wound across it, and one great silver star in the west.

   Hermann liked to look at this star, for he remembered how the three kings had been led to the stable at Bethlehem, and he fancied it might be the same star as it was so close upon Christmas time. He would have liked to discuss this point with Mrs. Malloy; but when he asked questions, Mrs. Malloy generally crossed herself and said, "The saints be good to us! Run and play wid Biddy an' Margaretta, darlint." Hermann loved Mrs. Malloy, but he did not quite trust her; for once, when she had found him chalking pink crosses on all the old tree-stumps in the pasture-lot, she had wept and sent for the priest. Hermann had explained in his most careful English, both to her and to Father Ignatius, that the crosses were to protect the moss-women. Everyone knows that the demons of the hills chased the little green moss-women, and killed them when they could; but the little moss-women were safe if they could touch the sign of the Cross cut upon a tree-stump — as everyone ought to know also.

   "Und I to cut der grosses tried," explained Hermann carefully, "but der wood was too hard. So I chalked dem mit ein piece of chalk."

   And the good Father laughed and patted him on the head before he went away. "There are neither demons nor green pixies here," he said, "and you must get these queer fancies out o' your little round head. Who taught you all these things?"

   "Mine mutter," said Hermann softly; and this time the kind priest patted him on the head without laughing and gave him some peppermint drops.

   "The cross can do no harm anywhere," he said to Mrs. Malloy, "and don't try to turn the child from his beliefs too quickly. Yes, I have heard all the story, and you have done well in the sight of heaven. But be patient."

   And so he went away, leaving Hermann wondering what story it was that he spoke of knowing. If the child had known, it was his own story. The story of a little boy and his mother who had come from a tiny German village in the Harz Mountains, across the wide sea to a great city in a new land, there to meet this little boy's father. The father had never come to claim his wife and child, and the mother had had to work for both. At last she had fallen ill, and Hermann knew cold and hunger and fear and grief. And then one day she had blessed him in the dear speech of the Fatherland she was never to see again, and died.

   After that, things were not so clear in Hermann's memory. But the story might have gone on to speak of a little destitute German boy who was taken into a children's home, and pined there silently, like an alien bird in an aviary; of a great-hearted, rough-handed Irishwoman who went to the home to scrub and wash and who took a fancy to this little boy and brought him apples and sugarsticks in secret; of a sudden cry from this little boy's heart at a caress of her giving — a cry needing no interpretation to a mother's wits; of a visit this rough woman paid in state to the Matron of the Home, accompanied by a young man carrying a purple bag which had papers in it; and of a wonderful day when this woman came again, and caught the little boy to her heart, telling him that henceforward he was to be hers, a brother to her two little girls. Then Hermann went away from the Home for good and all — went with Mrs. Malloy to the cottage beside the marsh, outside the great city, to be her son and a brother to Biddy and Margaretta.

   "An' never have I regretted it," Mrs. Malloy was wont to say, "for he's quiet an' good beyont reason, an' amuse the girlies he does fer hours with his tales o' Ash-in-Puddle an' Dawn-Russian as he calls 'em, meanin' thereby Cindrella an' Sleepin' Beauty an' the like. O, I'm well satisfied with him, bless his heart. An' nothin' have I to complain of save that he has fancies to make yer flesh creep an' too little colour in his cheeks."

   And indeed, Hermann had fancies that would have been "queer" enough in Biddy or Margaretta. But in him they were natural enough, being nothing but the vague, dim memories he bore of his mother's tales. To-night as he leant against the window pane, he was wondering whether the Christ-Kind would come down that pale track which wound across the marshes, straight from the silver star, at Christmas time; with His little bare feet showing rosy in the snow and His white wings stirring softly in the air, just as He had looked in a Christmas picture Hermann had seen long and long ago, where and how he could not remember.

   Mrs. Malloy had come home from a hard day's work, and was cooking bacon cheerfully in the next room, while Biddy and little Margaretta played about the table. She "dished up" the bacon with a slap and a bang, and "Come an' get yer supper, bhoy dear," she called.

   Hermann left the window slowly, and climbed into his chair. His eyes were bright and dreamy. Mrs. Malloy looked at him uneasily, and began talking very fast:

   "What d'ye think, me pretties," she said, "that Miss Maisie said to-day to me? She ses, ses she, 'Mrs. Malloy, I'll be sendin' to you on Christmas Eve with some treat for the children,' she ses. Nay, now, I don't know what it's like to be; but, shure, it'll be good. What's it ye want to say, bhoy dear?"

   Hermann sat with his head thrown back and his eyes alight. "Ja," he said slowly, "some t'ing will be to us brought. Ach! ja! By der liddle Christ-Kind." He met Mrs. Malloy's puzzled glance, and the light in his clear pale face faded. Though he was loved, he was still an alien.

   "Will not der liddle Christ-Kind come?" he asked anxiously.

   "In course he will," replied Mrs. Malloy with loud cheerfulness.

   "Und bring gifts?" went on Hermann.

   Biddy had been staring at him silently, but now she broke out. "He means Santy Claws, Ma," she cried, "but he's such a little Dutchy he don't say it right."

   "Und der liddle Christ-Kind will come like the picture, white und rosy, mit a pine-tree in his arms carryin'?" again asked Hermann. "He will come at Christmas time from der star?"

   "Yes, shure," replied Mrs. Malloy, accepting Biddy's explanation gratefully. "An' now don't worry yer little head no more. I promise you he'll come. An' if ye've finished yer supper ye'd better go to bed, bhoy. Ye look real peaky an' tired. Lord send ye ain't goin' to be ill."

   "No, I am well," said Hermann, "goot-night." And he climbed the stairs to his crib in the attic, comforted. Mrs. Malloy had said the Christ-Kind would come. He believed her implicitly. And in that belief he fell asleep, and dreamt that the little Christ-Kind came floating down the silver beam from the star, and caught him by the hand. Together they flew out of the window, into a great bright space full of song. The little Christ­Kind's white wings stirred in the air, and His eyes were beautiful. "Are you going to be ill?" He asked gently, touching Hermann on the forehead, and Hermann said "No." Then they sank down to earth again, and Hermann felt himself separated from the Child. And he awoke again, shivering, with a pain in his head.

   It was morning; and Mrs. Malloy found Hermann very ill indeed.

   "This must have been coming on for a long time," said the doctor when he came. "No, you are not to blame. Keep him warm and don't let him worry."

   Then Mrs. Malloy lighted the tiny stove in the parlour and carried Hermann's crib down there. She carried Hermann down also and put him in the crib, and it was very warm and comfortable. He was quite contented to lie there, looking at the green leaves on the wall-paper, at the frost-flowers on the window, at the red carpet, and at the mat beside the sofa — a beautiful mat with a tall black and white setter dog worked upon it. Everything was very beautiful and warm, and he was quite content.

   But there came a day when the frost-flowers on the window began to wreathe and twine ceaselessly round each other, so that his poor eyes ached to look at them. The green leaves on the wall-paper were the leaves of a great forest; and little green moss-women ran softly out of the grass and sat on the end of his crib, smiling at him kindly because he had made crosses for them. The setter-dog came out of his mat, stretched himself, and frisked about the room. This made Hermann laugh, and the doctor laughed too, but did not seem to notice when the dog bit him, which was odd. But Hermann felt sure that Mrs. Malloy noticed it for she was crying.

   Then all these things went away, and there was nothing but a great space full of black shadows and terror, where no one could help him but the little Christ-Kind. He knew that if the little Christ-Kind would come, white and rosy, with His wings folded behind Him, His eyes mild and beautiful, His bare feet bright on the snow, that things would get better and that the black shadows would go away. So he called ceaselessly for the little Christ-Kind, but He did not come.

   "What can it be he wants?" asked the doctor. "My German is not good enough to make out all he says."

   "And indeed, indeed, I understand nothin," moaned Mrs. Malloy. "O, it's a black Christmas Eve for me this day. O, the poor lamb!"

   All that morning Hermann called out for the little Christ-Kind. But in the afternoon he was too tired to call any longer, and the doctor frowned. He was quite contented to lie still again, looking at the door through the black mist which still swirled about the room, and waiting for the little Christ-Kind as patiently as he could. For he knew that some evening the little Christ­Kind would come, white and rosy, a shining figure from the shining star. Towards evening Hermann fell asleep.

   He awoke with a start, and knew that he had heard a knock on the door.

   Mrs. Malloy was asleep in a chair, for she had had no sleep the night before, and Hermann was too weak to wake her. He could only lie and wait, watching the door through the dark mists. But he knew — he knew.

   Then the door opened, and Hermann saw the Child of his picture. This boy's face was rosy, his garments were white, and his eyes were kind and beautiful. His wings must have been folded behind him, for Hermann could not see them; but in his arms he carried a little snowy pine-tree in a red pot. Very softly, the Child of Hermann's vision opened the door wider and crept in, while Mrs. Malloy slept on. He smiled at Hermann, and came softly over to the crib, and touched him gently on the cheek. Then he put the little fir tree on the table, with several parcels, and smiled again, and crept to the door and was gone.

   But Hermann lay still in utter content, until he fell most sweetly asleep and dreamed no more of terrors, but only of the Child with the smiling eyes.

   "An' ye could ha' knocked me down with a feather," cried Mrs. Malloy, "when I woke, an' see that dear lamb, an' smilin', an' all they things settin' on the table. Miss Maisie's brother must 'a' brought them of course. An' the wine's just what the bhoy needs now he's gettin' better."

   And Hermann never doubted that the Christ-Kind had come — not even when he was strong again, and the gifts were all given, and the sweet-smelling green had fallen from the little Christmas tree.