“Never,” she answered promptly; and she really spoke the truth. Sawdust eaten in such companionship would have seemed as palatable as sugar, and the present food was like the ambrosia of the high gods. Even those delicious sandwiches that her mother made for her sometimes, with the little slice of ham blushing faintly between the dainty pieces of bread where the butter lay like a filmy, glistening veil, had never seemed so good and satisfying as these big grown-up ones eaten under the high blue sky in that country of snow and ice.
As soon as the sandwiches had disappeared Santa Claus covered a cracker with bits of cheese like nuggets of gold, and presented it to her with a bow as if she were a queen. It seemed a fitting crown to the feast, though apparently he had quite other ideas of a crown, as was soon shown. When the crackers and cheese were all eaten, and even the last crumb chased home and captured, he put his hand into the breast of his coat and drew out a flat, dark bottle which he regarded with loving eyes.
“Here’s me beauty,” he cried; “here’s what’s to top aff a faste a king wudn’t disdain; here’s something he wudn’t give the go-by to, not he!”
“What is it?” the little maid asked curiously.
“What is it? Troth, ’twud take an hour by the clock to tell all the names it has the wurrld over; an’ some is good, an’ some is bad—the names, I’m manin’. Merry-go-down an’ Tangle-legs,—that’s shlander’us! an’ Water av Health, an’ Odivvy, as the Frenchies say, which is the same as Water av Life; but I’m not so much fer water in it mesilf, likin’ it nate. Then there’s Oil av Gladness an’—Sure ye shall have the first taste, mavourneen, as ’tis fit an’ proper—ladies always lead. Come, shtand up an’ give us the toast—”
“The toast—” she looked around bewildered; “why, we’ve eaten all the bread, and there isn’t any fire—”
“This is the fire an’ the bread too,” roared Santa Claus. “Bless your innercent sowl, me dear, ’tis a propysition I’m afther askin’ ye fer. Whist now, the fellies at the tavern sit ’round, an’ before they drink wan will git up an’ say, a-wavin’ av his glass, ‘Here’s to him’—namin’ some wan prisint; or ‘Here’s to honist hearts an’ true;’ or ‘Here’s to thim at home, God love thim!’ an’ we all drink to it. So now thin, Swate Eyes, spake quickly, an’ drink long, an’ pass the bottle spadily if ye love me, fer iv’ry minnit’s an hour till it quinches me thirst.”
She got to her feet quite gravely, her eyebrows drawn together in the little pucker they always made when she was thinking very hard; and first she looked up at the sky, and then around at the stretch of land where the sparkles under the crusted snow flashed like so many imprisoned diamonds, and then at the sky again as if for inspiration. Finally her glance rested upon him, leaning forward, regarding her with his merry smile.
“Why, here’s to you,” she cried, “our very own, ownest Santa Claus.”
She tipped the bottle against her lips as she finished speaking, gurgled a little, choked, spluttered—