“Yes, oh, yes.”
“Hi, there, Danny! Hi, there, Whitefut!” he shouted. “Buckle to, me byes; the luck av the wurrld is foldin’ her arrms about me at this toime, an’ no mishtake. Git a move on ye, childer.”
The horses obeyed his voice with alacrity, as if they were eager to get their work over; the bells jingled, the snow beneath the runners gave out a sharp hissing sound by way of answer, and the little sweetheart, only her face showing out of the old brown rug as she nestled close against the man’s arm, laughed merrily.
Before them the happy road, its joyous voices still calling to her, went on and on into the very rim of the sky; behind them the white earth stretched. They didn’t glance back—why should they? There was not much to see,—nothing but the empty plain and the lonely little house that seemed to shiver there all by itself; the silent little house where no child played, or looked from any of its windows. It seemed to have no love for the outer world, and no interest in it; yet zigzagging from its door were the prints of certain steps—too big for a fairy, too tiny for a man,—a strange huddle of marks ever forming new paths, and finally coming to an end at the side of the road.
And the road led north, and the road led south, but nowhere was there any trace of a small maid faring forth on a mission of discovery. One would never have dreamed of her passing that way, had it not been for those adventurous footprints and for the little red mitten that showed upon the snow like a hand flung out in a silent good-by.
CHAPTER II
THE RIDE TOGETHER
“AN’ the shtar danced whin I was born—”
“That was because you were Santa Claus,” laughed the little maid.
“Faith, ’twas because I was mesilf—jest a slip av a babe that wud have gladdened your eyes to see. ’Twas a happy shtar, an’ it came geekin’ in at the windy,—An’ how are ye, me broth av a b’y?’ it seemed to say; an’ I, not knowin’ the spache av the wurrld, jest shmiled back for an answer. A shmile, or a laugh, is the best spache afther all, an’ don’t ye fergit it. Why, even the brute dorgs know the differ betwixt glum looks an’ cheerful ones. An’ the shtar wasn’t to be bate by a dorg, not it! Iv’ry blessed wurrd that lay in me heart an’ cudn’t git to me tongue’s end—the way bein’ thin unknown—was clear to it, an’ twinkle, twinkle, hop, skip, jump it wint, a-twangin’ its little fiddle in chune to its steps. Me mither’s mither—may the peace av hivin be her sowl’s rist!—near dhropped me aff her knees wid amazemint, fer niver had she beheld such divarshions; an’ by reason av the same she ran the pins into me body, mishtakin’ it fer a cushion, but niver a whoop did I let forth, bein’ all took up mesilf wid the joy av the shtar. Sure, she cud have made a clove apple av me intoirely an’ I wudn’t have been none the wiser. She rectified her mishtake did she, an’ if she’d been in doubts that all the saylestial fandarago was in me honor, she saw the truth av it thin. ‘Mavourneen,’ she sez to me mither, ‘there’s a little happy shtar widout in the hivins doin’ a quick-shtep, an’ up an’ down the middle, an’ ballings to corners all because av this new-born babe who’s laughin’ wid the humor av it—’ ‘An’ why not?’ sez me mither, wid a certain fierceness in the soft voice av her. ‘Why shudn’t the whole firmymint be set into a commotion av gladness because av him? Faith, if ye cud pennythrate to me heart,’ sez she, ‘ye’d see it dancin’ as niver was. Bring him here to me arrms, alanna, that I may cuddle him clost, so’s he can fale the bate av it.’ Thin the ould woman did as she was bid, an’ me mither—now the saints bless her swate sowl!—held me till her side an’ talked to me low, whilst the joy av her heart crept insid’yus like into me own, an’ it’s lived there iver since.”
“What did she say? Did she call you Santa Claus?”