In the end his mother let him go. As he walked along slowly he questioned everything he passed—birds, grass, winds, rain, river, trees. All these he asked the fastest road to Santa Claus; and each in turn showed him the way as far as he knew it. The birds flew northward, singing for him to follow after; the grass swayed and bent and made a beaten path for him; the river carried him safely along its banks in the tiniest shell of a boat, while the winds blew it to make it go faster. Each horse or donkey that he met carried him as far as he could; and every house door was opened wide to him, and the children shared with him their bowls of bread-and-milk or soup. And wherever he passed, both the children and the grownups alike called after him, “You’ll tell him; you’ll make Santa Claus come and bring our Christmas back to us!”
I cannot begin to tell you the wonderful things that happened to the boy. He traveled quickly and safely, for all that it was a long road with no sign-posts marking the way; and just three days before Christmas he reached the North Pole and knocked at Santa Claus’s front door. It was opened by Santa himself, who rubbed his eyes with wonder.
“Bless my red jacket and my fur boots!” he cried in astonishment. “If it isn’t a real, live boy! How did you get here, sirrah?”
The boy told him everything in just two sentences; and when he had finished he begged Santa to change his mind and keep Christmas for the children.
“Can’t do it. Don’t want to. Couldn’t if I did. Not a thing made. Nothing to make anything of. And you can’t have Christmas without toys and sweets. Go look in that window and see for yourself.” And the old saint finished quite out of breath.
The boy went over to the window Santa had pointed out and, standing on tiptoe, peered in. There was the workshop as empty as a barn in the spring. Spiders had built their webs across the corners and mice scampered over the floors, and that was all. The boy went slowly back to Santa and his face looked very sad.
“Listen to this,” he said, and he took a seashell from his pocket and held it close to old Santa’s ear. “Can you hear anything?”
Santa listened with his forehead all puckered up and a finger against his nose.
“Humph! It sounds like somebody crying away off.”
“It’s the children,” said the little boy, “as I heard them while I passed along the road that brought me here. And do you know why they were crying? Because there are no trees to light, no candles to burn, no stockings to hang, no carols to sing, no holly to make into wreaths—no gladness anywhere. And they are very frightened because Christmas has been lost.”