Mr. Long-Tail sobbed: “Set me free, and anything I own is yours.”
“We are going to set you free all right,” cried the little birds, “but we don’t want anything of yours. No, sir. We only accept presents from willing givers, and just to show you, we are going to return good for evil.” And straightway they began to dig those yellow ears of corn from under the old box trap. Suddenly it fell on its side and the cover opened enough for Mr. Long-Tail to slip out. He didn’t stop, and he didn’t even thank those little snowbirds for saving his life. No. He only ran just as fast as his legs would carry him straight for his home.
“My! That was a narrow escape,” he puffed as he bolted his heavy door. “You don’t catch me leaving this snug little house again”; and he stirred the fire and dropped down into his big easy-chair.
For a long, long time he sat and looked into the crackling flames as they danced and leaped up the chimney. Then gradually old Mr. Long-Tail commenced to see strange shapes. Curious visions appeared—visions new and strange; and along with them came troubling thoughts, and, do all he could, he couldn’t shut them out.
As the flames danced they shaped themselves into weird pictures of huddled creatures bent with cold and hunger, as they drew their cloaks about them. He could hear the roar of the winter tempest; he saw lines of empty stockings and heard plaintive calls for food. Then he saw a score of rich storehouses filled to overflowing, with doors heavily barred, while before them walked a grotesque figure, and that figure was turning away groups of starving forest folk. And, last of all, he saw two tiny snowbirds helping someone out of a trap, someone who whined and whimpered and cried: “Help! Help! It’s me, poor Mr. Long-Tail.”
This was too much for him. He jumped suddenly to his feet and cried: “That’s me, a mean old miser, who does nothing for anyone but himself. The poor and needy I turn away, and I don’t even thank those who save my life—me, poor old Miser Long-Tail.”
Ashamed and humbled he sat down again and remained motionless for a long, long time. Then, with a sudden cry of joy, he jumped to his feet and looked at the clock.
“Hurrah! There’s yet time. There are still a few hours left,” he cried as he drew on his coat and, gathering a pile of empty bags together, he disappeared into the night.
The Night-Before-Christmas! That magic hour of all the year when Santa Claus, behind his team of reindeer steeds, rides hither and thither from one chimney top to another. But on this particular night the little creatures of the great forest had given up all hope of any Christmas visitor and were huddled in their beds for warmth. They were fast asleep, dreaming their troubled dreams of empty shelves and stockings. Outside the great world lay covered with ice and snow, for the blizzard had gone on its way and a cold winter moon shone on the hanging icicles.
Then suddenly there came, at the exact hour of twelve, the ringing of a bell. The little people awoke with a start and in excited voices cried: “It’s a Christmas bell! It’s a Christmas bell!”