A Silent Group About the Hearth.
MR. KRIS KRINGLE.
A
Christmas Tale.
By
S. WEIR MITCHELL, M. D., LL. D., Harvard.
SEVENTH THOUSAND.
PHILADELPHIA:
George W. Jacobs & Co.,
103 South 15th Street,
1898.
Copyright, 1893,
BY S. WEIR MITCHELL.
The following little Christmas story was written, and is published forthe benefit of the Home of the Merciful Saviour for Crippled Children,Philadelphia.
S. Weir Mitchell.
MR. KRIS KRINGLE.
It was Christmas Eve. The snow had clad the rolling hills in white, asif in preparation for the sacred morrow. The winds, boisterous all daylong, at fall of night ceased to roar amidst the naked forest, andnow, the silent industry of the falling flakes made of pine and sprucetall white tents. At last, as the darkness grew, a deepening stillnesscame on hill and valley, and all nature seemed to wait expectant ofthe coming of the Christmas time.[6]
Above the broad river a long, gray stone house lay quiet; its vine androof heavy with the softly-falling snow, and showing no sign of lightor life except in a feeble, red glow through the Venetian blinds ofthe many windows of one large room. Within, a huge fire of mighty logslit up with distinctness only the middle space, and fell with variableillumination on a silent group about the hearth.
On one side a mother sat with her cheek upon her hand, her elbow onthe table, gazing steadily into the fire; on the other side were twochildren, a girl and a boy; he on a cushion, she in a low chair. Somehalf-felt sadness repressed for these little ones the usual gayChristmas humor of the hopeful hour, commonly so full for them[7] ofthat anticipative joy to which life brings shadowy sadness as theyears run on.
Now and then the boy looked across the room, pleased when the leapingflames sent flaring over floor and wall long shadows from the tallbrass andirons or claw-footed chair and table. Sometimes he glancedshyly at the mother, but getting no answering smile kept silence. Onceor twice the girl whispered a word to him, as the logs fell and asheet of flame from the hickory and the quick-burning birch set freethe stored-up sunshine of many a summer day. A moment later, the girlcaught the boy's arm.
"Oh! hear the ice, Hugh," she cried, for mysterious noises came upfrom the river and died away.
"Yes, it is the ice, dear," said the mother.[8] "I like to hear it." Asshe spoke she struck a match and lit two candles which stood on thetable beside her.
For a few minutes as she stood her gaze wandered along the walls overthe portraits of men and women once famous in Colonial days. The greatchina bowls, set high for safety on top