The Adventures of Nicholas (3 page)

“The little children hopped on and climbed lovingly all over him.”

‘It’s a long time since I made one of these wee things:

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
 

FTER the race, the merry villagers went home to their cottages and sat down to their Christmas dinners. But Nicholas was stopped by a tall, dark man who looked as if he had never smiled in his life. It was Bertran Marsden, the woodcarver of the village, known to all the children as Mad Marsden.

“You haven’t forgotten that you move to my house today?” Marsden asked. Nicholas looked at the old man. No, he had not forgotten. Nicholas knew why Marsden had offered to take him. The woodcarver wanted a good helper, without having to pay for the work he knew he could get out of Nicholas.

Knowing this, and thinking how lonely it would be without the sound of laughter and children’s

voices, Nicholas piled his few belongings on the new sled, and with a heavy heart followed Mad Marsden home.

Marsden pointed to a door in the corner of the untidy cottage. “You can put your belongings in there. As for the pretty sled, you might as well put that out in the shed. We have no time here to go romping in the snow. I’m going to make a good woodcarver of you. No time for silly toys. You’ll have to earn your keep here.”

Nicholas bowed his head, silently putting away his small bundle of clothes. Only the thought that he was fourteen years old, and almost a man, kept him from crying that night in his dark, cold room.

So Nicholas became an apprentice to the old woodcarver. He learned that his father’s jackknife was a clumsy tool compared with the sharp knives and wheels that Marsden used. He learned to work for hours, bent over the bench beside his master, going over and over one stick of wood.

All this he grew used to in time, for he was strong and young. But he felt he could never get used to the dreadful loneliness of the place. His friends, the children, gradually gave up trying to see him after they had been chased away, time after time, by the cross old woodcarver. Marsden himself seldom spoke, except to give instructions about the work or to scold him for some mistake. Nicholas was sad and lonely and longed to be back in a friendly cottage, surrounded by laughing children.

One morning, toward the end of winter, Marsden awoke and looked about the room in surprise.

Nicholas had swept and scrubbed the floor, had taken down the dirty hangings from the windows, and was busily polishing the pots and pans with clean sand. The table was set in front of the fire and a shining copper kettle was bubbling on the hearth.

Nicholas poured boiling water over the tea leaves, spread some bread with fresh, sweet butter, and said simply, “Your breakfast, Master.” From then on the cottage began to look less like a workshop and more like a home.

One night, as Marsden sat in front of the fire silently smoking his long pipe, he saw that Nicholas was still bent over the workbench. “Here, lad,” he said almost kindly. “I’m not such a hard master that I make you work night as well as day. What’s that you’re doing?”

Nicholas answered quickly. “It’s just a piece of wood you threw away, Master. I thought I’d see if I could copy that fine chair you’re making for the Squire’s son. It’s a…toy,” he explained fearfully.

Instead of flying into his usual rage, Marsden said, “Here, let me see it.” With a few skillful turns of the knife, the old woodcarver finished the toy to perfection. Then instead of handing the little chair back to Nicholas, he held it in his hands with a sad expression on his worn and wrinkled face.

“It’s a long time since I made one of these,” he murmured. “Yet I made plenty, years and years ago, when they were little.”

“When who were little, Master?”

Marsden’s eyes grew fierce and angry. “My sons,” he roared. “I had two sons, and when they were as big as you are, they left me. Ran away to sea. Left me all alone to grow old and crabbed.” The old man buried his face in his hands.

Nicholas went over and placed his strong hands on the bent old shoulders. “I won’t leave you,” he whispered.

Marsden lifted his head, “You’re a good lad, Nicholas. I think I’d like to help you with some of those little things you make. We’ll make them together these long winter evenings, eh Nicholas? And you won’t ever leave me alone, will you, lad?”

The boy answered quietly, “No, Master. I’ll stay with you just as long as you want me.”

So every evening the two heads bent over the workbench. With help from the master, the toys were more beautiful than they had ever been before. The dolls’ cheeks were as rosy as the little girls who would soon hold them in their arms. The little chairs and tables were stained the same soft colors as Marsden used on his own furniture, and the boats and sleighs were shiny with bright new paints.

The night before Christmas everything was finished. A toy for each child in the village was packed in the sled with the steel runners. Yet Nicholas and the old man were still working at the bench. They were trying to finish a chest which had been ordered by a wealthy woman in the next village, twenty miles away.

The chest had to be finished and delivered on Christmas Day. It was a wedding present, and the Christmas feast would also celebrate the wedding. Nicholas would have to borrow a horse and

sleigh, and drive over with the chest early Christmas morning—the time he had planned to take the gifts to the children.

“I’m sorry, Nicholas,” said old Marsden. “I’d go myself, but I’m not as strong as I used to be. It’s an all-day trip—twenty miles over, several hours to rest the horse, and twenty miles back. With the snow not crusted, it will be hard going.”

“If only she didn’t want the chest on Christmas morning,” sighed Nicholas.

“Well,” answered his master, “we did promise it and it has to be delivered. Now the toys weren’t promised—”

“No, but I’ve always given them,” interrupted Nicholas.

“I was just going to say, lad, that they weren’t promised for Christmas Day. Now, you know that little children go to bed early. Why can’t you.”

“Of course!” cried Nicholas. “I can deliver the gifts tonight, after the children have gone to bed. Why, Master, that’s a wonderful idea!”

The old man and the boy rushed around and finally got the sled out in the yard. Nicholas bundled himself up and was off through the snow, dragging the toy-laden sled behind him.

Down in the village, a bright winter moon was shining on snow that glistened on rooftops and around the doorways. Not a soul stirred in the streets but one young boy, going from door to door, leaving a pile of little toys every place he stopped, until there was nothing left on the sled.

It was Christmas Eve, and Nicholas had once more kept his promise to the children.

There was a funny object seen dangling outside the door.

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS STOCKING
 

HE old woodcarver cheerfully taught Nicholas all that he knew of his difficult trade. The years went by busily and happily, and for Bertran Marsden they were the happiest of his life. When old age finally overcame him and he passed away peacefully in his sleep, the old woodcarver gratefully left his cottage, his tools, and his thriving business to Nicholas, whom he loved as his own son. As Nicholas himself grew older, the sound of children’s voices grew dearer and dearer to him. He arranged his work so that he spent only part of his time on the orders he received; the rest of the day and most of the evenings he worked on toys for the next Christmas. One Christmas Eve he was surprised to find that the children had hung on their doors little embroidered bags filled with

oats for his horse. After that, instead of leaving the toys piled up in the doorway, he put them in the little bags. He now had a long list of children to remember, for he made a point of noticing which families had new babies and of finding out about newcomers who came to the village.

So it was that he knew all about Jon and Peter. Their mother and father were even poorer than most of the other families. The father had been strong and able before his boat was smashed in a storm and he was so badly injured that he had to lie in bed or be propped up in a chair in the cottage.

The neighbors gave the family as much as they could spare, and the mother worked whenever she was needed in the Squire’s house on the hill. But there were many days when the children had only a bowl of thin porridge to eat, and the mother and father went without anything at all.

Jon was now the man of the family, although he was only eight years old. He built the fire, shoveled snow from the cottage doorway, and took care of his little brother while his mother was out working. One of his chores was going into the forest and helping the woodcutter, a kind man, who paid him with enough wood to keep the family from freezing during the long bitter winter.

One cold winter afternoon, as Jon was returning from the forest with his sled piled high with wood, he met a group of boys who were building a snow fort close by Nicholas’ cottage.

“Jon!” called out one of the boys, “want to be on our side?”

“I guess not,” he answered, “I have to get this wood home before dark.”

“We’ll help you with your sled if you stay a while,” the boys promised.

Jon hesitated, then dropped the rope to his sled and joined the group. It was a long time since he had played in the snow, and he braved the icy sting of the snowballs and finally climbed the slippery walls of the fort, pelting snowballs down on those trying to defend it.

Suddenly a glad shout rose from both sides as Nicholas appeared, his blue eyes twinkling at the sight of everyone having such a good time.

“Help us, Nicholas,” pleaded the boys who were trying to take the fort.

Nicholas quickly gathered up a handful of snow, packing and shaping it in his hands, and taking aim at the tallest boy, knocked his hat clean off. The boys rushed forward, and with Nicholas shouting them on, they captured the fort!

Jon looked at the tall man shyly. Of course he knew who Nicholas was; he had heard about the woodcarver ever since they had moved into the village last summer.