Once upon a time, - so long ago that the world has forgotten the date, - in a city of the North of Europe, - the name of which is so hard to pronounce that no one remembers it, - there was a little boy, just seven years old, whose name was Wolff. He was an orphan and lived with his aunt, a hard-hearted, avaricious old woman, who never kissed him but once a year, on New Year's Day; and who sighed with regret every time she gave him a bowlful of soup.
The poor little boy was so sweet-tempered that he loved the old woman in spite of her bad treatment, but he
could not look without trembling at the wart, decorated with four gray hairs, which grew on the end of her nose.
As Wolff's aunt was known to have a house of her own and a woolen stocking full of gold, she did not dare to
send her nephew to the school for the poor. But she wrangled so that the schoolmaster of the rich boys' school
was forced to lower his price and admit little Wolff among his pupils. The bad schoolmaster was vexed to have a boy so meanly clad and who paid so little, and he punished little Wolff severely without cause, ridiculed him, and even incited against him his comrades, who were the sons of rich citizens. They made the orphan their drudge and mocked at him so much that the little boy was as miserable as the stones in the street, and hid himself away in corners to cry - when the Christmas season came.
On the Eve of the great Day the schoolmaster was to take all his pupils to the midnight mass, and then to
conduct them home again to their parents' houses.
Now as the winter was very severe, and a quantity of snow had fallen within the past few days, the boys came to the place of meeting warmly wrapped up, with fur-lined caps drawn down over their ears, padded jackets, gloves and knitted mittens, and good strong shoes with thick soles. Only little Wolff presented himself shivering in his thin everyday clothes, and wearing on his feet socks and wooden shoes.
His naughty comrades tried to annoy him in every possible way, but the orphan was so busy warming his hands
by blowing on them, and was suffering so much from chilblains, that he paid no heed to the taunts of the others. Then the band of boys, marching two by two, started for the parish church.
It was comfortable inside the church, which was brilliant with lighted tapers. And the pupils, made lively by the gentle warmth, the sound of the organ, and the singing of the choir, began to chatter in low tones. They boasted of the midnight treats awaiting them at home. The son of the Mayor had seen, before leaving the house, a monstrous goose larded with truffles so that it looked like a black-spotted leopard. Another boy told of the fir tree waiting for him, on the branches of which hung oranges, sugar-plums, and punchinellos. Then they talked about what the Christ Child would bring them, or what he would leave in their shoes which they would certainly be careful to place before the fire when they went to bed. And the eyes of the little rogues, lively as a crowd of mice, sparkled with delight as they thought of the many gifts they would find on waking, - the pink bags of burnt almonds, the bonbons, lead soldiers standing in rows, menageries, and magnificent jumping-jacks, dressed in purple and gold.
Little Wolff, alas! knew well that his miserly old aunt would send him to bed without any supper; but as he had been good and industrious all the year, he trusted that the Christ Child would not forget him, so he meant that night to set his wooden shoes on the hearth.
The midnight mass was ended. The worshipers hurried away, anxious to enjoy the treats awaiting them in their
homes. The band of pupils, two by two, following the schoolmaster, passed out of the church.
Now, under the porch, seated on a stone bench, in the shadow of an arched niche, was a child asleep, - a little child dressed in a white garment and with bare feet exposed to the cold. He was not a beggar, for his dress was clean and new, and - beside him upon the ground, tied in a cloth, were the tools of a carpenter's apprentice.
Under the light of the stars, his face, with its closed eyes, shone with an expression of divine sweetness, and his soft, curling blond hair seemed to form an aureole of light about his forehead. But his tender feet, blue with the cold on this cruel night of December, were pitiful to see!
The pupils so warmly clad and shod, passed with indifference before the unknown child. Some, the sons of the
greatest men in the city, cast looks of scorn on the barefooted one. But little Wolff, coming last out of the church, stopped deeply moved before the beautiful, sleeping child.
"Alas!" said the orphan to himself, "How dreadful! This poor little one goes without stockings in weather so cold! And, what is worse, he has no shoe to leave beside him while he sleeps, so that the Christ Child may place something in it to comfort him in all his misery."
And carried away by his tender heart, little Wolff drew off the wooden shoe from his right foot, placed it before the sleeping child; and as best as he was able, now hopping, now limping, and wetting his sock in the snow, he returned to his aunt.
"You good-for-nothing!" cried the old woman, full of rage as she saw that one of his shoes was gone. "What have you done with your shoe, little beggar?"
Little Wolff did not know how to lie, and, though shivering with terror as he saw the gray hairs on the end of her nose stand upright, he tried, stammering, to tell his adventure.
But the old miser burst into frightful laughter. "Ah! the sweet young master takes off his shoe for a beggar! Ah! master spoils a pair of shoes for a barefoot! This is something new, indeed! Ah! well, since things are so, I will place the shoe that is left in the fireplace, and tonight the Christ Child will put in a rod to whip you when you wake. And tomorrow you shall have nothing to eat but water and dry bread, and we shall see if the next time you will give away your shoe to the first vagabond that comes along."
And saying this the wicked woman gave him a box on each ear, and made him climb to his wretched room in the
loft. There the heartbroken little one lay down in the darkness, and, drenching his pillow with tears, fell asleep.
But in the morning, when the old woman, awakened by the cold and shaken by her cough, descended to the
kitchen, oh! wonder of wonders! she saw the great fireplace filled with bright toys, magnificent boxes of
sugar-plums, riches of all sorts, and in front of all this treasure, the wooden shoe which her nephew had given to the vagabond, standing beside the other shoe which she herself had placed there the night before, intending to put in it a handful of switches.
And as little Wolff, who had come running at the cries of his aunt, stood in speechless delight before all the
splendid Christmas gifts, there came great shouts of laughter from the street.
The old woman and the little boy went out to learn what it was all about, and saw the gossips gathered around
the public fountain. What could have happened? Oh, a most amusing and extraordinary thing! The children of all
the rich men of the city, whose parents wished to surprise them with the most beautiful gifts, had found nothing but switches in their shoes!
Then the old woman and little Wolff remembered with alarm all the riches that were in their own fireplace, but
just then they saw the pastor of the parish church arriving with his face full of perplexity.
Above the bench near the church door, in the very spot where the night before a child, dressed in white, with
bare feet exposed to the great cold, had rested his sleeping head, the pastor had seen a golden circle wrought
into the old stones. Then all the people knew that the beautiful, sleeping child, beside whom had lain the
carpenter's tools, was the Christ Child himself, and that he had rewarded the faith and charity of little Wolff.
~
Francois Coppee ~
I Will Never Forget You
"I will never forget you," the old man said. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. "I'm getting old. I can't take care of you anymore."
With his head tilted to one side, Monsieur DuPree watched his master. "Woof woof! Woof woof!" He wagged his tail back and forth, wondering, What's he up to now?
"I can't take care of myself anymore, let alone take care of you." The old man cleared his throat. He pulled a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose with a mighty blast.
"Soon, I'll move to an old age home and, I'm sorry to say, you can't come along. They don't allow dogs there, you know."
Bent over from age, the old man limped over to Monsieur DuPree and stroked his head.
"Don't worry, my friend. We'll find a home. We'll find a nice new home for you." And, as an afterthought he added, "Why, with your good looks, we'll have no trouble at all. Anyone would be proud to own such a fine dog."
Monsieur DuPree wagged his tail really hard and strutted up and down the kitchen floor. "Woof, woof, woof, woof." For a moment, the familiar musky scent of the old man mingling with the odor of greasy food gave the dog the feeling of well being. But then, a sense of dread took hold again. His tail hung between his legs and he stood very still.
"Come here." With great difficulty, the old man knelt down on the floor and lovingly pulled Monsieur Dupree close to him. He tied a ribbon around his neck with a huge red bow, and then he attached a note to it. Monsieur DuPree wondered what it said.
"It says," the old man read aloud, "Merry Christmas! My name is Monsieur DuPree. For breakfast, I like bacon and eggs - even corn flakes will do. For dinner, I prefer mashed potatoes and some meat. That's all. I eat just two meals a day. In return, I will be your most loyal friend."
"Woof woof! Woof woof!" Monsieur DuPree was confused and his eyes begged, What's going on?
The old man blew his nose into his hankie once more. Then, hanging onto a chair, he pulled himself up from the floor. Buttoning his overcoat, he reached for the dog's leash and softly said, "Come here my friend." He opened the door against a gust of cold air and stepped outside, pulling the dog behind. Dusk was beginning to fall. Monsieur DuPree pulled back. He didn't want to go.
>"Don't make this any harder for me. I promise you, you'll be much better off with someone else." The street was deserted. It began to snow. Leaning into the wintry air, the old man and his dog pushed on. The pavement, trees, and houses were soon covered with a blanket of snow.
After a very long time, they came upon an old Victorian house surrounded by tall trees, which were swaying and humming in the wind. The old man stopped. Monsieur DuPree stopped, too. Shivering in the cold, they appraised the house. Glimmering lights adorned every window, and the muffled sound of a Christmas song was carried on the wind.
"This will be a nice home for you," the old man said, choking on his words. He bent down and unleashed his dog, then opened the gate slowly, so that it wouldn't creak. "Go on now. Go up the steps and scratch on the door."
Monsieur DuPree looked from the house to his master and back again to the house. He did not understand. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
"Go on." The old man gave the dog a shove. "I have no use for you anymore," he said in a gruff voice. "Get going now!"
Monsieur DuPree was hurt. He thought his master didn't love him anymore. He didn't understand that, indeed, the old man loved him very much, yet he could no longer care for him. Slowly he straggled toward the house and up the steps. He scratched with one paw at the front door. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
Looking back, he saw his master step behind a tree just as someone from inside turned the front doorknob. A little boy appeared, framed in the door by the light coming from behind. When he saw Monsieur DuPree, he threw both arms into the air and shouted with delight, "Oh boy! Oh boy! Mom and Dad, come and see what Santa brought!"
Through teary eyes, the old man watched from behind the tree. He saw the mother read the note, and tenderly pull the dog inside.
Smiling, the old man wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his cold, damp coat as he disappeared into the night whispering, "Merry Christmas, my friend."
~ Christa Holder Ocker ~
Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul
Editor: Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap
