Mr. Kris Kringle

Mr. Kris Kringle, by S. Weir
Mitchell

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Title: Mr. Kris Kringle A Christmas Tale
Author: S. Weir Mitchell
Release Date: December 25, 2006 [EBook #20180]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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KRINGLE ***

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[Illustration: 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 for
the 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, as if
in preparation for the sacred morrow. The winds, boisterous all day
long, at fall of night ceased to roar amidst the naked forest, and now,
the silent industry of the falling flakes made of pine and spruce tall
white tents. At last, as the darkness grew, a deepening stillness came on
hill and valley, and all nature seemed to wait expectant of the coming
of the Christmas time.
Above the broad river a long, gray stone house lay quiet; its vine and
roof heavy with the softly-falling snow, and showing no sign of light or
life except in a feeble, red glow through the Venetian blinds of the
many windows of one large room. Within, a huge fire of mighty logs lit
up with distinctness only the middle space, and fell with variable
illumination on a silent group about the hearth.
On one side a mother sat with her cheek upon her hand, her elbow on
the table, gazing steadily into the fire; on the other side were two
children, a girl and a boy; he on a cushion, she in a low chair. Some
half-felt sadness repressed for these little ones the usual gay Christmas
humor of the hopeful hour, commonly so full for them of that
anticipative joy to which life brings shadowy sadness as the years run
on.
Now and then the boy looked across the room, pleased when the
leaping flames sent flaring over floor and wall long shadows from the
tall brass andirons or claw-footed chair and table. Sometimes he
glanced shyly at the mother, but getting no answering smile kept
silence. Once or twice the girl whispered a word to him, as the logs fell
and a sheet of flame from the hickory and the quick-burning birch set
free the stored-up sunshine of many a summer day. A moment later, the
girl caught the boy's arm.
"Oh! hear the ice, Hugh," she cried, for mysterious noises came up
from the river and died away.

"Yes, it is the ice, dear," said the mother. "I like to hear it." As she
spoke she struck a match and lit two candles which stood on the table
beside her.
For a few minutes as she stood her gaze wandered along the walls over
the portraits of men and women once famous in Colonial days. The
great china bowls, set high for safety on top of the book-cases, tankards,
and tall candelabra troubled her with memories of more prosperous
times. Whatever emotions these relics of departed pride and joy excited,
they left neither on brow nor on cheek the unrelenting signals of life's
disasters. A glance distinctly tender and distinctly proud made sweet
her face for a moment as she turned to look upon the children.
The little fellow on the cushion at her feet looked up.
"Mamma, we do want to know why Christmas comes only once a
year?"
"Hush, dear, I cannot talk to you now; not to-night; not at all, to-night."
"But was not Christ always born?" he persisted.
"Yes, yes," she replied. "But I cannot talk to you now. Be quiet a little
while. I have something to do," and so saying, she drew to her side a
basket of old letters.
The children remained silent, or made little signs to one another as they
watched the fire. Meanwhile the mother considered the papers, now
with a gleam of anger in her eyes, as she read, and now