Who ate the pink sweetmeat?

“Bless me! What are you talking about? I never heard anything so absurd in my life. Persons, and things that are not persons,” said the White Pair, “what do you mean?”

“Yes; what do you mean? What is the use of beating about the bush in this way?” remonstrated the Big Gray Pair. “Who did eat the sweetmeat? Say plainly.”

“Half of it was eaten by a policeman, and the other half by a rook,” replied the Little Blues, in a meek voice.

“Ho, ho!” roared the Gray Stockings, while the White Pair joined in with a shrill giggle. “That beats all! Half by a policeman, and half by a rook! A fine way to dispose of a Christmas sweetmeat! Your boy must be a fool, Little Blues.”

“Not a fool at all,” said the Blue Pair indignantly. “Now just listen to me. Your girl ate hers up at once, and forgot it. Your boy traded his away; and what has he got? A broken knife, and a harmonica that can’t play music. I don’t call those worth having. My boy enjoyed his sweetmeat all day. He had more pleasure in giving it away than if he had eaten it ten times over! Beside he got half a crown for it. An old gentleman slipped it into his pocket because he was pleased with his kind heart. I saw him do it.”

“Half a crown!” ejaculated the White Pair, with amazement.

“That is something like,” admitted the Big Gray Stockings. “Your boy did the best of the three, I admit.”

The Little Blues said no more.

Presently the others fell asleep, but she lay and watched Jan as he rested peacefully beside his brother, with his wonderful treasure – the silver coin – clasped tight in his hand. He smiled in his sleep as though his dreams were pleasant.

“Even if he had no half-crown, still he would have done the best,” she whispered to herself at last.

Then the clock struck twelve, and the day after Christmas was begun.

THE WHIZZER

That was a cold evening. The snow was just as dry as flour, and had been beat down till the road looked slick as a ribbon far up and far down, and squeaked every step. I pulled Mrar on our sled. All the boys went home by the crick to skate, but I was ’fraid Mrar would get cold, she’s such a little thing. I like to play with the girls if the boys do laugh, for some of the big ones might push Mrar down and hurt her. She misses her mother so I babies her more than I used to.

We’s almost out of sight of the schoolhouse, and just where the road elbows by the Widow Briggs’s place, when something passed us like whiz! I’d been pulling along with the sled rope over my arm, and my hands in my pockets, and didn’t hear a team or anything, but it made me shy off the side of the road, and pretty near upset Mrar. School lets out at four o’clock, and dusk comes soon after that, but it was woolly gray yet, so you could see plain except in the fence corners, and the thing that passed us was a man riding on nothing but one big wheel.

“O, see there!” says Mrar, scared as could be. I felt glad on her account we’s close to Widow Briggs’s place. It would be easy to hustle her over Briggs’s fence; but the thing run so still and fast it might take fences as well as a straight road.

The man turned round after he passed us, and came rearing back, away up on that wheel, and I stood as close before the sled as I could. He sat high up in the air, and wiggled his feet on each side of the wheel, and I never saw a camel or elephant, or any kind of wild thing at a show that made me feel so funny. But just when I thought he’s going to cut through us, he turned short, and stopped. He had on an overcoat to his ears, and a fur cap down to his nose, and hairy gloves on, and a little satchel strapped over his shoulder, and I saw there was a real small wheel behind the big one that balanced him up. He wasn’t sitting on the tire neither, but on a saddle place, and the big wheel had lots of silver spokes crossing back and forward.

“Whose children are you?” says the man.

“Nobody’s,” says I.

“But who owns and switches you?” says he.

“The schoolmaster switches me,” says I; “but we ain’t owned since mother died.”

Mrar begun to cry.

“We live at uncle Mozy’s,” says she. “They don’t want to give us away.”

The man laughed, and says: “Are you right sure?” But I hated to have her scared, so I told her the wheel couldn’t hurt her, nor him neither.

“I’ve seen the cars many a time,” I says, “and I’ve seen balloons, and read in the paper about things that went on three wheels, but this” —

“It’s a bicycle,” says he. “I’m a wheel-man.”

“That’s what I thought,” says I.

Then he wanted to know our names.

“Mine’s Steele Pedicord,” I says, “and this is my little sister Mrar.”

His eyes looked sharp at us and he says:

“Your mother died about six weeks ago?”

“Yes, sir,” says I.

“To-morrow won’t be a very nice Christmas for you,” says he.

“No, sir,” says I, digging my heel in the snow, for he had no business to talk that way, and make Mrar feel bad, when I had a little wagon all whittled out in my pocket to give her, and she cried most every night, anyhow, until aunt Ibby threatened to switch her if she waked the family any more. I slept with the boys, but when I heard Mrar sniffling in the big bed, a good many nights I slipped out and sat by her and whispered stories to take her attention as long as my jaws worked limber; but when they chattered too much with the cold, I’d lay down on the cover, with my arm across her till she went to sleep. I like Mrar.

“They said we might go up to cousin Andy Sanders’s to stay over,” says I. “We don’t have to be at uncle Moze’s a Christmas.”

“That’s some consolation, is it?” says he.

I was not going to let him know what the relations did, but I never liked relations outside of our place. At aunt Ibby and uncle Moze’s the children fight like cats. And they always act poor at Christmas, and make fun of hanging your stocking or setting your plate; for you’d only get ashes or corn-cobs. Aunt Ibby keeps her sleeves rolled up so she can slap real handy, and uncle Moze has yellow streaks in his eyes, and he shivers over the stove, and keeps everybody else back. At cousin Andy Sanders’ they have no children, and don’t want them. You durse hardly come in out of the snow, and all the best things on the table will make you sick. If there is a piece in the paper that is hard to read, and ugly as it can be, they will make you sit still and read it; and if you get done too quick, they will say you skipped, and you have to read it out loud while they find fault. I knew cousin Andy Sanders never had any candy or taffy for Christmas, but Mrar and me could be peaceable there, for they don’t push her around so bad.

“Well, hand me your rope,” says the man, “and I’ll give you a ride.”

I liked that notion; so I handed him the rope, and he waited till I got on the sled in front of Mrar.

“That’s Widow Briggs’s homestead; isn’t it?” he said, just before he started.

I told him it was, and asked if he ever lived down our way. He laughed, and said he knew something about every place; and then he set the wheel a-going. Mrar held tight to me, and I braced my heels against the front round of the sled. The fence corners went faster and faster, and the wind whistled through our ears, while you could not see one dry blade in the fodder shocks move.

“Ain’t he a Whizzer?” says I to Mrar.

We turned another jog, and the spokes in the wheel looked all smeared together. It did beat horse-racing. I got excited, and hollered for him to “Go it, old Whizzer!” and he went it till we’s past cousin Andy Sanders’s before I knew the place was nigh.

“Cast loose, now, Mister, we’re much obliged,” says I.

But he kept right on like he never heard me. So I yelled up louder and told him we’s there, and he turned around his head a minute, and laughed.

“Please let go, Mister,” I says. “That’s cousin Andy Sanders’s away back there. We’re obliged, but we’ll have to go back.”

The Whizzer never let on. He whizzed ahead as fast as ever. I thought it was a mean trick for him to play on Mrar, and wished I could trip up his wheel. It would be dark long before I got her back to cousin Andy Sanders’s; and the Whizzer whizzed ahead like he was running off with us.

I had a notion to cut the rope, but there was no telling when I’d get another, and it was new. I made up my mind to do it, though, when we come along by our old place; but there the Whizzer turned round and jumped off in the road.

I picked up the end of my rope, and shook my head, because I was mad.

“Why didn’t you let go?” says I.

“Haven’t I brought you home?” he says.