With a graceful courtesy the Story Sprite vanished as suddenly as she had appeared, and the audience sat for a moment listening spellbound to her song fast dying away.
Then long-drawn breaths were heard and the Clove Doll cried, “Wasn’t she perfect? I never dreamed she would come here, but I am glad she did.
“Now will my cousin, Miss Allspice, please step forward and tell her story.”
This dear little doll timidly made her way back of the speaker, and, holding shyly to her skirt, peeped out, and said in low tones:
“I am just a small round berry from the Pimento. A wee evergreen tree that grows on the limestone hills, on the Islands of the West Indies.
“We are about the size of a pea, gathered in August, and dried in the sun for several days. The stems are then taken off and we are packed in a bag and sent to America.
“There such a thing happened to us as you would never believe possible. We were turned out of the bags, looking like a lot of dried hard peas. We were so happy to be at the end of our journey, and see daylight again.
“We smiled up at the blue sky as we merrily rolled out of the sacks, but, alas, our joy was only for a moment, as we found ourselves turned into a grinder of some sort. Suddenly we heard a whizzing sound, and there we had turned from peas into a fine powder.
“They named us Allspice because we have the flavour of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, and everybody loves us.”
Out of breath, the modest little creature completely vanished in Clove’s skirt, blown there by the applause which now filled the room.
“Well done!” cried the Stick Doll. “You mean a lot if you are small. Now I think we should hear from the Nutmeg, since spice seems to hold our attention at present.”
The doll with the small brown head now arose and walked over to the place of honour. She was a study in green. Her gown was formed of leaves from the tree upon which she grew, and an artistic picture she made as she faced her audience.
“My dear friends,” she said, and paused.
“I take my pen in hand to say I am well—” came in an audible whisper.
“And hope you are the same,” flashed the Nutmeg. “I admit I was a bit flurried. But thanks to your hurried letter just received I am myself again. I need to be, for I am rather interesting.
“I come chiefly from the Banda Islands, and some of my poor relations come from the West Indies and Brazil, where dear little Allspice lives.
“She forgot to welcome you to her home and I will show you where it is,” and she took from her pocket some tiny round balls and tossed them in various directions.
To the surprise of all, the balls lodged and stuck, and the onlookers were so interested in learning whether they stuck where they should they forgot they weren’t to learn anything.
“They did!” whispered Jack and Mother in one breath, and, sure enough, some lodged in the Banda Islands, others in the West Indies.
“Some of us live in South America,” and she lightly tossed a few more balls, all of which clung to their native lands.
“What do you mean by poor relations?” asked the Stick Doll.
“I mean the poorer quality of nutmegs. The Brazilian nutmeg brings oil for hard soap and candles.
“I am the better quality, and am the kernel of a fruit which is round and about the size of a walnut.
“The outside coat is two inches across before it splits open, and the nutmeg, of course, comes out, just as the chestnut falls from the burr. A network of tiny fibres is wound about it, and this second coat is dried and ground and called mace.
“The olive-shaped nut, about an inch in length, is turned over every day for two months, and treated with lime to preserve it. Then it is the nutmeg which you see before you.”
“What are you good for, please, Mam?” asked the Vinegar Cruet with a sour expression.
“What am I good for?” she cried indignantly. “What am I not good for? Look in the cook-book on the pantry shelf and see if there is anything worth while that hasn’t a dash of me in it.
“You’ll find every good housewife has one of me in a tiny grater hanging where she can find it in the dark. Your puddings, and pies, and gingerbreads, and cakes, and blanc-manges, and egg noggs, and—”
“Here! Here! my dear lady, we can’t wait to let you go through the whole cook-book. We’ll take your word for it. Now since I seem to belong to the same family, perhaps I had better entertain you next.
“I am called Cinnamon, and I’m just about as spicy as any of you. I am exactly as important to the pickled peaches as is Miss Clove, and where would the coffee cake be without me, I’d like to know?”
He paused and gazed about in a dramatic way that convulsed Jack, who whispered:
“Isn’t he funny, Mother, so long and lank, and such an expression I never saw!”
“Did any of you ever hear of cinnamon candy?” continued the speaker. “Could it be cinnamon candy without me?”
As no one replied to this, he cried:
“Certainly not! and now I will show you where I grow. It is right here,” and, with one stride of his long legs one foot rested on the Island of Ceylon in the Indian Ocean near Persia.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cinnamon, but where did you get your seven-league boots?” asked the Vinegar Cruet.
“They grew on me, so I didn’t need to buy them. You can’t tease me that way. I can’t help it because I am long legged any more than you can help looking sour. When you turn sweet I’ll have short legs; that’s a bargain. Send me an invitation to your candy pull.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please excuse this rude interruption, and I will proceed.
“When the cinnamon trees are almost two years old small branches are cut off and the outer bark removed, leaving the inner bark, which is then peeled off and dried.
“In drying it takes the form of rolls called quills, the smaller ones, as they dry, are thrust into the larger. Sometimes it is ground fine and packed in bags.
“I am not only used in flavouring food, but in many medicines.
“Now I think the spices have finished their tales, and we can have a complete change of programme.”
“Oh!” cried Allspice, “before we go on let’s have the Story Sprite again.”
“Is it your desire that the Story Sprite appear?” asked Cinnamon Stick. “If so, Allspice and I will break this wishbone I see hanging over the hearth.”
“Oh! Do! Do!” cried one and all.
“Very well, we will both wish for her to come, then we can’t possibly fail whichever way it breaks.”
And so snap went the bone, but much dismayed they were when it was found each held the short end, for the centre had taken to itself wings.
“Oh, I wish she would come anyhow!” they chorused, and once more from the flames sprang the Story Elf.
“You do not need to break wishbones to bring me. All that is necessary is just to wish, and here I am,” she announced.
“This time I want to tell you more about a story you all know very well. It is called:
“Don’t you love the Pied Piper story, and didn’t your heart almost stop beating when the door in the mountain closed, shutting the children in?
“And though you were glad one mother had her dear little boy left behind, no doubt your tears mingled with his as he limped alone down the mountain path trying in vain to comfort himself with the fleeting glimpse he had of that joyous country where the horses had wings and the bees no stings; where the birds were brighter than peacocks here and flowers of rare beauty grew in profusion.
“Can’t you just see his beautiful, upturned, angel face? How could that great door close and leave him on the wrong side!
“But let me tell you a splendid fact. Sometimes the things that seem all wrong are the grandest things that ever happened, and true it is, though it may seem hard to believe, this little fellow was really on the right side of the door after all. And though he seemed shut out from the glad times awaiting them in that blissful land, just because of this he was able to ring the joy bells of the village with his own hands because he was the only one there who could finally enter the magic door and carry the message that brought the children to their own again. And now I must tell you this beautiful thing that happened:
“After the little hamlet was bereft of her children the parents turned sadly back to their homes, while the muffled tones of the Pied Piper came no more to their ears.
“They could hardly believe it true. It must be a bad dream from which they would soon awaken.
“Many times a day the thrifty housewives stepped to their doors and listened in vain for the shrill baby voices to call to one another in their play.
“The wooden soldiers stood straight and stiff at their guns at ‘Present arms!’ waiting for the cry of ‘Attention!’ but no order was given—no sound of fife or drum disturbed the silence.
“The Dutch-faced dollies sat in corners, smiling so sweetly, waiting expectantly for their little mothers to rock them to sleep, but no lullabys came to their ears.
“The parents gazed at the various toys till their eyes were dim with tears and one night when the moon was big and round, and oh, so silvery, the Mayor tossed sleeplessly on his bed. Presently he arose, dressed, and crept out into the cool sweet night. His wife heard and followed.
“When they reached the street they found it peopled with many parents, waiting for they knew not what.
“The silvery light of the moon shed its glow upon the mountain, and as they looked, suddenly the portal opened wide, disclosing an inside gate of golden fretwork.
“Silently and slowly the portal swung back, and they whispered to one another, ‘Was that the great door that shut the children in?’
“With bated breath they waited, and suddenly sweet strains of music filled the air.
“‘The Pied Piper!’ cried the Mayor, with upraised hand.
“Never had they heard such notes, as clear and silvery as the moonbeams themselves. Then came the sound of children’s voices, singing as never children sang, and though it was sweet it was so sad they could scarcely bear to listen, but it seemed to beckon them on.
“They hurried up the path taken by the children, and as they neared the door the words of the song amazed them, and drew forth exclamations.
“‘Keep your promise and we can come back!’ was the burden of the song, and the Mayor cried:
“‘Come! The Piper must be told we are ready and eager to give him what we owe.’
“He led the way, but alas! they found the inside gate so small, only a child could enter. They called many times, but the only response was the sad little song of the children.
“‘They cannot hear us. What will we do?’ cried one mother on her knees before the gate, trying in vain to push her way through.
“‘The lame boy, where is he?’ queried the Mayor in anguished tones.
“‘Fast asleep in his bed,’ replied his mother.
“‘Go quickly and bring him!’ cried the Mayor. ‘No one knows how soon the Portal may swing shut.’
“The father and mother hastened to the little home and to the crib where the boy lay sleeping sweetly, bathed in the glow of the silvery light.
“‘Come,’ whispered the mother. ‘Come.’
“The boy opened his eyes, sprang into his father’s arms, and they hastened again up the mountain path.
“‘The door is open,’ he cried joyously. ‘Now I can have some one to play with!’
“‘I hope so,’ breathed the mother. ‘Go in and find the Piper. Tell him we beg of him to let us keep our promise. If he will only give us back our children we will give him all we have!’
“The little fellow limped through the golden portal and could go no farther, for the beauty of the scene almost overwhelmed him.
“Such flowers! Such trees, whose waving branches of tender green were filled with the most beautifully coloured birds he ever saw. Such shrubs, with glistening leaves fluttering timidly in the gentle breeze. Here the moon shone with a light that was never on land or sea.
“The boy gazed in raptures at the marvellous picture, then glanced keenly about for the Piper.
“Presently he saw him standing beneath an arched bower of twining roses, but so sad did he seem the boy hesitated to approach him.
“He took one step, then paused amazed. What had happened? He took another. Oh, joy of joys! He was lame no more! He dropped his crutch and ran. Ran as he had dreamed of running—just as other children did. Ran straight to the Piper.
“As the Piper clasped him in his arms, a heavenly smile lighted his face, and he cried:
“‘At last they have heard the song. You can never know the joy you have brought to me this day. It was my anger that closed the gate and when it clanged to I said, “Never will I forgive them. Never.” Ever since, the gate has been as though frozen shut. I knew why, but I wouldn’t forgive.
“‘I did my best to make the children happy, but you see by their sad song, I failed. Have you noticed them?’
“The boy looked and for the first time really saw his playmates.
“‘What pretty clothes they have!’ he exclaimed.
“‘Yes, the boys are clad in green and silver leaves. The girls’ gowns are of flowers. Flowers such as grow only here. They may have a fresh gown every day, or oftener.’
“‘Where are their homes?’ asked the boy.
“‘They live like the birds in the trees. Look!’
“The boy gazed in wonder up into the tree tops, to see many tiny bowers woven of vines and flowers.
“‘Their beds are of rose petals, the wind rocks them to sleep, and the birds carol their lullaby. The humming birds hover over them as they dream. They drink honey with the bees. They eat luscious fruits such as one dreams of but never sees. With all of this they are not happy. They sigh for their dolls and soldiers, and weep for their parents.
“‘Lately I have felt my anger melting, and last night I suddenly knew I had forgiven all, and that instant the portal swung open. Soon I heard voices, but I could not move. Only a little child could break the spell. I am so thankful you could not follow with the others since only a child could pass through the golden gate to bring the message.’
“‘Oh!’ cried the boy in ecstasy. ‘See! I can walk! I can run! I am so happy!’
“‘Yes,’ said the Piper, ‘I know. No one could be lame here now that the gate is open. This is the land of harmony; but tell me, boy, why did you come? Do tell me they sent you.’
“‘They did. They want to keep their promise.’
“‘They do? Will they give me the gold?’ he asked eagerly.
“‘Oh, yes, they want to. They beg of you to take it.’
“‘Then tell them when the mountain path is paved with guilders I will bring the children.’
“The boy bounded away, but as he passed the children he was at once swept into the ring and in some mysterious way he also was clad in a garb of silvery leaves, while on his head was placed a crown of wondrous beauty, a crown of flowers which breathed forth a rare perfume.
“As they danced round and round, the song was no longer sad but rang out like joyous bells, filling the air with showers of gladness, while the Piper piped, and the birds twittered and trilled the gayest of tunes.
“They danced nearer and nearer the portal, and presently saw without, a sea of hungry faces and many outstretched arms.
“The boy shook himself loose and ran through the gate. With shining eyes he cried:
“‘See! I can walk! I can run! And I have more good news, but you must obey. Bring the gold quickly and you will soon have your children.’
“They rubbed their eyes and stared, then turned and ran down the mountain. Ran faster than the rats ever dreamed of running. Soon they came trooping up again each carrying a bag of gold.
“‘The Piper said when the path was paved with gold he would bring the children. Quick! I will help!’ cried the boy.
“You should have seen them dropping the gold pieces in place, and in a twinkling the bags were empty and the road was one glittering ribbon.
“The boy ran through the portal to the Piper, crying: ‘It is finished; come.’
“The Piper hurried to the entrance, looked down the shining path, paused, and waited. The silence was tense, while all gazed into his face wonderingly.
“‘The road is not finished,’ he said gently. ‘Look for yourselves. Some one has kept back gold that is still due. We will wait.’
“The Mayor flushed and knelt at his feet. ‘It was I. I couldn’t give quite all. Forgive me and I will bring more than enough.’
“He strode down the path, soon to return carrying a leathern bag which clanked as he walked. At the feet of the Piper he shook out the golden circlets, which seemed bewitched as one after another rolled toward the empty spaces, where they spun round and round like so many golden tops, and finally settled into place. Those remaining piled themselves about the Piper’s feet.
“The onlookers gazed in astonishment till suddenly they heard heavenly music. At once they stood either side of the golden pathway, watching the Piper followed by the children.
“On and on they went, their tiny feet treading silently the golden ribbon.
“The parents, with tears of joy streaming o’er their faces, followed, enraptured with the magic notes.
“Where the gleaming pathway ended the Piper paused, the parents embraced their little ones, then knelt at the feet of the Piper.
“‘Arise!’ he cried in beseeching tones. ‘I, too, am guilty. We have both made amends. Let us forget all wrongdoing and be happy. You have emptied your coffers but you are richer than ever.
“‘I do not want the gold. Let it lie a glittering pathway to the land of joy, where the children may dance and play to their hearts’ content.
“‘As long as we do right the Golden Portal will never close. Farewell.’
“With these words he turned and walked toward the mountain door. The parents hurried to their homes, to find the boys ordering out the wooden soldiers, and the dolls drowsily smiling into mother eyes and listening to the far-away lullaby of the dear Pied Piper.”
As the Story Elf finished she again vanished, and during the silence that followed the dolls thought they still heard the Piper’s far away lullaby.
As it died away Allspice cried:
“How lovely to bring the children home again. I’m glad she told us about it, for I always felt sorry for the parents and the dear little lame boy all alone.
“I hope we can have her come again.”
“Perhaps we may, but now we must go on with our stories.
“You know an old poem tells us little girls are made of sugar and spice and all things nice. Therefore, since Sugar is classed so closely with Spice, we might let that sweet lady talk to us for a while.”
The fat Sugar Lady now came forward, and with a quick jerk of her skirts, showing her slippered feet, made an old-fashioned courtesy.
“Isn’t she dear!” cried one and another, as they gazed admiringly at the quaint figure all dressed in white, which sparkled like frost on the window pane. Dainty bunches of rosebuds adorned her bonnet, and altogether she was a sweet picture.
“My dears,” she cried, well aware of the admiration she excited.
“I know I am sweet as well as you do, but lest I become over-proud I will show you my real self growing, which really isn’t anything to look at.”
As she talked she untied her bonnet strings and untwisted one of the curls that bobbed about her snowy neck. The audience was startled to hear a squeak like the dying gasp of a rubber balloon.
As the squeak lingeringly died away, Sugar grew thinner and taller, and presently there she was turned into a long yellow sugar cane.
A shout of laughter greeted this transformation, as Sugar Cane made an elaborate bow, beaming upon them as though delighted to see them.
“Allow me to make you acquainted with Mrs. Sugar’s better half,” he said.
“Butter half, you mean,” shouted Vinegar.
“Throw in a little flour and a few eggs and we’ll have a birthday cake.”
“Which I would be delighted to do had I those useful ingredients.”
“Ingredients?” said Cinnamon, thinking hard. “Will Little Salt, who is now peeping in the dictionary again, kindly let us know the meaning of that word?”
“It means a part of something,” replied Salt, much dismayed that she had again been caught studying the big book when she should have been listening.
“Yes, a part of something; sugar, eggs and flour are a part of the cake. Now let us hear about this queer tall yellow stick.”
“Very well, Sir. I come from a wild plant from India, Mexico, South America, and most tropical countries. They are here, and here, and here, and here,” and in the twinkling of an eye he had walked about the globe and left his footprint in each place.
“I am also found in the red beet and yellow carrot. Perhaps it will be hard to believe, but this yellow cane, which is as sweet as honey, is placed between two large hard rollers until all the juice is squeezed out.
“This juice is boiled down, and when thick is poured off.”
“Tut, tut, tut,” gurgled the Molasses Jug; “don’t step on my toes.”
“Don’t worry,” laughed Sugar Cane. “I’m not going to tell any more of your story. I had to tell that much to get at what settles to the bottom, which is my sweet wife.
“It is first brown sugar. That is purified by filtration, and when clear white takes the various names of loaf sugar, lump sugar, and refined sugar, according to the degree of purification.
“Refined sugar is the pulverised confectioners’ sugar and is used in candies.
“Granulated sugar is made by stirring while the strong syrup crystallises and forms small grains or crystals.
“While I know I am not very pretty, yet the children in the warm countries love me dearly. They clamour for a piece of sugar cane to suck, just as the children here beg for candy sticks. Some of the poor little ones have nothing to eat all day long but a stick of sugar cane, and nowhere to sleep but on a door step. They run around in bare feet and with scarcely any clothes!”
“Here! Here!” came the smothered tones of Mrs. Sugar. “You have told the whole story. I think you shouldn’t wind up by making everybody weep. Blow yourself up and let me come forth once more, please.”
Then Sugar Cane began to dwindle as a gust of wind blew through his pipes. Shorter and fatter he grew, till behold, there was dear Mrs. Sugar, smiling down at them as she again tied her bonnet strings.
“I never did see such a man. So dismal as he grows sometimes. What if the children do only have sugar cane all day. It’s good and makes them fat, and a jollier lot I never saw. They love to go barefooted; and as for clothes, who wants any where the weather is boiling hot all the time?
“Don’t waste any tears on him any of you. Let’s hear from Molasses. She will send your tears flying as high as a kite.”
At this summons the Molasses Jug now appeared. Her gown was a beautiful shade of golden brown, with touches of sunshiny yellow here and there. She really wasn’t a jug, but looked like one from the fact that she kept her arm crooked up just like a jug handle.
“Well,” she said gaily. “Mr. Sugar pretty near told you my story, I stopped him just in time. I come in just where the juice from the sugar cane boils down thick. That was my own splendid self that was poured off.
“I love the time when I gurgle down into a barrel, and fairly hug myself when that barrel is in a grocery store waiting to be sold. I always wonder what kind of a home I am going to, and what will be done with me.
“I sit there in the dark, and presently the spigot in the barrel is turned, and the thick stream gurgles into jugs. The jugs are placed in a grocery wagon. The driver whistles a merry tune, and away we go into so many homes.
“I make so many good things, and it is such fun guessing what I’m going to be in each time. Sometimes it is gingerbread, or may be plump brown cookies. Again, it is pudding with fat plums swelling up inside.
“Once a grand thing happened. It was the day before Christmas. The driver was hurrying the horse along at the very edge of town.
“Suddenly something startled the horse, and he ran away. The wagon overturned. Everything was thrown about in the snow. My jug broke and I began to run out all over. I had good company though, for popcorn, cranberries, and all sorts of things were scattered about me.
“The grocery boy gathered up most of the stuff and away he went. I was hopeless, and thought what a miserable Christmas I was to have. No good to anybody. Suddenly I pricked up my ears. Children were crying, and I heard one say:
“‘Can’t have any Christmas at all. Not a speck of anything. No money to buy anything with!’
“A group of them were trudging through the snow from school. When they saw me one said: ‘What’s that?’
“Wasn’t I glad I was molasses. Most anything else would have been of no use at such a time. I could hardly keep still when I saw one after another poke a finger into the brown mass and taste.
“‘Molasses!’ they cried in one breath.
“With a whoop of delight they ran into a nearby home, and came back with a pail and cups. The snow had a glassy crust and I hadn’t sunken in at all. So all they had to do was to scoop, and there I was. They scooped and scraped till they had a good pail full.
“I saw a few ears of popcorn that had lodged down in a little hollow, so I let a small stream run after them. The children spied them, and such a shout went up as you never heard! Luckily the snow was fresh fallen and clean, so they really had made quite a find.
“We were hurried into the house, and when the mother and father came home from their work, looking sad enough because they could not give the children any Christmas, they were greeted with the cries of ‘Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!’
“It would have done your hearts good to have seen that candy pull, and the popcorn balls were the finest ever made. They had a perfectly good Christmas that didn’t cost a cent.
“So I think molasses is quite important in this world even if it is cheap.”
Molasses sat down amid a round of applause.
“What a nice story! I wish some one would tell another,” murmured little Allspice, whose earnest blue eyes and clasped hands showed how she had loved the story.
“A splendid idea! The night is slowly passing; perhaps some of us may think up some interesting stories; incidents we have seen in our various home lands.
“Now let’s hear from the Vinegar King. We have had much sweet, perhaps we would like a little sour for a change.”
His Majesty was tall and thin, dressed in velvet knee breeches and fancy coat with silver trimmings. His cockade hat looked as though he really did belong to royalty, but so sour an expression did he wear you could tell at once that he stood for nothing sweet.
“Ladies and Gentlemen: I am happy—”
“Happy—you?” queried the audience in gales of laughter.
“I didn’t mean to say I was happy. I started to say I am happy to inform you that in wine countries I come from fermented poor wines, elsewhere from malt or apple cider.”
With that he sat down.
“Here! Here! Is that all you have to tell us?” cried Cinnamon Stick.
“All! It is much more than Molasses had to say.”
“You have talked for twenty seconds. Molasses entertained us for many minutes!”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman, but if you simmer down what Molasses told you of her history, it will take three seconds by the clock to say it. It was this: ‘I am the juice from the sugar cane boiled down and gurgled into a barrel!’”
Vinegar tried so hard to imitate Molasses, even to the sweet expression, he sat down amid roars of laughter.
Molasses now hopped up in the greatest haste, crying:
“So I did gurgle into a barrel, and into a jug, too. It was all there was to tell. Sugar Cane had to tell the beginning of me because we came from the same thing. It was why I told the story, and dear knows it was a sweet story.”
“The gentleman with silver trimmed knee breeches will kindly tell us something further of himself,” said Cinnamon Stick in bland tones. “What are you good for?”
“I am used for soothing remedies in the pharmacies.”
“Soothing!” laughed Salt and Pepper. “I hope you have your picture on the outside of the bottles.”
“I do. They especially asked for it. I am good for many things besides medicine. Sour pickles could never be made without me, and as for peach pickles, you might have all the cloves and cinnamon in the world in them, would they be at all if it were not for me? As for my looks, I can’t help them. We all have to look like we are, and even though I look and seem sour, at heart I am sweet because really I have to have sugar to make the mother.”
“Mother!” cried bashful Allspice. “Have you really a dear mother?”
“Oh, my dear, not that kind of a mother. It is just some thick stringy stuff that grows in Vinegar as it ferments and makes it ferment quicker. It is just called mother.
“That is all I know about me. Thank you for your kind attention.”
“You are very welcome,” said Cinnamon Stick. “You really did very well after all.
“Now let’s hear from Miss Citron. She sounds very sweet and good.”
“And I am sweet and good, too,” said the doll with the large green head, gorgeously gowned in purple.
“I grow in Spain.” Here she sat down on the top of the globe and rolled over and over till she reached that spot where she was to be found, then rose and continued:
“My tree has an upright smooth trunk with a branchy head rising from five to fifteen feet, adorned with large oval spear-shaped leaves. See, my hat is made of one. Isn’t it chic?” and she placed the odd hat on her head and paraded about for a moment.
“Don’t mistake me for a Pathé Moving Picture fashion show, please, for I never aspired to anything higher than fruit cake and pastries.
“My fruit is different from the lemon in that it has no knob at the top and the rind is much thicker. My tree has purple blossoms that are white inside. The seeds of the fruit are bitter. After they are taken out I am cut in half and dried in sugar and make a delicious confection.
“I am sorry my story is short, but that is really all there is to tell.”
“Very good, indeed, and now we will hear from the ballet girls, Orange and Lemon, who seem in a flutter to tell their tales,” announced Mr. Cinnamon Stick.
The Orange and Lemon Dolls now came forward, and after a sweeping bow danced like fairies about the hearth, their orange and yellow skirts fluffing about their tiny feet.
“Opera glasses! Opera glasses!” shouted one.
“All music and words of the opera here,” sang another.
“Standing room only,” cried another.
Mr. Cinnamon Stick bade them be quiet, and Orange began her story.
“We come from about the same parts of the world; watch and you will see where.”
The eyes of the audience followed the pair as they heeled and toed over the globe, touching daintily Italy, Spain, Portugal, Florida, and California.
“The California orange is liked best because it has no seeds. It is a deep orange colour with a thick skin.
“The Florida orange is a shade lighter and has a thinner skin.
“We also grow in Mexico—here—but the Mexican orange cannot be shipped because it will not keep. It is sweet and delicious, however, and much loved by the natives.
“One wonderful thing about the orange tree is that at the same time, on the same tree, you will find the buds, blossoms, the green and ripe fruit, because they grow slowly. Also the grape fruit is sometimes grafted on our trees. There are oranges that will hang on the trees for two years, so they can be picked at any time, which is most convenient.
“The trees stand about twenty-three feet apart and must not be chilled for it hurts the buds. When a cold snap comes, the owners build fires here and there in the orange groves and keep them all snug and warm. They must watch the weather reports very closely, as in a short time the cold might ruin the orange crop.
“One thousand oranges have been taken from one tree. When the tree is no longer fruitful, its hard, fine-grained, yellowish wood is valued for inlaid work.
“The orange was first found in India, then spread to Western Asia, Spain, Italy, and is now grown in all tropical lands.
“Now, Lemon may tell us about herself, as that is all I know.”
“I also am from Spain, and all those countries we touched,” said the Lemon Doll.
“I grew on a tree with three thousand in the family.
“We are picked green because then we keep better and the skins are thinner. If we are left in our tree house until grown to full size our skins are thick, and we are sent to England, where we are sugared and dried and named sugared lemon peel.
“We don’t sound like much, but when you see us in heaps and piles in the groceries, and see the lot of money we bring in to the owners, you find we are quite worth while, for we are shipped all over the world, and wherever you are you will usually find us on the table, if you find no other fruit.”
“Right you are, my dears. You are both a most important food, and we are glad we met up with you,” cried Cinnamon Stick.
“And now I’m going to wish again for the Story Sprite. I want a Christmas story.”
“Oh, joy!” exclaimed the audience, rapturously beaming upon the Story Sprite, who sprang from the back log at the magic word “wish,” singing gaily:
“And a Christmas story you shall have. Here is my favourite one. It is called
“Anna Belle had had a very exciting day, and now, curled up on the window seat, her head pillowed on downy cushions, she sat watching the sleighs flying by.
“It was a glorious night. The moon shed its silvery glow on the busy scene, and Anna Belle drowsily noted the people passing with arms filled and pockets bulging.
“‘I wish I could see what’s in those packages,’ she murmured. ‘I think Christmas is queer anyhow.’
“‘Why?’ came in tinkling tones to her ears.
“Anna Belle jumped, for there beside her was a beautiful fairy, holding on high a silver wand, on the end of which gleamed a star.
“‘Why?’ persisted the fairy creature, determined to have an explanation of such a statement.
“‘Well, I ask for a lot of things I never get, and I get a lot of things I don’t want.’
“‘You do?’ said the Fairy inquiringly.
“‘Yes, every year I do. In the attic are boxes and boxes of things I didn’t care at all for. Somehow I’m never very happy at Christmas time.’
“‘Are you giving any presents this year?’
“‘Oh, yes, Papa always gives me money to buy them, but I didn’t spend it all. I’ve asked for a bracelet, and if I don’t get it I’m going to buy one with what I have left.’
“The fairy glanced about the beautiful room, where seemed to be everything to make one happy, then she gently asked:
“‘Are the gifts you bought gifts you feel sure are wanted by those who will receive them?’
“Anna Belle flushed as she tossed her curls and replied:
“‘Perhaps not. Papa always says, “You can’t get something for nothing,” and you see I didn’t want to spend all my money.’
“‘Did you have a happy time buying these gifts?’
“‘Well, no. Do you think any one is very happy at Christmas time?’
“‘That depends. Some are very, very happy.’
“‘Yes, I know. People with bushels of gifts are, especially if they are really what they want.’
“‘Oh,’ laughed the Fairy. ‘I know people who have scarcely any money to buy presents and yet are having a lovely Christmas with presents made out of nothing. People who are as poor as crows, and yet are bubbling over with joy this very night.’
“Anna Belle opened her eyes very wide at this statement.
“‘Making a Christmas out of nothing, and as poor as crows!’ she echoed. ‘Just how poor is that? I’d like to see them.’
“‘You would? Come with me then,’ and after a wave of the silvery wand Anna Belle found herself floating along in mid air like a bird.
“‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘What fun! I wish I could always be a fairy!’