Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

Who is Kriss Kringle?

It was the day before Christmas—­always a day of restless, hopeful excitement among the children; and my thoughts were busy, as is usual at this season, with little plans for increasing the gladness of my happy household.  The name of the good genius who presides over toys and sugar plums was often on my lips, but oftener on the lips of the children.

“Who is Kriss Kringle, mamma?” asked a pair of rosy lips, close to my ear, as I stood at the kitchen table, rolling out and cutting cakes.

I turned at the question, and met the earnest gaze of a couple of bright eyes, the roguish owner of which had climbed into a chair for the purpose of taking note of my doings.

I kissed the sweet lips, but did not answer.

“Say, mamma?  Who is Kriss Kringle?” persevered the little one.

“Why, don’t you know?” said I, smiling.

“No, mamma.  Who is he?”

“Why, he is—­he is—­Kriss Kringle.”

“Oh, mamma!  Say, won’t you tell me?”

“Ask papa when. he comes home,” I returned, evasively.

I never like deceiving children in any thing.  And yet, Christmas after Christmas, I have imposed on them the pleasant fiction of Kriss Kringle, without suffering very severe pangs of conscience.  Dear little creatures! how fully they believed, at first, the story; how soberly and confidingly they hung their stockings in the chimney corner; with what faith and joy did they receive their many gifts on the never-to-be-forgotten Christmas morning!

Yes, it is a pleasant fiction; and if there be in it a leaven of wrong, it is indeed a small portion.

“But why won’t you tell me, mamma?” persisted my little interrogator.  “Don’t you know Kriss Kringle?”

“I never saw him, dear,” said I.

“Has papa seen him?”

“Ask him when he comes home.”

“I wish Krissy would bring me, Oh, such an elegant carriage and four horses, with a driver that could get down and go up again.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him to bring you just such a nice carriage.”

“And will he do it, mamma?” The dear child clapped his hands together with delight.

“I guess so.”

“I wish I could see him,” he said, more soberly and thoughtfully.  And then, as if some new impression had crossed his mind, he hastened down from the chair, and went gliding from the room.

Half an hour afterwards, as I came into the nursery, I saw my three “olive branches,” clustered together in a corner, holding grave counsel on some subject of importance; at least to themselves.  They became silent at my presence; but soon began to talk aloud.  I listened to a few words, but perceived nothing of particular concern; then turned my thoughts away.

“Who is Kriss Kringle, papa?” I heard my cherry-lipped boy asking of Mr. Smith, soon after he came home in the evening.

The answer I did not hear.  Enough that the enquirer did not appear satisfied therewith.

At tea-time, the children were not in very good appetite, though in fine spirits.

As soon as the evening meal was over, Mr. Smith went out to buy presents for our little ones, while I took upon myself the task of getting them off early to bed.

A Christmas tree had been obtained during the day, and it stood in one of the parlors, on a table.  Into this parlor the good genius was to descend during the night, and hang on the branches of the tree, or leave upon the table, his gifts for the children.  This was our arrangement.  The little ones expressed some doubts as to whether Kriss Kringle would come to this particular room; and little “cherry lips” couldn’t just see how the genius was going to get down the chimney, when the fire-place was closed up.

“Never mind, love; Kriss will find his way here,” was my answer to all objections.

“But how do you know, mother?  Have you sent him word?”

“Oh, I know.”

Thus I put aside their enquiries, and hurried them off to bed.

“Now go to sleep right quickly,” said I, after they were snugly under their warm blankets and comforts; “and to-morrow morning be up bright and early.”

And so I left them to their peaceful slumbers.

An hour it was, or more, ere Mr. Smith returned, with his pockets well laden.  I was in the parlor, where we had placed the Christmas tree, engaged in decorating it with rosettes, sugar toys, and the like.  At this work I had been some fifteen or twenty minutes, and had, I will own, become a little nervous.  My domestic had gone out, and I was alone in the house.  Once or twice, as I sat in the silent room, I imagined that I heard a movement in the one adjoining.  And several times I was sure that my ear detected something like the smothered breathing of a man.

“All imagination,” said I to myself.  But again and again the same sounds stirred upon the silent air.

“Could there be a robber concealed in the next room?”

The thought made me shudder.  I was afraid to move from where I sat.  What a relief when I heard my husband’s key in the door, followed by the sound of his well known tread in the passage!  My fears vanished in a moment.

As Mr. Smith stood near me, in the act of unloading his pockets, he bent close to my ear and whispered: 

“Will is under the table.  I caught a glance. of his bright eyes, just now.”

“What!”

“It’s true.  And the other little rogues are in the next room, peeping through the door, at this very moment.”

I was silent with surprise.

“They’re determined to know who Kriss Kringle is,” added my husband; then speaking aloud, he said: 

“Come, dear, I want to show you something up in the dining-room.”

I understood Mr. Smith, and arose up instantly, not so much as glancing towards the partly opened folding door.

We were hardly in the dining room before we heard the light pattering of feet, and low, smothered tittering on the stairway.  Then all was still, and we descended to the parlors again, quite as much pleased with what had occurred as the little rogues were themselves.

“I declare!  Really, I thought them all sound asleep an hour ago,” said I, on resuming my work of decorating the Christmas tree, “Who could have believed them cunning enough for this?  It’s all Will’s doings.  He’ll get through the world.”

“Aye will he,” returned Mr. Smith.  “Oh if you could have seen his face as I saw it, just peering from under the table cloth, his eyes as bright as stars, and full of merriment and delight.”

“Bless his heart!  He’s a dear little fellow!”

How could I help saying this?

“And the others!  You lost half the pleasure of the whole affair by not seeing them.”

“We shall have a frolic with the rogues to-morrow morning.  I can see the triumph on Will’s face.  I understand now what all their whisperings meant this afternoon.  They were concocting this plan.  I couldn’t have believed it of them?”

“Children are curious bodies,” said Mr. Smith.

“I thought I heard some one in the next room,” I remarked, “while you were out, and became really nervous for a while.  I heard the breathing of some one near me, also; but tried to argue myself into the belief that it was only imagination.”

Thus we conned over the little incident, while we arranged the children’s toys.

“I know who Kriss Kringle is!  I know!” was the triumphant affirmation of one and another of the children, as we gathered at the breakfast table next morning.

“Do you, indeed?” said I, trying to look grave.

“Yes; it is papa.”

“Papa, Kriss Kringle!  How can that be?”

“Oh, we know!  We found out!”

“Indeed!”

And we, made, of course, a great wonder of this assertion.  The merry elves!  What a happy Christmas it was for them.  Ever since, they have dated from the time when they found out who Kriss Kringle was.  It is all to no purpose that we pleasantly suggest the possibility of their having dreamed of what they allege to have occurred under their actual vision; they have recorded it in their memories, and refer to it as a veritable fact.

Dear children!  How little they really ask of us, to make them happy.  Did we give them but a twentieth part of the time we devote to business, care, and pleasure, how greatly would we promote their good, and increase the measure of their enjoyment.  Not alone at Christmas time, but all the year should we remember and care for their pleasures; for, the state of innocent pleasure, in children, is one in which good affections are implanted, and these take root and grow, and produce fruit in after life.