He had seen her as he went by. And he had also seen the poor little supper laid out for two on the table, and heard her say to her mother, in a quavering voice:
“Not even one present, mamma—not the teeniest little one!”
[Illustration: “MAMMA, I HEAR OLD SANTA’S BELLS AND OF COURSE THIS IS THE PRESENT HE BROUGHT.”]
“No, Susie,” her mother had answered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get anything for my little girl this year, but—you know there wasn’t any money dear.” And there was a tremble in her mother’s voice too.
Susie wiped away the tears, and turned to look out of the window.
“Perhaps,” she said to herself; “perhaps Santa Claus has something for me after all!”
Now, the sad, really dreadful part about it was that Santa Claus didn’t have one single thing for Susie in his pack. Perhaps it was because she had moved into that house since last Christmas, or perhaps for once old Santa had made a mistake. Anyway he was just saying to himself: “Why, bless me, what shall I do about it?” when he caught sight of that shivering little kitten.
“The very thing,” he thought. “I’ll give them to each other!” and he chuckled till his reindeer looked around to see what was the matter.
And what happened next? Well, that kitten never knew really. It only seemed as if there was a sudden rush and jingle of bells, which frightened it so that it flew up the street as fast as its four little legs could carry it, until it saw a small friendly face at a window, and rushed up some steps nearby. Then a door opened, and two soft little arms picked it up gently from the cold snow and a voice cried:
“Oh, mamma, see the poor little kitten—it’s so cold—oh, we’ll keep it, won’t we, mamma! The poor little thing. Do you think it would drink milk?”
Would it drink milk? What a question to ask about a little kitten. While the little kitten was nearly choking itself trying to drink a saucerful of milk and purr at the same time there was a jingle of bells outside, and Susie said:
“Mamma, I hear old Santa’s bells, and, of course, this is the present he brought.”
There is food for reflection in a saying of somebody who lived a great many years ago, ’way back in 1878. Here it is:
“Our government land costs one dollar and twenty-five cents an acre, and good whiskey two dollars a bottle. How many men die landless who during their lives have swallowed whole townships—trees and all?”