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October took over New England with a fierce brightness I had never known before. After those first frosty nights the hills round Blairstown were a riot of color. It seemed to me that the orange and red and yellow and russet trees stood out in the strong fall sunshine like the bright daubs of wet paint Father used to squeeze on his palette. But whenever I looked across the river the brilliance was subdued by a haze of smoke from Peace-Pipe chimneys. It was then that I first noticed how swiftly night comes to New England mill towns. Even before the sun drops its fiery red ball, the smoke has settled down to make a mock twilight of its own. It seemed to me then, as it does still, that night came less from the sky than from those great chimneys across the river. It was as if the great throbbing presence, breathing out smoke and steam, had power to hasten night and shorten day. If Father had stayed with us I might have talked to him of this, and then the fancy would have taken less hold upon my imagination. But Father had left for France soon after my birthday, and we were full of the importance of his going. People listened with a flattering attention not usually given to children when we explained his absence.

"My father's a poilu," Janice would announce to everyone we met. "He's a soldier in the war."

"But not exactly a soldier," a year or so later I was to supplement out of my fund of information. "He's an artist, and he paints ships and guns and airplanes so they won't get hit. He's in the camouflage division."

I felt superior, knowing such a difficult word and what it meant. I took pride in using it at school when teachers called on me to recite for visitors. It was a private school, not the public primary school young Jo Kelly attended.

He had spent a month in our guest room and those weeks had made him part of the family. He and I were always full of secret projects, and when he returned to the rooms above the stable I missed him. Aunt Em had grown very fond of the little boy with his unpredictable ways and quaint manner of speech. I heard her tell Maggie that she would have kept him there for good except that Old Jo would have been too lonely without him.

There's a proverb that says "every house is a world," and so it was with ours. It kept pace in its smaller way with the world that was rocking and reeling overseas. Horror and shock and fear came with the newspaper that lay each morning and evening on the doorstep. "Boche," "Hun," "atrocities," "dugouts," "bombardment"--these and other words lost their strangeness, we heard them discussed so often. Aunt Em organized committees that fall, and each had something to do with the war. There were evening meetings when men and women filled our parlors on either side of the hall and overflowed into the dining room and back study. Speakers came to talk about relief work in France and Belgium and Poland. Janice and I crouched in our night clothes on the landing to hear snatches of the talk. The German army, we learned, had marched through Belgium and France, almost as far as Paris, and they had blown up whole towns and shelled cathedrals and done things which must be terrible because of the queer, hushed way people spoke of "atrocities" and because they evaded definite explanations of the word. We gathered little by little that it was all the fault of the Kaiser with his fierce upturned mustaches. He had started the war, and so we were allowed to scratch his picture with pins whenever we came across it in the newspapers. Gradually we grew used to Father's absence, though his soft felt hat still hung on the hall rack, and his paints and brushes and canvases were not disturbed in the third-floor studio. Thanksgiving was hardly over and the last of the mammoth turkey making its exit in hash before snow fell and we began to practice Christmas carols.

Janice, young Jo, and I wavered in eager, ill matched chorus as we played in the winter-shrouded garden or poured pails of water on a slope behind the house to turn it into a glassy, frozen slide. We sang "O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie," and "It came upon the midnight clear" and my favorite "O Tannenbaum." Father always used to wake us with that one on Christmas morning. Only now the German words had been banished. But I knew the new ones by heart:

O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!

Green not alone in summer time,

But in the winter's frost and rime!

O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches!

I loved those words because I could understand them. Standing there under our snowy hemlock where young Jo had fallen on my birthday, I felt almost that I had made the words up myself. They seemed so true and right as I stared up through branches darkly green against the clear, December skies. All the maples and beeches and elms were swept bare of leaves, and the old apple trees behind the garden looked more twisted than ever in their wintry nakedness. But the hemlock was richly alive in every needle. It was good that this should be so, and that there was a song to fit it.

Young Jo Kelly and I were united by a tremendous secret. We knew that there wasn't any Santa Claus.

Janice still believed that he came with his reindeer and squeezed down chimneys. We were hardened realists and knew better. But we also knew that to the adult world our faith in the legend was appealing. Older people thought they deceived us with their sly references to the jovial Saint and their hurried hiding of presents when we appeared. Young Jo and I discussed it seriously and decided not to disillusion them even though it required constant watchfulness to keep up our end of the fantasy.

"I've known for a whole year," he boasted when I dared to voice my suspicions. "I kind of thought Gran'pa was fooling me, so I fixed a way to find out for sure; and I did all right."

"How, Jo?"

"Oh, I hung up one stocking same's he said to. Then I hung the other one where Gran'pa didn't know. I figured if there really was a Santa Claus he could find it anywhere."

"Well," I persisted, "and was it empty in the morning?"

"You bet it was."

"You two stop whispering," Janice complained when we compared notes in skepticism. "'Tisn't polite to whisper in front of people, and I'll tell Maggie and Aunt Em on you."

"All right. Go ahead and tell them," I urged her. "And then I'll tell who dropped the silver spoon they can't find down the hall register."

Two days before Christmas Aunt Em and I walked home through the winter twilight after the exercises at my school. There had been Christmas carols and a tree, and I had recited a French poem without faltering once. Aunt Em said she was proud that I remembered every word, and that I could be heard to the back row of chairs. She said it was a pity when children were shy and mumbled their words. I can remember exactly how she looked that afternoon, tall and straight in her sealskin coat. In spite of the cold air her long face stayed the color of my white coral beads and her smooth brown hair exactly matched the fur of her collar and the small toque she wore. She seemed years older than the other children's mothers, yet she must have been only thirty-five. Our school exercises had taken on importance simply by her presence. I noticed that the teachers looked to her for approval when each carol or poem had been safely accomplished. Used to her as I was, I had had a sense that day of her place in the community. She did not need to wear bright colors or stylish clothes to be the most distinguished visitor.

"There will be another Christmas tree for you to see tomorrow," Aunt Em told me as we turned in at our gate. "It's going to be over at the mills, and you can go with me if you'd like to."

"Across the river?" I was instantly curious.

Janice had run out to meet us.

"Doesn't Santa Claus cross the bridges?" she wanted to know.

"Of course, dear," Aunt Em explained. "But so many more people live over there that we must try to help him."

"But," Janice broke in, "he remembers everyone except the bad children. Are there more bad ones over there?"

"Certainly not!" Aunt Em answered hurriedly. "Now run upstairs, both of you, and get ready for supper."

That other Christmas tree across the river, I shall remember as long as I recall anything out of those years.

It stood on a wooden platform that had been raised in the center of the mill yard with the long brick buildings on all four sides. On that day before Christmas the closing whistle had blown at four-thirty instead of six o'clock. When Aunt Em, Uncle Wallace and I reached the gates all the machinery was silent, and the great open space was already teeming with workers and their families. I found myself peering into old faces wrinkled as walnuts under shawls or shapeless caps. There were women with babies in their arms and children of all sizes pressing at their skirts, and trooping from the buildings where machinery loomed gigantic against lighted windows, came the mill hands, men, women, and young girls. Although the workers chattered together in languages I could not understand, they smiled at me and stepped back to make room for us to reach the platform.

"This is Elliott's older daughter," Aunt Em introduced me to the group of men on the platform. I made my curtsy and stood quietly beside her, secretly glad that Janice had been considered too young to take part in such an occasion. I tried to stand as straight as Aunt Em in my blue broadcloth coat with the squirrel fur and the round muff that kept my hands warm.

A band with banners that bore the familiar Indian's head and Peace-Pipe name had begun to play a march, and over the deep rhythm of the drums I asked Uncle Wallace when the tree would be lighted.

"Pretty soon now. Want to turn on the switch?"

I nodded eagerly, and he lifted me on a chair and put the electric button attached to a long cord in my hand. I wasn't to press it, he cautioned, till he gave me the signal. I suppose that wait could not have lasted more than ten minutes, but it seemed hours to me perched high above the close-packed crowd, hoping that nothing would go wrong in my part of the ceremonies. First the Catholic priest rose and made a prayer in Latin, and then our minister followed him with another that had to do with Bethlehem and with Peace-Pipe and the Blair family. After that the mill band played "Adeste Fideles," and then it was my turn to make those green and fragrant branches come to life.

As I pressed the button a deep murmur rose in admiration, and heads were lifted to the tree. All the faces were touched by the light from that glowing pyramid of quivering tinsel and colored bulbs like miraculous fruit. I tilted my head back till I could see the topmost star, set so high that it cleared the smoke that still hung low over the yard and mill buildings.

"Now for the presents," I heard Aunt Em say to Mr. Parker, who was the twins' father and also the mill manager. "I must say I'll be glad when they've been distributed."

"Don't worry, Miss Blair," he promised. "We've got more than enough, and everything's well in hand."

Just then a big red-coated Santa Claus appeared, jingling bells and shouting to invisible reindeer that were supposed to have been left outside the gates. He carried a pack on his shoulders, and his white beard waggled unsteadily with every word he spoke.

"Merry Christmas, one and all!" he began. "This here tree's not big enough to hold what I've brought for the folks at Peace-Pipe. So you'll have to line up and come and get your presents. No pushing, if you please. Plenty for all, and keep your places in line. Strike up, boys." And he waved to the band leader.

He took his place just below the platform, and though I could not see much of his face there was a familiar ring to his voice that puzzled me till I recognized it as belonging to Mr. Dolan, the big Irish night watchman. The band was playing another march, and the distribution of gifts had begun. The hand trucks that wheeled cotton from the storehouse had been loaded with filled baskets and hundreds of red mesh stockings that each contained an orange and an apple, a bag of chocolates, a sugar Santa Claus, and a striped peppermint candy cane. Baskets, with chicken legs and celery tops protruding, as well as each red stocking were identical as pins in a paper. I turned to Aunt Em with shocked surprise.

"But where are the presents?" I asked under cover of the music and the noise of marshaling the long lines into military order.

"Why, right here," she whispered, and then turned back to her place. She was bowing and smiling as the long line moved forward below the platform.

I stared dizzily down at the hands that reached out for the baskets and the stockings, moving along in an endless stream. I felt cold and disappointed and hollow under my coat. All the magical glow of Christmas had slipped away into monotony. It might have been a grocery store, I thought, except for the lighted tree that everyone seemed to have forgotten except me.

"Aren't there going to be any real presents?" I tried once more to distract Aunt Em.

Mr. Parker heard me, and they exchanged an amused look.

"What's the matter with these, Emily?" He bent down and pinched my cold cheek. "A chicken dinner and plenty of candy looks pretty good to me. How about you? Want me to get you one of those stockings?"

But I shook my head. My feet had turned to chill clods, and my eyes swam with weariness. Even if I closed them I could still see the stockings and baskets being handed out. The band had paused to rest, and only the drum thumped on to keep feet moving in time. I drew closer to Aunt Em and plucked at her sleeve. She turned to speak to me, and as she did so a sudden commotion began below us.

There was a break in the slow-moving, orderly line. Then something thudded against the platform. More thuds and ripping sounds followed. One of the candy-filled stockings came hurtling and spilled open at my feet. I saw a man's arms gesturing darkly above the crowd. His voice came hoarse and shrill above the drumbeats.

"Merry Christmas--yah--I rather have job back, not this--"

I could see the man who spoke. He was dark and thickset, and his black hair had fallen across his eyes. Beside him stood a woman tugging at his waving arms and a little girl and boy. The girl's face was buried in the woman's skirt, but the boy did not turn his face away. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, and his eyes looked directly at me from below the platform. Something about his unflinching look terrified me more than the man's strange, wild voice crying out again in broken, accusing words.

"You give charitee for Christmas--no want--I rather work--" For a moment the voice was muffled, then it broke out again. "No eat your dinner--we starve first. Chicken an' candy--yah--an' other time you throw me out an' no care!"

They overpowered him at last.

"What you care so long your mill run an' your damn whistle blow?" he shouted back as they dragged him away. "Merry Christmas--sure--I got hell of Merry Christmas--"

The band struck up loudly and drowned out the rest of his words. Aunt Em's hand tightened on mine. I could feel its cold tenseness through her gloves. Below us the line had closed in again as if nothing had interrupted the ceremonies. But the red candy stocking was still lying where it had fallen at my feet with bits of broken candy like splinters of glass. The shouted words still rang in my ears. They made me shiver and feel afraid.

"What was the matter with that man?" I asked Aunt Em when all the baskets had been given out and we were following Uncle Wallace into his office.

"Try not to think about it," she answered me. "He wasn't--well, he wasn't quite himself."

I was not satisfied.

"He didn't like us," I persisted. "Why didn't he? And why did he throw the things away?"

I heard Aunt Em put in a question and Mr. Parker answer her.

"Vancovitch is the name--good worker, but a crank. Never know when something'll set him off. Had to drop him a couple of months ago, but the wife was sick and there's a family. We thought, seeing it was Christmas, we'd let them in for the distribution. Well, we'll have to tighten up on rules next year. Too bad, but you see where sentiment gets us."

I was very quiet all the way home. The lights and the river and the Christmas wreaths had lost something of their wonder. My happy confidence in gifts and carols and the spirit of good will had been shaken.

"What's a crank, Aunt Em?" I broke silence at last.

We had taken our places at the supper table, and I saw her lay down her spoon and hesitate before she answered.

"Oh"--her eyes met Uncle Wallace's across the table--"it's--well--bad feelings about things that get the better of people sometimes. Go on with your soup, dear."

"That man over at the mill," I persisted, "someone said that's what he is."

"I know, but never mind."

"Now, Em," Uncle Wallace unexpectedly took my part in the discussion, "you can't put the child off like that. She was there and she heard it all, so you'd better answer her questions."

Aunt Em frowned and sighed before she spoke.

"Well then, if you have to remember what happened at the mill party this afternoon, just say to yourself that sometimes people get all twisted up in their minds about other people--"

"About us? He acted as if he hated us, and he meant me too."

A hurt look came into her eyes, but she went on quietly.

"We can't expect to be praised and liked all the time, no matter if we try to do what seems right to us. You'll find that out, Emily, the older you grow. Sometimes people can't see our side, and sometimes, I suppose, they think we can't see theirs."

Long after I had hung up my stocking beside Janice's by the fireplace, I lay awake in bed remembering another stocking of flimsy red mesh, seeing the shadow of waving arms, hearing a voice that shouted accusing words, the more frightening because they had been half understood. I have heard others like them since then, but I have never learned to be indifferent to hatred and bitterness, on whichever side of the river they may have been spoken.