This edition consists of but 357 copies.
                        This book is Number 237

                     [Illustration: Marion Cook.]




                        _The Child & the Dream_




                       [Illustration: THE CHILD]




                            _The Child and
                              the Dream_

                              A CHRISTMAS
                                 STORY

                                  BY
                              MARION COOK

                                MCMVIII
                        THE METROPOLITAN PRESS
                           PORTLAND, OREGON




                        TO MY SEVEREST CRITIC,
                              AGED SEVEN

                            COPYRIGHT 1908
                            BY MARION COOK




                             I.   The Child
                             II.  The Dream
                             III. The Gift




                              _The Child_


This, little Dear-My-Love, is the story of a Child whom I am sure you
would have loved. For people did love her very much, she was so quaint
and dear.

She was a remarkably bright Child and the beauty of her being bright
was that she did not know it. She did bright things and said bright
things and it never entered her mind to marvel at her own cleverness.
However, I doubt if she would have thought of what I am going to tell
you, had it not been for the Storyist.

It was somewhat absurd, the whole thing; yet it was an experience one
would not soon forget.

It began, little Dear-My-Love, on a certain morning when the Child
stood looking out of the window of her own pretty room. She was
watching two little birds which sat huddled close together on the
branch of a big fir tree; but she really wasn’t thinking about the
birds. She had heard Lady-Mother say at breakfast that it lacked but
two weeks of Christmas, and she had not yet selected her Gift for
Lady-Mother. She was so extremely particular about what it should be
that it was difficult to decide upon anything.

Presently the Child had an idea; and the more she thought of it, the
more splendid it seemed as a surprise for Lady-Mother. You see, little
Dear-My-Love, she wasn’t old enough to be very wise and so sometimes
she did rather queer things.

A few moments later she knocked at the door of the Storyist.

She found her writing, as usual, but the Storyist was patient about
interruptions and this time she set the Child lovingly upon her knee
and asked what she could do for her.

“I’d like some story-paper,” said the Child.

“You may have all you wish,” proffered the Storyist, handing her a pad
of scratch-paper.

The Child fingered it critically. “Will it do?” she asked.

The Storyist smiled. “I think it will――for you,” she said.

“But you see I want it very nice,” explained the Child, “because it’s
for a Christmas story I’m going to write. That is, the story isn’t
_about_ Christmas, but it’s for a Christmas present.”

The Storyist appeared interested. “So?” she said. “Who is it for? But I
think I can guess,” she added quickly.

“Well, if you know please don’t tell,” cautioned the Child. Then she
asked, “May I see what you’re writing?”

“Certainly,” assented the Storyist, and showed her a typewritten sheet.

The Child read:

“‘Her voice was that smooth and slippery-like that you found yourself
swallowing what she said without realizing till afterward that the
words stuck in your throat.’”

She read it a second time, but was sure she didn’t quite understand.

“Is it hard?” she inquired.

The Storyist looked thoughtful. “Not very,” she replied. “You just have
to know what you want to say and then say it the best you can.”

It sounded reasonable and the Child grew encouraged.

“She’d be surprised to see it in a paper, wouldn’t she?” she laughed.

The Storyist agreed that she would.

When she went out she held tightly several sheets of typewriter paper
and a newly-sharpened soft pencil. She was eager to begin. She set
herself down at the tiny desk Lady-Mother had given her and everything
was still for a long time.

Of course she was very little to think of trying to write a story, but
O, little Dear-My-Love, she knew perfectly well _just_ what she wanted
to say!

And so she worked very hard indeed and wrote as fast as she could make
her letters.




                              _The Dream_


And that night, little Dear-My-Love, an odd thing happened. It was some
time after Lady-Mother had kissed her and, turning out the light, had
gone softly away, that the Child heard a voice say, right in her ear:

“It’s very queer.”

She started up in bed. “What’s queer?” she said. But no one answered
her. She sank back again upon the pillow and wondered if she had been
dreaming. If she had――

“What did you say was queer?”

It was some one else speaking this time, and the Child raised herself
on her elbow and listened intently.

Then the first voice said, “Why, about the train, you know. She might
have known it would be troublesome. Of course, if it weren’t so long I
could manage it better, but as it is――” and the voice trailed off into
a sigh.

The Child waited to hear no more. “What makes you ‘sigh like a
furnace’?” she said. She had heard the Storyist quote Shakespeare with
good effect.

The voice answered her; its tones were very sweet. “O, I didn’t know
you were awake!” it said. “Is this where you always sleep?”

“Yes,” answered the Child. “Do you like it?”

“It’s very pretty,” said the voice. “It must be a relief to have a room
small enough for convenience. Why, even this foot-board――”

“O, is that where you are?” asked the Child. “I’ve been looking all
over but I couldn’t see you. Why, you’re Lady Arabella!” she cried,
as she caught sight of a small figure, elaborately dressed, balancing
itself on one end of the foot-board. “How did you get here?”

“Well, I simply had to come,” said Lady Arabella. “I had to get where
it was warmer. Did I hear you say something about a furnace?”

The Child looked at her in surprise. “Yes; were you cold?” she asked.

“I should say,” replied Arabella. “Those marble halls are just
dreadfully cold; they’re positively frigid. Sometimes we dance as you
told us to, and that warms us up. But I was too tired to-night to
dance.”

If Arabella could have seen the Child’s face she would have noticed how
sorry and disturbed it looked. But it was too dark in the room for her
to see distinctly.

“I’m sure I never thought of that,” said the Child, and her tone was
penitent. “You see, I thought you would like the marble halls. But I
never had any ’sperience with them myself. Why don’t you put on extra
wraps when you feel so cold?”

“Extra wraps!” repeated Arabella. “I haven’t any. The only kinds of
clothes I have are dinner gowns and ball gowns. They’re not very warm,
you know. I often tie handkerchiefs around my throat when that gets
cold, but they are only ‘dreams of lace’ and don’t do much good. Don’t
you think you could get me a wrap or two?”

“Yes indeed, I can,” answered the Child. “I’ll see about it to-morrow.”

“And a matinee for mornings,” Arabella suggested. “Something that
won’t soil, especially as I have to spend all my mornings in the
conservatory.”

“What makes you stay there?” asked the Child. “Why not go somewhere
else?” She was by this time sitting up in bed, her hands clasped about
one knee, intensely interested.

“I have to,” answered Arabella, with another sigh. “I have to do what
you tell me to.”

“It’s too bad,” declared the Child; “I’ll change that to-morrow, too.”
Then she suddenly remembered her manners. “Won’t you sit down?” she
asked.

“How can I up here?” Arabella replied. “My train is in the way. If you
could help me down I should like it.”

So the Child reached out her two hands and, lowering Arabella to the
bed, placed her carefully upon the counterpane.

“Aren’t you going to bring Sir Marmaduke, too?” asked her visitor in
dismay.

“Is he up there? I didn’t see him,” said the Child.

“He and I were talking when you first woke up,” answered Arabella.
“Don’t you remember? Certainly he is here. He has to be always at my
side, you know. At least, that’s what you said.”

“So I did,” acknowledged the Child. Then she began to laugh. “O, dear!”
she gasped, “I didn’t think how it would be, you see――his _always_
being with you! O, I didn’t really mean that! It’s _too_ funny!” and
the bed shook so that Sir Marmaduke almost fell off the foot-board.

The next moment she turned to Arabella. “You don’t object to it, do
you?” she asked seriously.

“Well,” Arabella admitted, whispering very softly so that Sir Marmaduke
might not hear and the Child had to bend low to catch the words, “to
tell the truth, it does get pretty tiresome. Yes, I rather wish he
wasn’t with me _all_ the time. If you could fix it so that we could be
together just on special occasions, you know――”

“I see,” said the Child quickly; “I’ll fix it to-morrow to suit you. I
have plenty of paper left.”

Then she turned to Sir Marmaduke and helped him to a seat quite
a little away from Arabella. She thought that relief for the much
afflicted heroine could not come too soon.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” she observed to Sir Marmaduke. “I didn’t
know you were such a quiet man.”

“Well,” he answered, twirling his moustache and settling his cravat
after his change of position, “it’s a case of necessity. You said I did
nothing but listen to the music of her voice. To be sure, _I_ don’t
mind,” gallantly turning to Arabella, “but I think she’d like to have
me talk more.”

Arabella blushed prettily. “Yes, it would be more interesting for me,”
she agreed.

It was the Child that sighed this time. “If you’d rather, I’ll change
it so you can talk more. And I’ll make your train shorter, too,” she
said to Arabella. “Five yards is altogether too much.” She began to
wonder if she could remember all the alterations that had to be made.
There seemed to be so many things she hadn’t thought of.

An odd sound coming from Arabella’s side of the bed arrested her
attention. She appeared to be in some trouble.

“What is the matter?” asked the Child.

“O, I do wish I could yawn!”

“Why don’t you?”

“I can’t,” replied Arabella. “My fan isn’t here. I forgot to bring it.”

“Do you have to have that before you can yawn?”

“You said so,” was the answer. “You said I gave nothing but gentle
yawns behind my fan.”

“O, I’d forgotten,” said the Child. “But what makes you want to yawn?”

“Because I’m sleepy, you little goosey,” returned Arabella impatiently.
“I guess you’d be sleepy, too, if you could never have a wink of sleep
from one week’s end to the other!”

“I guess I would,” the Child confessed. “But why can’t you sleep when
you want to?”

Arabella eyed the Child with astonishment. “I should think you’d know,”
she said. “You don’t seem to remember that my hair is spun gold, and
how could I ever get it combed again if I should lie down and get it
all tangled? It would be so much nicer if it were just hair. Don’t you
think you could――”

“O, yes, of course I can,” the Child answered. It began to look
discouraging.

“And just look at my eyes,” went on Arabella. “Do you see anything
queer about them?”

The Child looked. “They’re very bright.”

“Yes,” pursued the other, “that’s because they’re stars, you see. But
I could see much better out of them if they were just regular eyes, I
think. Don’t you?”

“Of course you could,” said the Child. “Anybody could.”

“I’m glad you think so. It will be a relief to have eyes like other
people. If my eyes were once fixed I shouldn’t care so much about my
ears.”

“Your ears? What is the matter with them?” demanded the Child.

“You’re queer not to remember,” returned Arabella. “They’re only pink
shells and they roar so I can’t hear well half the time. There are
other things, too; my mouth, for instance. You made that a lovely ripe
red cherry, which is, to say the least, inconvenient and even tempting!”

The Child sighed again. “I wanted to make you beautiful,” she explained
apologetically.

“Yes, I know,” Arabella replied; “but I think I’d rather be good than
beautiful. It means more.”

“But you _are_ good, aren’t you?” asked the Child.

“I don’t know,” doubtfully answered Arabella, “you didn’t pay much
attention to that. I guess I’m too uncomfortable to be good. I suppose
you think that I am not real and it doesn’t matter, but you see I
_am_ real――to you. You had to think me out. And so _I_ can only be
what _you_ are――that is, what you love and think and want. Do you
understand?”

“I see,” the Child reflected.

“And it’s the real that counts,” continued Arabella. “You can’t always
judge from the outside――either of people or things.”

“No,” put in the Child eagerly, “I know that. It’s that way with my
sums. Sometimes I will do my figures so carefully and the example will
look lovely when, after all, it’s full of mistakes.”

“And there’s another thing,” replied Arabella, “your pride, I mean. As
a matter of fact, you’re writing this story for yourself and not for
Lady-Mother. And, candidly,” she added, “it’s nothing to be proud of.
We’re not much of a success!”

It was blunt but the Child knew that it was true. She was silent for a
time, then she said, “It would be a good deal of trouble to make you
all over again and, anyway, I guess I don’t know enough――yet. You won’t
mind if I don’t?” she inquired anxiously.

“Not a bit,” Arabella assured her.

The Child was getting sleepy and Arabella saw it. “Come,” she said to
Sir Marmaduke. “We’re staying too long.” He rose obediently.

“O, must you go?” asked the Child politely. “Do come again and――that
is――of course maybe you couldn’t――but still――” her voice grew fainter
and fainter. Arabella and Sir Marmaduke faded away and presently――

It was the Storyist bending over her. “Good morning,” she said. “It’s
time to get up.”

The Child rubbed her eyes.

And _you_ know, little Dear-My-Love, that she had been asleep all the
while!




                              _The Gift_


You remember, little Dear-My-Love, how it feels just before Christmas.
Well, it was that kind of a morning. Nearly everyone carried mysterious
bundles, and Christmas sights and sounds were everywhere.

The Child was very happy. She and the Storyist were on their way to buy
the Gift. She felt that she needed advice. She had been surprisingly
meek and quiet the last few days.

“What made you give up your plan?” asked the Storyist. “Didn’t it suit
you?”

“No,” said the Child. “Besides, the people in it weren’t happy.”

“How do you know?” the Storyist returned. And then the Child related
the Dream.

It was all very interesting and the Storyist listened attentively.

“So you see,” concluded the Child, “it wouldn’t do.”

The Storyist thought. “What do you think a Gift ought to be like?” she
asked.

“It ought to be something beautiful all through, and something good
and real and that would make people glad,” the Child answered. She had
thought it out quite carefully.

The Storyist promised to do the best she could.

They spent a good deal of time looking in the shops and at last made
their purchase. Now it doesn’t matter, little Dear-My-Love, just what
it was; only it was something that Lady-Mother needed and it was nice
and the Child was satisfied with it.

“But there’s only one Gift,” remarked the Storyist on their way home,
“that is really everything that you say a Gift ought to be.”

“What is that?” asked the Child.

The Storyist looked down at her very tenderly.

“Love,” she said.

And after that, little Dear-My-Love, people often wondered that she
was such a thoughtful Child and tried so hard to make everybody
comfortable. But _you_ know why.




    [Illustration] Here endeth the Story of The Child and The
    Dream, by Marion Cook, as done by The Metropolitan Press




 Transcriber’s Notes:

 ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 ――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.