XII. HOW THE CAT KEPT CHRISTMAS 199 CONCLUSION.--WHAT WAS ON THE TREE 224 [Illustration: “This afternoon, in spite of the cold, they are out gathering wood.”] CHAPTER I. THE BARGAIN WITH THE MONTHS. It is a cold, wintry day. The Old Year is going to die to-night. All the winds have come to his funeral, and, while waiting, are sky-larking about the country. It is a very improper thing for mourners to do. Here they are in the Black Forest, going on like a parcel of school-boys, waltzing with leaves, singing in tree-tops, whooping, whistling, making all sorts of odd noises. If the Old Year hears them, he must think he has a very queer sort of “procession.” Max and Thekla are used to the winds, and not afraid of them. They are not afraid of the Forest either, though the country people avoid it, and tell wonderful stories about things seen and heard there. The hut in which they and their Grandfather live is in the heart of the wood. No other house stands within miles of them. In summer-time the wild lilies grow close to the door-step, and the fawns creep shyly out to drink at the spring near by; and sometimes, when the wind blows hard on winter nights, strange barkings can be heard in the distance, and they know that the wolves are out. They do not tremble, though they are but children. Max is eleven, very stout and strong for his age, and able to chop and mark the wood for Grandfather, who for many years has been Woodman. Thekla, who is nine, keeps the house in order, cooks, mends clothes, and knits stockings like a little house-fairy. All their lives they have lived here, and the lonely place is dear to them. The squirrels in the wood are not more free and fearless than these children, and they are so busy and healthy that the days fly fast. This afternoon, in spite of the cold, they are out gathering wood, of which the Ranger allows them all they need to use. There is a pile at home already, almost as high as the cottage roof: but Thekla is resolved that her fire shall always be bright when Max and the Grandfather come in from out-doors, blue and cold; and she isn’t satisfied yet. For hours they have been at work, and have tied ever so many fagots. The merry winds have been helping in the task, tearing boughs and twigs off overhead, and throwing them down upon the path, so that the bundles have collected rapidly, and wise little Thekla says, “This has been a good day.” “I’m getting tired, though,” she goes on. “Let’s rest awhile, and take a walk. We never came so far as this before, did we? I want to go up that pretty path, and see where it comes out. Don’t you think we have got wood enough, Max?”