The Adventures of Nicholas Read online

  The Adventures of

  NICHOLAS

  A Christmas Tale

  Adapted by Helen Siiteri

  Cover design by Eve Aspinwall

  Special thanks to Kati Siiteri and Kiersten Kirkpatrick for assistance in preparing this book for publication.

  © Copyright 2005 Helen Siiteri.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  Adapted from THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES of SANTA CLAUS by Julie Lane, published by the Santa Claus Publishing Company , Boston, in 1932

  Note for Librarians: a cataloguing record for this book that includes Dewey Decimal Classification and US Library of Congress numbers is available from the Library and Archives of Canada. The complete cataloguing record can be obtained from their online database at:

  www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

  ISBN 1-4120-3865-0

  ISBN 978-1-4122-2827-5 (ebook)

  Offices in Canada, USA, Ireland, UK and Spain

  This book was published on-demand in cooperation with Trafford Publishing. On-demand publishing is a unique process and service of making a book available for retail sale to the public taking advantage of on-demand manufacturing and Internet marketing. On-demand publishing includes promotions, retail sales, manufacturing, order fulfilment, accounting and collecting royalties on behalf of the author.

  Book sales for North America and international:

  Trafford Publishing, 6E-2333 Government St.,

  Victoria, BC V8T 4P4 CANADA

  phone 250 383 6864 (toll-free 1 888 232 4444)

  fax 250 383 6804; email to [email protected]

  Book sales in Europe:

  Trafford Publishing (UK) Ltd., Enterprise House, Wistaston Road Business Centre,

  Wistaston Road, Crewe, Cheshire CW2 7RP UNITED KINGDOM

  phone 01270 251 396 (local rate 0845 230 9601)

  facsimile 01270 254 983; [email protected]

  ORDER ONLINE AT:

  www.trafford.com/robots/04-1673.html

  10 9 8 7 6 5

  Contents

  DEAR READERS AND STORYTELLERS

  NICHOLAS, THE WANDERING ORPHAN

  THE FIRST HOME

  THE RACE FOR THE SLED

  THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  THE FIRST CHRISTMAS STOCKING

  HIS FIRST RED SUIT

  DONDER AND BLITZEN

  THE NAUGHTY REINDEER

  NICHOLAS FINDS A WAY

  DOWN THE CHIMNEY

  THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE

  A PRESENT FOR NICHOLAS

  HOLLY GETS ITS NAME

  THE LAST STOCKING

  THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS

  DEAR READERS AND STORYTELLERS

  MANY are the legends and traditions that have been told about Christmas in snowy northern countries and we know how many of these legends have come to be. But The Adventures of Nicholas is a story such as you might tell if you wanted to combine all the warm and happy memories you like best about Christmas. I do not know of anyone called Nicholas who actually lived through these adventures, but his story is for all who believe in the spirit of Christmas.

  So, draw close to the fire. I dedicate this story of Nicholas to you.

  Your friend,

  Helen Siiteri

  “He’s a good lad.”

  NICHOLAS, THE WANDERING ORPHAN

  LONG, long time ago, in a village by the sea, there lived a young fisherman and his family—his loving wife, his small son Nicholas, and Kati, a baby girl. Their home was a little cottage built of heavy stone blocks to keep out the freezing north wind. It was a cheerful place in spite of the hardships, because all the hearts there were loving and happy.

  On cold winter nights, after the fisherman had come home from his hard day’s work, the little family would gather around the fireplace. Father would light his pipe and stretch his tired legs. Mother would keep a watchful eye on the two children, her knitting needles busily clicking.

  One night Nicholas was trimming a tiny piece of wood with scraps from his mother’s knitting,

  while Kati looked with wide blue eyes at the toy her brother was making for her. Mother smiled as she watched the children playing happily together. But Father shook his head saying, “I’d rather see Nicholas down at the boats with me, learning to mend a net, than fussing with little girls’ toys. Now when I was his age…”

  “Hush,” whispered Mother. “Nicholas is hardly more than a baby himself. Time enough for him to be a fisherman when he’s too old to play with his baby sister.”

  “True enough,” said the father. “He’s a good lad, and he’ll be a better man for learning to be kind to little ones.”

  Life might have gone on in this way but for the happenings of one stormy night. Father was late, and Kati was sick with a fever. Mother knelt beside Nicholas and looked into his bright blue eyes. “Kati is very ill,” she said, “and I can wait no longer for your father. I must go for the doctor myself. Sit beside your sister, Nicholas, and take care not to let the fire burn out.”

  Quickly kissing him, she wrapped a woolen shawl over her blond hair and went out into the bitter storm. Nicholas watched as his mother anxiously looked toward the sea for a sign of the fishing boat. Seeing nothing, she turned and walked swiftly down the windswept path.

  Kati had fallen asleep. Nicholas sat beside her, dipping a cloth into a bowl of cool water and placing it on her feverish forehead, as he had seen his mother do. Slowly the hours went by. It wasn’t until Kati’s forehead had grown cooler, and then cold, that Nicholas allowed himself to

  drop off to sleep.

  When the villagers found them in the morning, Nicholas was keeping watch by Kati’s side. No one among them could find the courage to tell Nicholas that his baby sister had died of the fever—and that his mother had been struck by a falling tree as she was hurrying though the forest in the storm.

  A few hours later they learned that the father’s small fishing boat had overturned and he had drowned at sea.

  Nicholas had become a homeless orphan.

  THE FIRST HOME

  HE kindhearted women of the village gathered at the ropemaker’s house to talk about the orphan Nicholas, and what would become of him.

  “Of course,” said the ropemaker’s wife, “the boy cannot be left to go hungry or uncared for, but we have six little ones of our own. We have taken him in only until another place can be found.”

  “Yes,” answered plump Mistress Larsen, “but now that winter has set in, no family knows for certain when the fishing boats can go out again. We are all worried. We have so little food left.”

  The women shivered and drew closer to the comfortable log fire. Greta Vogel arose and looked into the fire thoughtfully. “We could take him for a while,” she murmured. “We have only the three children, and Nicholas can sleep on the extra cot in the storeroom.”

  A sigh of relief spread through the little gathering. “But,” she added quickly, “I think everyone

  in the village should help out with Nicholas.”

  “Quite right,” spoke up another. “Why can’t we agree that each of us here will take Nicholas for a year and then let him change to another family?”

  Greta Vogel counted the women present. “There are ten of us here. If we each agree to take Nicholas for a year, that will take care of him until he’s seventeen. Chances are he’ll run away to sea long before that!�
�

  The good women, having provided for Nicholas, turned their thoughts to the Christmas feast which was to be celebrated the next day.

  So it was that Nicholas came to his first home-for-a-year on Christmas Eve. The kindly Vogels tried their best to help the lonely orphan. But on Christmas Day Nicholas curled up in a dark corner of the storeroom, and with heartbroken sobs mourned for his mother and father and his little sister Kati.

  It wasn’t long before the door opened. “What do you want?” asked Nicholas. “Go away, Otto, and leave me alone.”

  “My boat’s broken,” cried Otto, “the new boat I got for the Christmas feast. Father’s gone out and Mother can’t fix it.”

  Nicholas brushed the tears from his eyes. “Give it to me,” he said. “I’ll fix it for you.”

  “Come in here where there’s more light.” Otto pulled the orphan gently by the arm, and Nicholas went in where there were lights and children and laughter.

  As the year passed, the little boy slowly forgot his grief in the busy, happy life of the Vogel household. Otto and his sisters played with him, quarreled with him, and came to think of him as their very own brother. Nicholas returned their love and was not too young to appreciate their kindness.

  All too soon it was time to prepare for a new Christmas Day, and Nicholas knew he would have to move on to a different home and family. He wondered how he could thank the Vogels for the happy year he had spent with them.

  The only things he owned were the clothes he wore, an extra coat, and the jackknife that had belonged to his father. He couldn’t give any of these things away, and yet he wanted to give some small gift, especially as he was leaving on Christmas Day.

  Nicholas remembered an evening long ago when he and his father had whittled small toys for Kati. “I can do it if I try,” he thought. “I can make toys for them.” And he worked quietly in the storeroom, using every spare minute in order to finish by Christmas morning.

  The toys were finally ready. A doll for Margret, a little wobbly chair for Gretchen, and a toy sleigh with beautiful curved runners for Otto, his playmate.

  On Christmas morning, as the children sadly waved good-bye, Nicholas handed the gifts to his friends. They took the little toys, shouting and dancing in surprise and happiness.

  “Well, I’ll be going now. Good-bye, Margret and Gretchen. Good-bye, Otto. Next year, I’ll know how to make better toys. And I’ll make you some next Christmas too.” And with this promise Nicholas started out to face another year, smiling bravely, his blue eyes bright and shining in the sharp north wind.

  “What do you want?” asked Nicholas.

  “Well, well. A snowball fight!”

  THE RACE FOR THE SLED

  N the years that followed, each Christmas Day was a happy one for Nicholas, and for all the children he met, in changing about from house to house. Nicholas did not forget his promise to the Vogels. Each year on Christmas morning he made a special trip to their house, and to every house where he had stayed, leaving gifts for the children. So it happened that each child in every family came to expect a Christmas toy from Nicholas.

  As he grew into a tall, strong lad, there were many things he learned to do besides make toys. He helped the men with the boats, mended nets, and watched over the younger children for the busy mothers. The little ones followed wherever he went, and he saw that no harm came to any child in his care.

  During the long winter, Nicholas went to the village school. This particular winter day, when he was fourteen years old, he heard about the race for the sled with steel runners.

  “There’s going to be a race on Christmas morning,” Otto explained, “starting at the Squire’s gate at the top of the hill. And the prize—”

  “—is a big new sled with steel runners!” shouted the other boys, unable to keep quiet any longer.

  “What time does the race begin?” Nicholas asked.

  “Nine o’clock sharp!” The boys jumped about, pelting one another with snowballs in their excitement.

  Nicholas shook his head. “I don’t know whether I can be there,” he said slowly. He couldn’t possibly finish his chores, make the rounds with the gifts, and be on time for the start of the race. But how he longed for a chance to win the beautiful sled with steel runners!

  The boys looked at him, silenced by the thought that came to every mind. Otto threw his arm around his friend’s shoulders and led Nicholas away from the group. “You know you don’t have to deliver those toys…” Otto began.

  “But the children expect them,” Nicholas whispered. “Besides, the toys are all finished.”

  “I mean you don’t have to hand the toys to the children. Couldn’t you just leave them in the doorway…early…even before they wake up?”

  The two boys grinned happily at each other. “You are my best friend, Otto, but you’d better

  watch out for that prize. I’m going to give you a run for it!”

  When the children arose on Christmas morning, they found a bright sun streaming down on the hard, crusted snow. They also found that Nicholas had been there. Every doorway was heaped with little toys, the results of a whole year’s work.

  After the excitement over the gifts had worn off, the villagers headed for the starting point of the race, the gate in front of the Squire’s house.

  Everyone, that is, except Nicholas. A runner on his little sled had broken under the weight of the wooden toys, and he was desperately trying to fix it with bits of cord and rope. Just as he made the runner secure, he heard the faint echo of the horn announcing the start of the race. He knew he could never get there in time to start with the others, but he might as well make a dash for it.

  At the top of the hill, the villagers made way for him. “Come on, Nicholas, lad,” shouted Jan Vogel. “Here men, let’s give him a mighty good push. One…two…three…off he goes!”

  Down the hill sped Nicholas, his face stinging in the swift rush of wind. On and on he went, his eyes glowing with excitement as he saw he was gaining ground on the boys ahead. Then he noticed something that puzzled him. The boys had all stopped on the other side of the frozen creek. They had hopped off their sleds and were standing quietly, waiting.

  “Come on, Nicholas,” shouted little Josef. “We would have waited for you at the top, but the Squire made us start when the horn blew. But you knew we’d wait for you, didn’t you?”

  “From now on see who waits for you,” shouted Otto. “First one home wins the sled with the steel runners!” Then they were off across the fields, now coasting, now dragging their sleds, up and down hill, bumping into one another, laughing and shouting with excitement.

  Nicholas was unable to speak. His friends had waited for him! They did like him even though he was an orphan, who had no home of his own and had to be passed around. His clumsy sled felt as light as his heart as he raced across the fields. It wasn’t until he had crossed the brook that he realized he was leading the race.

  “Up at the top of the hill there’s a beautiful sled that will hold twice as many toys as this old thing,” he thought. Digging his toes in the hard snow, he started back up the hill. He turned around once to see how close the others were, and heard the encouraging shouts of the villagers. Then he was at the top. He had won the race! Panting, he leaned against the big pine, and smiled and waved to the others.

  The big sled with steel runners was very fine. But it was even better to see the boys who had lost the race, pulling Nicholas home on his prize. The little children hopped on behind and climbed lovingly all over him. And each mother and father smiled proudly, as though it had been their own son who had won.

  “The little children hopped on and climbed lovingly all over him.”

  ‘It’s a long time since I made one of these wee things:

  THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  FTER the race, the merry villagers went home to their cottages and sa
t down to their Christmas dinners. But Nicholas was stopped by a tall, dark man who looked as if he had never smiled in his life. It was Bertran Marsden, the woodcarver of the village, known to all the children as Mad Marsden.

  “You haven’t forgotten that you move to my house today?” Marsden asked. Nicholas looked at the old man. No, he had not forgotten. Nicholas knew why Marsden had offered to take him. The woodcarver wanted a good helper, without having to pay for the work he knew he could get out of Nicholas.

  Knowing this, and thinking how lonely it would be without the sound of laughter and children’s

  voices, Nicholas piled his few belongings on the new sled, and with a heavy heart followed Mad Marsden home.

  Marsden pointed to a door in the corner of the untidy cottage. “You can put your belongings in there. As for the pretty sled, you might as well put that out in the shed. We have no time here to go romping in the snow. I’m going to make a good woodcarver of you. No time for silly toys. You’ll have to earn your keep here.”

  Nicholas bowed his head, silently putting away his small bundle of clothes. Only the thought that he was fourteen years old, and almost a man, kept him from crying that night in his dark, cold room.

  So Nicholas became an apprentice to the old woodcarver. He learned that his father’s jackknife was a clumsy tool compared with the sharp knives and wheels that Marsden used. He learned to work for hours, bent over the bench beside his master, going over and over one stick of wood.

  All this he grew used to in time, for he was strong and young. But he felt he could never get used to the dreadful loneliness of the place. His friends, the children, gradually gave up trying to see him after they had been chased away, time after time, by the cross old woodcarver. Marsden himself seldom spoke, except to give instructions about the work or to scold him for some mistake. Nicholas was sad and lonely and longed to be back in a friendly cottage, surrounded by laughing children.