coping, where they have made a fire late and we can all keep nice and warm, leaning close to it.
All the Band (flying towards him). Hold! it's true, how good it is here, and how warm! Let us laugh and sing. All hail, joy! piou, piou, piou; cui, cui, cui.
The Chimney. Will you pray hold your tongues, you little wretches! It is surely only yourselves who would dare to sing at such a time; when everything is quiet and keeps silence. See, the wind even holds its breath, not a weathercock is moving.
The Sparrows (lower). Mercy! what's the matter?
The Chimney. Dear me, don't you know that it is the feast of the roofs to-night? Don't you know that Christmas is coming to make his distribution of gifts to the children?
The Sparrows. King Christmas?
The Chimney. Why, yes. If you could but see below there in the houses all the little shoes[1] arranged before the warm ashes. There are some of every shape and size, from the wee, little blue slippers that belong to tottering tiny feet, to the small boots that sound so loud, filling the house with their noise, from the small shoe lined with fur to the little sabots that do so many weary wanderings, and even to the larger shoes that by some chance of fate are made to cover small, naked feet, as though the poor had no age, or any right to be a child.
The Sparrows. And when, then, is he to arrive, this marvellous little king?
The Chimney. Why, directly — at midnight. Hush! listen
A Clock (with a solemn voice). Dang, dang, dang!
The Chimney. Look ! don't you see down there, all the heavens are lightening up?
The Sparrows (with the excitement of Parisian gamins looking at fireworks). Oh!
The Clock (continuing to strike). Dang, dang, dang!
Twelve o'clock! Hardly had the last stroke of twelve sounded, when a great ringing of all the bells was heard on every side at once. Under the belfries covered with snow they rang merrily high up in the air, as if they rang for the roofs alone, alternating and confounding their voices, mingling deep tones with light ones, dying away, and then returning again, with those crescendos and diminutions of sound, which come and go with the wind, giving the effect of a belfry turning like a lighthouse tower.
The Bells. Boom! boom! Behold him! It is he; it is little King Christmas!
The Wind. Whew, whew! Ring loud, my good bells, with all your might; louder still! Christmas is near — he is following me. Don't you smell the good odor of green holly, of incense, and perfumed wax that I bring on my wings?
The Belfries. Ding, din, dong! Ding, din, dong! Christmas! Christmas!
The Wind. Come, you chimneys, what is the matter with you, staying there with your mouths wide open? Come sing to Christmas with me. Come on, you roofs — come, you weathercocks!
The Chimneys. Hi, hi! — Christmas! Christmas!
The Weathercocks. Creak, creak! — Christmas! Christmas!
A Tile (too enthusiastically). Christmas! Chris — (in its joy it made a leap and fell down into the street) — bong, bang, bing!
The Sparrows. What a noise!
The Chimney. Well, you sparrows, you say nothing at all. Now is the time to sing.
The Sparrows. Piou, piou, piou. Cui, cui, cui — Christmas! Christmas!
The Chimney. Jump up on my shoulder, you can see better then.
The Sparrows (on the chimney). Oh! how pretty it is, how pretty it is! All those pink, green, and blue lights that are dancing on the roofs!
The Chimneys. And that procession of baskets full of toys and ribbons, flowers and bonbons. All a Parisian winter's novelties going by surrounded by golden light and bright colors!
The Sparrows. Tell us, then, who are those little men that carry the baskets? Are they all King Christmases, all those?
The Chimney. Why no! Those are the kobolds.
The Sparrows. What did you call them? the ——
The Chimney. The kobolds; that means the familiar spirits of each house who lead Christmas to all the chimneys where there are little shoes waiting.
The Sparrows. And Christmas, where is he?
The Chimney. It is the last one of all, the little blonde child with such sweet eyes, and his hair in golden rays flying around him like the wisps of straw from his little cradle, and his cheeks so pink with the cold air. Look at him walking;
- ↑ In France the children place their shoes on the hearths instead of hanging up their stockings.
