“Dad?” Joe Hardy asked slowly, staring at the clear, blinking lights on the Christmas tree.  “Is there really a Santa- for real?”

Fenton Hardy paused in the act of wrapping silver-tinsel garland around the staircase banister and turned to his son.  The question he’d been expecting for several Christmases had finally come.

It was Christmas Eve.  The fire in the fireplace snapped and popped merrily.  The red-and-green flannel stockings lay, limp and flat, over the arm of the sofa.  The popcorn and cranberry strings that the boys had made the day before were carefully draped over the dark needles of the pine tree, and the smell of the popcorn mingled with the smell of pine and a hint of wood-smoke. 

Laura Hardy looked up from where she was opening the box of tinsel, preparatory to spreading it from the boughs; the last touch of the tree decorating.  The rest of the house was already done: the Advent wreath on the dining room table, dark with holly leaves and bright with holly berries; the round Christmas tins of baking that lay on the kitchen counter, ready to be distributed to friends the next day; the various ornaments scattered through the house, dangling on red and green ribbons.  All that lacked was the wrapped and ribboned gifts. 

As Fenton exchanged a glance with his wife- a troubled, uneasy glance- he knew she was wondering how to answer.  “Why do you ask?” he inquired mildly of his seven-year-old son.

Joe hesitated, brushing at a wisp of pale-blond hair by his ear.  He carefully hung a glossy green ball on the tree, then glanced at his older brother.  Eight-year-old Frank had just spilled the box of ornament hooks, and was carefully picking them up from the carpet.  His dark head was bowed over his task, but he seemed to be blushing.  “Frank doesn’t think there is a real Santa, but...I don’t know.”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Frank defended himself, looking up.  “How could there be?  How could he go to all the houses in the world, in one night?  And how could he get all those toys into one sled?  He’d need bunches and bunches of trucks- like in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.  All those trucks full of candy for the Gold Ticket winners, ‘cause it was a lifetime supply- and that was just for five kids.”

“But it’s not a lifetime supply of Christmas presents!” Joe argued.

“Yeah, but it’s a lot more kids!  And anyway, how could reindeer fly when they don't even have wings?  It isn’t really true, is it, Dad?”

“Ah.”  Fenton tied off the garland and descended the stairs.  “And when you look at your toys and see it says ‘Made in China’, you know there wasn’t some elf in the North Pole workshop putting it together.”

“Yeah!” Frank agreed, then paused, a faint look of disappointment crossing his young face.

“Well- in a way, you’re right, Frank.  Santa Claus is like a legend now, and as legends always do, he’s gathered some parts of the story that aren’t really true.  But that doesn’t mean other parts aren’t true.”  Fenton paused, looking at his boys.  “When I was about your age, I asked my mother the same question.  She didn’t answer it the way I expected, but it solved the problem for me about what to believe and what not to.  And she didn’t tell me- she read it to me out of a book.  I’ll go get that book and read it to you, and we’ll see what you think.”

“Okay,” his sons answered, almost in unison. 

***

The book wasn’t as easy to find as Fenton had hoped; he knew he’d left it in the basement, but which box it was in was a bit of a puzzle.  Once again, he caught himself vowing to set up some bookshelves down here as soon as he had the time.  However, he finally located the volume and headed back upstairs.  As he reached the top of the steps, he smelled the rich scent of hot chocolate and smiled a little wryly.  The boys would soon be tearing about in fits of hyperactivity, as if they weren’t already hyper enough.  He was a little surprised Joe had slowed down long enough to ask his question.

“Hey, that tree looks good,” he remarked, pausing in the kitchen doorway and regarding the long-needled pine with pleasure.  They had decided to go for the clear lights this year instead of colored ones, and the effect was quite different.  The brilliance was reminiscent of icicles, and the glitter off the tinsel enhanced that.  “Very wintry.”

“And it’s snowing!” Joe blurted.

“Ah, so we’re in tune with Mother Nature’s decorations, are we?  Excellent,” the tall man grinned. 

His wife pointed at a mug resting on the coffee table, saying, “Refreshment, dear?”

“Certainly, we might as well all be on a sugar high,” he teased with a wink.  Laying the book on the table, he told the boys, took up the mug and sipped cautiously at the hot chocolate.  “Mmm.  You added mint.”

“Good call,” Laura smiled.  “Now, I say that space under the tree looks dreadfully bare and empty-” she gestured at the glittery-white tree skirt “-so I’m going to put the stockings under there for now, and then I’m going to start dinner.  When you boys finish your cocoa, could you set the table for me?  And then get into your Sunday School clothes for church?”

“Dinner?”  Surprised, Fenton glanced at his watch.  “Five-thirty already- I guess we can look into that-” he gestured at the book “-after church.”

The boys hesitated, looking at their father.  Joe, particularly, looked rather impatient.  “Aw, Dad...”

“If we want to be on time for church at seven, we’re going to need to move along pretty quickly,” Fenton told his son gently.  “Besides, there’ll be more time to think about it later.”  And church itself might help the little lesson make more sense.

“Okay.”  Joe took a long swig of his hot chocolate, upending the mug completely, then dashed into the kitchen, reappeared a minute later minus the mug, and pelted up the steps. 

“You’re supposed to help me with the table first!” Frank called after him, and Fenton watched in amusement as his younger son spun around and charged right back down the stairs.

“Forgot!” Joe panted.  Frank grinned.

“We noticed.  Help me get the silverware...”

As the boys went off to the dining room, Fenton turned his attention to the cleaning up of the living room.  Scraps of tissue that the ornaments had been wrapped in went into the empty boxes.  The boxes went into the hall closet to wait for their next use at the end of the season.  Stray snips of red and green ribbon landed in the trash, and the remainder went upstairs to the giftwrap box.  All this, while avoiding the two young whirlwinds known in calmer times as his sons, who seemed to have doubled or tripled themselves without even trying in their hurry to set the table.

And through all the chaos, the book lay quietly on the coffee table, waiting for a calmer time to share its message.

***

After a delicious but slightly hurried supper, Fenton did a quick change from tree-decorating clothes to church clothes and went out to brush the snow off the car.  A few minutes later, Laura ushered the boys out- wrapped up like junior snow-men- and closed the front door.  Fenton admired the fact that she managed to keep them from scooping up even a handful of snow to throw at each other; he was fairly sure he wouldn’t have been successful at that. 

The drive through the familiar neighborhood to church was punctuated with the boys’ exclamations at the glowing house and yard decorations.  Fenton and his wife exchanged smiles at all the ‘Ooo, look!’s and ‘Hey, see that!’s enamating from the back seat.

The church itself looked remarkably like a Christmas card, between all the bundled-up people, the light streaming from the windows into the dark night, and the snow falling softly through the air.  And then came the sound- the low, majestic tolling of the steeple bell, followed by the higher, thrilling chorus of the smaller bells clanging and tinging in the clear, cold air.  The boys stood still, entranced, until the echoes faded and then moved solemnly towards the front doors. 

As usual, the sanctuary was crammed with people, to the point of having individual chairs lined up on both sides of the aisles beside the pews.  And even then, there were some who stood leaning against the walls through the service.  Fenton was impressed to note that Joe sat quite still through the service despite the length of it; he was normally incapable of sitting so still for so long and tended to fidget until someone told him to stop.  Fenton understood and sympathized with his younger son’s restlessness, but his fidgets tended to disturb and distract other people and needed to be curbed.

The sermon itself was fairly original, which impressed the detective.  He had a shrewd feeling that coming up with a new twist, a fresh aspect on a centuries-old holiday, might be rather challenging for the clergy.  And he was glad that most of the hymns were the traditional Christmas carols, for the boys’ sakes.  They both enjoyed singing their old favorites, and did so with gusto, if not always exactly on key.

After church ended, the boys ran around for a while with some of their Sunday School friends while Fenton and Laura talked with the adults.  Despite the warning from their mother not to get into any snowball fights, both children had large wet patches on their pants and jackets when they were called to the car.

Frank and Joe were a good deal quieter on the drive home, though whether from thoughtfulness or weariness was hard to say.  It wasn’t much later than they were used to staying up, but it had been a busy day.  However, the question was answered a few minutes after they got into the house again.  Joe shed his coat, was reminded by his mother to hang it up, did so, and then made a beeline for the book Fenton had left on the coffee table.

“Ah, yes, time to answer that question of yours.”  Fenton divested himself of his winter coat, then sat down on the sofa, taking the book from Joe.  Joe plopped down beside him, and Frank sat down on the other side, looking curious.

“Now, this is a story that was written a long time ago.  The writer-”  Fenton pointed to the name on the cover “-was born in 1867 and she lived through one of the most remarkable times in America, the time when the great West was being settled and enormous advances were being made.  She grew up seeing horse-and-wagons replaced with trains and cars; she saw telegraph wires become telephone wires; and when she was an old woman, she took a ride in an airplane- something that no one had imagined when she was first born.  She saw all these advances and progress, and she wrote them down when she wrote about her life.  Her name was Laura Ingalls.”

Both the boys blinked and looked at their mother, who successfully covered a laugh.  “I wasn’t named after her- though I would be proud if I was,” she answered the unspoken questions quietly.

“This particular book is one of a series,” Fenton went on, smiling at his wife.  “She began writing from her earliest memories, about all the places she lived.  In this book, she was seven and her older sister was eight.   Her family was living about three miles from town, beside a little river called Plum Creek.  Her father was farming the land, trying to get a good crop, and as a result her family was pretty poor at the time.  Christmas was coming, and the house was a little underground ‘sod’ house, dug into the ground.  Laura and her sister, Mary, were a little worried because there was no chimney- so how could Santa Claus get in?”  Fenton opened the book, paged through the chapters, and found his place.  “You can read the whole thing if you want, later, but this is the part my mother read to me.”

***

Laura and Mary knew that Santa Claus could not come down a chimney if there was no chimney.  One day Mary asked Ma how Santa Claus could come.  Ma did not answer.  Instead she said, “What do you girls want for Christmas?”

She was ironing.  One end of the ironing board was on the table and the other was on the bedstead.  Pa had made the bedstead that high, on purpose.  Carrie was playing on the bed and Laura and Mary sat at the table.  Mary was sorting quilt blocks and Laura was making a little apron for the rag doll, Charlotte.  The wind howled overhead and whined in the stovepipe, but there was no snow yet.

Laura said, “I want candy.”

“So do I,” Mary said, and Carrie cried, “Tandy?”

“And a new winter dress, and a coat, and a hood,” said Mary.

“So do I,” said Laura.  “And a new dress for Charlotte, and-”

Ma lifted the iron from the stove and held it out to them.  They could test the iron.  They licked their fingers and touched them, quicker than quick, to the smooth hot bottom.  If it crackled, the iron was hot enough. 

“Thank you, Mary and Laura,” Ma said.  She began ironing over and around the patches on Pa’s shirt.  “Do you know what Pa wants for Christmas?”

They did not know.

“Horses,” Ma said.  “Would you girls like horses?”

Laura and Mary looked at each other.

“I only thought,” Ma went on, “if we all wished for horses, and nothing but horses, then maybe-”

Laura felt queer.  Horses were everyday; they were not Christmas.  If Pa got horses, he would trade for them. Laura could not think of Santa Claus and horses at the same time.  “Ma!” she cried. “There IS a Santa Claus, isn’t there?”

“Of course there’s a Santa Claus,” said Ma.  She set the iron on the stove to heat again.  “The older you are, the more you know about Santa Claus,” she said.  “You are so big now, you know he can’t be just one man, don’t you?  You know he is everywhere on Christmas Eve.  He is in the Big Woods, and Indian Territory, and far away in York State, and here.  He comes down all the chimneys at the same time.  You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma,” said Mary and Laura.

“Well, then,” said Ma.  “Then you see-”

 “I guess he is like angels,” Mary said, slowly. 

And Laura could see that, just as well as Mary could.

Then Ma told them something else about Santa Claus.  He was everywhere, and besides that, he was all the time.

Whenever anyone was unselfish, that was Santa Claus. 

Christmas Eve was the time when everybody was unselfish.  On that one night, Santa Claus was everywhere, because everybody, all together, stopped being selfish and wanted other people to be happy.  And in the morning, you saw what that had done.

“If everybody wanted everybody else to be happy, all the time, then it would be Christmas all the time?” Laura asked, and Ma said, “Yes, Laura.”

***

Fenton stopped reading and closed the book, marking the place with his finger.  He looked at Frank, whose gaze was far away, and Joe, who looked exceptionally thoughtful.

“Like angels,” the younger boy said at last.

“Like angels,” Fenton agreed.

“He’s not...really a person,” Frank murmured slowly, his voice as distant as his gaze.  “He’s...like a...feeling.”

“He’s inside of us,” the detective amplified.  “The figures we see, with the beard and the red suit- that’s how we recognize him, as a figure of legend.  It helps if a legend has a face that everyone knows.  But what he does isn’t make toys and fly through the air to give them- that’s one of the not quite true parts.  People needed some explanation, some sort of magic, to explain how he could be in all places at one time.”

“You could say he’s the Spirit of Giving,” Laura spoke up softly.  “And he’s always jolly and happy because doing things for other people makes you happy.  That’s why Secret Santas enjoy it so much- it’s a chance to truly be a Santa Claus, to let that spirit inside you slip in and leave the gift and slip away again without being seen.  Like Santa- or like magic.”

Frank’s face lit up with a smile, and Fenton gave his wife a warm, respectful glance.  Joe bounced on the sofa and proclaimed, “I like that!  That’s better than elves and chimneys!”

“That’s about what I thought, when my mother read it to me.  It’s better to have a feeling that you have inside yourself, and really know is a true one, and share with people, than to wonder about elves and chimneys and reindeer, yes?”

“Definitely,” Frank agreed firmly. 

“Laura Ingalls thought so, too,” Fenton continued.  “She asked her Pa for horses for Christmas, even though she really wasn’t sure she wanted to.  She was sad at first, thinking she’d have no Christmas, only horses, so when she said her prayers that night, she asked to be happy about wanting horses.  And suddenly, she was happy, because she loved horses- and because she had been unselfish and made her Pa very happy.”

“Did they get horses?” Frank asked.

“They did get horses.  And they got their stockings, too, so they had Christmas after all.”

“Oh, that’s good!” Joe exclaimed, satisfaction in his voice.  “I bet she was really surprised to get both Christmas and horses.”

“Things like that can happen, when you want to do things for other people,” Fenton agreed.  “Now, I think it’s time my two imps head to bed so we can see what the Spirit of Giving will do.”

Joe grinned and hopped off the sofa, followed by his brother.  Their footsteps thudded up the stairs, and relative quiet descended on the living room.

“What a remarkable, wise woman Caroline Ingalls was,” Laura said at last, regarding the book with tender respect.  “How many mothers could have so deftly turned their children from acquisitivness to generosity with a few words?  And all while altering their belief in someone magical to something just as magical?  I don’t think I could have done it.”

“She gave them the true meaning of Christmas,” Fenton agreed quietly, placing ‘On the Banks of Plum Creek’ back on the table.  “And she did it without taking away their cherished belief.  I would have liked to meet that woman.  And I would love to thank her daughter for passing that down through the decades; it obviously made quite an impression on her.”

“Not to mention getting us out of a bit of a tight spot,” Laura remarked wryly.  “I’m surprised the question didn’t come up before.  Trust Frank to sniff out the logical inconsistencies!” 

“Of which there are quite a few.  Well, I think we can say that went well, love.  Now- which of those tins of cookies did you say were for us?”

***

Frank Hardy lay staring out the window at the falling snow, half excited and half sleepy.  Beside him, snuggled close, lay Joe, a good deal more asleep than excited.  Mom and Dad didn't know he was there; Joe had snuck down after they came upstairs.  It wasn't any fear of nightmares that had made him sneak into Frank's room- not tonight.  It was just their own special thing to do on Christmas Eve- to listen and wait and watch together, and finally fall asleep.

The house was silent- Mom and Dad had gone to bed at least an hour ago- but the window was lit by the snow, reflecting the street and decoration lights as it fell. 

The eight-year-old smiled, thinking of his father’s explanation after church.  He definitely liked that better than the not-very-believable Santa story he’d heard most of his life.  He’d been reluctant to disbelieve, and even more reluctant to break Joe’s belief, but it simply hadn’t made sense.  Joe had argued for magic, talking of bottomless bags, super-reindeer and stopping time for one night, but the younger boy’s voice had been unconvinced even as he insisted that it had to be real.  It was too much like a fairy tale- or a comic book.

This was a reality they both liked.  And if the Santa they believed in now didn’t drive a sleigh, still he existed, like angels.  Angels to look after people; Santa to help them be generous to each other.

“’S’too bad about the reindeer,” Joe had murmured a few minutes ago.  “Flying would be cool.”

“Yeah, but it woulda been awful cold, too,” Frank had pointed out.  “Besides, it would mean getting awful dirty, going down all those chimneys.”

“That’s true.  It’s better that he’s inside us.”

Frank had nodded.  Now, listening to his brother’s soft, sleeping breaths, he found he only regretted one thing- the bells.  Every Christmas Eve, he had lain awake, listening for the first jingle of the bells on the reindeers’ harness.  Once, he’d been positive he’d heard it.  It had turned out to be music from the neighbors’ radio as a door opened and closed- maybe that was when he’d first started doubting?

‘Oh well.  Santa, you’re inside me and you know I want to make my family happy.  Come while I’m sleeping and leave some magic for us.’

As he drifted into a deep sleep, Frank thought- just for a second- that he heard... from somewhere very distant, soft but clear...

Sleigh bells.

***

Author's Note

- To the memory Caroline Quiner Ingalls, who taught her daughters so wisely and well; and to the memory of Laura Ingalls Wilder, who remembered her mother’s words and shared them.-