The evening before Christmas

After the crowd of villagers had dispersed on that merry Christmas day of the sled race, Nicholas was stopped at the door of the cottage where he had spent the last year by a lean, dark looking man who looked as though he had never smiled in his life. It was Bertram Marsden the wood carver of the village, who all the children called “Mad Marsden” because he lived alone, rarely spoke to anybody and chased the children away from his door with black looks and harsh words.
“You haven’t forgotten have you Nicholas that you move to my house today?” Marsden asked gruffly.
Nicholas looked up. Oh no, he hadn’t forgotten, and he well knew why Marsden had offered to take him in for the last year of his life as a wandering orphan. The only reason he was willing, even eager, to feed and clothe Nicholas was because for almost five years now he had watched the work he had been doing with his old pocketknife, and realized that Nicholas would make a very good and cheap apprentice for him. Once again Nicholas packed his few belongings onto his new sled, said a grateful farewell to the family he was leaving, and followed Mad Marsden home to his mean looking cottage on the outskirts of the village. On entering the cottage, Nicholas stepped immediately into the main workroom of the wood carver. Here was found his bench, worktable, tools and an assortment of wood. Marsden pointed to a door in the corner and said, “You can store your belongings in there. Nicholas stood in the middle of the untidy room, looking around in dismay. “There’s a bed you can sleep on and you might as well put that pretty sled away for good. We have no time here to go romping in the snow. Come now Nicholas, don’t stand there gawking. Put away your belongings; you have much to learn here. “I’m going to make a good wood carver of you. There’ll be no time for silly little dolls and wooden toys. You’ll have to earn your keep here. Oh, by the way you can keep that tribe of young children that always follow you about away from here, do you understand me boy?"
Nicholas bowed his head and went silently to work putting away his small bundle of belongings.
So Nicholas started to work for the mad old wood carver and learned that his father’s old pocket-knife was a clumsy tool compared with the beautifully sharp knives and chisels that Marsden used. He learned to work for hours on end, bent over the bench beside his master, patiently going over a piece of wood until it was smooth as a piece of glass.

Sadly Nicholas could not learn to get used to the dreadful loneliness of the cottage, and longed for the days when he had been in friendlier ones sur-rounded by laughing children. Over the months, so as not to make it obvious to Marsden, Nicholas gradually cleaned and brightened the cottage to make his enforced home bearable. One night as Marsden sat in front of the fire, silently smoking his long curved pipe, he noticed that Nicholas was still bent over the workbench engrossed in some task. “Here lad,” he said almost kindly, in his gruff voice. “I’m not such a hard master that I would have you work night as well as day. What’s that you’re doing? Why don’t you go to your bed?
“It’s only a small piece of wood you threw away,” said Nicholas quickly, “I’m trying to make a copy of that chair you finished today, but this is a little one- a toy,” he ended fearfully, for he well knew that the word “toy” would mean children to old Marsden, and for some strange reason just to mention a child in his presence sent him into a terrible rage. Tonight however, he contented himself with merely a black look, and said, “Let me see it. Hmm, not bad, but you have the scroll on the back larger on one side than the other. Here, pass me that small knife.” Nicholas hastened to give him the small tool and watched admiringly as the old craftsman deftly corrected the mistake
“There,” Marsden said finally, holding the work away from him so that he could study it, “that’s the way it should be done.”
Then, instead of handing the little chair to Nicholas, who was waiting expectantly, he continued holding it in his hands whilst a sad expression came into the fierce old eyes as he remembered the toys he had made for his own two sons many, many years ago. Slowly a smile grew on the tired old face, Nicholas blinked and looked again. Yes a real smile was tugging at the corners of that stern mouth which had been turned down for so many years. Marsden lifted his head, and looked at the strong young face with the kind blue eyes. “You’re a good lad Nicholas, and,” he added almost shyly, for it wasn’t easy for a harsh man to change so quickly, “I think I’d like to help you with some of those little things you make. We’ll make them together these long winter evenings, eh, shall we Nicholas. You can deliver them on Christmas day in that fine sled of yours. Perhaps by then you might even like to stay and live with me next year,” the old man added in such a soft voice it sounded like a plea. He grasped Nicholas’ arm almost roughly, then a peaceful expression crept into the lonely old face as the boy answered simply, “Yes, of course master.

I’ll stay here with you just as long as you want me to.”
So every winter evening saw two heads bent over the workbench. A grey head with thick, shaggy hair, and the smooth yellow head of a boy. They worked feverishly during the weeks before Christmas and with the old man helping with the carving, Nicholas was able to add delicate little touches to the toys, which made them far more handsome than any he had made before. He painted the dolls’ faces so that their eyes were as blue and their cheeks and lips were as rosy as the little girls who would soon clasp them in their arms. The little chairs and tables were stained with the same soft colours that Mars-den used on his own work; the little boys’ sleds and boats were shiny with bright new paints, red, yel-low, blue and green
Only two nights before Christmas, everything was finished. Although a toy for every child in the vil-lage was packed onto the sled with metal runners, Nicholas and the old man were still working at the bench. This time, they were desperately trying to finish a chest, which had been ordered by a wealthy woman in the next village twenty miles away. It was late on Christmas Eve when it was eventually finished. “I’m sorry,” said old Marsden reading Nicholas’ thoughts. “You’ll have to take it over tomorrow. I’d go myself, but I’m not as strong as I used to be. It’s an all day trip, twenty miles over, then you’ll have to wait a few hours to rest the horses, and then the twenty long miles back. “If only she didn’t want the chest tomorrow,” said Nicholas. “Well,” answered his master, “We did promise it, and it has to be delivered on time. Now the toys weren’t promised...”
“No, but I have given them,” interrupted Nicholas.
“I was going to say lad, that they weren’t promised for Christmas day. Now you know that little children go to bed early. Why can’t you...”
“Why of course!” Nicholas jumped to his feet shouting, “Where’s my list? Where’s my sled? I’ll have to hurry.”
Outside, the village was asleep. No one saw the lone figure, wrapped up against the crisp icy air, dragging a sled from house to house, leaving a small pile of toys in each doorway until it was empty. It was three o’clock on Christmas morning when Nicholas turned away from the last doorway. His sled was now much lighter to pull, but his feet were tired from trudging through the heavy snow, but he was happy it was Christmas and once again he had kept his unspoken promise to the children of the village.