Christmas Eve started off all right. The usual flurry of last minute shoppers, but Mr. Lytell prided himself on his ability to predict what Glen Road shoppers might need and keep it on hand. As the only store handy to the rural Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson neighborhood, he’d gradually added items to his stock until his little market had become part grocery, part drug store, part five and dime. From packaged hot rolls and bakery-fresh pecan pies to wrapping paper and sundry small gift items, Lytell could usually bail out the harried and hurried.

Things started to go wrong when that Belden tomboy came roaring up to his store at 3:20 p.m. He had closed at 3:00 p.m. – he’d posted his holiday hours on the door a few weeks before – and was outside loading the trunk of his car for some home deliveries he had scheduled. The day was so foggy that he didn’t see Trixie until she was almost upon him, hollering at the top of her lungs.

"Mr. Lytell, Mr. Lytell! I’m so glad you’re still here! I’ve got to get the toy train caboose for Bobby!" Trixie was gasping for breath, her cheeks red, her blonde curls tumbling around her face.

For just a moment Lytell thought of how much Trixie was coming to look like her pretty mother as she grew up. She also reminded him of another pretty young girl he’d known once…

He pushed that thought away and glared at Trixie. She was nothing like those sweet young ladies, she was a loud no-account who didn’t know her place or how to act.

"See here, you don’t come running out of nowhere yelling at me," Lytell said, glaring over his glasses. "The store’s closed and I’m scheduled to make these deliveries to Mrs. Vanderpoel, Mrs. Elliot and some other folks. They’ve had their orders in for a few days now."

"I’m sorry, Mr. Lytell, but it’s so important. I’m supposed to pick up one of those toy cabooses you sell for the Lionel Little Chief series¹," Trixie said.

"I’ve already taken inventory and locked those items away in the back" Lytell slammed the trunk shut. "Now, folks are expecting me and I’ve got to be on my way."

Trixie shook her head in disbelief. "Oh, no, I’ve just got to buy that caboose! For the last four years we’ve been getting Bobby a toy train car as his special gift from Santa Claus. Now he’ll have a complete set and probably next year he won’t believe in Santa, but this year he still sorta does and – oh! -- you’ve just got to sell me that caboose!"

"I don’t have to do any such thing, Trixie Belden," Lytell said airily. "You shouldn’t have left it until the last minute. It’s dark and getting darker. I’m not going to risk my neck because you can’t get here during business hours."

"But it’s just one thing!" the Belden girl’s mouth was almost hanging open. "Mr. Lytell, I’ll pay you double." She pulled some money out of her jeans pocket, frowned down at it and then said, "Well, I’ll pay you extra, anyway. You don’t have to give me any change. You know how much this means to Bobby’s Christmas. If I don’t come home with that train Moms and Dad’ll just kill me!"

Mr. Lytell sniffed. "Your parents will do no such thing – I know they spoil you rotten. Well, it’s high time you learned that you don’t just waltz in at the last minute and tell a hard-working man what he has to do with his own store! Now, my shop is closed for the day! C-L-O-S-E-D!" Mr. Lytell got in his car and slammed the door shut.

Trixie continued to protest, banging on the car window. "No, please! It’s so important to Bobby! It’ll only take a minute!"

Without looking up, Mr. Lytell waved his hand dismissively and put the car in motion. Trixie stood there stunned, then clinched her fist and yelled something. Lytell paid her no mind but pulled onto Glen Road and headed into town. Once on the road he glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the girl trudging the opposite direction on Glen Road toward her family’s home, Crabapple Farm.

Mr. Lytell felt a peculiar mix of shame and satisfaction. He’d known Peter and Helen Belden all of his adult life. He liked and respected them and they were good customers. He regretted having to deal sternly with their child. But that girl always seemed to rattle him. Always running in yelling, or coming up with some cockamamie idea, some emergency that threw his orderly world into chaos.

"Got to teach the kids responsibility and manners," Lytell grumbled to himself as he drove toward his deliveries.

The day was so foggy that Lytell had to proceed at a snail’s pace and the deliveries took every bit as long as he had feared. By the time he left Mrs. Vanderpoel’s and headed home it was nearly 5:00 p.m. and, except for the foggy mist, pitch black.

About the time he thought he was nearing his store, Lytell realized he’d missed his turn. To his right was the turn that led up the hill to the remains of the Ten Acres mansion that had burned to the ground a few years before. He decided to pull in there, turn around and head back to his store. He turned cautiously off to the right. As he did his headlight caught a thin figure, what looked like, at first glance, a scarecrow. But as Lytell stared through the fog he saw that an old man in raggedy clothes was standing in the middle of Ten Acres road staring straight back at him. Lytell was so astonished he slammed on the brakes and the car coughed to a stop.

"What in tarnation?" Lytell ripped off his spectacles, wiped them and put them back on. The man was gone. Lytell looked around suspiciously, started his car again and inched back to his store.

Except that he was dead, the figure had looked like James Winthrop Frayne. Old Man Frayne, that was, the old recluse who’d lived alone at Ten Acres all those years. Lytell had been one of the pall bearers at his funeral, along with Trixie’s father, Peter Belden. Except for Mrs. Peter Belden, Helen, there’d been no other mourners. Sad that a man who’d lived for so long in these parts had no one to mourn him…

When he reached his store, Lytell parked and looked out in the direction of the little lean-to where he kept his old mare, Belle. "Too late and too dangerous to exercise Belle tonight," he decided. Too spooky too, but Lytell wouldn’t admit that to himself.

He headed to his store’s entrance where a tall wooden statue of an Indian Chief stood like a sentinel. Looking around nervously through the fog, Lytell fumbled and dropped his keys at the door. He stooped over to pick them up and somehow…as he bent over…he knew he was not alone.

He rose slowly, reluctantly, his eyes traveling up the carved wooden statue. When he got to the face, he cringed and moaned softly. Frayne’s face was super-imposed on the statue’s face like a milky mask. Lytell sucked in a breath and his eyes opened wide.

Just as suddenly, the face disappeared. Lytell took another deep breath, thrust his keys in the door and scurried inside, double checking the lock. He stood for a moment with his back toward the door, then whipped around suddenly and peered out into the night.

Nothing.

Lytell gathered his thoughts and picked up a flashlight he kept under the counter. Then he headed toward the stairs that led to his living quarters above the store. The point was, James Winthrop Frayne was dead. Dead and gone, he told himself.

Many years before he and Frayne had been friends who shared a game of checkers or a glass of lemonade. Mrs. Frayne had been a real lady and Lytell knew James Frayne had been a happy man. Then there had been that horrible death by the road, Mrs. Frayne snakebit and their car stranded. From then on, the man was haunted…

Lytell stopped in his tracks midway up the stairs. Haunted. Had there been a creaking sound? He couldn’t help himself, he turned around shining the flashlight toward the stairs below. Nothing. He shook his head, disgusted with himself and his fear.

Resolutely he continued his train of thought…James Frayne had been a haunted man after he’d lost his wife. He’d holed up in Ten Acres and hardly ventured out again. When he stopped by Lytell’s store in his torn shirts and scraggly beard, he’d scoop up some cans and do no more than grunt or nod in response to Lytell or anyone else.

At the stair’s landing Lytell paused once more and glanced back before opening the door to his living quarters. He carefully locked the door and then lit the old gas heater that stood against the wall. He went to the kitchenette to brew some coffee and heat up some of Maypenny’s venison stew.

Now that he thought of it, Lytell recalled that Frayne’s birthday had been on Christmas Eve. This must be about 75 years since Frayne’s birth as he’d died just a year and a half before at the relatively young age of 73.

Christmas Eve. Well, what if it was Christmas Eve and James Frayne’s birthday? "Happens every year this time of year," Lytell said to himself.

He put his meal on a tray and sat down by the little gas heater. He took a bite of the stew, savoring its thick warmth. But the next instant, he dropped his spoon into the bowl.

Someone was moving downstairs. Lytell listened with growing alarm. He stared fixedly at the door to his living quarters. In his confused state of mind he thought that the footsteps were accompanied by the sound of heavy chains being dragged, like heavy furniture, up the stairs. Lytell wanted to run, but couldn’t even move.

Outside his door, the steps came to a stop and, with a clatter, so did the chains. Then what looked like wisps of smoke filtered through the wooden door. The smoke thickened rapidly and, as Lytell watched in terror, formed into the face and physique of James Winthrop Frayne. The ragged clothes, the matchstick thin body, the haunted eyes – all stood in ghostly form in Lytell’s living quarters.

"Bartholomew Lytell!" the Ghost roared out.

Lytell was quivering. He did not want to talk with such a thing – to give it the hold in reality that a conversation would signify.

"Bartholomew Lytell!" the Ghost roared even louder, insisting on an answer.

"Wha - a - a t?" Lytell got out in a pathetic whisper.

"Do you know who I am?" Frayne’s Ghost seemed somewhat mollified by Lytell’s answer.

"I know who you appear to be," Lytell said cautiously.

Lytell’s visitor regarded him narrowly. "Indeed, Bartholomew, I am only an appearance now. Once I was a man like you. I walked in the woods, visited my neighbors, kept up my property."

Frayne’s Ghost held his arms upward and shook them in despair, the clattering of the chains causing Lytell to shrink into his chair. "Now, I am doomed!" the voice rose in agony. "I am doomed to wander the world, the world that I rejected and despised for the last years of my life."

"Doomed?" Lytell echoed dumbly.

"Doomed because I did not understand that it is the job of the human spirit, whatever our circumstances, to be about the business of building up and supporting of others. When my wife died, I allowed myself to sink into bitterness. I rejected the life that had taken her from me. I made no effort to involve myself in the life that was left to me, for my good or the good of others. Now, in death I am condemned to roam the world wanting to give to others, but unable and, worst of all, still separated from her, whom I loved most."

"But, what does that have to do with me?" Lytell asked.

The Ghost fixed its terrible gaze on Lytell and the ghostly form gestured menacingly toward him. "I am here to warn you so that you may escape the fate that has befallen me."

"That’s neighborly of you," Lytell said uncertainly.

"Neighborly, bah!" the Ghost nodded its head. "Tell me, what kind of a neighbor are you, Lytell?"

"Why, I - I know everybody!" Lytell stuttered. "I know everybody around here and everyone knows me. I’m not at all isolated!"

"Is that so?" Frayne’s ghost asked. "Is that so?" it roared again.

Lytell shrank back into his chair. "I think so," he was whispering again.

Paying him no mind, the Ghost continued speaking, "But how are you involved with your neighbors? On what terms? Do you promote their welfare?"

Now Lytell was starting to get a little angry. "I’m an upstanding member of this community," he said, somewhat stuffily.

"I was a member of this community once," Frayne’s Ghost said. "Then my wife died and I lost everything. I became the butt of jokes, the fool on the hill."

"I always felt bad for you, James," Lytell said.

"Did you?" the Ghost roared in an accusatory voice. "Did you? The rumors and gossip started before we had laid my wife to rest. Ugly stories – maybe I hadn't done everything I could, maybe I lost my head, and some even whispered, that maybe I’d done nothing and watched my wife die – on purpose! Ugly innuendo. Do you recall that, Bartholomew?"

"I - I - I," Lytell stammered.

"I’d lost the one person that gave my life meaning and the whisperers said it might have been my fault! Do you recall that?" the Ghost was glaring at him.

Lytell started to protest, then hung his head. "I’m sorry, James. I’m so sorry. It was my careless tongue. I really didn’t mean it."

"But I’m not the only victim of your gossiping and backbiting, am I, Bartholomew? Finding fault and tearing down your neighbors is a long-standing occupation of yours. Well, tonight, it will be your faults that will be examined. You will be haunted tonight by Three Spirits," Frayne’s Ghost declared.

"Three!?" Lytell cried in alarm.

"Three!" the Ghost insisted. "This is the only way for you to avoid the horrible fate that’s befallen me. Expect the first tonight when the clock strikes one. You’ll see me no more. But if you are wise, you’ll remember this conversation the rest of your days."

With that, Frayne’s Ghost turned toward the door. He strode decidedly, dragging the chains behind. He disappeared through the door and Lytell listened as the sound faded off down the stairs.

After Frayne’s Ghost left, Lytell turned up the gas heater as high as it would go. He moved to the couch and pulled a blanket around him, his eyes roaming nervously around the room. He wanted desperately to believe it had been a dream, something brought on by overwork or the eerie weather. But in his bones he knew he’d been visited by Frayne’s Ghost. And that more were to come.

Eventually, despite his fear, Lytell fell into a fitful sleep, napping on the couch. Just before one o-clock he awoke with a start and listened with dread as the hallway clock chimed out a single stroke.

One a.m.

 

Christmas Past

As Lytell braced himself he noticed that the air in the corner by the door seemed to whirl silently and coalesce into a ghostly form. Then before him stood an old man, white-haired and stooped in posture.

"Are you one of the Spirits Frayne spoke of?" Lytell asked.

"I am. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Christmas past?"

"Your past," the Spirit said calmly. "Come with me," he continued, holding out a ghostly arm.

Lytell rose and tentatively put his hand on the Spirit’s arm. As he did Lytell found that his surroundings changed to a small, drably furnished home. It was a home he had known long ago.

 

Bartie’s Christmas

A small family was gathered around a listless Christmas tree. There were only a few presents underneath the tree to go among the three children and their parents.

The youngest of the children, a boy of about seven, was dancing and cavorting around the Christmas tree. "Maybe Santa brought me a choo-choo train!" he said excitedly.

Lytell saw the mother bite her lip. The father clinched his fists in frustration then gruffly handed the boy a flat, square package -- anyone could see that it did not contain a toy train. But the boy tore into it anyway. He opened the package and then slowly held up a sensible, brown woolen sweater.

"It’s…nice," he said, his disappointment plain for all to see.

"Bartie," the mother started to say gently.

"Oh, forget it," the father said harshly to the mother. Then he turned to the boy. "You’re a big boy, Bartholomew. It’s time you forgot all that humbug about Santa Claus and toys! Times are hard. You get what you need, not what you want! "

"Yes, father," the boy said, tears forming in his eyes.

As Lytell watched this scene he felt tears in his own eyes. "Poor boy," he said. "I wish," he started to say. "But it’s too late now."

"What are you thinking?" the Spirit asked.

"It’s nothing," Lytell said. "I know a boy who would like a caboose to complete his train set. I should have found a way to get it for him. That’s all."

The Ghost smiled at Lytell. Then, waving its hand said, "Let’s see another Christmas."

At the Spirit’s words the little boy, Bartie, developed into a young man and the scene was transformed into Lytell’s store when he had first purchased it. The store was completely bare and young Bart was studying some papers.

In one of the window ledges sat a lovely young woman with sandy blonde hair piled high on her head. A few curls at the sides of her face framed her blue eyes. She looked out the window at the falling snow and under her breath she sang the tune of the old Shaker hymn, Simple Gifts. But the words she sang turned the hymn into a Christmas carol:

In the gift we deliver, in the gift we receive

is the living Spirit Mary did conceive.

A royal gift of love’s incandescent flame

is given to all mankind in His name.

Joy, joy, it is a true delight

to give and receive on this wondrous night.

A boy Child to Mary is born

and His light will shine on beyond the dawn.²

She stopped singing and turned to the young man. "Bart, can’t we go?" she asked tiredly.

"This work won’t do itself, Alicia," Bart replied.

"All work and no play make Bart a dull boy," she retorted.

"Play! Bah! Alicia, I’ve got to get my business established."

"But it’s Christmas Eve!" Alicia³ objected. "I’d hoped we could go on the sleigh ride with Peter Belden and my sister, Helen. A sleigh ride on Christmas Eve would be so cozy!"

"Sleigh ride," Bart said contemptuously, not even looking up from the column of numbers he was studying.

Alicia seemed to have come to a decision. "Bart, I think we should stop keeping company," she said quietly.

Bart looked up, confused.

Alicia continued in a gentle, but firm voice. "When Helen and I first started visiting the Belden’s at Crabapple Farm two years ago you were young and full of life. But now," she shrugged. "I know your store is important. But you seem to have lost sight of life. You have no joy."

"Joy?" Bart was genuinely confused. "Joy? I’m content. I pay my bills. I’m getting ahead."

Alicia shook her head. "That’s what I mean," she said sadly. "You don’t seem to notice any horizon beyond getting ahead, even at the expense of killing your soul."

"My soul!" Lytell snorted.

"Yes, your soul!" Alicia replied. "You only see the value in things that you can hold onto, count and arrange. You don’t see the value in others – only what’s wrong in them. You have no joy!" she repeated.

"Look, Alicia, I’ve got more important things on my mind right now."

"What’s more important than the ability to enjoy life, to appreciate what’s around you?" Alicia asked.

"You’re talking nonsense," Lytell started to say, but Alicia interrupted him.

"No. I see how it is now. The owner of this store is not the same man who once carved this piece for me," in her hands Alicia held out a beautiful locket, a piece of carved faux ivory that had been fastened around her neck by a black velvet ribbon.

Alicia looked down at the locket with regret. On the ivory was a delicate scrimshaw carving of exquisite artistry: the black, white and dark red stripes of a bob-white against a background of green shrubbery. Bart had carved it for her one summer day as they sat on a tree stump near Crabapple Farm and listened to the bob-whites calling in the woods. Later he’d mounted it on a gold base and attached it to a ribbon. He’d given it to her last Christmas and Alicia had worn it almost daily since then.

"I want you to take this back," Alicia said, holding out the necklace. "I can’t wear it any longer, it’s too painful. You wouldn’t spend an afternoon now in the pointless pleasure of carving an unnecessary bit of jewelry. You have your business. No distractions."

"Alicia, you just have to understand what a lot of work a business is."

"I do understand but I also understand this: between our getting married and you’re having an opportunity to turn a profit a month earlier, which is the more important to you?"

Bart paused and it was a fatal pause. Alicia understood what Bart’s pause meant and her face showed the pain it gave her to understand. She lay the necklace on the counter. "Good-by, Bart. I hope you will be happy." Then she headed toward the door.

Watching this scene, Lytell had become more and more anxious. Now shaking, he turned to the Spirit. "Please," he cried. "Please take me away from this. I can’t bear to it any more!"

"But this is the Christmas of your past, Bartholomew."

The figure of Alicia was disappearing into the woods, into the foggy past. "Please take me home," Lytell begged the Spirit of Christmas Past. He waved his arm at the scene, gesturing for it to be gone.

In the next moment, Lytell found himself back in his upstairs living quarters. Without even looking back at the Spirit of Christmas Past he stumbled off to his bedroom, collapsed into bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Some time later – he didn't know how long – Lytell awoke with a start. The wind, which had kept up a low moaning most of the night had died down. Lytell looked around his bedroom, surprised to realize that he now believed in Spirits and was calmly expecting the next one.

He lay there for several minutes until gradually he became aware of a sharp cracking noise. It had a cheerful, lively sound, as of twigs snapping in a fire and Lytell realized that it was coming from his living room.

Lytell decided not to wait out his fate but to go and meet his next ghostly visitor. As he shuffled down the hall he heard his name called.

"Bartholomew Lytell," the voice was kindly. "Come in."

Lytell’s living quarters had been transformed with Christmas wreaths, a giant tree, and cheerful candles at the windows. On his table was a feast: turkey, dressing, potatoes, pecan pies and hot rolls. Next to the table stood an immense Spirit robed in a long white fur coat. He was cracking open pecans – that was the noise Lytell had heard – throwing back his head and tossing a handful in.

"Merry Christmas, Master Bartholomew!" he roared out.

At least the Spirits’ manners are improving, Lytell thought to himself. "Merry Christmas to you," he said politely.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," the Spirit said expansively. "Consider all I have to give."

Lytell looked around the cheerful scene. From somewhere came the strains of a carol: "the gift, the gift," he heard. The song seemed to wreathe its way into the air, making the very atmosphere in Lytell’s little home seem suffused with a golden light.

"Follow me," the Spirit said and as Lytell followed, he found that they rode the song across the fields and woods to Crabapple Farm. The Beldens were gathered ‘round their table and Lytell watched as they laughed and ate and laughed and ate some more. They were not richly dressed and the tablecloth looked less like an heirloom than a plain old hand me down. The presents that lay opened around the tree were not numerous nor did they appear to be expensive. And yet the Beldens laughed and carried on as if no home on earth was more blessed.

"What do you think?" asked the Spirit of Christmas Present.

"I see now that what was in short supply in my childhood home was not toys or gifts, but joy," Lytell replied. "I labored to come by the things I thought I’d been deprived of. But it wasn’t things that I really needed."

The Spirit nodded with satisfaction.

After finishing their dinner, all of the Beldens pitched in to help clean-up. There was much hilarity as Trixie and Mart began snapping at each other with their wet dishcloths. Bobby cheered for first one, then the other, until he picked up his own dishcloth and began a tug of war with Reddy. Finally the whole family put on their winter coats and trooped up the hill to the Wheelers’.

Still riding the song, Lytell and the Spirit of Christmas Present followed the Beldens up the hill. Inside the Manor House the Beldens joined the Wheelers, their governess, Miss Trask and their groom, Regan, beside a roaring fire. Maids served eggnog and hot apple cider.

As Lytell and the Spirit watched, Jim Frayne, old man Frayne’s nephew began speaking. "I feel sorry for the old guy," he said. "Remember that summer when Trixie and Honey found the diamond in the gatehouse? He came riding up on old Belle and we were all ready to gallop off to the four winds to avoid seeing him!"

"Bob-whites turn tail!" Mart cried, and everyone laughed as he gave the bob-white call while leaping up out of his chair, bending at the waist and turning his backside to the group.

"Or the time he was so suspicious of Trixie and she was only doing what no one else thought of to do – making sure I had another week to get the money to buy his jalopy from him," Brian said, clapping his arm affectionately around his sister’s neck.

"Here’s a toast," Mr. Wheeler said, holding aloft his mug. "To confounding that confounded Mr. Lytell!" Everyone laughed and cheered and raised their glass or mug in toast.

Lytell seemed to not quite realize that the gaiety was at his expense, catching only the infectious spirit of fun, nodding and laughing along with the group. He made as if he wanted to stay, but the Spirit of Christmas Present tapped him on the shoulder and said they must go.

"So soon?," Lytell asked in disappointment. But the Spirit was insistent and soon they were flying back across the Wheeler’s game preserve headed towards Lytell’s store.

As they arrived back at Lytell’s from somewhere a church bell sounded the hour. When Lytell turned around the Spirit of Christmas Present was nowhere to be found. Instead, headed toward him was a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded all in black and moving like a mist along the ground. Lytell was seized with a dread as great as any he had felt this night as the seemingly empty robe moved silently closer. He shrank back into the store entrance.

"Are you the Spirit of Christmas Future?" Lytell asked fearfully.

The Spirit said nothing, only pointing toward the window of Lytell’s store.

Lytell moved out from the entrance to see where the Spirit was pointing. He gasped when he saw a huge sign in the window that read, "Going Out of Business. Prices Slashed. Everything Must Go."

In the aisles of the store, Lytell saw customers scooping up items for pennies. It looked like a fire sale. He saw an older, more gray-haired version of himself standing behind the counter watching helplessly.

"But why out of business?" Lytell fretted as he watched the scene unfold. "I don’t deserve this. I have minded my store. I’ve taken care of business."

For answer, the Phantom moved away and headed over the trails to the Manor House. Lytell found himself caught up in the tail of its robe and pulled along by the Phantom back to the Manor House. This time it was summer: Mr. Wheeler, Honey Wheeler, Jim Frayne, Miss Trask, and the teen-aged Belden children were gathered on the verandah speaking to a beautiful, blonde young woman.

"Laura, tell us about your father," Miss Trask was saying to the young woman.

The young woman began to speak warmly and at length about her father, whom she swore she loved and who, she said, she was determined to find if she had to go to the ends of the earth.

Mr. Wheeler handed the young woman a check. "Let us know if you need anything else," he urged.

Suddenly, Lytell knew – without knowing how he knew – that this young woman was the reason he was going out of business.

"She took my money," he said to the group, but they neither saw nor heard him. He went from person to person, anxiously repeating, "She’s a phony! She took me for all I’m worth!"

Miss Trask began to pour strawberry pop into crystal glasses which she served to the group. "To finding your father," she said.

Everyone said, "Hear, Hear!" as they drank a toast of strawberry pop.

Mr. Lytell could hardly contain himself. "But she’s a liar!" he fumed. "Can’t they see that?"

Just then Trixie Belden spoke up, "You won’t believe this, but Mr. Lytell asked me to look into your background, Laura," she said. "But I told him, I was going to stick to the advice he’s always giving me and not meddle in things that are over my head!"

Everyone laughed and took another sip of strawberry pop.

Somehow, in his mind’s eye, Lytell was able to see the two scenes at once. On one side, shoppers were stripping his store bare. On the other side the woman who had conned him, Laura, was ensconced as the Wheeler’s guest of honor.

He put his head in his hands. "Oh, how could this be," he moaned quietly. "I’ve lost everything – my business, but even worse, my friends are siding with my enemy."

Lytell turned to the Spirit of Christmas Future. "Tell me," he said eagerly. "Is there any way to avoid this? Knowing what I know now, I plan to amend my life. Will it make a difference?"

The scenes faded and the Phantom dipped the hood covering its head. They were in the woods again, the fog was gathering

"I will honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year," Lytell swore. "The lessons of the Spirits of all Three Christmases will be uppermost in my mind. Oh tell me, I can change this."

The Spirit made no answer, but faded away as the fog closed in.

"No strawberry pop for me," Trixie Belden was mumbling, still half asleep. She opened her eyes to see her brother Mart standing over her, shaking her shoulders.

"What?!" he said. "Wake up, you goon, it’s Christmas morning. And the beverages of choice at the Belden domain will be Mom’s apple cider or Dad’s eggnog, not rooty-tooty-fruity strawberry pop!"

Trixie rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed.

"Gleeps, Mart, I had the strangest dream last night!" she exclaimed. "I dreamed Mr. Lytell was visited by three ghosts and everyone was in it, even Aunt Alicia, and she had a Bob-white necklace and we were all drinking strawberry pop!"

"I refuse to be implicated in the menus of your insane nocturnal apparitions," Mart declared. "Rise and shine, oh Dreamweaver, Moms wants you down in the kitchen to help get Christmas dinner started before our youngest sibling lays siege to the Christmas tree!"

"Right," Trixie moaned slightly and pulled the covers up around her. "Is Bobby awake yet?"

"At last check, the youngest Belden’s eyes were still closed and it is fair to presume that sugarplums are still dancing through his head -- as opposed to strawberry pop," Mart said. "But he’ll be up any minute and then we won’t have any peace until we’ve opened our Christmas presents. Speaking of which, did you think of what you’re going to tell young Robert Belden about why Santa didn’t show up with the caboose to his train?"

Trixie winced. "No-o-o," she moaned.

Mart laughed and jabbed at her through the bedspread. "Shake a leg, kiddo. I figure you’ve got thirty minutes, tops, to come up with a reasonable explanation of how Santa Claus’s navigational system gave out just over Sleepyside," Still chortling, Mart disappeared out the door.

Trixie sighed and scratched her head. What a fix she’d gotten herself into! "I’d rather face twenty Lontards in twenty swimming pools than try to explain to Bobby why Santa didn’t bring him a caboose," she thought.

Shivering, Trixie climbed out of bed and hurriedly straightened the covers. "What a dream!" she thought to herself as she began to dress in jeans and a bright red sweater. How bizarre to be dreaming of romance between Mr. Lytell and Aunt Alicia! The thought of Mr. Lytell and romance in the same sentence made Trixie shudder more deeply. "And I don’t even like strawberry pop⁴," she thought.

Yesterday had been some Christmas Eve, she reflected, running a brush through her curls. The highest and the lowest of days. It had started with Trixie and Honey giving Susie and Starlight a morning workout. Trixie had promised her parents that after exercising the horses she would go to Lytell’s store and pick up Bobby’s gift from Santa – which was the last car in the Lionel Little Chief train set that the Beldens had been helping Bobby collect since he was three years old.

At the ripe old age of seven and a half, Bobby was about to give up believing in Santa Claus. But he hadn't quite yet and this year he would get the caboose which, as possibly the last car he’d get from Santa, would end an era. Lionel only sold the trains to select retail stores in a geographic area and Lytell’s was the only store outside of White Plains that carried them.

However, that morning as Trixie and Honey had come out of the stable, Jim had been laying in wait for Trixie. He needed help wrapping his presents for Honey, Miss Trask and his mom, Mrs. Wheeler, he’d said. He wanted to wrap the ladies’ presents elegantly and he was all thumbs. Would Trixie help?

Trixie doubted that Jim was all thumbs and she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be much better. But she was happy enough to spend some time by Jim’s side so she quickly nodded, "Sure."

Jim had shooed everyone out of the library and came in with piles of wrapping paper and ribbon. A couple of hours went by quickly as the two compared color schemes and bow making techniques. When they’d completed wrapping Jim’s gifts, Trixie had realized she’d be needed at home soon.

"Moms’ll be looking for me, I’d better run," she’d said, standing up from the table.

"Just one more thing," Jim had said thoughtfully, grabbing her arm and heading over to one corner of the library.

Trixie had followed along, looking up at him questioningly.

"I need you to help me test out the mistletoe," Jim had said with a small grin.

Trixie had blinked and couldn’t think of a thing to say, but that didn’t matter. For Jim was leaning down and pressing his lips softly against hers. Trixie thought she had pressed back, but she’d been so flustered, she wasn’t sure.

When they’d come out on the Manor House verandah it had been so foggy that Jim had insisted on walking Trixie to the Crabapple Farm property line. He’d gotten two flashlights and, at the fork in the path that led to the Belden’s he’d given Trixie one. This time, it was Trixie who snagged Jim and reached up to give him a quick kiss.

"I’ll see you tomorrow evening when the Bob-whites get together to exchange gifts," Jim had said, squeezing her arm.

"See you," Trixie had said. Then she floated off down the path to Crabapple Farm in a kind of confused euphoria. But as she neared home, she belatedly remembered Bobby’s gift. Looking at her watch she realized it was past three o’clock and now she also remembered that Lytell was going to be closing early.

Scrooge!

Trixie put on as much speed as she could, stumbling and scrambling down the road toward Lytell’s store. If I can just catch him before he leaves, she thought desperately. She was gasping for breath and more than once fell as she lost her footing in the dense fog. To keep up her spirits she sang a carol Aunt Alicia had taught her:

In the gift we deliver, in the gift we receive
is the living Spirit Mary did conceive.
A royal gift of love’s incandescent flame,
is given to all mankind in His name.

Lytell’s store was closed when she arrived, but Lytell was still there, loading some boxes into his trunk. Trixie couldn’t believe her ears when he refused to re-open the store. She had begged and pleaded, nearly on her knees and nearly in tears. No dice.

That’s when Trixie had lost it. "Scrooge!" she yelled at Lytell as he drove off. He’d just glared at her.

Trixie had trudged back to Crabapple Farm, her euphoria replaced by despair. At home she bit the bullet and immediately told her parents, shamefacedly, that she hadn't gotten to Lytell’s in time.

"But Trixie you left here at 10:00 a.m.!" Mrs. Belden had protested.

"I know, Moms, but after Honey and I came back from riding Jim needed some help wrapping his gifts and well, that tissue paper is not that easy to handle and we kept trying to make an angel out of the gold and white ribbon for Honey’s package and…" Trixie’s voice had trailed off lamely.

Mrs. Belden had sighed and looked at Mr. Belden, who had shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "Maybe this is the year Bobby stops believing in Santa Claus whether he’s ready or not," he’d said. "The stores in White Plains would probably be closed by now and even if they aren’t, I don’t think anyone should try to drive in that pea soup out there."

"It’ll be all right, Trixie," Mr. Belden had continued reassuringly. "But, to atone for your forgetfulness, here’s what you can do: think of what to tell Bobby about why Santa didn’t bring him a car for his train set like he has every year for the past 4 years – in other words, ever since Bobby can remember," her father looked at her pointedly.

Trixie gulped. "Couldn't I just read him Peter Rabbit 10 times a day for the next 364 days?" she asked.

Mr. and Mrs. Belden laughed. "Actually, he’s moving on to Batman comic books," Mrs. Belden said. "But Trixie, your father has a good idea. Put your mind to it and see if you can’t dream up a good explanation!"

So Trixie had spent Christmas Eve thinking of what she could tell Bobby as she helped her mother with last minute chores. But none of the explanations she came up with seemed likely to satisfy a disappointed seven year old.

"Oh, criminy," she’d groaned tiredly to herself as she finally left the kitchen. "Maybe I should take Moms’ advice literally – maybe I can dream my way out of this."

As Trixie had headed upstairs she’d passed the huge Christmas tree her father and Brian had brought in just one week ago. Bobby’s handsome train set, lacking only a caboose, was running on its tracks around and underneath the brightly lit tree.

Mart and Bobby had been seated on the couch beside the Christmas tree where Mart had been reading Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol to Bobby. Bobby was squealing at the deep and mysterious voice Mart used for the ghosts.

"Mart’s a great older brother," Trixie had thought as she climbed the stairs. "And what kind of older sister am I?" Immediately she answered herself, "The kind who doesn’t get her kid brother his gift from Santa -- because she’s too busy making time with the half a millionaire on the hill!"

Now it was Christmas morning and, though Trixie had dreamed, her wild dreams had given her no clue as to what to say to Bobby.

"Shoot," Trixie mumbled, putting down the brush and heading toward the stairs. She met Brian coming out of his room, yawning, also headed down the stairs.

"So, Miss Belden, spend a little too much time under the mistletoe?" Brian asked with a wicked grin.

Trixie tossed her head. "If you must know, it was five seconds at most. It just took two and a half hours to work up to it!"

Brian laughed and nudged Trixie down the stairs. In the kitchen, Mart and Mr. and Mrs. Belden were already grabbing a quick breakfast of Moms’ biscuits and maple butter. Trixie spread butter on a biscuit for herself and poured a glass of orange juice.

"So, what’s it gonna be, Trix? Have you come up with the explanation to end all explanations or are you anticipating a year filled with the torments of a Bobby Belden-designed hell?" Mart asked, looking up over his mug of hot chocolate with a smug smile.

"I guess I’m going to have to say that Santa wanted to make the best possible caboose and is still having it worked on and it will be delivered after Christmas," Trixie said helplessly, shrugging her shoulders.

Mart hooted. "That explanation is about as lame as Lytell’s old Belle is," he said.

"Mart, it’s Christmas," Mrs. Belden said mildly.

Mart said no more but just then Bobby came in, dragging his teddy bear and rubbing his eyes.

"Speak of the littlest devil," Mart said, his mischievous smile spreading further across his face.

Bobby frowned. "You’re a devil," he said crossly, "I’m Santa’s helper. Hey! Did Santa Claus come?" he asked.

The other Beldens looked at each other blankly and for a long moment no one spoke. Trixie was clearing her throat when they heard bells jingling outside and someone rapping sharply on the back door. Trixie trailed behind Mart as he went to the door.

Mart opened the door to reveal Mr. Lytell. Behind him in the yard was his mare, Belle, who wore a collar of jingle bells wreathed with pine.

"Oh, this is just great," Trixie thought. "As if I haven’t had enough of him for one Christmas, now he’s come over bright and early just to tell Moms and Dad what a harum-scarum tomboy I am."

But Mr. Lytell had a bright smile on his face as Mart stood back and welcomed him inside.

"Merry Christmas, Beldens!" he said, stamping his boots on the door mat. "How’s everyone doing this wonderful Christmas morning?"

"We’re couldn’t be better, Bart," Mrs. Belden said warmly. "And a Merry Christmas to you, too."

Brian got up to make room for Mr. Lytell at the table.

"No, no, keep your seat," Mr. Lytell put his hand on Brian’s shoulder. "I just dropped by for a minute. It seems that Santa left something at my house by mistake last night," Lytell was beaming at Trixie who was staring at him dumbfounded.

"I think it’s something for this little boy right here. Yes, sir, it says ‘To Robert Belden from Santa Claus,’" Mr. Lytell said, handing a package to Bobby who squealed with excitement.

"Can I open it, Mommy, can I?" he cried bouncing from one leg to the other.

"Yes, dear, go ahead. Brian will you help him with the ribbon?" Mrs. Belden said, but Bobby was already shredding the paper and ribbon with abandon. When Bobby opened the package he held up the greatly desired Lionel Little Chief caboose.

"Look! Look!" Bobby shouted, hardly able to contain himself.

Everyone laughed at the boy’s delight.

"And here’s a gift for a young lady. Ah, yes, Miss Trixie Belden," Mr. Lytell said with a flourish, handing Trixie a small box carefully wrapped in shiny green and gold.

Now Trixie was completely flabbergasted. "You didn’t need to do this," she got out.

"It’s just a little something," Mr. Lytell said casually and busied himself showing Bobby how the caboose door opened.

Mart sidled over to Trixie as she began opening her package. "What’d you do to get promoted to Miss Belden?" he hissed.

"Heck if I know," Trixie murmured back. She parted the white tissue paper, then paused. "Oh, my," she breathed. Inside the box was a beautiful locket hung on a black velvet ribbon. The locket was a colorful, elegant scrimshaw engraving of a Bob-white. Trixie blinked, not believing her eyes: it was exactly the locket she had dreamed about the night before!

"I dreamed this," she said excitedly, then realized that everyone was looking at her strangely. "I mean, it’s like a dream," she said quickly. "Moms, have you ever seen anything this lovely?" she showed the gift to her Mother.

Mrs. Belden looked at the necklace carefully, "It is really well-done and so unique," she said, then paused and looked puzzled. "I seem to recall that Alicia once had a necklace like this," she looked up at Mr. Lytell who made no response, but cleared his throat and reached into his bag again.

Trixie looked at her mother, but Mrs. Belden avoided her gaze and said no more. Trixie decided that this was a mystery she’d have to learn more about at a later time.

Lytell then produced a loaf of pumpkin spice bread which he set on the kitchen table. "For the Beldens," he said.

Bobby had been watching wide-eyed as Mr. Lytell produced packages from his bag. Now he turned to the storekeeper, held up his train’s caboose and blurted out, "Did Santa really bring this?"

Mr. Lytell patted Bobby’s head fondly. "It was brought by the Spirit of Giving, Bobby, and Santa is as good a name as any."

Bobby looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he nodded his head.

"Let me pour you a cup of coffee," Mr. Belden said.

"No, thanks, I want to be sure and get to the Manor House this morning and wish them a Merry Christmas also," Lytell nodded genially all around.

"I don’t know how to thank-you," Trixie began sincerely, but Lytell waved her off.

"You’ve been so thoughtful," Mrs. Belden said

The Beldens crowded into the doorway to watch Mr. Lytell leave. The fog of Christmas Eve had lifted and a few snow flakes were drifting in the air. Even Belle’s normally sad eyes looked bright and she almost pranced as Lytell rode out of the yard.

"Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!" everyone called.

Then Bobby piped up, "And God bless us everyone!"

The End

FOOTNOTES