The Climbing Boy

December 24, 1910

Boston, Massachusetts

Twisting on his grandfather’s lap, looking at him, “But Papa,” the little boy says, “he’ll be so dirty.”

Lowering the book he’d been reading to his grandson, the old man peers at the boy over the rim of his spectacles.

“Saint Nicholas, Papa!” The boy points to the fireplace. “How does Saint Nicholas stay clean when he comes down the chimney?”

Mulling the boy’s question, “How does Saint Nicholas stay clean?” the old man repeats.

“Yes, it’s so dirty there, Papa.”

Gazing at the burning fireplace, the remembrance of a story his mother had once told him came to mind, a story about, “A little climbing boy that looks much like you,” she had said. “A little climbing boy that became an angel and the helper of Saint Nicholas, because, after all, how does Saint Nicholas remain clean?”

Placing the book and his spectacles on the table alongside the chair, lifting his grandson, the old man turns the boy in his direction.

“There was a story my mother – your great gra’mama – told me when I was, oh, even smaller than you...”

“When you lived in England, Papa?”

“Yes, Stephan. When I lived in London, your great gra’mama told me a story about a little climbing boy... Do you know what a climbing boy is?”

“No, Papa.”

“You wouldn’t, would you? Well, I’ll explain in the story. Anyway, Stephan, this is the story about a little boy who became an angel and the helper of Saint Nicholas, and that little boy had light hair and blue eyes...”

“Like me, Papa.”

“Yes,” tousling the boy’s hair, “just like you.

“Well,” the old man continues, “a long time ago there was a little climbing boy by the name of...” trying to remember, he stops, “Ah, yes,” the old man says, “Zachariah.”