Clarabell the Christmas Cow

Reading &quot;Clarabell the Christmas Cow&quot; to children on Christmas Eve has become a tradition in many local families. The story, first published in The Commercial Appeal in 1976, was written by Dan Henderson, the newspaper's late assistant managing editor. The illustrations were done by the late Charles Tuthill, who was an artist at the newspaper.

In 1997, the story was turned into an animated film called &quot;Annabelle's Wish.&quot;

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It was a clear, Christmas Eve night in Tennessee. It was not so long ago as you might think, even though Clarabell was just a little calf when it happened. Clarabell was special, even for a Jersey calf. If she weren't special, how then could all this have happened?

Jack Frost had come to paint the wide fields in silver and diamonds. Wind whistled through the cracks in the barn wall. The cold made white clouds out of Clarabell's breath.

All the cows on Wilburn Farm but Clarabell were asleep. Even Hermann the Bull was quiet tonight.

It was the coldest night Clarabell had ever seen. The heat lamp in her stall had gone out. Her sawdust was damp. The water in her bucket was hard, and made her nose sting when she touched it.

Clarabell could smell the smoke from the chimney where the Wilburns lived. She knew if little Billy was awake, he would come and make her warm.

But he did not come.

Clarabell turned her brown, big eyes longingly toward his house. They were very good eyes. How else could she have seen what she saw?

She poked up her big, chocolate-colored ears. They were very good ears. How else could she have heard what she heard?

She stood up on her long, skinny legs. The Wilburns' house was all dark. She sniffed with her wet, shiny nose. It was a very good nose. How else could she have smelled what she smelled?

What she smelled was peppermint. And what she heard was bells. And what she saw -- well, you wouldn't believe.

The sound of the bells grew louder. They made a sound she had not heard before. It was music, sweet music, music like the sound the herd makes as it lies down for the night.

It was coming from the Wilburn house, where little 6-year-old Billy was asleep.

Clarabell liked Billy. He was gentler than the other humans. He was nicer. He never talked. Clarabell did not know that this was strange for a human. She thought it was nice.

She opened her brown eyes wide. Something was on the top of the Wilburn house! But she could not tell what. It frightened her to think someone might be after Billy.

She waited. She waited a long time.

No cars came down the road.

Nothing moved on the farm.

Stars shone like candles in the sky. Even the wind died down to a whisper.

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And then, in a twinkling, like a leaf sucked up by a dust devil, it was flying. Whatever-it-was -- for Clarabell still did not know -- was flying. Bells jingled happily as it climbed into the sky. Stars went dark as it passed.

Clarabell caught her breath at what she saw. There were eight of them that flew across the yellow moon. They were calves! Calves like her! But they had funny things like tree branches on their heads.

And they could fly.

The eight calves-with-branches pulled a box behind them. In it sat a man. He was a fat man. He had a beard. He laughed, for Clarabell could hear his laughter echoing in the night. It was good laughter, joyous laughter, ho-ho-ho laughter.

And then the calves and the man and the laughter were gone.

Clarabell waited, but they did not come back. She waited until her eyelids were very, very heavy. Finally she could keep her eyes open no longer. She slept.

She dreamed of peppermint and a man-who-laughed and of calves-with-branches who flew.

Since it was Clarabell's first Christmas, she could not have known she saw Santa Claus. Nor could she know that animals get a special present, too.

As he passes over, Santa sprinkles dust that lets animals talk on Christmas morning, just like humans do. He has dust for every kind of animal.

He has dust for Jerseys.

He had dust for Clarabell.

&quot;Wake up, wake up, Clarabell, honey. We have so much to talk about, and the morning is, oh, so short.&quot;

Clarabell woke up. The voice she heard was gentle, and soft, and not like a human's at all. She opened her eyes. At the other end of the barn, by the wooden gate, she could see her mother. Her name was Heads Belmont Star. She was very pretty. She had a white star in the middle of her forehead.

And it was her mother who was talking!

Since Clarabell was a very smart calf, it took her no time at all to get loose from the rope that tied her in her stall. She trotted down to the barn to meet her mother.

Heads Belmont Star first had to explain why Clarabell could talk. &quot;It takes very strong magic,&quot; she said. &quot;It is very, very hard for an animal to talk. And that is why we can only talk this one day.&quot;

The mother and daughter had a splendid time. They talked about all the ordinary cow things. About how much better the hay had been lately. About how fine Mrs. Star's new winter coat looked. About the new cows that had joined the herd.

And then they talked about Billy. &quot;It's very sad,&quot; Mrs. Star said. &quot;All the humans can talk except him. There's something wrong with him.&quot;

But Clarabell said, &quot;There's nothing wrong with him! He's the nicest human of them all.&quot;

&quot;That's the way it works sometimes,&quot; Clarabell's mother said. &quot;It's very hard to understand.&quot;

And then they talked some more about Christmas. Mrs. Star laughed at Clarabell's story of calves-with-branches. &quot;You saw reindeer. They're not calves at all. They help Santa spread the talking-dust.&quot;

&quot;That would be a fine thing,&quot; Clarabell said. &quot;That's what I'm going to do when I'm grown!&quot;

&quot;Sweetheart, you must be happy with what you are. A Jersey cow is a fine thing to be. Why, you could have been a goat or a pig or even a weasel.&quot;

Clarabell listened, but she didn't believe. All she could think of was how grand it would be to fly. And there was something else. She might be able to get Billy some of the talking dust. Lots of children are like Clarabell: They listen to their mothers, but they still must try things for themselves.

She decided to be a reindeer when she grew up.

Mrs. Star kept talking. She talked about Hermann the Bull and the time he chased the hired man across the pasture. &quot;Hermann's mean,&quot; she said. &quot;But he's kind of handsome in an ugly sort of way.&quot;

Suddenly, Mrs. Star's ears perked up. She sniffed the air. &quot;There's a human near. Be good. Humans are not supposed to hear us talk.&quot;

Her mother walked away.

Clarabell turned around. She saw no one.

She walked back to her stall, her hooves going clippity-clip.

Billy came out of her stall. He had a new red cap on. She could tell by the way he looked at her that he had heard the two cows talking. That was not good. Billy's eyes were wet and shining.

At first, Clarabell did not understand. But then she remembered that Billy could not talk. It would be like being a cow and having no tail. It would be worse. It would be like having no tail and then meeting a human who had one. That would make you feel very bad, indeed.

No wonder Billy had tears in his eyes.

Clarabell walked over and rubbed her head against his corduroy pants. She didn't say anything. That might only make things worse.

Billy began to scratch Clarabell at the little nubs where her horns were beginning to grow. It felt good.

She saw that Billy had put fresh water in her bucket. He had fixed her heat lamp. He had put dry sawdust in. He was real good for a human, Billy was.

Then tall Mr. Wilburn came into the barn. His face was red from the wind. &quot;So there you are,&quot; he said. &quot;Here with Clarabell, of course. That makes it easier. I've got a special present for you.&quot;

Mr. Wilburn, a man with a friendly, round face, reached into the big pocket of his wool overcoat. He took out some papers. &quot;What these will do, Billy, is give you Clarabell as your own cow. She's all yours. Yours to take care of, too. Treat her right, and maybe someday she'll be the mother of a whole bunch of little calves.&quot;

Clarabell looked at Billy. His mop of red hair gleamed in the sunlight. His eyes shone like a summer sky. He smiled so big that all his teeth showed.

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Clarabell smiled to herself. Being a Christmas present was almost as good as getting one.

Christmas passed, and New Year's and Valentine's Day and Easter. Clarabell was growing fast. Spring came and Clarabell thought she had never smelled or seen or felt anything so good.

She was put out to pasture in May. There were woods in the pasture, and they reminded her of something. Of Christmas. Woods meant branches. Branches meant antlers. Clarabell went 'round and 'round sticking her head in this bush, that tree, and those thickets.

Surely some would stick for antlers!

But none of them ever did.

Clarabell also learned that flying was hard to do. She tried climbing up on haystacks and hills and even one little shed. But every time she jumped off, she fell straight down. She was never hurt -- but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what she was doing wrong.

And she was getting fat.

There was so much food in the world! Clover and corn, oats with sorghum molasses, special treats that Billy brought.

It got so that she would close her eyes when she went to the pond to drink. It worried her more than a little to see how fat she had become. She could not remember seeing a fat reindeer -- and she knew being fat would make it even harder to fly.

October came, and Clarabell was fed her first silage. It was good stuff. It was sweet like molasses and crunchy like grass and warm like milk.

Clarabell was very fond of food, she was.

It was late November when she got her big scare. It happened when Hermann the Bull got loose. He broke through the fence between where he and the calves like Clarabell were kept. Billy was with Clarabell when it happened.

When Hermann saw Billy, he bellowed. He snorted. He kicked up dirt with his hooves. Then he charged. It was like a huge diesel truck had started rolling.

And he headed right toward Billy.

Billy began to run. His short legs hit the ground, ratta-tat-tat. If he could have talked he could yell for help -- Mr. Wilburn was nearby. But all he could do was run. He ran, and he ran very fast. But then he tripped. He fell down, and he did not get up.

Clarabell saw what was happening. She was scared of Hermann, but she knew she had to do something. She ran to get between Billy and the bull.

She stopped and faced Hermann. He kept coming. Clarabell was very scared. But she knew she had to help Billy. There was only one thing to do.

She bellowed. And she charged right toward Hermann. It was like a little Volkswagen going head-on into a trailer-truck. Hermann could run right over her.

But he didn't. He stopped. In all his born days, Hermann had never seen a cow anywhere act like that. Hermann might do a lot of things, but he wasn't going to mess with a cow as crazy as this one. He backed up.

Clarabell stopped. Her heart was pounding. She bellowed some more. She sounded like a foghorn, like two foghorns, like three! Mr. Wilburn heard and came running.

Clarabell relaxed. She knew Mr. Wilburn would take care of Billy.

Clarabell thought about Billy most of December. Because Billy could not talk, he could not call for help. That was a dangerous way for a farm boy to be.

But as Christmas neared she thought more and more of being a reindeer. But now the flying did not seem so important -- if she were a reindeer, she might get Santa to help Billy talk.

Christmas Eve, after ever so long, finally arrived. Clarabell waited until dark. She waited until all the lights at the Wilburn house were off. Then she escaped from her pasture. It was easy to do. No fence around can keep a determined cow in.

She went down the blacktopped road, then up the gravel drive to the Wilburns' house. There she waited. She did not have to wait long.

She heard the far-off bells first. Soon she saw the reindeer team moving across the sky. And, quickly enough, the sleigh had landed on the roof. It landed as quietly as cotton falling on the floor.

In a flash, Santa was inside the house. In the wink of the eye, he was back out again. Presto, he was in his sleigh.

Clarabell mooed. Not loudly, but very determinedly.

Santa came to the edge of the roof and looked down.

&quot;Well, what have we here?&quot; he said. He threw down some of the special talking dust. Clarabell began to moo again -- but in the middle of the moo, it changed to words.

&quot;I want to be a reindeer,&quot; she blurted out. Santa stroked his whiskers thoughtfully.

&quot;I see,&quot; he said. &quot;How do you like this warm weather?&quot;

&quot;Warm weather?&quot; Clarabell said. She shivered. &quot;Warm? Why, there's ice on the ground. When I talk, you can see the clouds of my breath.&quot;

&quot;But this is warm compared to the North Pole,&quot; Santa said. &quot;It's so cold there, sometimes the snow turns blue. And you can only see your breath on the warmest of days. Sometimes your words freeze and fall on the ground, it gets so cold. You have to take them in and thaw them out to hear what you said.&quot;

Clarabell gulped. But if she could help Billy, it would be worth it. &quot;That's OK,&quot; she said.

&quot;All right then,&quot; Santa said. &quot;Let me get my scissors and I'll be right down.&quot;

&quot;Scissors? What for?&quot;

&quot;Why, to cut off your tail,&quot; Santa said. &quot;Have you ever seen a long-tailed reindeer?&quot;

Clarabell thought about it and realized that she hadn't. But she was very fond of her tail. All Jerseys are. And it was a very good tail, even for a Jersey. And it would hurt.

But it would make her a reindeer. Then she could help Billy.

&quot;Come on down,&quot; she said.

Santa chuckled. &quot;You're very brave for a cow, Clarabell. But you're not telling me all the truth. Maybe you should tell me why you want so much to be a reindeer.&quot;

He listened and scratched his head.

He frowned.

&quot;There is only one way I could help,&quot; he said. &quot;I could take someone's dust and use it on Billy. It would cure him, sure it would. But that would mean some animal would never get to talk again. Never. Not ever. And I couldn't do that to anyone. It wouldn't be fair.&quot;

Clarabell thought about it. She would never be a reindeer. And if she did what she had to do, she would never be able to talk to her mother again. But cows don't have to talk. Humans need to.

&quot;Let him take mine,&quot; she told Santa.

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He winked down from the rooftop. He was back in the house in a jiffy. He was out. He was gone.

Clarabell did not even bother to watch the sleigh leave. It was late, and she was tired. It had been a hard night. She walked slowly back to her pasture. But as soon as she thought of Billy, she didn't feel tired anymore.

THAT WOULD BE the end of the story -- if Clarabell had been an ordinary cow. The story could end on Christmas morning, with Billy coming out and hugging her. It could end when he said, &quot;Merry Christmas,&quot; for the first time.

But the story doesn't end there. It could end with Billy growing up, which he did. And the fact that he had his own farm, which he did. And that Clarabell had calves, and grandcalves and great-grandcalves, which she did.

But that is not all the story, either.

Clarabell lived to a very old age for a cow. It could be said that she never wanted to be a reindeer again -- but that part of the story would not be true.

Clarabell did live very long. And she never regretted giving up her talking dust for Billy. Cows don't need to talk, and humans do. But every Christmas, when she heard the bells, a tiny part of her still wanted to fly.

It turned out Santa had not told Clarabell everything about being a reindeer.

He did not tell her that the reindeer who pulled his sleigh were magic. Reindeer, you see, are just ordinary animals. They can't fly.

But the reindeer who pull Santa's sleigh are animals changed by Christmas magic. Most of them had never been reindeer before. One was a cat who had led police to find a lost little girl. Another was a parakeet, another a dog, and so on. All they had in common was that they had given, time and again, when it would have been real easy to do nothing. That's all Christmas magic is.

The magic doesn't take effect until they're old.

It happens on their last Christmas.

It happens at midnight.

Clarabell could feel the cold in her bones. It was cold like her very first Christmas, many, many years before. Even colder. She knew this would probably be her last Christmas.

She had been hoping to see Santa one more time -- but she was surprised when he appeared in her barn.

&quot;There are so many children in the world today that eight reindeer can hardly carry all the presents,&quot; he said.

Clarabell smiled. &quot;I'm too old,&quot; she said.

Santa just smiled. And waited. The hands on the clock in the Wilburns' house swept toward midnight.

Clarabell felt suddenly warm.

She felt something happening to her horns. She felt lighter and lighter, and younger and younger. She felt like a little calf again.

Santa knelt beside her and put the reindeer bells around her neck. &quot;Come, Clarabell,&quot; he said.

&quot;The children are waiting.&quot;

And they stepped out into the night together. ...


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Comments » 5

lfbarr#415517 writes:

In 1976 we were living in Kenya (and did for many years). Our children were ages 5 and 2. Their grandmother sent them the story of Clarabell the Christmas Cow, which became our favorite for years to come. We even shared the story with others we knew. Thanks to you for preserving the story.

fm writes:

Here come the water works from my mother! For years now my mother has attempted to make it through this story without crying like a baby. Hasn't happened yet!

wandaful37 writes:

This story will become a new tradition to our family and children. Thanks so much for this story and the many years of joy it will bring to me and my family.

bhenderson35 writes:

Dan Henderson was a relative of mine. He died so young. If he had been given more time he would have written so many more interesting things. Clarabell will be enjoyed by generations to come.

tiggerintn#245437 writes:

I've never been able to make it through this story without crying, either, and that was BEFORE I had children. But I must say, curling up together in front of the computer is not as good as snuggling under a blanket in the family room and reading this story. PLEASE consider printing it again next year, so more people can enjoy it togther.


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