"New Year's Calls"

by William O. Stoddard, January 1881

One hundred years ago, it was common to make calls on New Year's Day, much like an open house. Usually the ladies of the house stayed home to serve the obligatory refreshments, while the men did the calling. If the family was not at home, you left a calling card in a specially designated salver or basket. In this funny story, three little boys try out the old custom (for ulterior motives), abetted by their mischievous uncle, meeting amused neighbors and a veritable list of stereotypical servants.

"Wish you a happy New Year, boys!"

"Happy New Year!" responded threee clear trebles, and the loudest of them added:

"Going to mkae calls to-day, Uncle Fred?"

"Of course I am, Johnny," responded the rosy, frosty-whiskered, middle-aged gentleman they were talking to, as he opened the door of his carriage. "What are you and your friends going to do?"

"We 're going to make calls, too," sange out one of Johnny 's comrades,—"he and I and Tracy Plumb."

"What, is Tom Fitch going with you? Where are you going to call?"

"Everywhere," sturdily replied Tom Fitch, with a hitch at his neck-tie. "All around the block."

"You are, are you! Have you any cards, for places where they 're not at home?"

"Yes, sir, we 've cards for everybody."

"Indeed! Let me see them."

Uncle Fred 's good-humored face was all a broad grin as he held out his hand, for the two smaller boys could not have been much more than eight years old, and Johnny Cook himself, their head man, was barely ten.

"I wrote my own cards," said Johnny, with proud self-satisfaction, as he dragged a handful of bits of white pasteboard from his coat-pocket.

"Tip-top!" exclaimed Uncle Fred; "only you should always spell your name in one way. J-o-n-n-i is n't nearly as good as J-h-o-n-y, and that one's J-o-n-e. But they'll all do."

"Mine are better than his," said Tom. "Mother gave me some of her old ones; and so did sister Belle; and Tracy Plumb has some of his own father 's. Show 'em to him, Tracy."

"That is grand!" said Uncle Fred. "Now you must always send your cards in ahead of you, so they 'll know who 's coming."

He was getting very read in the face just then, and the boys did not hear him mutter, as he hurriedly stepped into his carriage and drove off:

"Must n't let them see me laugh. Might scare 'em out of it and spoil the fun. But should n't I like to be somewhere when those three come in?"

"There were no signs of laughter on the faces of Johnny Cook, Tracy Plumb, and Tom Fitch. It was a decidedly serious business for the, and they marched steadily away up the street.

"Where 'll we call first?" said Tom.

"Let Johnny tell. He knows," said Tracy.

"There's a basket on Mr. Jones's door-bell, boys. We 'll go there first. That 's to put our cards in."

Up the steps they went, and the bell was duly rung, but it had to be pulled again before any one came to the door.

"Well, thin, what is it? What do yiz want?"

"Why, Biddy," exclaimed Tom, "we're calling! Did n't you know it was New Year's day?"

"It's callin' ye are? An' didn't ye see the baskit? Mrs. Jones is n't at home the day."

"Oh!" said Johnny; "she's out making her own calls. Give Biddy your cards, boys."

"Howld on, thin, ivery wan of yiz, till I show her thim cards."

"I thought you said she was n't at home?"

"'Dade an' she is n't; but I 'd rather lose me place than not have her luk at thim. Shtand where yiz are till I come."

The Jones family were too near neighbors for Biddy not to know those three very young gentlemen; and in a moment more, a nice-looking lady upstairs was saying to herself:

"J-o-n-n-y, Johnny, C-o-o-o-k-e, Cook, and Miss Arabella Fitch, and Mr. Marmaduke Plumb—"

"It 's the three b'yes, mum! " exclaimed Biddy, with her plump sides shaking with fun. "Sure, an' it's calls they 're makin'."

"Bring them in, Biddy. Call up the children, and bring a plate of cake. Quick as ever you can. I 'll come right down to the parlor."

She was there, sure enough, just in time to hear Tracy say: "There, Tom, I told you Johnny Cook knew. And Mrs. Jones would n't let Biddy tell stories about her."

"Wish you a happy New Year, young gentlemen. Have a chair, Mr. Cook. Please be seated, Mr. Plumb and Mr. Fitch. Our young people will be here in a moment."

"We 're not calling on the children to-day," said Johnny, " but you might let them come in."

And in they came, a round half dozen of little Joneses, and Biddy after with a big plate of cake.

"Tom," whispered Tracy, "Johnny said we must n't eat too much in any one place."

"I 'll put the rest of mine in my pocket."

And so he did; but it was a good while before Mrs. Jones got through asking them about their plans for the day, and after that it was hard work to keep Ben Jones from going with them. In fact, the moment they were out of doors again, Ben sat down in a corner and began to howl over it, so that he had to stay in the corner till dinner-time.

"Where 'll we go now, Johnny?"

"Judge Curtin's is the biggest house on the block, boys, and he has n't any children."

"That 's the place. They 'll have ice-cream there, see if they don't."

But the moment the bell of Judge Curtin's door was pulled, the door swung open wide, and there stood his big waiter, in a swallow-tailed coat and white cravat, looking down in wonder on his diminutive guests. It was in vain for Johnny Cook to look big and hold his head up as he handed out the cards, and Tom and Tracy edged a little behind him.

"Vot is dis? You poys vant sometings?"

"New Year's calls," explained Johnny. "Are the ladies at home?"

"So? Very goot. Valk right in. I dake in dose card, too. De madame vill be proud to see you. Valk in."

"Johnny knows," muttered Tom to Tracy. " They 'll have cream here."

"May be some candy, too."

But the big waiter was bowing them into the parlor now, where Mrs. Curtin and her grown-up daughters were entertaining quite an array of their gentlemen friends, and Johnny whispered back:

"Hush, boys! There 's a table, and it's full."

A very large and stately lady was Mrs. Curtin, and it seemed to the three new-comers that everybody in that room was at least a size or two larger than common; but Johnny Cook led them on bravely, and all the ladies bowed very low when they said: "Wish you a happy New Year."

"I am acquainted with Mr. Cook," said Mrs. Curtin, as she held out her hand to him; "but which of you is Mr. Marmaduke Plumb?"

"That 's my papa, ma'am, and I 'm Tracy."

"Oh, you are making his calls for him?"

"No, ma'am ; he 's out, too, but I use some of his cards."

"Exactly. I see. And this is Miss Arabella Fitch?"

"Please, ma'am, if you 'll give me back Belle's card, I 'll give you one of Mother's," said Tom, a little doubtfully.

"Oh, this is just as good. But I must introduce you to the company, while Pierre is getting you some refreshments. Plenty of cream, Pierre, and some confectionery."

"That's it," whispered Tom to Tracy, and the latter answered: "Hush, Tom! Johnny knows."

It was remarkable how very polite were all those tall ladies and gentlemen. One great, thin, yellow-whiskered man, in particular, kept them so long with his questions, that Tom at last felt compelled to remark: "Don't talk to him any more, Johnny; the ice-cream 'll be all melted."

"So it will," said Mrs. Curtin. "Do let them off, Mr. Grant. Were you never a boy?—I mean. a very young gentleman?"

"Never," said Mr. Grant. "I was always old enought to want to eat my cream before it melted. Come, boys, I 'll see you through. I like to associate with follows of my own age. Come on."

He was very grave and dignified about it, but between him and Pierre and Mrs. Curtin, Johnny Cook was compelled to say to his friends:

"We must stop eating, boys, or we can 't be polie in the next house."

But he made no objection to Mr. Grant putting confectionary in their pockets, and the whole company bowed, as Pierre showed them the way to the front door. They wondered what he meant, as he smiled in their faces and said:

"Bon jour, mes enfants."

"What's a bunjer?" asked Tom.

"Johnny knows," began Tracy; but their leader was thinking of something else just then.

"Can you eat any more, boys? I can, if we walk a little."

They said they thought they could.

"Then we 'll go to Dr. Micklin 's. He tended our baby when it had the measles."

Do doctors have any New Year 's day?"

"Don 't you s'pose Johnny knows, Tom?" said Tracy Plumb. "Of course they do."

The doctor lived in a big brick house on a corner, nearly two blocks beyond Judge Curtin 's; but the boys were only half sure they were hungry when they rang the bell.

The door was opened by a gentleman with a coffee-colored face and curly hair, and who could have not been more than twice as old as Tom.

"Is dey anybody took sick at your house?"

"Sick? No," said Johnny. "It 's New Year 's calls. Take our cards to Mrs. Micklin."

"She knows my mother," Tom had said to Johnny, "and I 'll send in her card instead of Belle 's."

Mrs. Micklin was a little, black-eyed woman, with a nose that was almost too sharply pointed, and when the coffee-colored youth handed her those three cards, her first remark was:

"Julius! Julius Caesar! How often have I forbidden you to laugh in that way when you come into my presence? Mrs. Fitch? On New Year 's day? Why, what can have happened? And Mr. Marmaduke Plumb with her? It must be something serious. And Johnny Cook? How I wish the doctor were here. Show them right in, Julius, and stop that giggling."

She had bounced from her chair and was smoothing the folds of her silk dress, nervously, as Julius Caesar chuckled his way back to the front door, and just at that moment a whole sleigh-load of other callers came hurrying up the steps.

"Wish you happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year!" "Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year, Johnny," said Mrs. Micklin. "But, Tracy, where 's your father? Tom, why does not your mother come in? I told Julius—"

"Why, Mrs. Micklin," said Tom, "it 's only the cards. We passed 'em at Mrs. Jones's and at Judge Curtin's. Only I sent in Belle's there instead of Mother's."

"Why, you mischievous boys! And here you 've frightened me so! I thought something dreadful had happened—"

But at that moment the other visitors came pouring in, and Mrs. Micklin had to say "happy New Year" to them, and shake hands and smile and talk, and the three boys were almost pushed out of the way, while Julius Caesar stood at the parlor door, and seemed to be trying to laugh without making any noise.

"Julius," whispered Tom, as he edged near him, "where 's the ice-cream?"

But Tom's whisper was loud enough to be heard by everybody in the room, for it seemed to slip into a quiet little place in the conversation, and so did Julius Caesar's reply: "Dah aint none."

Mrs. Micklin blushed, and one of her gentlemen guests suddenly remarked:

"My dear Mrs. Micklin, I 'm delighted to see that you have joined the reform movement. You won 't ask your friends to stuff themselves."

And she said something in reply, and the others said something; but Tom Fitch put his lips to Johnny's ear, and said, pretty loudly: "Let 's go. There 's nothing in this house but med'cine."

"Bow to Mrs. Micklin before you go," said Johnny; but everybody in the parlor, excepting the doctor's wife, was laughing about something or other when Julius Caesar opened the front door for those three boys to go out.

"Where 'll we go now, boys?" said Johnny, when they reached the sidewalk.

"There is n't any other place so good as Mrs. Curtin's," remarked Tom.

"Can't go twice to the same house," said Tracy. "Can we, Johnny?"

"No, I s'pose not. But we 've plenty of cards. Let's try that white house over yonder."

"Who lives there?"

"I don't know. But we can find out when we get in."

It was a very nice house, and there were three young ladies in it, and one of them was at that very moment standing by one of the front windows, all hidden among the heavy curtains, and another was saying: "It 's just too bad, girls. Here it is two o'clock, and we 've only had five callers, and one of them was the minister."

"And nobody has eaten anything."

"Hush, girls; what can those three boys be coming here for? I 've seen one of them before. They 're making calls!"

"Tell John to show them right in."

And John did, although Tom Fitch insisted that the cards must go in ahead of them.

"Happy New Year!" "Happy New Year!"

Three on each side, and then the girls talked right on, so fast their callers had no chance to correct the names.

"Johnny, you 'll have some cake?"

"Marmaduke, I must give you some ice-cream."

"Now, Arabella, some chicken-salad."

"My name 's Tom."

"Your card says your name 's Arabella."

"Here 's my other card."

"No, my dear, you 're not a married lady. And you must have a cup of coffee."

Very hospitable indeed were the three young ladies, and by the time they had helped their young callers to several times as much as any three boys could eat, Jenny was able to remark: "Now, girls, the table begins to look as if somebody 'd been here."

"But I think we 'd better go now," said Johnny Cook. "I can't eat any more."

"Oh, very well, my dear; and Arabella too, and Marmaduke."

"That 's my father's name, and mine 's Tracy Plumb."

"Just as good, Tracy. Won 't you eat some more cream?"

"No, ma'am. Johnny says we 'd better go."

The girls were in high glee over their young gentlemen callers; but when the latter reached the sidewalk, Johnny Cook remarked: "I guess we won 't make any more calls. I 'm going home."

"So am I," said Tom. "But I 've four more cards."

"I 've more 'n that," said Tracy; "but I don't want to go anywhere else. I could n't be polite."

Not one of them could have been polite enough to eat another mouthful, and that or something else made them a very sober-looking lot of New Year's day callers, as they walked on down the street.

Tom and Tracy were not heard from again that day; but Johnny Cook wondered, when Uncle Fred came home that night, why he was compelled to give so careful an account of everything.

"You were very polite, everywhere?"

"Yes, Uncle Fred; and at the last place Tom Fitch forgot to bow when he came out, and I made him go 'way back into the parlor and do it."

"That was right. If there was any other place where he forgot it, he ought to go back there next New Year's day and bow."

But Johnny only said: "I don't think I want to eat any supper, to-night, Uncle Fred."

"The St. Nicholas League"

by the children themselves, December 1921

Children had always sent little stories and drawings to St. Nicholas and occasionally some were printed. But in 1898, the magazine began what was probably the most beloved regular feature of the magazine. This was "The St. Nicholas League," the brainchild of Albert Bigelow Paine, an organization in which children could contribute original fiction, nonficton, artwork, photographs, poetry, and puzzles to the magazine. While most of the children who contributed to the League's pages went on to other careers, for some it was the beginning of a life devoted to writing. These noted writers saw their work in print for the first time in St. Nicholas: Stephen Vincent Benét, Rachel Carson, Bennett Cerf, Rachel Field, Corey Ford, Ring Lardner, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sterling North, Cornelia Otis Skinner, and Eudora Welty, to name just a few. Since no reproduction of the stories in text would capture the feature and the artwork/photography so well, here are screencaps of a typical crop of contributions instead.

"The Peterkins' Christmas Tree"

by Lucretia P. Hale, December 1876

What would Christmas be without the perpetually befuddled Peterkins? Incidentally, has anyone else ever wondered about "the little boys'" names?

Pretty early in the autumn the Peterkins began to prepare for their Christmas-tree. Everything was done in great privacy, as it was to be a surprise to the neighbors, as well as to the rest of the family. Mr. Peterkin had been up to Mr. Bromwich's woodlot, and, with his consent, selected the tree. Agamemnon went to look at it occasionally after dark, and Solomon John made frequent visits to it, mornings, just after sunrise. Mr. Peterkin drove Elizabeth Eliza and her mother that way, and pointed furtively to it with his whip, but none of them ever spoke of it aloud to each other. It was suspected that the little boys had been to see it Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. But they came home with their pockets full of chestnuts, and said nothing about it.

At length Mr. Peterkin had it cut down, and brought secretly into the Larkins's barn. A week or two before Christmas, a measurement was made of it, with Elizabeth Eliza's yard-measure. To Mr. Peterkin's great dismay, it was discovered that it was too high to stand in the back parlor. This fact was brought out at a secret council of Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, Elizabeth Eliza, and Agamemnon.

Agamemnon suggested that it might be set up slanting, but Mrs. Peterkin was very sure it would make her dizzy, and the candles would drip.

But a brilliant idea came to Mr. Peterkin. He proposed that the ceiling of the parlor should be raised to make room for the top of the tree.

Elizabeth Eliza thought the space would need to be quite large. It must not be like a small box, or you could not see the tree.

"Yes," said Mr. Peterkin, "I should have the ceiling lifted all across the room; the effect would be finer."

Elizabeth Eliza objected to having the whole ceiling raised, because her room was over the back parlor, and she would have no floor while the alteration was going on, which would be very awkward. Besides, her room was not very high now, and if the floor were raised, perhaps she could not walk in it upright.

Mr. Peterkin explained that he did n't propose altering the whole ceiling, but to lift up a ridge across the room at the back part where the tree was to stand. This would make a hump, to be sure, in Elizabeth Eliza's room ; but it would go across the whole room.

Elizabeth Eliza said she would not mind that. It would be like the cuddy thing that comes up on the deck of a ship, that you sit against, only here you would not have the seasickness. She thought she should like it for a rarity. She might use it for a divan.

Mrs. Peterkin thought it would come in the worn place of the carpet, and might be a convenience in making the carpet over.

Agamemnon was afraid there would be trouble in keeping the matter secret, for it would be a long piece of work for one carpenter; but Mr. Peterkin proposed having the carpenter for a day or two, for a number of other jobs.

One of them was to make all the chairs in the house of the same height, for Mrs. Peterkin had nearly broken her spine, by sitting down in a chair that she had supposed was her own rocking-chair, and it had proved to be two inches lower. The little boys were now large enough to sit in any chair; so a medium was fixed upon to satisfy all the family, and the chairs were made uniformly of the same height.

On consulting the carpenter, however, he insisted that the tree could be cut off at the lower end to suit the height of the parlor, and demurred at so great a change as altering the ceiling. But Mr. Peterkin had set his mind upon the improvement, and Elizabeth Eliza had cut her carpet in preparation for it.

So the folding-doors into the back parlor were closed, and for nearly a fortnight before Christmas there was great litter of fallen plastering, and laths, and chips, and shavings; and Elizabeth Eliza's carpet was taken up, and the furniture had to be changed, and one night she had to sleep at the Bromwichs', for there was a long hole in her floor that might be dangerous.

All this delighted the little boys. They could not understand what was going on. Perhaps they suspected a Christmas-tree, but they did not know why a Christmas-tree should have so many chips, and were still more astonished at the hump that appeared in Elizabeth Eliza's room. It must be a Christmas present, or else the tree in a box.

Some aunts and uncles, too, arrived a day or two before Christinas, with some small cousins. These cousins occupied the attention of the little boys, and there was a great deal of whispering and mystery, behind doors, and under the stairs, and in the corners of the untry.

Solomon John was busy, privately making some candles for the tree. He had been collecting some bayberries, as he understood they made very nice candles, so that it would not be necessary to buy any.

The elders of the family never all went into the back parlor together, and all tried not to see what was going on. Mrs. Peterkin would go in with Solomon John, or Mr. Peterkin with Elizabeth Eliza, or Elizabeth Eliza and Agamemnon and Solomon John. The little boys and the small cousins were never allowed even to look inside the room.

Elizabeth Eliza meanwhile went into town a number of times. She wanted to consult Amanda as to how much ice-cream they should need, and whether they could make it at home, as they had cream and ice. She was pretty busy in her own room; the furniture had to be changed, and the carpet altered. The "hump" was higher than she had expected. There was danger of bumping her own head whenever she crossed it. She had to nail some padding on the ceiling for fear of accidents.

The afternoon before Christmas, Elizabeth Eliza, Solomon John, and their father, collected in the back parlor for a council. The carpenters had done their work, and the tree stood at its full height at the back of the room, the top stretching up into the space arranged for it. All the chips and shavings were cleared away, and it stood in a neat box.

But what were they to put upon the tree?

Solomon John had brought in his supply of candles, but they proved to be very "stringy" and very few of them. It was strange how many bayberries it took to make a few candles! The little boys had helped him, and he had gathered as much as a bushel of bayberries. He had put them in water, and skimmed off the wax, according to the directions, but there was so little wax!

Solomon John had given the little boys some of the bits sawed off from the legs of the chairs. He had suggested they should cover them with gilt paper, to answer for gilt apples, without telling them what they were for.

These apples, a little blunt at the end, and the candles, were all they had for the tree.

After all her trips into town, Elizabeth Eliza had forgotten to bring anything for it.

"I thought of candies and sugar-plums," she said, "but I concluded if we made caramels ourselves we should not need them. But, then, we have not made caramels. The fact is, that day my head was full of my carpet. I had bumped it pretty badly, too."

Mr. Peterkin wished he had taken, instead of a fir-tree, an apple-tree he had seen in October, full of red fruit.

"But the leaves would have fallen off by this time," said Elizabeth Eliza.

"And the apples too," said Solomon John.

"It is odd I should have forgotten, that day I went in on purpose to get the things," said Elizabeth Eliza, musingly. "But I went from shop to shop, and didn't know exactly what to get. I snw a great many gilt things for Christmas-trees, but I knew the little boys were making the gilt apples; there were plenty of candles in the shops, but I knew Solomon John was making the candles."

Mr. Peterkin thought it was quite natural.

Solomon John wondered if it were too late for them to go into town now.

Elizabeth Eliza could not go in the next morning, for there was to be a grand Christmas dinner, and Mr. Peterkin could not be spared, and Solomon John was sure he and Agamemnon would not know what to buy. Besides, they would want to try the candles to-night.

Mr. Peterkin asked if the presents everybody had been preparing would not answer? But Elizabeth Eliza knew they would be too heavy.

A gloom came over the room. There was only a flickering gleam from one of Solomon John's candles that he had lighted by way of trial.

Solomon John again proposed going into town. He lighted a match to examine the newspaper about the trains. There were plenty of trains coming out at that hour, but none going in except a very late one. That would not leave time to do anything and come back.

"We could go in, Elizabeth Eliza and I," said Solomon John, " but we should not have time to buy anything."

Agamemnon was summoned in. Mrs. Peterkin was entertaining the uncles and aunts in the front parlor. Agamemnon wished there was time to study up something about electric lights. If they could only have a calcium light! Solomon John's candle sputtered and went out.

At this moment there was a loud knocking at the front door. The little boys, and the small cousins, and the uncles and aunts, and Mrs. Peterkin, hastened to see what was the matter.

The uncles and aunts thought somebody's house must be on fire. The door was opened, and there was a man, white with flakes, for it was beginning to snow, and he was pulling in a large box.

Mrs. Peterkin supposed it contained some of Elizabeth Eliza's purchases, so she ordered it to be pushed into the back parlor, and hastily called back her guests and the little boys into the other room. The little boys and the small cousins were sure they had seen Santa Claus himself.

Mr. Peterkin lighted the gas. The box was addressed to Elizabeth Eliza. It was from the lady from Philadelphia! She had gathered a hint from Elizabeth Eliza's letters that there was to be a Christmas-tree, and had filled this box with all that would be needed.

It was opened directly. There was every kind of gilt hanging thing, from gilt pea-pods to butterflies on springs. There were shining flags and lanterns, and bird-cages, and nests with birds sitting on them, baskets of fruit, gilt apples and bunches of grapes, and, at the bottom of the whole, a large box of candles and a box of Philadelphia bonbons!

Elizabeth Eliza and Solomon John could scarcely keep from screaming. The little boys and the small cousins knocked on the folding-doors to ask what was the matter.

Hastily Mr. Peterkin and the rest took out the things and hung them on the tree, and put on the candles.

When all was done, it looked so well that Mr. Peterkin exclaimed:

"Let us light the candles now, and send to invite all the neighbors to-night, and have the tree on Christmas Eve!"

And so it was that the Peterkins had their Christmas-tree the day before, and on Christmas night could go and visit their neighbors.

"The Fir-Tree Cousins"

by Lucretia D. Clapp, December 1921

Think complaints about Christmas materialism is a modern thing? This story may change your mind. Oh— I've always suspected that Nancy Wells "mixed up" the packages on purpose. After reading this, what do you think?

Pretty Mrs. Brewster sat in the middle of her bedroom floor surrounded by a billowy mass of tissue-paper, layers of cotton-batting, bits of ribbon, tinsel, and tags. She was tying up packages of various shapes and sizes, placing each one when finished in a heaped-up pile at one side. Her face was flushed; wisps of cotton clung to her dress and hair, and she glanced up anxiously now and then at the little clock on the desk as it ticked of the minutes of the short December afternoon.

"I 'll never be through, never!" she remarked disconsolately after one of these hurried glances. "And there 's the box for Cousin Henry's family that just might go tonight, and the home box– Oh, Nancy Wells!" she broke off suddenly, as she caught sight of a slender little figure standing in the doorway, surveying her with merry brown eyes.

"Nancy Wells! Come right in here. You 're as welcome as—as the day after Christmas!"

"So you 've reached that stage, have you, Ann?" the visitor laughed as she picked her way carefully across the littered floor to an inviting wicker chair near the fire.

"Yes, I have. You know I always begin to feel that way just about this time, Nancy, only it seems to be a mite worse than usual this year."

Ann Brewster stretched out one cramped foot and groaned.

"Here I am just slaving, while you– well, you look the very personification of elegant leisure. I suspect every single one of those forty-nine presents on your regular list is wrapped and tied and labeled mailed, too, if mailed it has to be. Well, you can just take off your coat and hat, Nancy, fold yourself up Turk-like on the floor here, and help me out. I 've an appointment at the dressmaker's for four-thirty, and it 's nearly that now. I 'm not nearly through, but I just must finish to-day. If there 's one thing I 'm particular about, Nancy, it is that a gift shall reach the recipient on time. For my part, I don't want a Christmas present a week cold, so as to speak, nor even a day. And, somehow, I always manage to get mine off, even if I do half kill myself doing it."

"'Do your Christmas shopping early,'" quoted Nancy, mischievously, as she seated herself obediently on the floor.

"Yes; and, 'only five more shopping days,'" Ann smiled ruefully. "Why don't you go on? Those well-meant little reminders I 've had flaunted in my face every time I 've stepped into a store or picked up a daily paper for the past six weeks. They have come to be as familiar as the street sign out there on that lamp-post and receive about the same amount of attention, too."

"Well after all, Ann, it is a delightful sort of rush, now is n't it? I 'm willing to admit that I 'd miss it all dreadfully."

Nancy Wells looked about her appreciatively at the chintz-hung room glowing in the warmth of the open wood-fire, and with its pleasant disarray of snowy paper and gay ribbons, its scent of sachet and its holiday air of secrecy and festivity. And not the least of its pleasantness was Ann Brewster's trim little figure in its deep red dress, her cheeks aglow, her black eyes sparkling. A few grains of some glistening powder had sifted into her hair and shone there like dust of jewels."

"My, but that 's a lovely package!" Nancy remarked, as Ann cut a square of tissue-paper and measured off a length of silver cord. "And what a clever idea that is! I should never have thought of using cotton batting and a sprinkling of diamond-dust for the top layer."

"Well, you see this is for Cousin Harriet, Nancy. She has everything any one could possibly wish for, and she always sends me such beautiful things that I make a special effort to have my gift to her as dainty as possible and a little different."

Ann paused and glanced at the clock.

"Mercy, look what time it is! I 've got to go. I wonder if you 'd just as soon stay, Nancy, and finish up that little pile over there by the couch. They 're for the fir-tree cousins down on the farm."

"The fir-tree cousins! Whatever do you mean, Ann?"

Ann laughed gaily as she stood up and shook off the bits of tinsel and ribbon from her skirt.

"Oh, I always call them that in fun," she explained. "They 're Tom's cousins that live down in Maine. The idea struck me, I suppose, because theirs is the 'Country of the Pointed Firs,' you know. I 've never seen any of them, but I 've always sent, them a box at Christmas ever since I 've been married."

"What fun!" Nancy exclaimed enthusiastically. "How many are there and what do you send them?"

"I don't know as I should call it fun exactly," Ann answered dubiously. "This buying gifts for people you 've never seen and only known by hearsay is—well-not joy unalloyed. Let 's see—there 's Cousin Henry and Cousin Lucy, then the boys Alec and Joe and little Henry, and one girl, Louise, who is just between the two older boys. And oh yes there 's Grandma Lewis, cousin Lucy's mother."

Ann ticked off the names on her fingers.

"Yes, there are just seven of them. Tom says they have a fine farm. He used to go there summers when he was a boy. He just adores Cousin Lucy and actually wanted to take me down there on our wedding-trip. You can't accuse me of procrastination as far as they are concerned, Nancy, for I always buy their things long before any of the others. You see, I usually know just about what I 'm going to send each one. I hit on a certain thing and stick to it as nearly as possible every year. It 's easier."

"Goodness, Ann, you don't give them the very same thing year after year I hope?" Nancy looked up in comical dismay.

"Well, why not?" Ann demanded a trifle sharply, turning from the mirror, where she stood pinning on her hat and veil. "Take Cousin Henry, for instance. I usually get a nice warm muffler for him, because I 'm sure he can—"

"But I should think—" Nancy interrupted.

"My dear, it 's just freezing cold there! They have terrible winters and one needs mufflers—and more mufflers! You can't have too many. Then I nearly always pick out an apron of some sort for Cousin Lucy. One can't have too many aprons, either, especially when you do all your own work. For Grandma Lewis, I choose a bag or something to put her knitting in. This year I found some sort of an affair for holding the yarn. I did n't understand it very well myself, although they told me it was perfectly simple; but I thought an experienced knitter like Grandma Lewis would know how to use it. Louise is just sixteen, so it 's easy enough to select a bit of neckwear or a handkerchief for her. As for the boys Alec and Joe, I always get them stick-pins, they can't have too many, you know, and for little Henry a game or toy of some sort. Then Tom adds a box of candy. Promptly one week after Christmas, I receive a perfectly proper, polite letter from Cousin Lucy thanking me in behalf of every member of the fir-tree household. It does sound a bit perfunctory, does n't it, Nancy? Sort of a cut and dried performance all around. Somehow. Christmas is getting to be more and more like that every year, don't you think so? I must confess I 'm glad, positively relieved, when it 's over! I 'm always a wreck, mentally as well as physically."

Nancy made no comment; instead she pointed with the scissors to a heap of large and small packages over at one side. "What do vou want done with those, Ann?"

"Oh, they go in the home box. That has to go to-night, too. I was just starting to tie them up. Do you suppose you 'd have time to do them too, Nancy dear? I know I 'm just imposing on you. If it was n't that I have to have this dress for the Christmas dance, I should n't go a step. Just put the two piles on my bed when you 've finished wrapping, will you'? Then Tom can pack them after dinner. Now I 'm off. Good-by and thanks awfully."

A minute later, Nancy Wells heard the front door slam, then the house settled down to an empty quiet, broken only by the rustling of tissue-paper and the click of scissors as Nancy folded and cut and measured and snipped. The fire burned to a bed of dull embers: and beyond the small square window-panes, the snow-lit landscape darkened to dusk.

"There!" said Nancy, as she gave a final pat to the last bow. "And how pretty they look, too," she added, leaning back to survey her handiwork. Then she carried them over to the bed and arranged them in two neat piles.

"Certainly looks like 'Merry Christmas,' all right." With which remark, she put on her coat and hat and went home.


It was several hours later that Ann Brewster, attired in dressing-gown and slippers and with her hair in a braid down her back, surveyed with weariness, compounded with relief, the empty spaces on bed and floor.

The last label, inscribed in Ann's square, half-childish hand, "Merry Christmas from Tom and Ann," had been pasted on while Tom stood by with hammer and nails ready to perform the final offices. And the two boxes, the one for the fir-tree cousins down on the Maine farm, the other for Ann's own family in Michigan, were now on their way to the down-town office. Ann burrowed deeper into the big wicker chair.

"And now that 's over for another year at least," she sighed. "And I 'm too tired to care much whether those boxes reach their destination safely or not. Twelve months from to-night in all probability, I shall be sitting in this same spot making that very same remark. And I used to just love Christmas, too!"

Ann Brewster (she was Ann Martin then) had been brought up in a family where much had been made of the Christmas festival. There had been little money to spare in those days: nevertheless, Mr. and Mrs. Martin had always contrived to make the day and the season itself one of happy memory to their four children. No elaborate celebration of later years ever held quite the same degree of delight and anticipation shared then by every member of the family. Ann recalled the weeks brimful of plans and mysterious secrets that preceded the day itself, with its simple gifts and its spirit of peace and good will toward all. It was not so merry a day now, somehow, Ann reflected, taring moodily at the glowing coals in the fireplace. It seemed to have lost its savor. And to be so unreservedly glad when it was over was to admit it a burden. To be sure there was only herself and Tom to celebrate it now, and it was to be expected that much of the old merriment must be lost with the years. She had tried to keep to the letter of the day at least, and the little house had its wreaths of evergreens, its holly and scarlet ribbons. There was always a tiny tree for two, all a-glitter with candles and heaped about with parcels. And the days between Christmas and New Year's were always one round of dances and dinners and teas.

"Tired, Ann?"

A masculine voice broke in on her revery and Tom's broad-shouldered figure filled the doorway.

"Cheer up! The boxes are on their way, or should be shortly, and a few days more will see the season's finish."

"That 's just it, Tom. A few days more, and the one day for which we 've shopped and slaved for weeks will have come and gone the way of its predecessors. And in our weariness and relief is swallowed up all the real meaning and spirit of that day whose origin was in simplicity itself."

Tom whistled thoughtfully, and when he spoke his voice had lost its merry banter.

"I guess you 're right there, Ann. We 're certainly a long way off from the old days of five-cent horns and candy canes. A lot of that was youth, of course, but just the same this modern deal is all wrong. It 's a selfish proposition, as I look at it. We are more concerned with getting the thing off our hands and off our minds than with any real desire to add to some one else's pleasure. Honestly Ann, how much intelligence or thoughtfulness goes into the average Christmas shopping? To many, it is just a regularly recurring duty. I don't mean that as a general statement by any means, but—" Tom sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed, one shoe grasped in both hands.

"I don't believe I 've ever told you, Ann, about a certain Christmas of mine, long ago. About the nicest I 've ever known."

"Where was it? Do you mean at home?" Ann looked up, interested.

"No." Tom's voice changed and a shadow crossed his face. "You know I never had much of a home, Ann. My parents both died when I was only a little chap, and I was sort of parceled out to various relatives for different seasons of the year. No, this Christmas I 'm thinking of was with Cousin Henry and Cousin Lucy. Queer I have n't told you before."

"I knew you spent your summers there," Ann answered a little curiously, "but I never heard of your being there for Christmas."

"Well, I was, and I 've never forgotten it. It was my first glimpse of what a real homey Christmas can be. The tree was just a home-made affair—that is, the trimmings. We cut the tree ourselves, a beautiful slender fir, and hauled it down on a sled from the hill forest back of the house. We popped corn and made wreaths, strung cranberries, and cut stars out of colored paper. And I tell you that tree was pretty—if it was n't glittering with ornaments and blazing with candles or electric lights."

"Did you have presents?" asked Ann.

"Yes. I remember Cousin Henry gave me a pair of home-made snow-shoes. Grandma Lewis had knit some red wristlets for me, and Cousin Lucy a cap to match. I was the happiest boy in the state of Maine!"

Tom paused a moment. "But somehow, Ann. what I remember most was the spirit of the day itself. Cousin Lucy had worked hard. I know, and in the evening had a lot of the neighbors in; but she was the life of the crowd. Ann, I 'd like you to meet and really know Cousin Lucy. I wish she 'd ask us to visit them sometime."

"Somehow, I never supposed—" Ann began hesitatingly.

"Supposed what?" Tom asked.

"Well, I guess I never gave your fir-tree cousins much thought, Tom. I did n't think you cared particularly. You 've never talked much about them nor made any effort to."

"Yes, I know," Tom broke in, "and the more shame to me, too. It 's queer sometimes, that, no matter how much you may think of people, you just sort of drift apart. But you 'd better get to bed now, Ann; you look tired to death."

Christmas day dawned upon a clear and sparkling world. There had been a flurry of snow during the night, and in the keen morning sunlight everything shone clean and freshly garbed. Within the house, fires blazed; the tang of evergreen mingled with the odor of half-burned candles. The scarlet splash of holly berries gleamed amid their gloss of green leaves, and there was a happy confusion of torn wrappings, broken seals, and piled-up gifts! The dinner was a success, as Ann's dinners always were; but later that evening, as Ann struggled with the fastening of her new gown, "I did n't know I was so tired," she remarked, with a little sigh of weariness.

And she repeated the words at intervals all during the week that followed. So that it was a rather wan little figure that faced Tom across the breakfast-table the morning after New Year's. There was a pile of letters beside her plate.

"I know exactly, Tom Brewster, what 's in every one of these missives. I could read them off to you with my eyes shut. I never feel that Christmas is really over for another year," she added ironically, "until assured that my gifts have arrived and are herewith acknowledged with due and proper gratefulness."

Tom grinned as he opened up his morning paper.

There was a silence for several minutes while Ann slowly slit the seals one by one. She picked up a square white envelop that bore her father's well-known handwriting, and a minute later a sudden exclamation made Tom look up.

"Why, Tom– Tom Brewster!"

Ann's eyes glanced down the single page; then she began to read aloud:

"My dear Ann:

"Perhaps you won't remember it, but you gave me a muffler for Christmas once long ago, when you were a very little girl. You picked it out yourself, and I 'll say this—that you showed remarkably good taste. That muffler, or what 's left of it, is tucked away somewhere in the attic now. The one you sent this year gives me almost as much pleasure as did that other one, although I suppose I 'll have to concede that these new styles are really prettier (but not any warmer or more useful) than the old. Your mother thinks they must be coming back into favor again, but I don't care whether they are or not. They 're warm and they help keep a clean collar clean. For my part, I 'm glad we 're getting away from the showy Christmases of the last few years and down to a simpler, saner giving and receiving.

"Lots of love and thanks to you and Tom,

"Father."

Ann drew forth a small folded sheet that had been tucked inside the other one. It read:

"Dear Ann:

"I 'm just going to add a line to put in with your father's, for we have a house full of company and there 's no time now for a real letter. Your box this year, although something of a surprise, was none the less welcome. I have thought for several years that we ought all of us to give simpler gifts. A remembrance, no matter how small, if carefully and thoughtfully chosen to meet the need or desire of the recipient, carries with it more of the real Christmas spirit than the costliest gift or one chosen at random. I don't know when I 've had an apron given me before! I began to think they had gone out of fashion. I put yours right on, and your father said it made him think of when you children were little. The boys will write you themselves, but I 'll just say that Ned and Harold both remarked that it seemed fine to get a stick-pin once more. (You know we 've always tried to think up something different, with the result that both are rather low on that article.) We 've had lots of fun with Hugh's game. He confided to me that he 'd been hoping somebody would give him one. So you see, Ann dear, we are all pleased with our things and send you our grateful thanks. Love to you both from,

"MOTHER."

"P. S. I was afraid my letter telling of your Aunt Cordelia's arrival had not reached you in time, but I need not have worried. She was much taken with that case for holding her yarn. She 'd had one and lost it. And Katy was real pleased with that pretty handkerchief."

With hands that trembled a little, and with burning cheeks, Ann drew forth the last letter in the pile. It was postmarked Maine, and contained two plain lined sheets, tablet size.

"This is from Cousin Lucy," Ann began, a queer little note creeping into her voice:

"My dear Ann:

"When we opened your box on Christmas morning, I thought I had never seen anything so attractive. Seals and ribbons and greetings may not mean so much, perhaps, to you city people; but for us isolated ones, they add a great deal to our enjoyment and appreciation. Your gifts fulfilled certain long-felt desires, one or two of which I suspect are older than you are, Ann. Perhaps you cannot understand the joy of receiving something you 've always wanted, yet did not really need. The necessary things we can and do buy, as a rule, but the others—the little amenities of life—it is for these that Christmas was instituted. The wise men might have brought other and needed things to the Bethlehem manger, but they did n't. They brought gold and frankincense and myrrh! I am writing with my beautiful pin before me on the table. You see, it is the first one—the first really nice pin—I 've ever owned. That is fulfilled desire number one. The second is the sight of your Cousin Henry enjoying a bit of leisure before the fire with his new book. I suppose Tom may have told you that once, as a young man, your Cousin Henry made this very trip to the headwaters of the Peace River. So few new and worth-while books find their way to us. Louise and the boys will write later, so I 'll only say that Alec actually takes his big fiash-light to bed with him; Joe is inordinately proud of that safety-razor: and as for little Henry—well, his father and I both feel that we ought to thank you on our own behalf, for all our efforts to make an out-of-door lad of him seem to have failed hitherto. He is the student of the family, but the new skates lure him outside and help to strike the proper balance. Louise loves her beaded bag, as, indeed, what girl would n't! And as for Grandma Lewis, she fairly flaunts that bit of rose-point. She confided to me that at eighty years she had at last given up all hope of ever possessing a piece of real lace!

"I have written a long letter, but I doubt if, after all, I 've really succeeded in expressing even a small part of our appreciation to you and Tom for your carefully chosen gifts. To feel that a certain thing has been chosen especially for you,—to fit your own individuality and particular desire, if "not always need,—this, it has always seemed to me, is the true spirit of Christmas. And I think you have found it, Ann. Before closing I want to ask if you and Tom can't arrange to make us a visit this summer?

"Wishing you both a Happy New Year,
"Lovingly,

"Cousin Lucy."

Ann Brewster laid down the letter with something that was half a sob and half a laugh. "I 'm just too ashamed to live!"

"Why, what 's the matter, Ann?" Tom looked puzzled.

"Cousin Lucy speaks of my 'carefully chosen gifts.' And– and they were n't at all! They were n't even meant for any of them. You see," Ann swallowed the lump in her throat, "I 've always just chosen their things at random. Yes I have, Tom. One of those Christmas obligations you spoke of the other night, to be disposed of with as little time and effort as possible. And then last week, when I was hurrying to get everything off, Nancy Wells came over and I left a lot of things for her to finish wrapping while I dashed off to the dressmaker's. And I suppose, in some way, I got the fir-tree cousins' and the home pile mixed."

Tom pushed back his chair from the table.

"Seems to me, Ann dear, that we 've had the answer to our query, 'What 's wrong with Christmas?' Cousin Lucy is right. To make the gift fit the person. When you go to buy a dress or I a suit of clothes, we choose the particular cut suited to our own individuality, don't we? Not to some one else's. And could n't that rule apply as well to the selecting of gifts? You 've sort of stumbled upon the truth this year, Ann, but—"

Tom stopped, whistling thoughtfully as he drew on his overcoat. There was a misty light in Ann's eyes as she stood beside him.

"When will you have your vacation, Tom?"

"August probably," Tom answered.

"Well, we 're going to spend it with our fir-tree cousins, and after that let 's see. It will be only four months until Christmas comes again. Tom, I can hardly wait!"

Happy Christmas!

"The Imp's Christmas Visit"

by Josephine Dodge Daskam, December 1901

Could modern people "make do" with as much cheer as the Imp's family if they were snowbound in a strange place on Christmas Eve? No doubt today the Staffords would have sued Mr. Peebles for getting them stuck, and the Hobbs family would have had the Staffords arrested for breaking and entering! Ah, yes, the days when you could leave a key so obviously out for the neighbors...

On the day before Christmas, or, to be perfectly accurate, at half-past three o'clock on the afternoon of the 24th of December, the Imp was driving through a heavy Vermont blizzard, huddled on the back seat of an old-fashioned sleigh, between his mother and his Aunt Gertrude. Facing them sat his father and his Uncle Stanley; and Joshua Peebles, the driver, was perched upon the raised seat in front.

The Imp was cold and cramped; his mother was cold and frightened; his father was cold and angry. And the horses, to judge from their actions, were cold and tired, for they stopped suddenly in the middle of the whirling flakes and refused to move a step, for all Joshua Peebles's clucking and urging.

"Oh, dear," cried the Imp's mother, "what a dreadful storm! What shall we do, Mr. Peebles? Is n't this terrible? How I wish we had stayed at the hotel!"

"Mebbe 't would 'a' been jes' as well if you had," replied Mr. Peebles politely.

"That 's enough of that," said the Imp's father decidedly. "Do you know where we are at all, Peebles?"

"Well," Mr. Peebles began, "I ain't so sure as I might be, but I guess we 're on the road. I guess we 're somewheres, more or less."

The rest of the party, cold and unhappy as they were, laughed at this cautious remark, and the Imp poked his nose out of the bearskin rug to see what had amused them. His sharp little eyes pierced the thick white veil around them, and he cried triumphantly:

"Here we are! Here 's Grandma Stafford's! Let's get out, quick!"

Joshua Peebles shook his head. "No, sonny, you 're wrong. This ain't your gran'ma's by a good three mile. We ain't near to any place—wish we were. That 's just a snow-bank you see." He stopped suddenly and shaded his eyes with his big red worsted gloves.

"By gracious, it is a house!" he shouted. "It ain't Mis' Stafford's, but it is Darius Hobbs's! I did n't know we 'd come so far. Now, look here, folks; I guess you 've had enough o' this. You just get out while you can, and go right into Darius's and wait till this lets up. The team can't drag you much further, and that 's a fact. With your weight out, I 'll take 'em on to Mis' Stafford's—it ain't but two miles, and if I get stalled before I get there I can stop off at Deacon Scofield's. She 'll know why you had to wait. What do you say?"

"But I don't see any house," the Imp's father began doubtfully.

Mr. Peebles handed him the reins, jumped down, sank nearly to his waist in snow, and plowed ahead a few yards.

"Here's the gate!" he called back. "Come in my path before it fills up, an' bring the ladies along. Hurry up, now!"

Almost before they realized how they had come, the little party was standing on the snowy front porch, surrounded by traveling-bags and suit-cases, the Imp congratulating himself publicly on his good eyesight; he was very proud that he had discovered the house first.

"I 'll ring the bell, Mr. Peebles," he said, stamping his feet in imitation of the men, and seizing the white china bell-knob. "Here 's some writing pinned up," he added, pointing to a sheet of paper above it.

Aunt Gertrude stepped forward, shivering, and read the writing aloud.

"'Have gone to Cousin Lon's for the day. Will be back to-morrow,'" she read with chattering teeth.

They stared at one another in consternation.

"Well," cried Mr. Peebles, "if that ain't the greatest! Gone over to 'Lonzo's, have they? Well, they 'll stay there quite a spell, I guess. They 're snowed-up there, jes' as you 're snowed-up here."

Poor little Aunt Gertrude sank down on the white step and choked. She had never been so cold in all her life. The Imp's toes began to ache, and he whined fretfully. Why did n't his father do something?

"Well, what 'll we do, Joshua? " said Uncle Stanley, as cheerfully as though there were a dozen things they might do and he were offering the choice.

"Do?" repeated Joshua, "do? Why, just go right in an' make yourselves to home, that's all! Darius and his folks would want ye to do that. I know where they keep the key," and he reached up behind one of the blinds and took down a big brass door-key.

"Here, Mr. Stafford, here you are. Make a fire and find something to eat, and when this lets up I 'll come and get you. I dares n't leave the team another minute, or they 'll freeze stiff. Good-by!"

They watched him beat a way to the dejected horses, clamber into the sleigh, and shake the reins. The team started up, the bells jingled faintly, he faded into the shifting flakes. Uncle Stanley half lifted Aunt Gertrude to her feet, patted the Imp's heaving shoulder, fitted the key into the lock, and threw open the front door.

"Walk in, my friends, and make yourselves at home," he said politely. "Ring once for ice-water, twice for hot water, and three times for the bell-boy. I regret that the family is, with the exception of myself, over at Cousin 'Lonzo's, but anything that I can do—"

"Oh, Stanley, you are too absurd!" cried Aunt Gertrude; but they all laughed, and then they felt better.

The Imp pranced ahead into the deserted sitting-room, and looked curiously about him. A large, tall stove, with many shining knobs and a little white china bowl on the top, stood well toward the center. The carpet was covered with big wreaths of bright flowers, which he thought cheerful and pretty in the extreme, and there were many interesting pictures on the walls. He was just beginning the careful study of one hanging over the worn haircloth sofa, in which an enormous, long-haired man with a very cross face was engaged in bending two great stone pillars which supported the building he was about to destroy, when his father caught his hand.

"On to the wood-house," he cried, "or your Aunt Gertrude will turn into a yellow-haired icicle with a pink nose!" And he led them through a clean, bare kitchen into a fascinating room full of piled-up logs, little, middle-sized, and big, with all manner of shingles and lightwood besides. He and Uncle Stanley and the Imp carried in armfuls of this, and soon a fire was lighted in the black stove, and they were toasting their toes in a circle around the shining knobs. As the light glimmered red through the isinglass doors, casting many rosy shadows now on their faces, now on the furniture, and the delicious warmth crept into their cold, tired bodies, a sudden impulse seized the older ones, and they burst into laughter till the room rang with it; the Imp, as was his custom, laughing loudest of all as he sprawled contentedly on a gay rug by the side of his mother's chair, though he had no idea what they all were so merry about. When Aunt Gertrude had finished at last, and his mother had wiped her eyes, the Imp turned to her curiously, and asked confidentially:

"What is it, mother? Tell me. Is it a joke?"

"A joke?" repeated Uncle Stanley huskily.

"A joke? By all means, my dear child. I was laughing because your Grandmother Stafford sprained her ankle, and we thought it would be so pleasant to spend Christmas in the country with her and cheer her up!"

"And I," said the Imp's mother, pursing her mouth into a queer little shape, "I was laughing because I packed everybody's presents to everybody else into a fine big box together, so they would be easily got at when we came to grandmother's."

"And I," continued the Imp's father, a little crossly, "I was laughing because I insisted upon storing the box in the hotel barn to save lifting it about—and then the barn burned to the ground."

"And I," Aunt Gertrude concluded, her voice shaking a little, she had laughed so hard, "I was laughing because I teased Brother Donald to let us start from the old hotel, blizzard or no blizzard, till he gave way and let us come—and here we are!"

The Imp stared at them a moment incredulously. Then he shook his head.

"I don't believe you at all! " he declared with decision. "I don't believe a word! There 's some other reason!"

And then, because they were the jolliest family in the world, and never gloomy for more than an hour at most, they began to laugh again, and actually laughed away all their misfortunes.

"It 's an adventure, a real adventure!" cried the Imp's mother, "and we ought to be delighted with it. We 're a house-party for over Christmas, that 's what we are!"

"Well, let's inspect the house, then," suggested Uncle Stanley. "Imp, lead the way. Take us to our rooms, please."

The Imp giggled and started up the stairs. Four doors opened on the narrow upper hall, and he peeped into each, waving the rest of the party back till he had made his assignments. After a swift glance into the third room he beckoned Aunt Gertrude to him.

"This is for you, 'cause the looking-glass is full of pictures," he announced.

She entered with much ceremony, and they peered in over her shoulder.

"Yes, this must be the daughter's room," said Mrs. Stafford. "See the ribbons on the curtains, and the little knickknacks."

"This one with the blue quilt is for Uncle Stanley," the Imp called out importantly, " 'cause there 's skates and a hockey-stick there!"

Uncle Stanley bowed and took possession of his property, and the Imp moved on to the front room.

"This is yours," he said, looking slyly up at his mother, "'cause there 's one picture here like my baby picture, and one like when I was three, and one like me with my corduroy trousers!"

His mother leaned down and kissed him. "Yes," she said softly, "this is the mother's room. And where is yours, dear?"

"Mine 's this small one in here," said the Imp, "with the two little girls' pictures."

At the head and foot of the cot-bed hung pictures of a little pink-faced girl in a bright blue frock, with a chain of daisies around her neck. Under one was written, "Wide Awake," under the other, "Fast Asleep," and, as Uncle Stanley remarked, there was no doubt that the legends described the young lady correctly.

"There 's a door between ours," the Imp added in confidence to his mother, "same as at home. I guess there always is, most us'ally, don't you?" And she agreed with him cordially.

They brought up their bags and unpacked them, so as to spend as little time as possible at night in the cold upper rooms; and then with one consent they fled to the kitchen, where a fire was soon lit, Aunt Gertrude and the Imp's mother smiling and competent in their clean gingham aprons, and his father and Uncle Stanley eagerly stumbling over each other in their well-meant efforts at assistance. They were very hungry, and delighted shouts greeted the frizzling ham and eggs that found its way to the stove, and the good home-made bread and deep pumpkin-pie that came out of the pantry.

"Only we sha'n't have any real Christmas dinner," said Aunt Gertrude, a little sadly, in the midst of all the fun and chatter. Aunt Gertrude always decorated the table on these occasions, and enjoyed her work as much as the praises she won by it.

The Imp's mother looked mysteriously at her, one hand on the brown stoneware teapot.

"I don't know about that; maybe we shall," she announced. "When I went into the cellar for butter I saw— I saw—"

"What? Oh, what?" they cried eagerly, as she paused.

"I saw a big, big turkey, with bowls and bowls of cranberry sauce!"

"Ah!"

"And mince-pies—"

"Ah!"

"And nuts—"

"Ah!"

"And I could make a plum-pudding; I 'm sure I could!"

" Say no more," said Uncle Stanley solemnly, "but Gertrude, start the decorated place-cards!"

"Only, only—" Mrs. Stafford looked doubtfully at her husband, "I 'm not sure it it's right, Don, dear, to step in so coolly and eat up their nice Christmas dinner. You see, when they started away yesterday morning, it was just the end of the storm, they thought, and they expected to be back. They had no idea it would begin again at noon. And we have n't any right—"

"For that matter, we have n't any right to this ham and that most delectable pie, nor to the feather-beds we shall get into to-night," said the Imp's father cheerfully. "Where do we draw the line? They 'll eat their Christmas dinner where they did n't expect to, and if they 're nice people they 'll be glad that this surprise-party had such a good dinner to eat at their house. I should n't wonder if we could find some way to repay them before we get away."

"Joshua Peebles said to make ourselves at home; yes, he said Darius's folks would want us to," suggested the Imp helpfully; and that seemed to settle the matter, for they washed the dishes and set the table for breakfast in the best of spirits.

In fact, as they sat about the stove in the sitting-room and laughed till they cried, as they discussed the probable characteristics of the Hobbs family, each one drawing a vivid picture of some member of it, and insisting that he was right and the others wrong if they held different views, they almost forgot that the box was burned, and that something was lacking this Christmas Eve.

Suddenly, however, in the midst of Uncle Stanley's brilliant picture of William Henry Hobbs, whose room he was to occupy, and who, he insisted, had gray eyes and hated baked beans, the Imp heaved a sigh.

"We 've none of us got any presents on the tree, have we?" he said softly—"not even one."

"That's a fact, Imp," Uncle Stanley agreed. "It is a pity, too. If I had just one, I would n't mind. Just the idea of the thing, you know."

They looked at one another in silence. Then the four older ones got up from their chairs as one person and ran upstairs. In a few minutes they came down, one by one, and as if they had waited for the coast to clear before they ventured. When they had settled themselves, somewhat consciously, in separate and distant chairs, the Imp's father arose, stepped toward Uncle Stanley with a package in his hand, and remarked:

"My dear Stanley, let me present you with this box of fine cigars, with my compliments and best wishes for the season. They are really too good for you, but Christmas comes but once a year."

Uncle Stanley seized his present with unfeigned delight, even cutting a little caper as he tucked it under his left arm. With his right hand he offered his brother a long, slim object.

"My dear Donald," he replied, "let me, before thanking you for this truly valuable and unexpected (by both of us) present, beg your acceptance of my fountain-pen, for which you have hinted in vain for two years, and which I am certain you have been near stealing before this. A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!"

The Imp's father smiled broadly and grasped the pen eagerly.

"Good enough!" he cried. "I 'd rather have this than anything you own, Stan!"

They all laughed with excitement, wondering what would come next, and Aunt Gertrude took the floor.

"Here is my alligator card-case, Stanley," she said, "so you won't need to borrow it any more. Be careful of it, and—merry Christmas!"

"Bless you, Gertrude," returned Uncle Stanley. "I can't go all around, but you 'll get your reward sometime, and meanwhile I take great pleasure in presenting you, my dear nephew, with this camera, which is a much larger one than I should ever have purchased for you, and with which I ask only that you 'll allow me to get a few of these blizzard scenes."

Speechless with joy, the Imp seized the camera and balanced it in his trembling hands. His cup ran over.

"Gertrude," said Mr. Stafford, "I believe you have often remarked that these sleeve-links matched your belt-buckle. Let me offer them to you, with the compliments of the season!"

"Oh, brother Don! They are too lovely!" sighed Aunt Gertrude, flushing with pleasure. "Helen, dear, this is only my 'party' handkerchief, but you always said it was the prettiest one you ever saw"; and she laid it in her sister's lap.

Mrs. Stafford drew two fat, square boxes from behind her back and extended her hands to the Imp's father and Uncle Stanley.

"Here, you two babies," she said, "let me pat my lovely handkerchief, and take this old-fashioned molasses, Don; yours are burnt almonds, Stanley!"

The Imp interrupted their thanks. "Everybody 's given something to everybody else but just excepting me," he said sorrowfully, "and I have n't a single present, 'cause all my things were packed in mother's bag, and it 's only clothes and cough med'cine, anyway—you would n't want 'em. But I 'm going to give something to somebody, just the same. I 'm going to give my 'Sports of All Nations' puzzle to little Hezekiah Greenleaf Hobbs, that sleeps in my little room!"

They looked at one another silently. "It 's the best present that 's been made to-night, Perry boy," said his father, "and I 'm going to leave my Kidnapped and Treasure Island here for Mr. Hobbs. I see he 's a reading man by the books on the table, and I 'll read something else at grandmother's."

"I 'll put my new blue satin stock in the bureau drawer when I go," said Aunt Gertrude, after a moment.

"And I 'll give William Henry my club-skates that I brought up," added Uncle Stanley; "his are clumsy, old-fashioned things."

The Imp's mother hugged him and smiled on them all.

"Is n't this fun?" she asked them delightedly. "Won't they be surprised? I shall leave my new bedroom slippers for Mrs. Hobbs; I noticed hers, and they 're about worn out. I 'm so glad I had big bows put on, and saved them. They 're just her size. And we must write them a letter, and tell them what a good, good time we had, must n't we?"

They trooped upstairs with their presents, the Imp assuring any one who cared to listen that no Christmas he had ever known could compare in brilliancy and bliss with this one; but as they all were telling one another the same thing, it is to be doubted if anybody heard him.

Christmas morning, after breakfast, they sat quietly about the stove, while the Imp's father read to them out of a big calf-bound Bible about that First Birthday; and the Imp, who had gone out early with the men, through all the sheds and buildings that joined the house to the barn, to find something for the chickens and cows and horses to eat,—his father, who had been a boy on a farm, had thought of that,—remembered the dimness of the big barn, and the warm, moist smell of the stable, and wove it into the story till he seemed to see it all. Then they went into the parlor, and Aunt Gertrude sat down in front of the melodeon in the corner, and they sang "It Came upon the Midnight Clear," which was the Imp's favorite hymn, as it is that of many people, and which he shouted so lustily as to shake the glass prisms on the candelabra beside him.

And the dinner! His mother rolled up her sleeves and made a pudding of puddings,—she seemed to find the spices by instinct,—while Aunt Gertrude set the table, and trimmed it with cranberry strings and evergreen sprigs that Uncle Stanley pulled off, leaning out of an attic window. The farm-house cellar was a cave of treasures. "They seem to know just what we like," the Imp remarked, as they cracked the butternuts on a flat-iron and selected the celery. There was food and fuel enough to stand a siege, as his father said, and they watched the steady fall of the flakes with more interest than dismay.

When the turkey smoked in the oven, they put on the best their traveling-bags afforded, and sat merrily down around the red and green table. Never, never were dishes so delicious.

"You must really cook your Christmas dinner to appreciate it," said Uncle Stanley, who had done little but pound his finger on the flat-iron and steal the celery hearts.

Later they drank toasts in black coffee to the Hobbs family, collectively and individually, and made plans for inviting them to their next Christmas at grandmother's.

"For I 'm sure they 're nice, nice people," said the Imp's mother.

And after dinner they popped corn in the stove, and told stories, and played the most delightful games, of which they knew more than any other family in the world, and altogether so enjoyed themselves that not till a thundering knock at the door sent them to the windows did they realize that the storm had stopped.

Joshua Peebles stared in at the corn-popper, the candy, and the merry, brightly dressed ladies.

"Well, well," he said, "I guess you ain't so bad off, after all! You seem to keep your spirits up. I keep the snow-plow up to my place, an' the minute it stopped, I started out. So you can get up to up Mis' Stafford's right away. I passed by 'Lonzo Dearborn's place, and yelled out to 'em that you was here, an' they yelled back they hoped you 'd found the turkey. They wanted you should have everything just 's if you was in your own home."

"There!" cried the Imp's mother, "I said they were nice, nice people!"

"An' so they are," said Joshua Peebles— "nice as they make 'em! Now come on, and maybe you 'll get a little of your Christmas yet."

"My dear Mr. Peebles," said Uncle Stanley, in his best manner, "we have had more Christmas to the square inch than we have enjoyed for many years. A tree, Mr. Peebles, is for institutions; stockings are for the very young only. For real pleasure all round, let me recommend to you a Christmas on an abandoned farm!"

"Except I 'd like to have seen little Hezekiah Greenleaf Hobbs!" murmured the Imp.

"The King of the Christmas Feast"

by Elaine Sterne, December 1914

A homesick little boy at boarding school and some friendly servants (including the usual "Oyrish" maid) plan an unusual Christmas celebration.

The little boy in No. 60 pressed his nose against the cold window-pane and looked out over the school yard. It was a deserted white courtyard, with a few muddy footprints zigzagging across the snow toward the second dormitory. There was, to be sure, a rusty puddle in one corner where the drops from the rain-pipe spattered, but aside from that, four gray walls with staring windows looked him back square in the eye, no matter how far he twisted his head.

The little boy had been ill. Even now, a bright red flannel compress was wound about his tender throat, and he was propped up in a much-too-big Morris chair, with a plaid rug across his knees. There is nothing to being sick at school—nothing at all. The little boy in No. 60 could have told you that, because he had had two months of it, and only now, at Christinas time, had he begun to get well.

Of course, on the other hand, the infirmary is good sport, with Mrs. Darling fussing over you and feeding you hot broths from a little blue china bowl. But even with Mrs. Darling tucking you in here and patting you down there, and even with the boys stumbling in for a few minutes to chatter about the junior team and the senior squad, there is something very "wantable" that you miss most fearfully much. Something that begins with a capital "M." The little boy in No. 60 never let himself get farther than the capital "M," because his mother was a whole ocean away, and it was n't any good wishing for her anyway—you see, it cost so much to come.

The little boy in No. 60 sat by the window a long time, until the shadows began to get long and black and reaching, and a crisp chilliness was in the air. He wound the plaid rug tightly about him, until only his sharp little chin peeked out, and he was glad when he heard the door click and Mrs. Darling rustled in.

"And was the little plum-pudding left all by himself?" she asked, switching on the lights briskly. "Such a busy day as it 's been—what with putting the place to rights after the young gentlemen, and getting the perfessers off for the holiday, why we forgot all and everything about you. You 're not cold, are you?"

"Not very," said the little boy, quietly; "not very, at all."

"Well, I 'm having Nora build us a fire in the study, and I 'll carry you down across my shoulder, like the little pack of bones that you are."

"Perhaps I could walk, if you—"

"Walk! And do you think I could n't lift you, after caring for you two whole months? Mercy! but the boy 's getting well!"

Even as she spoke, she was bundling the plaid about him and lifting him gently. There is something rather revolting in having a woman carry you, just like a tiny baby, and the little boy's mouth stiffened, and he stuck out his chin.

"Just as you like," he said. "Only do be sure nobody sees you doing it."

Mrs. Darling laughed aloud. "I 'll be so careful that I 'll drop you like a hot potato if any one comes sneaking around."

And so the little boy in No. 60 was carried ignominiously down the long stairs, his fair head resting against Mrs. Darling's plump shoulder.

Nora, down on her hands and knees, was piling logs on a roaring fire. It did look cozy. The little boy was almost glad he had come, only fires and crackling logs somehow need a great laughing crew about them. You really should n't be at all lonesome beside a fire, because it is such a big, warm, glorious, friendly thing. Mrs. Darling set him down carefully and stuffed a pillow behind his back. The little boy quite hated the sight of a pillow, but he let it stay because it did feel good in that spot, and then she bustled away, for just "half a minute," and left him watching Nora, still poking and prodding the fire as though she were trying to keep it awake.

Suddenly he spoke. "Nora," he said, "whatever are you crying for?"

Nora did not answer, but her shoulders began to shake, and she dropped the poker.

"Nora, I guess perhaps I know why you 're crying," he said thoughtfully.

"O-o-h!" moaned Nora, her hands over her face. "It 's homesick I am, and I 've thried me bes' niver to shid a tear, an' now what 'll Mrs. Darlin' say?"

"Never mind her," he said soothingly. "Never mind her at all. Perhaps, Nora, if you keep on crying, I 'll cry too, and it would n't be very good for me. I don't—believe." There was the least bit of a catch in his voice, and Nora swung around.

"For shame on me!" she cried, "whin it 's you as should be mournin'—bein' so sick an' little an' swate. Sure, an' don't you begin to cry, for Mrs. Darlin' will be blamin' me."

"I 'll try not to," he said quietly. "I 'll try very hard. Nora," he said, "have you a—a— m-oth—"

"No," she said, shaking her head, "I 've niver had one—that is, since I was too schmall to remimber."

"Then what are you homesick for?"

"It 's me brothers, and sisters, and their childer, an' the tree, an' stockin's,—an'—oh, it 's Christmas—"

"I see," he said solemnly.

"Nora," he added suddenly, "why could n't we have a tree?"

"Sure, an' where 'd we get it?"

"I don't know, except where everybody gets trees—I guess you buy them."

"Yes, an' they 're after costin' a heap of money, too."

"I suppose so," he said. Then he clasped his hands. "Nora," he said, "we simply must have some kind of a tree, because, you see, it would n't be Christmas at all if we did n't."

"There ain't nothin' in the house that 'd do for a tree, I don't suppose."

"No—not unless—oh, Nora, the hat-tree! The hat-tree!"

"The hat-tree, is it? A shiny mahogany tree? Oh, it 's better than that we can do."

"I believe," his eyes were very bright— "I believe that would do all right. Of course we 'd have to pretend it was a glorious tree that reached to the ceiling, and that it was aglow with candles—and—and, Nora, w-we could play I was the king, and you, and Mrs. Darling, and old Patrick, and the cook were poor subjects that I had invited in for the—the—feast; and we could have apples—and stockings—and nuts—and—"

"Sure, I don't believe Mrs. Darlin' will be lettin' you do it."

But just at that moment Mrs. Darling, bearing a big tray, appeared.

"Guess what you 're going to have for supper to-night," she called across the cloud of steam that rose, but the little boy was too eager to guess.

"Oh, Mrs. Darling!" he cried, "can't we have a Christmas party here ? Can't we have you and Nora and Patrick and—"

"A Christmas party! And this Christmas eve! Whatever are you thinking of? With Nora, and old Patrick, and no tree or nothing—"

Something about the little boy's face stopped her short. Perhaps it. was his eyes. You see, they had grown very large and "wishful" since his illness, and they had a way of speaking much more distinctly than his lips. He did not say a word, but just watched Mrs. Darling until she felt a big lump spring into her throat.

"I guess we can manage it somehow," she said suddenly, ''although I don't see exactly how."

The little boy clapped his hands.

"Let me do it!" he cried. "I 'm going to pretend that I am—well—a sort of a—" It was much easier telling Nora things than Mrs. Darling. Some people have such an understanding way.

"Sure," broke in Nora, "it 's a king he 's goin' to be, with us a-bowin' an' a-scrapin' before him!"

"I thought perhaps you would n't mind," said the little boy, apologetically, a pink flush mounting into his pale cheeks. "You see, it would only be pretending, and I—guess—perhaps—Patrick, and the cook, and Nora would n't mind pretending, on Christmas, just this once, when it 's only a make-believe Christinas, after all."

"You can be as big a king as you want to," said Mrs. Darling, with a laugh, "if you eat the chicken soup I 've brought you and the buttered toast."

The little boy sighed contentedly and obediently tucked a napkin under his chin. He could feed himself now. He was very glad of that. But to-night his hand trembled a bit, and he set down his spoon hastily.

"I don't believe I want any soup," he said slowly, but Mrs. Darling shook her head.

"Here, let me give it to you. And then you 'll have time after dinner to think up what you are going to do. I believe we could roast some of the chestnuts Patrick picked up to-day."

So the little boy drank each mouthful as quickly as he could, and munched the toast without speaking another word. After he had finished, Mrs. Darling brought him a pad and pencil.

"Here, Your Majesty," she said, smiling, "write down your commands." The little boy's eyes brightened, and he looked up at her shyly.

"You don't mind playing it, do you?" he asked.

"Mind! Why, I guess it will do us all a world of good, old as we are,"- she said.

Of course after that, there was nothing for him to do but to write down, in a shaky hand, his commands.

"Cut down the highest tree in the forest," he wrote first. "It must be so high and so strong that it takes three men to chop it down. Then carry it into the banquet-hall and set it up." Here he stopped. "Do you suppose we can have the hat-tree, Mrs. Darling?" he asked.

"You can have anything you want," she said firmly.

"Order the Great-High-Tree-Trimmer, Sir Patrick, to enter, and to hang the gold and silver bells on the tree, and to light the candles—we can pretend the hat-tree has candles on it, can't we?" he paused to ask.

"Of course we can," she assured him.

"Then light the— What was it they burned at Christmas, Mrs. Darling?"

"The Yule log."

"Yes. Light the Yule log, and pile up the presents under the tree—all kinds—whatever any one has ever wished for in the world. Then hang the stockings on the mantel, and let the Great-High-Filler, Lady Nora, fill them with toys and books and—and— electric engines. Then let the doors be flung open and the guests enter. There!" he said, with a little sigh, "that 's all."

"That 's enough for to-night," said Mrs. Darling, looking at his flushed cheeks. "Just put your seal to it."

The little boy solemnly wrote "Rex," just as he had seen it done in books, and handed the paper to Mrs. Darling with a smile.

"It will be a—a glorious—Christmas," he said bravely; "just a glorious one!" Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, for he was suddenly very tired.

Have you ever awakened on Christmas morning, with the cold clear sunlight slanting across your floor, and the blue sky peeking in your window, and yet not even felt the least bit glad it was Christmas? The little boy opened his eyes and looked around as though he half expected to see a bursting stocking, and to hear his moth— He jerked over on his side. Even if it was Christmas morning, what was to prevent a fellow from
taking another nap! But something hot and wet slid down his cheek, before he could stop it, and, as long as there was n't any one around, it did n't make so much difference. But the little boy brushed it angrily away and sat up in bed.

"Merry Christmas!" he said fiercely to the table in the corner. "Merry Christmas!" and he lay back on' his pillows with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his lip between his teeth. Somebody was whistling in the lower corridor. He could hear it quite distinctly, and it sounded so glad and cheerful that the little boy slid to the floor, although his legs wabbled under him, and opened the door.

"Hullo, down there!" he called over the banisters. "Merry Christmas!"

"Hullo, up there!" came back old Patrick's cracked voice. "Merry Christmas, Your Majesty."

The little boy laughed out loud.

"Patrick, Patrick, do come up! How did you know to call me that?"

"Sure, Your Majesty, I 'II be there as soon as I mop up the last few steps. Git back into bed, and I 'll come and pay you me respects."

The little boy climbed back gladly under the warm covers and waited for the old man, his eyes shining eagerly.

Patrick thumped heavily up the stairs, then rapped loudly on the little boy's door.

"You may enter," said the little boy, stiffly, though he did giggle just the least bit, for old Patrick had pulled off his cap and shuffled in with his head bent.

"The top o' th' mornin' to Your Majesty!" he said, his eyes twinkling.

"The same to you, Sir Patrick. Have you cut down the—the highest tree?"

"Sure, and it 's so high that I *m after thinkin' the little people have bewitched it."

"And—and where have they put it?"

"Right beside your throne, Your Majesty."

"Oh," said the little boy, with a gasp, "I forgot about having a throne! Is n't that fine!"

"And the ceremonies are to begin immejetly after your royal breakfast."

"But, Patrick—Sir Patrick. I mean,—can we have the chestnuts you picked?"

"Sure thirty men have been gatherin' chestnuts for Your Majesty since yesterday mornin'—and the chief cook is roastin' 'era on the kitchen stove."

"Oh—oh—and when can we have the feast?"

"Whin every one 's wished for whatever they wants the most in the world,"' said old Patrick, with never a smile, "and not a minute before!"

"What do you mean?"

"Just that, Your Majesty; just that!" he said solemnly as he backed out of the room.

"Oh, wait, Sir Patrick!" the little boy cried.

"I can't wait, Your Majesty, for there 's much to be done, includin' shovelin' the snow off the front path." And with a wave of his hand he was gone.

The little hoy bombarded Mrs. Darling with questions when she appeared with his breakfast.

"What did Patrick mean? When are we going to begin? Oh, whatever does Patrick, and Nora, and the cook want for Christmas? What do you suppose I can give them that will make them ever so happy?"

"Help! help! Your Majesty!" cried Mrs. Darling, putting her hands over her ears. But the little boy persisted.

"Please, could n't I give them something?"

"Well," said Mrs. Darling, importantly, "if you won't tell, I have a present for each one of them."

"Oh, but you had them to give yourself!"

"It does n't matter who gives things, Your Majesty, so long as people get them. It 's the getting them that counts."

The little boy nodded gravely. There was a great deal in that. And he waited for Mrs. Darling to continue.

"There are a pair of heavy woolen mittens for Patrick to keep his hands warm all winter, and for Nora a red scarf of just the right shade to set off her black hair and eyes. For the cook there is a stout new pair of overshoes, hers being worn to the very sole."

But still the little boy was not satisfied. Mrs. Darling saw it in his eyes, and she guessed the reason.

"As for me," she said carelessly, "I don't expect to get anything—let alone what I really want and need most of anything in the world."

"W-what do you need?" asked the little boy, eagerly, entirely forgetting about his breakfast.

Mrs. Darling shrugged her shoulders. "It 's something I have use for every day, and nobody could be expected to think of it."

The little boy hitched his shoulders impatiently. "It 's fun telling what you want, anyhow," he said.

"Well, then, I never can remember the things I have to do without putting them down on a pad, and I never have a pad handy. If only some one would string some sheets of paper together for me to scrihble things on. But what 's the use of talking! Whoever would think of such a thing!"

The little boy smothered a laugh the best way he could, and tried to look very solemn while Mrs. Darling lifted the tray off his knees.

"The packages have all got to be tied up, and, although I have n't a hit of red ribbon, pink and blue will do every bit as well," she said.

"Yes," agreed the little boy, "only—only don't come back for—about half an hour, will you? I want to write to—well, some letters, you know."

Mrs. Darling nodded, and closed the door softly behind her.

Of course, when you have only half an hour to make a whole Christmas present, it behooves you to hurry. The little boy reached over for his dressing-gown and slipped his arms into it, then drew on his slippers. He remembered his arithmetic pad—or, rather, there had been an arithmetic pad before he was taken ill—and it ought to be in his desk drawer, behind the French Grammar. He opened the drawer and pushed aside the French Grammar with a shout, for there lay the pad! He lifted it out, and, as he did so, something slipped from its pages. It was a letter. He knew the writing, even if he had not recognized the foreign stamp. He stood very still, staring at it where it had fallen, a white blur, on the floor. Then he winked his eyes hard and picked it up.

"My darling little son," it ran, "if I could only be with you this—"

"Pshaw!" he said huskily, "it costs so much to come!" And he turned his back abruptly on the desk without another word.

When Mrs. Darling knocked at the door, a short time later, there was a long pause before a hurried "Come in," replied.

The little boy looked very uncomfortable, as though he were just about to be caught doing something he should n't do, and there was a look about one of his pillows as though something had been hastily stuffed beneath it. Mrs. Darling's arms were full of packages and paper, besides a quantity of pink and blue ribbon which gave her very much the appearance of a Maypole.

"Will Your Royal Majesty fasten up the presents now?" she asked.

"Yes," said the little boy, gravely; "but how about the stockings? There must be stockings."

"The stockings are already hung by the mantelpiece in the study, just as Your Majesty commanded, and Lady Nora is filling them with fudge and nuts and apples, besides a sprinkling of ginger cookies, that she made at the last minute."

"O-o-oh !" cried the little boy; "how splendid!"

"And Sir Patrick is trimming up the tree with great boughs of evergreen."

The little boy's face was radiant.

"And nobody knows what they 're going to get?"

"I should say not!" said Mrs. Darling; "although I heard Nora wishing for a red scarf a few minutes ago."

Then the little boy set to work. There are any quantity of ways to tie up Christmas presents so that they will look as though they were full of your heart's desire. Of course to do that you must have tissue-paper that is soft and crinkly, and red, red ribbon, besides a sprig of holly to lay across the top. The little boy had only stiff brown paper, but it did very well, for it bulged out in places where it should n't have, and made the packages look a great deal more imposing than they really were.

Mrs. Darling insisted on his getting dressed after that. There was a very best suit in the closet that he had not worn for weeks, and he slipped it on, although it hung rather loosely upon him.

"Kings always have to dress up," she explained; "that 's one of the worst things about being a king." So the little boy submitted to having his hair brushed and his face washed, although he would a great deal rather have been left alone to finish his present.

"Of course you can't go down into the study until the feast is ready," she said. "You see, every one is getting dressed for it, including old Patrick himself, so as to be fit to enter the banquet-hall."

The little boy nodded. He understood exactly how one must appear before a king, and he felt just a little sorry for Patrick and the rest. Mrs. Darling gathered up the packages.

"Nora is going to hang them on the tree," she explained, "and when the guests have all assembled, why, then I 'll send the heralds to escort you to your court."

After Mrs. Darling had left him, he sat still a long time, listening to the hum of voices in the lower corridor. There was an excitement in the air, something that seemed to hum and throb and thrill. Perhaps it was the sweet smell of the cranberry sauce that was wafted up to him, or perhaps it was Nora's shrill whispering, but it was there—a great unknown something that sent the little boy's pulses leaping.

After a while, he heard some one stamping up the stairs.

"Sure and is the king ready for the feast?" called out Patrick's voice.

"Yes, oh, yes!" said the little boy, breathlessly; "but, Patrick, Patrick, do hang this on the tree for Mrs. Darling, won't—"

He stopped short, for at his door stood a bowing Patrick in a shabby black suit, and a curtseying Nora in a bright blue dress. Between them they held a cushion. The little boy recognized it. It was one of the green plush cushions from the headmaster's couch, and he laughed aloud.

"If you 'll be climbin' on the pillow," said Nora, as they lowered it between them, "we 'll be carryin' you to the feast."

Somehow when the little boy—white and fair and eager—was perched on the cushion, he did look like a flaxen-haired little king, between two loyal subjects. It was a very serious matter to him, and though his mouth would curl at the corners when they fell out of step, his eyes were very grave, and he bowed his head first to Mrs. Darling, then to the cook, who awaited him at the foot of the stairs.

"Three cheers for the king!" shouted old Patrick, at the top of his voice. "Three cheers!" they called.

"Let the king make a speech," cried Patrick, and Mrs. Darling echoed, "Speech!"

"Oh!" cried the little boy. Then he recovered himself, and his eyes wandered over their heads, beyond, to the closed door. "Dear, dear people." he said, in a hurried, breathless sort of way, "may this be the—the—merriest Christmas you have ever had. May you get whatever you want—even if it is the impossiblest thing in the world—even if it —it—costs so much—"

"Ah hah!" cried Patrick, quite forgetting that a king must never be interrupted, no matter how long he takes. "Ah hah, it 's a pair of gloves I 'in wishin' for, but never a glove will I get!"

"And as for me," cried Mrs. Darling, "His Majesty is the only one who knows what I want, and that 's quite enough, seeing it 's such a hopeless thing!"

"It 's a beautiful rid shawl I 'in after wantin'." sighed Nora: "but it 's niver a rid shawl I 'll sec this Christmas—"

"And I need a pair of overshoes the worst way," said the cook, smiling: "but whoever would think of that!"

"Oh!" cried the little boy, his eyes shining with gladness. "Oh! now we can surely go to the feast, for every one 's wished for what they want most in the world—do hurry and open the door!"

"Wait!" said old Patrick, raising his hand, "I have n't heard His Majesty askin' for a thing—I-"

"But kings, Patrick—kings don't ever get things, they all the time give them!"

"This is Christmas, Your Majesty, and before that door is opened, every one, king included, wishes for the thing he wants most. Quick now—what 'll you have?"

"Oh," said the little boy, suddenly shrinking, "please—please—"

"Go on, Your Majesty," said Patrick, firmly, "for until you wish the feast stays on the other side of the door."

"Oh—oh—" the little boy covered his face, "I —I—must n't even think about it—and—and I 'm trying—"

"Is it a ball you 're wantin'?"

"Oh, no!"

"A steam-engine?"

"No!"

"A pair of boxin'-gloves?"

"No—no—no! It 's—my—mother—I want!" he said, with a sob.

"Hullo!" said Patrick, flinging the door open suddenly, "and why could n't you have said that long ago, instid of keepin' her sittin' here and waitin' for you full half an hour—"


Late that night, after Nora, with her red scarf over her shoulders, had gathered up the remains of the Christinas feast, and only a low, red, cozy light gleamed beneath the burnt-out logs, the little boy raised his head from his mother's shoulder and laid his hand on her cheek.

"But it cost so much to come!" he said softly, with a little shake in his voice. She drew him down in her arms, with a way mothers have.

"Look !" she whispered, "there 's the last spark! Wish—quick—wish!"

"I wish," he said slowly, "—I wish every girl and boy in the world has had as happy a Christmas as I have. I wish- But he did n't get any farther, for the tiny red spark went out quite gently, as if it did not want at all to disturb the little boy in No. 60 and his mother.