THEY call me Totty, because I am small. I had a funny Christmas, and
Mamma said I might tell about it.
I have the scarlet fever, and I live all alone with my Mamma in her
room. Nobody comes in ’cept the doctor, and he says he sha’n’t come any
more to see a girl who feels as well as I do.
Mamma wears a cap and an apron, and we have our own dishes, just like
play, and she washes them in a bright tin pan, and then I have the pan
for a drum, and beat on it till she says she shall fly.
I always stop then, for I do think I should be frightened to see Mamma
fly. Besides, she might fly away.
Well, yesterday was Christmas, and I could get out of bed and sit up in
a chair; it was the first time.
So I sat up to dinner, and it was a partridge, but we played it was a
turkey. There was jelly and macaroni, and for desert we had grapes and
oranges. Mamma made it all look pretty, and Papa gave her roses through
the door, and she put them all over the table.
When she had washed the dishes, she turned the big chair round so that
I could look out of the window, and Hal and John came out on the lawn
and made a snow-man for me to look at.
It was a fine man, with two legs and two arms, and they kept playing he
was the British, and knocking his head off.
Mamma told me I mustn’t turn round till she said I might, but I didn’t
want to, anyhow, the man was so funny.
I heard Papa whispering at the door, and I _did_ want to see him, but I
knew I couldn’t, ’cause the other children haven’t had the fever: and
then I heard things rustle, paper and something soft, like brushing
clothes.
They went on rustling, oh, a long time! and there was jingling, too,
and I began to want to turn round _very_ much _indeed_; but I didn’t,
of course, ’cause I said I wouldn’t.
_At last_ Mamma came up softly and tied something over my eyes, and
told me to wait just a minute; and it really did not seem as if I could.
Then she turned the chair round, and took the thing off my eyes,
and—_what_ do you think was there?
A Christmas tree! A dear little ducky tree, just about as big as I am,
and all lighted with red and blue candles, and silver stuff hanging
like fringe from the branches, and real icicles. (No! Mamma says they
are glass, but they look real. They are in a box now, and I can play
with them.)
And everything on the tree was for me. That makes a rhyme. I often make
them.
There was a lovely doll, all china, with clothes to take off and
put on, and buttons and buttonholes in everything. I have named her
Christine, because that is the most like Christmas of any name I know.
And a tin horse and cart, and a box of blocks, and a _lovely_ white
china slate to draw on, and a box of beasts, not painted, all carved,
just like real beasts, and a magnet-box, with three ducks and two
swans and four goldfish and a little boat, all made of tin, and lots
of oranges and a lovely china box full of cream candy (the doctor said
I might have it if Aunt May made it, and she did), and a box of guava
jelly, and a little angel at the top, flying, all of white china.
And _everything_ will wash except the things to eat, ’cause everything
I play with has to be burned up, unless it can be washed, so they all
gave me washing things.
Even Christine has china hair, and all her clothes are white, so they
can be boiled, and so can she, and Mamma says it won’t hurt her at all.
So I never had a nicer Christmas, though, of course, I wanted the other
children; but then, _I_ had Mamma, and of course _they_ wanted _her_,
poor dears!
And nobody need be afraid to read this story, ’cause it is going to be
_baked in the oven_ before it is printed.