“I AM going to be merry all day long!” announced Wilfrid over his baked
potato. “It is Merry Christmas and I’m going to show you how to be
merry.”
“How?” queried Ben and Kitty.
“Why, it’s just—just to _be_ merry!” replied Wilfrid, loftily. “No
matter what happens, all day long, we must laugh. If you fall down
stairs, Ben, as you did yesterday, instead of howling, just laugh!
You’ll see—ow! this potato is awfully hot. I’ve burned my finger like
fun.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Ben and Kitty, as loud as they could.
“What are you laughing at, I should like to know?” cried their brother,
looking up rather savagely from the finger he was nursing. “I don’t see
the joke! Guess if it was _your_ finger—”
“Merry Christmas!” cried Ben.
“We are laughing ’cause you told us to, Willy!” said Kitty. “Oh, isn’t
it funny, brother burned his finger! Why don’t you laugh, too, Willy?”
Wilfrid was silent a moment; then he gave a forced laugh. “Of course!”
he said, glancing rather sheepishly in the direction of Papa, who sat
quiet behind his newspaper, and appeared to be taking no notice. (“But
you never can tell whether he really is or not,” he reflected.) “Of
course! I didn’t say I should laugh if _you_ hurt yourselves, children,
but it’s all right. You see I laugh, though I really hurt myself _very
much indeed_” (with another glance at Papa)! “Come, now! what shall we
play till it’s time to get ready for church? I vote for ‘Old Man I’m
on your Castle!’ We can play right on the hearth-rug here, and I’ll be
‘Old Man.’”
“I want to be ‘Old Man!’” protested little Kitty. “You’s always ‘Old
Man,’ Willy!”
“’Cause I’m the oldest!” responded her brother, promptly. “Come on,
Kitty, and laugh, you know! Don’t look as if I had trodden on your toes
just because you want to be ‘Old Man.’ We must laugh all the more when
we don’t get the things we want, don’t you see?”
The game went on merrily, and all three were laughing with right
good-will, when Wilfred caught his foot in a corner of the rug and
fell, striking his head pretty sharply against the table. He was dazed
for a moment, but as the children’s laughter rang out, he started to
his feet with looks of fury.
“You hateful little things!” he began, crimson with rage.
But at this moment another laugh was heard. Papa put down his newspaper
and began, “Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! this is Merry Christmas, indeed!
Why don’t you laugh, Wilfrid, my boy? Ho! ho! this is remarkably funny.
Why don’t you laugh? Why, this is the best joke I have heard to-day. Go
to your mother, dear, and ask her to put some arnica on your head, but
don’t forget to laugh all the way.”
“That is the worst of Papa,” said Wilfrid to himself, as he went slowly
up stairs, rubbing his head, and casting baleful glances at the two
little laughing children.
“He always makes you do things—when you say you are going to—even if
they don’t turn out a bit the way you thought they would.”