"Mis' Chairman," he said, "I move you--and all of us--that the Old Trail
Town meeting do and hereby does declare itself in favour of striking
Christmas celebrations from its calendar this year. And that we
circulate a petition through the town to this effect, headed by our
names. And that we all own up that it's for the simple and regretful
reason that not a mother's son of us can afford to buy Christmas
presents this year, and what's the use of scratching to keep up
appearances?"
For a breath Abel Ames hesitated; then he spoke voluntarily for the
first time that evening.
"Mr. President, I second the hull of that," said he, slowly, and without
looking at anybody; and then sighed his vast, triple sigh.
There was apparently nobody to vote against the motion. Mis' Winslow did
not vote at all. Ellen Bourne said "No," but she said it so faintly that
nobody heard save those nearest her, and they felt a bit embarrassed for
her because she had spoken alone, and they tried to cover up the
minute.
"Carried," said the Chair, and slipped out in the kitchen to put on the
coffee.
At the meeting there was almost nobody who, in the course of the
evening, did not make or reply to some form of observation on one theme.
It was:--
"Well, I wish Mary Chavah'd been to the meeting. She'd have enjoyed
herself."
Or, "Well, won't Mary Chavah be glad of this plan they've got? She's
wanted it a good while."
Or, "We all seem to have come to Mary Chavah's way of thinking, don't
we? You know, she ain't kept any Christmas for years."
Unless it was Abel Ames. He, in fact, made or replied to almost no
observations that evening. He drank his coffee without cream, sugar, or
spoon,--they are always overlooking somebody's essentials in this way,
and such is Old Trail Town's shy courtesy that the omission is never
mentioned or repaired by the victim,--and sighed his triple sigh at
intervals, and went home.
"Hetty," he said to his wife, who had not gone to the meeting, "they put
it through. We won't have no Christmas creditors this year. We don't
have to furnish charged Christmas presents for nobody."
She looked up from the towel she was featherstitching--she was a little
woman who carried her head back and had large eyes and the long, curved
lashes of a child.
"I s'pose you're real relieved, ain't you, Abel?" she answered.
"My, yes," said Abel, without expression. "My, yes."
* * * * *
They all took the news home in different wise.
"Matthew," said Ellen Bourne, "the town meeting voted not to have any
Christmas this year. That is, to ask the folks not to have any--'count
of expense."
"Sensible move," said Matthew, sharpening his ax by the kitchen stove.
"It'll be a relief for most folks not to have the muss and the clutter,"
said Ellen's mother.
"Hey, king and country!" said Ellen's old father, whittling a stick, "I
ain't done no more'n look on at a Christmas for ten years and more--with
no children around so."
"I know," said Ellen Bourne, "I know...."
The announcement was greeted by Mortimer Bates with a slap of the knee.
"Good-by, folderol!" he said. "We need a sane Christmas in the world a
good sight more'n we need a sane Fourth, most places. Good work."
But Bennet and Gussie Bates burst into wails.
"Hush!" said Mis' Bates, peremptorily. "You ain't the only ones,
remember. It's no Christmas for nobody!"
"I thought the rest of 'em would have one an' we could go over to
theirs...." sobbed Gussie.
"I'd rather p'etend it's Christmas in other houses even if we ain't it!"
mourned Bennet.
"Be my little man and woman," admonished Mis' Mortimer Bates.