up, now, honey!” For Bobsie dearly loves to write letters, and the fact
that no one can read them but himself does not dampen his enthusiasm in
the least.
“What is the difference,” sang out Ernie, blithely, while I searched
mother’s desk for a half-sheet of note paper, “between a horse and an
egg?”
“There’s no difference between you and a donkey,” growled Hazard.
“Well, I like that!” retorted Ernestine; while Robin, after a vigorous
suck at the stump of pencil I had handed him, began unctuously upon his
letter.
“_Dear Santa Claus_,” he muttered,—
“_I want the Mowgli books_,—”
“_Jungle Books_,” corrected Ernie.
“—_and a horse just like Georgie’s_,” continued Robin, with a flourish.
“Why not a little, white, cuddly, flannel rabbit with pink eyes?”
suggested Ernestine. “You could take that to bed with you, you know,
Robin, and the horse would have to sleep in a stall in the closet, which
wouldn’t be nearly so convenient!”
“Yes, _a little white flannel rabbit with pink eyes_,” corrected Robin,
obligingly. “_And a steamboat what can whistle, and a box of building
blocks, an’_——”
But here Haze slammed to his book.
“Shut up, Bobs,” he commanded, roughly. “What’s the good? There isn’t
any Santa Claus, and you might just as well know it now, as——” but there
he stopped; for Robin was staring at him with such round frightened eyes
that Ernie and I cried out together,—
“Oh, Hazard! how can you! You ought to be ashamed!”
Haze opened his book again. “I don’t care,” he muttered. “There isn’t
any use in his running on like that. He isn’t going to get anything; we
all know it, and——”
But Bobsie cried, “I will, too! I’ve taken my cod-liver oil, I tell
you!”
And Ernie, running to his side, flung her arms protectingly about him.
“Of course you have, honey,” she crooned, “and of course you’ll get some
presents! Hazard is only teasing. The idea of there not being any Santa
Claus! Who gave you your things last year, I’d like to know?”
Robin’s chin was beginning to quiver, and two great teardrops blinked on
the ends of his long lashes. He held his arms tight about Ernie’s neck,
and cuddled up against her side.
Haze looked at them a moment, threw his book aside, and strode from the
room, I following.
“Hazard!” I began, as soon as the door had shut upon us. “It was cruel!
How could you do such a thing?”
“Don’t bother!” answered Haze, gruffly. “I didn’t intend to say it that
way, but—Robin _isn’t_ going to get anything. I couldn’t bear to have
him go on like that, and know it was all my fault, and,—oh, let me
alone, Elizabeth!”
And, shaking my hand from his arm, he turned and bolted upstairs, where
I heard the workshop door slam to behind him.
Naturally, if the rest of the house is cold, you can imagine what it
must be in the workshop. I was very much afraid that Hazard would add to
his sore throat; but I knew it would do no good to speak to him just
then, so I returned to the nursery, where Ernie was still sitting on the
side of the bed, her arms close about Robin, whispering to him in the
most seductive of tones.
“Yes, he looked just like the pictures, Bobsie,” she was saying. “It was
in front of Macy’s that we met, and I think he must have been looking
about at the toys. I was very much surprised, of course; but I went
right up to him, and said,—‘How do you do, Mr. Santa Claus? I’m Robin
Graham’s sister.’”
“Did you, Ernie!” cried Robin, with shining eyes. “And what did he say?”
“I can’t tell you that,” returned Ernie, mysteriously, “because it is a
secret. But don’t you worry, honey; _everything is going to be all
right_!”
Here I thought it time to interfere; for, though Hazard had been hasty
and even unkind in the way he spoke, still we all knew that Robin was
not going to get anything for Christmas,—so what was the use of
comforting him with false hopes that could only lead to a still more
bitter disappointment?
“Run down and set the table, Ernie,” I said, a little dryly. “It’s time
for Robin to have his reading lesson, now.”
Bobsie looked at me half shyly under his dark lashes.
“I have a Secret,” he said, and gave Ernie a long kiss before he let her
go.
After luncheon, while we were washing the dishes, I asked Ernestine what
she meant by talking to Robin so. “There is no good in deceiving him,” I
said. “Of course, Hazard did not set about it in the right way, but
sooner or later he will have to be told. He isn’t going to get anything.
You heard what mother said.”
Ernie looked at me in blank amazement. “Why, Elizabeth!” she cried.
“Ernestine,” I returned, “remember,—you are nearly thirteen years old!
Do you believe in Santa Claus, too?”
Ernie laughed and flapped her dish towel. “Of course I do,” she
answered, “after my own fashion. You and Hazard are too silly! Mother
didn’t mean, I suppose, that she was going to take away all the presents
that come to the house for Robin, and burn them? She only meant that we
couldn’t spend any money. What’s to prevent Aunt Adelaide giving him
something as she always does, I’d like to know? and Georgie? and Geof?”
Here Ernie began to two-step to the cupboard with a pile of plates. “Oh,
Elizabeth,” she chortled, “he says I can help him choose ’em! Robin will
be simply _de_lighted! He has never had anything so stunning in all his
life! But there,”—Ernie rattled the plates perilously down on the
cupboard shelf. “It’s a secret. I promised I wouldn’t breathe a word!
And I know another that Miss Brown told me, and _another_ with Mrs.
Burroughs! Hazard is a grumpy goose. Why can’t he think of something to
give Bobsie, the way I’m doing,—it needn’t cost, you know,—instead of
being so huffy and remorseful about a Past that can’t be Helped?”
Now wasn’t that exactly like Ernie? Christmas is her birthday, and she
seems to have the very spirit in her veins. If we were wrecked upon a
desert island, I believe she would still find some appropriate way to
celebrate.
“So _that_ is what you were busy about behind your screen?” I cried.
“Of course,” says Ernie. “What did you think? You must make something,
too, Elizabeth, and I know mother will; and the letter was just a blind
to get Robin to believe he wanted the things we can afford to give him.
I thought you and Hazard would understand.—And even if we are poor, so
long as we love one another and keep jolly, what’s the odds?”
“Ernie,” I answered, “you are a darling. _There aren’t any!_”
So then we sought an interview with Hazard to explain how matters stood.
“All right,” he answered, none too enthusiastic just at first. “I’ll
try,—but it’s different with you girls. I can’t make anything, you
see,—little fol-de-rols out of sawdust and gold paper. And everything
I’ve saved must go for car fare and expenses these next few weeks.
Honestly, I haven’t a cent to call my own, except my lucky penny of
1865, the year Lincoln was shot. And perhaps I’ve lost that.” He
searched his pockets. “No,—here it is.”
“Hand it over,” says Ernie. “I know you’ll think the best luck you can
possibly have just now is to buy a nice Christmas present for Robin.
I’ll do your shopping this year, Hazey, and I’ll promise to get
something Bobs will really like, too. Cheer up, children! No Santa
Claus, indeed! I’m ashamed of you.”
Friday, December 26.
Christmas has come and gone, and in spite of our gloomy expectations we
have had the jolliest time. You would hardly believe it! Oh,—there were
plenty of roses!
The first nice thing that happened was on Tuesday morning when mother
received a letter from Miss Brown, stating that she had been asked to
stay over the holidays with her niece in Flatbush.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” carolled Ernie:
“Shout the glad tidings, exultantly sing,
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is king!”
She did not mean anything the least irreligious. It was simply a
spontaneous outburst of joy; and at the same instant a mad enthusiasm
seemed to seize hold of us all.
“Let’s finish the breakfast dishes at once, Elizabeth,” said mother. “I
have some sewing upstairs that I _must_ attend to.”
“And there is something I must finish, too,” answered I. “How
considerate of Miss Brown’s niece! Just think, our Christmas dinner
alone!”
“_Have_ you decided—_how_ you are going—to spend my _lucky penny_?”
shouted Hazard from the hall above. “You understand, Ernie,—I want it to
go—_as far as possible_!”
“Yes! yes!” answered Ernie. “I’ve a grand idea! Don’t you worry, Hazard.
Geof and I are going shopping this afternoon after school.”
And so they did, and so did mother, and so did I! It was really amusing.
Nobody could be prevailed upon to tell what had been bought, except that
“it was very cheap, dear. Don’t worry!”
Then in the evening Ernie and I made old-fashioned molasses candy,
because it is less expensive than fudge and we had determined to pull it
and twist it into original shapes, something individual for each one.
For Robin we made a little yellow bird (I must confess it looked more
like a chicken than anything else), a boy with a big hat and a crooked
nose, and a pig with a curly tail. Hazard’s candy we put peanuts in, and
did not pull, because he prefers it that way. Mother’s we tied into a
variety of charming bow-knots; and Ernie made me a mandolin, and Geof a
hockey stick, while I made Ernie a Santa Claus. He was a little wobbly
in the legs, to be sure, but any one could recognise him from his pack.
In the middle of it all Mrs. Burroughs came over, full of her own plans.
“I do hope you won’t say no, Mrs. Graham,” she pleaded. “I haven’t had
any Christmas fun—for ages!”
It seems that she wished to give a party for Robin. “I will have it
Wednesday night, Christmas eve,” she explained. “So it needn’t interfere
with your family celebration in the least. May I, _please_?”
“Why, it would be lovely,” we all answered with enthusiasm. And Mrs.
Burroughs flushed a beautiful rose colour, and for a moment the quick
tears stood in her eyes.
“Thank you so much,” she answered. “Then that’s settled. You see Francis
and I used to have such good times, and just the last year I got him a
magic lantern. It is really a very nice one, and there are some charming
slides. ‘_The Night before Christmas_’ is the set Francis liked
best,—especially the pictures of the reindeer. I thought we might give
it for Robin, and perhaps you will lend your back parlour for the
occasion. We can begin early,—say half-past seven. I wonder if Hazard
will consent to act as manager?”
“You’d better choose Geof,” warned Ernie. “He’s cleverer at that sort of
thing, and I’m sure he’d like to come.”
So the matter was arranged. The following afternoon,—to the intense
excitement of Robin,—Mrs. Burroughs, Geof, and Ernie shut themselves up
in the back parlour, from whence began to issue the sound of much
laughter and hammering.
Despite his impatience, it was not till quarter to seven o’clock that
the doors were finally thrown open and Robin was carried down. How
charming everything looked, to be sure! Long loops of ground-pine were
festooned about the chandelier, and along the picture-rail. A great
artificial Christmas bell hung in the doorway, from either side of which
dropped gay streamers of baby-ribbon strung with sleigh-bells, that
jingled and sang in the merriest fashion at the touch of a passing hand.
In the window were holly wreaths, and back of the Madonna over the
chimney-piece were two more great branches of holly with the biggest,
brightest berries I have ever seen. A red Christmas candle burned upon
the piano. The old lounge, covered with a tiger rug lent by Mrs.
Burroughs, had been pushed out into the middle of the room, and a series
of “orchestra chairs” arranged about it. Between the folding doors the
magic sheet was hung, and behind it could be heard the voices of Geof
and Ernie in animated discussion.
Presently the guests began to arrive,—Georgie and his nurse, Robin’s
“chum” John, who had been looked up especially for the occasion,
because, as Bobs persuasively explained, “it would be pretty odd for a
boy to give a party and not ask his own chum”; old Mrs. Endicott, who is
Mrs. Burroughs’ aunt, and Rosebud, very gay and debonair in a becoming
red ribbon bow.
“The audience is ready,” sang out Robin, from his lair on the tiger
skin. “What makes the party so late, I’d like to know?”
“It isn’t late at all,” returned Mrs. Burroughs, from behind the
curtain. “The idea! we said half-past seven o’clock, and it is only
quarter after. You are early! That’s all!”
However, in another moment Geof appeared to turn down the lights. With a
deep, expectant sigh from Robin, Georgie, and John, the party had begun!
The pictures were certainly charming, and Geoffrey managed the slides
without a hitch.
First came “_The Night before Christmas_”:—Santa Claus starting out on
his journey with a sleigh overladen with toys. How life-like the
reindeer looked, to be sure! and how impatient to be off!
“They can go, I bet you!” shouted Georgie, “once Santa takes up the
lines.”
Next followed a scene among the roof-tops; a great round moon overhead,
and Santa Claus already disappearing down the chimney.
“This can be your house, John,” says Robin, magnanimously. “Perhaps he’s
going to leave that tin trumpet. I don’t want it.”
“Neither do I,” answered John. “I’d rather have a real automobile.”
But already the scene had shifted. Santa Claus, upon the hearthrug, was
filling stockings with a roguish glance at three little heads buried
among the pillows of a great four-poster bed.
How the children laughed and applauded! Next came the stories of
_Cinderella, Puss in Boots_, and _Hop o’ My Thumb_, which were an almost
equal success; and, finally, when the last slide was exhausted, the
lights were turned up, and what Georgie called “the real party” was
brought in. This consisted of ice cream, served in pretty coloured forms
of fruits and flowers; lady-fingers; dishes of sugar-plums, and a mild
brew of cocoa.
The favours were mechanical toys, such as are sold in quantities along
Broadway and Twenty-third Street at this season of the year,—something
amusing or interesting for each one. Georgie had a monkey that ran up a
stick; Robin a small toy balloon in the shape of a pink rubber pig, that
squealed shrilly when blown up; Geof a rooster that could flap its wings
and crow; and Ernie a little old woman with a rake and a watering-pot,
who, after being properly wound up, would start conscientiously forth to
sprinkle her garden, only to trip at the first obstruction she met, and
lie kicking her heels frantically on the carpet.
“Oh, it has been a _love-ly_ party,” sighed Robin, at last, his arms
tight about Mrs. Burroughs’ neck, as he kissed her a sticky but
affectionate good-bye. “Thank you _so_ much, and Merry Christmas, dear!”
“God bless you, darling boy,” returned Mrs. Burroughs. “Promise you
won’t lie awake thinking about it, and to-morrow will come all the
sooner.”
So, with season’s greetings, and many protestations of having passed a
most delightful evening, the guests departed. Robin was hustled upstairs
to bed by mother; while Ernie, Haze, and I proceeded to collect the
various Christmas gifts that had arrived, preparatory to filling his
stocking.
Really, there was so much! A delightful swan’s-down comforter for his
cot from Aunt Adelaide; a set of building-blocks from Georgie; the
_Jungle Books_ from Mrs. Burroughs; and a regiment of tin-soldiers, with
artillery and mounted officers, that had come in the morning’s mail from
Miss Brown. Next we brought out the home things;—a gay little
dressing-gown that mother had made from her old cashmere shawl with
cherry-colour collar and cuffs; a pair of crocheted slippers to match,
this was my gift; a little white flannel rabbit, with pink beads for
eyes and a fluff of a tail, from Ernie, and a really amazing menagerie,
of some hundred and fifty animals, elephants, giraffes, lions, tigers,
leopards, monkeys, and all. She had traced the pictures from old
magazines, transferred the outline to heavy paper, cut the figures out
and coloured them.
“They’re wonderful, Ernie!” I cried.
“But where’s my present?” asked Haze, looking worried.
“It’s coming,” says Ernie. And, running from the room, she returned a
moment later with—what do you think? Nothing more nor less than a
_clam_! a live clam, if you please, neatly housed in the little glass
globe that Hazard used to keep gold-fish in some years ago.
“Holy smoke!” muttered Haze, not knowing whether to be most disappointed
or amused. “Wh-what’s it for?”
“A pet, to be sure!” answered Ernie, nonchalantly. “I bought it of
Murray, the fishman, and, though he said he did not usually sell clams
by the piece, when he did they cost just one cent. So we’ll call it
Abraham Lincoln in memory of your lucky penny. Bobsie will love it! It
can snap at a straw if you try to tickle it, and hang on like a bulldog.
You’ll see.”
“But how did you ever come to think of it, Ernie?” I asked.
“Clam-fritters,” answered Ernie, succinctly. “We had ’em the other
morning for breakfast, and then, too, we’ve been studying bivalves in
school this term, and they are really very interesting animals.”
So, the stocking was filled, with an orange, an apple, the
molasses-candy figures,—chicken, pig, boy,—some sugar-plums left over
from the party, my slippers, and the white flannel rabbit, whose pink
silesia ears poked alluringly out at the top. Mother and I stole on
tiptoe into the nursery to play the part of Santa Claus, by light of a
shaded candle. We dropped the down quilt softly over Robin’s crib, and
stood for a moment watching our baby, who, quite worn out with the
evening’s excitement, slept feverishly, a bright flush upon his cheek,
his little breast rising and falling in answer to his hurried breathing.
“I hope it has not been too much for him,” said mother, in a low voice.
“I hope not,” I answered.
But we might have spared ourselves anxiety. Robin slept quietly through
the night, and till half-past seven Christmas morning, when he woke as
fresh and blithe as a lark. And how delighted he was with all his
things! He positively shouted with joy over the paper menagerie and tin
soldiers; and insisted upon being put into his new dressing-gown on the
spot, with many sarcastic side remarks about “boys what said there was
no Santa Claus!”
But the present that pleased him most of all was—Abraham Lincoln!
“It is what I wanted more than _anything in the world_!” he remarked,
with a fondly doting glance at his new pet. “Only I didn’t think of it
in time to say so. Now when Rosebud runs away and leaves me, I need
never be lonely again!”
Though the rest of us did not fare as royally as Robin, there was some
trifle for each one;—Ernie had seen to that.
“I had just fifty cents to spend on the entire family,” she explained.
“Don’t you think I managed well?”
There were also a number of pretty gifts from Mrs. Burroughs, the score
of _Robin Hood_ from Meta for me, and a really portentous jackknife with
three blades and a corkscrew attachment from Geof for Ernie.
“How jolly!” she cried, hopping about on her little pink toes. “I need
never borrow Hazard’s again, and I can pull all Robin’s cod-liver oil
corks! Hurr-oo!”
After breakfast came church. Haze volunteered to stay with Bobsie, so
that mother, Ernie, and I might go. But just as we were leaving the
house whom should we meet on the front stoop but Geoffrey, bearing his
much-heralded present for Robin,—a really handsome nickel-plated cage in
which crouched a pair of tiny white mice!
“The darlings!” chortled Ernie. “I can’t leave ’em! I can’t!”
So she deserted mother and me, and followed Geof to the nursery. And
when we returned from service some two hours later, the three
enthusiasts were still gloating.
“Look, Elizabeth!” exulted Ernie. “We’ve let ’em out of the cage, and
they are quite tame!”
“I’m going to call them Open, O Buds, O Open, and Sweet Fern,” remarked
Robin, in sentimental accents. “Nobody helped me think of those names.
Aren’t they pretty?”
“See, Aunt Peggy,” says Geof. “There’s a wheel to the cage, so they can
get plenty of exercise, and the man I bought ’em of told me we might
expect a family about every three weeks.”
“Dear me!” murmured mother, in some dismay. “I wish he hadn’t been quite
so lavish in his promises. But I must go down to attend to dinner now.
Be careful of Rosebud, Robin. She would like your mice only too well, I
fear.”
The afternoon passed quietly, Ernie and Haze carrying our usual
Christmas package to the little Kerns, whose mother used to wash for us,
once on a time. She is an invalid, now, and the family are even poorer
than we, poor lambs!
“So whatever we may have to go without ourselves, we can’t afford to
economise on Luella, Joseph, and Angeline,” remarked Ernie some two or
three weeks ago. And immediately she and Robin set to work patching up
their dilapidated toys and picture books, generously casting aside those
that were “too shabby,” clipping, stitching, and gluing, till “the Kern
shelf” in the nursery cupboard presented a very attractive appearance,
indeed.
Mother added oranges, a jar of beef extract, and half a pound of tea.
“I do hope they will like their things as well as we like ours,” sighed
Robin responsibly, stuffing his molasses candy pig and the last of the
sugar plums into Haze’s overcoat pocket. “Do you think they will, mother
dear?”
“I don’t see why they should not,” mother answered, and then she took
Robin in her lap in the big rocker, and read him the Christmas story
from St. Matthew, explaining about the Wise Men and the gifts they
brought. After which she lowered the nursery shades, and left him to
take a nap, “because,” she explained, “I want our boy to be fresh and
rested for this evening.”
“What?” I asked. “More surprises?”
“Just a little one,” returned mother, modestly.
Yet it turned out to be the most charming of all. You would never guess!
A tiny toy Christmas tree, not more than a foot and a half high, lighted
with twelve little candles, and gay with popcorn wreaths, gilded
walnuts, and silver tinsel.
“I found it on the Bowery,” explained mother, half guiltily,—“in a small
German shop. It was very cheap, Elizabeth. So don’t worry!”
How Robin’s eyes shone as he was carried into the back parlour, where
the little tree stood sparkling on a table drawn up beside the couch!
“There are presents on it, too,” says mother.
And so there were! For from every branch and twig dangled a series of
coloured pasteboard discs, lettered in white ink, and reading thus:—
“A pearl ring, with much love to Elizabeth from mother.”
“A pair of skates, for dear Ernie from mother.”
“Lockhart’s _Life of Scott_,—three volumes, good type,—for Hazard from
mother.”
“A canary in a gold cage, for Robin from mother.”
“An ermine muff and stole, for Elizabeth from mother,” etc., etc.
All the dear, beautiful, dream gifts that mother would have given to her
children, if only she had been able!
The candles on the little tree began to blink and twinkle like living
stars, the way lights will when looked at through happy tears. Even
Robin understood.
“I love my autoharp better than anything in the world,” he declared,
dangling the small pasteboard disc by its red cord. “Even, even, better
than Abraham Lincoln!” he cried. “Thank you _so much_, mother dear!”
“And that Lockhart’s _Life_!” echoed Haze, as enthusiastically as if he
expected to sit down to the first volume next minute. “_U-m-m!!_”
“I hope I have not only succeeded in making you dissatisfied, my poor
lambs,” said mother, a little anxiously.
“Dissatisfied!” cried Ernie, striking out in fine skating style for the
piano. “Do you think it’s a brood of ungrateful brutes you’ve hatched
into the wor-rld, mum? Let’s have some carols now. I want to shout!”
And so we did! Hazard quite off the tune, as usual, Robin piping away in
his gay little treble, Ernie and I trying our best to keep the others up
to time.
It was all very jolly; and, as I said when I first sat down to write, we
simply could not have passed a lovelier Christmas, no matter how much
money we might have spent,—now do you think we could?
Thursday, January 1.
We sat up last night to watch the New Year in,—Haze, Geof, Ernie, and I.
The workshop was cold, and we missed the flying-machine.