SCENE.—The Pelhams’ living room. It is decorated for Christmas, and on
tables are displayed many beautiful gifts that have been sent to Mr. and
Mrs. Pelham.
* * * * *
Mrs. Pelham (in pretty evening gown and a spray of holly in her hair,
looks wistful and discontented. She stands by a table and fingers some
of the gifts, and then sits at the piano and hums a snatch of a
Christmas carol, and then throws herself into an easy chair. She
speaks): Dick, do stop reading the paper, and be Christmassy! It might
as well be the eighteenth of July as the twenty-fourth of December, for
all the Christmas spirit you show! I do think this is the pokiest old
Christmas Eve I ever spent, and I thought it was going to be the
loveliest! I thought for once I’d have everything ready ahead of
time—and now look at the result! Nothing to do, nothing to enjoy, no
surprises. Everybody said, “Let’s buy our gifts early, and so save the
poor shopgirls’ lives.” And goodness knows I’m only too glad to help the
poor shopgirls in any way I can!
Why, I never wait for my change,—if it’s only a few pennies,—and you’d
be surprised to see how pleased and surprised they are at that. It’s
pathetic to see their gratitude for six cents. Why, the other day Mrs.
Muchmore kept me waiting with her a long time to get her nine cents
change, and when I suggested that she come away without it, and let the
shopgirl have it, she looked at me as if I had robbed her. Well, then we
were late for the matinée, and had to take a taxicab; so she didn’t make
much, after all.
No; I’m a great friend of the shopgirl, and I’m glad to do all I can for
them; but this buying Christmas presents in October is so tame and
uninteresting! Then I bought all my tissue paper and holly ribbon and
fancy seals in November; and early in December I had the whole lot tied
up and labeled. I had three clothes-baskets full of the loveliest
looking parcels! And then they sat around till I was sick of the sight
of them!
Don’t you remember, Dick, how you used to tumble over them in the guest
rooms? And you said I was a dear, forehanded little wife to have them
all ready so soon? You’ll never have such a forehanded little wife
again, I can tell you!
And then, to save the poor expressman, everybody is urged to send their
presents early nowadays. So I sent mine all off a week ago. And
everybody sent theirs to me a week ago. To be sure, this plan has the
advantage that often I can see what someone else sends me, before I send
a return gift. My! it was lucky I saw Bertha Hamilton’s Armenian
centerpiece before I sent her that veil case! I changed, and sent her an
Empire mirror, and she’ll think her centerpiece rather skinny now!
But, all the same, I hate this fashion. Why, I’ve had all this junk set
out on tables four days now, and I’m tired of the sight of it. And even
the p-p-paper and st-string are all cleared away. No—Dick—I’m not
crying, and you needn’t try to coax me up! Well, of course, it isn’t
your fault, though you did egg me on. But everybody does it now, and
we’ve even written our notes of thanks to each other. I always used to
dread doing those the day after Christmas; but now it makes me homesick
to think they’re all d-done. And even this lovely necklace you gave me
I’ve had it a w-week, and it doesn’t seem like a Christmas present at
all! Yes, I know I gave you your gold cigarette case two weeks ago; but
I wanted to be sure you liked it before I had it monogrammed. It seems
now as if I had given it to you last year.
Oh, I think it used to be lovely when we didn’t get our things until
Christmas Eve or Christmas Day—and then some belated presents would
come straggling along for days afterward! And the night before Christmas
we were madly rushing around tying up things, and I’d be up till all
hours finishing a piece of embroidery, and you’d have to tear downtown
for some forgotten presents, and the bundles were simply piling in, and
the expressman would come at midnight, grumbling a little, but very
merry and Christmassy! Then I’d have to set the alarm, and get up at
five o’clock Christmas morning to press off my centerpiece, and pack off
Clara’s box, and do a thousand things before breakfast. And we’d eat
breakfast by snatches between undoing parcels and sending off boxes. And
the rooms were knee-deep with a clutter of paper and strings and
excelsior and shredded tissue, and—oh, it was lovely! And now—all that
has been over for a week! And it really didn’t happen then; for it’s all
been gradual since October. And here it is Christmas Eve, and not a
thing to do! And to-morrow morning it’ll be Christmas, and not a thing
to do! Oh, Dick, it’s perfectly horrid, and I’ll never, never get ready
for Christmas early again! I’m so lonesome for the hurry and rush of an
old-fashioned Christmas Eve!
What’s that? You’ll take me downtown—now? Down to the shops? ’Deed I
will get my coat and hat! There isn’t a soul left to buy a present for;
but we can buy some things for next year—Oh, no, no, not that! But
we’ll buy some things and give them to the shopgirls. And, at any rate,
we’ll get into the bustle and cheer of a real Christmas Eve! Come on,
Dick, I’m all ready! Merry Christmas, Dick!