It's a confounded, full-grown shame that not a soul of us
all got home for Christmas--except yours truly, and he only
for a couple of hours. What have the blessed old folks done
to us that we treat them like this? I was invited to the
Sewalls' for the day, and went, of course--you know why. We
had a ripping time, but along toward evening I began to feel
worried. I really thought Ralph was home--he wrote me that
he might swing round that way by the holidays--but I knew
the rest of you were all wrapped up in your own Christmas
trees and weren't going to get there.
Well, I took the seven-thirty down and walked in on them.
Sitting all alone by the fire, by George, just like the
pictures you see of "The Birds All Flown," and that sort of
thing. I felt gulpish in my throat, on my honour I did, when
I looked at them. Mother just gave one gasp and flew into my
arms, and Dad got up more slowly--he has that darned
rheumatism worse than ever this winter--and came over and I
thought he'd shake my hand off. Well--I sat down between
them by the fire, and pretty soon I got down in the old way
on a cushion by mother, and let her run her fingers through
my hair, the way she used to--and Nan, I'll be indicted for
perjury if her hand wasn't trembly. They were so glad to
see me it made my throat ache.
Ralph had written he couldn't get round, and of course you'd
all written and sent them things--jolly things, and they
appreciated them. But--blame it all--they were just dead
lonesome--and the whole outfit of us within three hundred
miles, most within thirty!
Nan--next Christmas it's going to be different. That's all I
say. I've got it all planned out. The idea popped into my
head when I came away last night. Not that they had a word
of blame--not they. They understood all about the children,
and the cold snap, and Ed's being under the weather, and
Oliver's wife's neuralgia, and Ralph's girl in the West, and
all that. But that didn't make the thing any easier for
them. As I say, next year--But you'll all hear from me then.
Meanwhile--run down and see them once or twice this winter,
will you, Nan? Somehow it struck me they aren't so young
as--they used to be.
Splendid winter weather. Margaret Sewall's a peach, but I
don't seem to make much headway. My best to Sam.
Your affectionate brother,