CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY
At early dusk of the Friday holiday, he scampered to a hiding place
underneath a house porch while Sid DuPree, his face buried in his arms,
stood against a tree trunk and counted "Five hundred by five" as rapidly
as he could. But as the cry of "Coming" echoed between the closely built
houses, John's conscience suddenly robbed him of all the pleasure in the
game of "Hide and seek." An afternoon of suitcase jobs had been
frittered away, and the paper wagon was due in another fifteen minutes.
So he withdrew reluctantly to haunt the walk in front of the
delicatessen store and wonder that the work upon which he had entered
with such gusto was becoming so irksome.
A sharp, long-delayed touch of winter had crept into the air the night
before, and set his toes to tingling as he drew his blue, knitted
stocking cap further over his ears. He scampered along the petrified
lawns on the paper route until the last news sheet was delivered, then
blew lustily on his black mittens to warm his numbed fingers as he
started for home. There, under the cheerful influence of the glowing
parlor grate, he waited lazily until the last trace of tingling had left
his hands, and spread a copy of the evening paper out on the carpet
before him.
[Illustration: _Christmas dreams._]
First he looked at the cartoon on the front page, and then at the
grotesque drawings on the back sheet comic section. Those finished, he
returned to the first page, where an account of a ghastly train wreck
held him spellbound. Searching on an inner page for the rest of the
narrative, he came across a department store's advertisement which
banished all thoughts of mangled victims and splintered cars from his
mind.
"Beginning tomorrow, Santa Claus will be in his little house in our
greatly enlarged fifth-floor Toyland to greet each and all of his
friends. See the animated bunnies and the blacksmith shop in the Brownie
Village, and the wonderful display of toys of every description which
Santa has gathered for the delight of the children." There followed
enticing cuts of toys with even more alluring descriptions and, alas!
oftentimes prohibitive prices.
Thanks to the paper business, the holiday season had crept up almost
unnoticed. Santa was an exploded myth, these years, but the stereotyped
cut of the jovial, fat-cheeked saint at the top of the page brought John
a thrill of anticipation, nevertheless. Christmas was coming. What did
he want?
After supper, he rummaged in the library until he found his mother's box
of best stationery. He drew a few sheets and several envelopes from the
neat container, and sat down at his father's big writing desk to begin
his series of Christmas letters to certain responsive relatives. These
favored ones heard from him regularly four times a year--before his
birthday, before Christmas, and as soon after each of these feast days
as his mother could force letters of acknowledgment from him. John
dipped the pen too deeply into the inkwell, and wiped his finger tips
dry on his trousers. Then he began,
"Dear Aunt Clara: I hope you are well. The weather is fine but getting
cold. Christmas is coming so I thought I would write you. I want--"
He paused for reflection. Bill Silvey had been given a toy electric
motor, last year. It was now in the juvenile scrap heap, thanks to an
attempt to harness the bit of machinery to the powerful lighting current
in Sid's house, but it had been delight indescribable to swing the
little switch and watch the armature gain momentum until it hummed like
a bee. So the first of his desires ran, "Motor, electric. Batteries,
too."
Last year, Bill and he had built a shaky bob for use on the park
toboggan, only to have a collision with a park water hydrant, used for
flooding the field, and the remains of the sleds had gone to their
respective family woodpiles. So down went, "Sled, coaster, with round
runners."
The descriptive bit was to eliminate any possibility of getting a high,
useless girl's sled, which would go to pieces in less than no time.
As he thought of each article he wrote, "Hockey skates. My old ones are
rusted. A knife. Mine's lost." And last, but not least, "Books, lots of
them."
That exhausted his list of needs. There were a thousand other things
which he knew he wanted if he could only think of them, but the
innumerable boyish desires which had arisen since his birthday in June
had fled, and, try as he would, he could recall none of them. As a last
desperate resort, he scrawled a concluding "Anything else useful," and
signed it, "Your loving nephew, John."
Saturday, an errant breeze from the east veiled the clear starlight of
the early evening as if by magic, and by morning had marshaled long,
heavy rows of slate-hued clouds which drove over the city from the lake.
The temperature, too, rose above the freezing point and gave the only
boy in the Fletcher household a chance to bank the ever-hungry furnace,
and shut off all draughts. He employed his respite in a blissful perusal
of the double-page advertisements in the Sunday paper.
Toys, hundreds of them! The department stores vied with each other in
the profusion of their offerings. Illustrations of "William Tell
Banks--drop penny in bank and Tell shoots apple from son's
head"--mechanical engines which sped around three-foot circles of track
until any human engineer would become dizzy; sleds of every description
from humble ones at fifty cents to long, elaborately enameled speed
kings with spring-steel runners, and games in innumerable variety, made
him read and reread the alluring pages until his eyes ached.
He sighed and looked up dreamily. The moisture-laden clouds from the
east had borne out the newspaper forecast of "probably snow flurries,"
and he jumped to the window.
Heavy, feathery flakes were swirling earthward with the vagaries of the
air currents. Here they eddied out from between the houses to disappear
on the shining black macadam of the street and sidewalks, there they
gave a momentary touch of white to the brown, frost-bitten lawns as a
prophecy of that which was yet to come. In front of the Alfords',
Silvey, Perry, and Sid, danced back and forth with shouts of laughter as
they tried to catch the elusive bits of white. He would have joined
them, but an ache in his stomach told that dinner was near, so he
returned from his vantage point with a cry of "Mother! Mother! Mother!
It's getting Christmasier every minute!"
Nor did the Spirit of the Holidays allow his interest to lessen during
the days when the advertisements lost their fascination through
monotonous repetition. As he and Bill ran home at noon one day, a
quartette of men with bulging, gray denim bags on their shoulders, left
big yellow envelopes on each and every house porch of the street. They
were rigidly impartial in their work, and John dashed up the steps of
that same vacant house which the boys had held that day with the pea
shooters.
"Look!" he cried, drawing the gaudy pamphlet from the manila casing.
"It's the _Toy Book_, Silvey!"
The _Toy Book_ had been issued since time immemorial by one of the down
town stores, and its yearly visit made it something of an institution
among the juveniles of the street. On the cover, a red-coated,
rosy-cheeked Saint Nick, with a toy-filled pack, was descending a
snow-capped chimney while his reindeer cavorted in the background. On
the back were rows of dainty pink, blue, and green clad dolls with
flaxen ringlets and staring, china eyes--trash which interested John not
at all. Why didn't they put engines and sleds and worth-while things
there?
"Come on, Bill," he said suddenly. "Let's collect 'em."
They waited until the distributors were too far down the street to
interfere, and sneaked up and down the house steps with careful
thoroughness. As the bundles under the two boyish arms were becoming
heavy, Mrs. Fletcher darted out by the lamppost in front of the house
and beckoned to John vigorously. He left Bill with a show of regret, for
the dozen odd copies under his arm were far less than he would have
liked.
Louise sauntered home with him after school that day. As they passed
Southern Avenue, the lady's gaze rested on a muddy object in the street
gutter, and John stooped to pick it up. Torn, disfigured with
innumerable heel marks and wagon wheels, the battered bundle of paper
was all that remained of a Christmas booklet.
"Oh!" said Louise in surprise.
"Didn't you get one?"
She shook her head. Evidently other boys at her end of the street had
emulated John and Bill.
"Tells all about toys," he volunteered. "I'll bring you one with the
paper, if you want."
She thanked him and dropped the ruin regretfully. Those dolls on the
back cover were so enticing.
"Aren't you glad Christmas is coming?" John asked. "Gee, I wish it was
day after tomorrow."
Louise nodded.
"What do you want for Christmas?" he pursued.
She didn't know. "A doll--"
"A doll!" he interrupted in disgust. What did she want with dolls? They
would be of no use when she had grown up.
"Yes, a doll," said Louise decidedly. John feigned placating approval.
"And doll clothes," she went on, "and new hair ribbons and things for my
dresses, and lots and lots of other presents. What do you want?"
He told her briefly. "But that isn't half," he concluded, as they
loitered on the apartment steps. "I'm trying to think of the others all
the time. Jiminy!" with a glance at his watch, "I'd better be going.
I've got work to do."
But there were no interviews with prospective newspaper customers that
afternoon. After John had started the parlor grate for his mother, he
fell under the spell of one of the wonder-books and scanned page after
page of the illustrations until Mrs. Fletcher interrupted him.
"Aren't you going to deliver your papers, son? It's a quarter of five
now."
What a pest the paper route was getting to be, always demanding his
attention just as he wanted to do something else. He rose to his feet
and stretched both arms to take the cramps out of them, pitched the
booklet into a corner of the hall, and dashed to the closet for his coat
and mittens.
After the evening meal, John brought out another of his store of gaudy
toy books and went into the parlor. His father, following a few moments
later, looked down at the little figure on the carpet before the fire,
and smiled.
"What is it, son?"
The boy raised his head, brown eyes a-dream with visions of automobiles,
steam engines, and hook and ladder outfits.
"Looking at this," he explained.
Mr. Fletcher drew up the big, easy armchair which he liked so well, and
lifted him into his lap. A moment later, the two heads, the old and the
young, bent over the picture-laden pages.
"Look, daddy." John pointed to a locomotive with pedals and a seated cab
for a youthful engineer. "I saw one, once. All red and shiny, with a
black smokestack. And the bell really rings."
"But don't you think that's too much money for a toy?"
The boy nodded reluctantly. "Still, it's such lots of fun to just _wish_
for things, even though you know you can't have them."
The strong arms tightened about him tenderly for a moment. As they
relaxed, John turned the leaves back rapidly.
"Let's begin at the very beginning," he explained, then rapped the first
page petulantly. "Nothing but dolls and dolls and more dolls," as a
procession of things dear to the feminine heart passed by; "and doll
bathtubs and dishes and other sissy things." He bent forward suddenly.
"That's better. A 'lectric railroad. Let's take your pencil." He marked
an irregular cross beside the illustration. "And here come the sleds.
Lots of them aren't so very 'spensive. And banks," he smiled. "I guess
mine's big enough, isn't it, daddy?"
Mr. Fletcher joined in the smile. Indeed until he had seen that porker
safe on his son's bureau, he had no idea that so large a china animal
existed. The boy broke in on his thoughts excitedly.
"Punch and Judys!" His memory swept back to the raftered hall and
Professor O'Reilley's performance. "They're such fun, and they don't
cost very much. If I had one, I wouldn't spend any money on those shows,
either."
His father chuckled at the bit of juvenile diplomacy. "You'd better make
out your Christmas list for us before that pencil gets worn out making
crosses, son."
He slid from the paternal knee and was off to the library in a trice.
Mrs. Fletcher had overheard the finish of the conversation and smiled in
on him before she joined her husband in reading the evening paper.
Minutes passed.
"Most finished, son?" called Mr. Fletcher. "It's nearly bedtime, you
know."
A grunt was the only response.
"Better add a few things you'll need around the flat when you and Louise
are married!"
"John!" Mrs. Fletcher rattled her newspaper disapprovingly. "Do stop
teasing that boy."
A few moments later, her son appeared in the doorway, yawning sleepily.
"It isn't ready yet," he said. "I'm going to bed now."
Late the following evening, Mrs. Fletcher opened her son's door to see
if he slept soundly, and a scrap of paper fluttered from an anchoring
pin to the floor. She picked it up. True to his peculiar custom, John
had presented his Christmas needs in a manner which seemed more delicate
than to ask in person for them. With a whimsical, sympathetic smile, she
rejoined her husband in the big bedroom.
"Look what your joking did last night!" She handed him the slip of
paper. He, too, chuckled tenderly, for the scrawl ran: "What I want for
Chrismas: Pictures, pretty ones, Picture frames, Chairs, Plates for
dinner, Knives, Spoons, Anything for a flat." A little space followed as
if the author had hesitated before he had added in heavier writing that
which told of a longing not to be denied, "Books, lots of them."
Christmas drew nearer. The delivery wagons from the down-town stores
made more and more frequent stops at the Fletchers, to leave odd-shaped
bundles in the hallway, bundles at which John would gaze longingly as if
to pierce the outer wrappings and excelsior. Watching the packages
arrive was half the fun of Christmas, anyway.
His own shopping list was small. He broached the subject of a gift for
his father to Mrs. Fletcher. Would she buy it, the next time she went to
town? "Then it'll be a surprise for dad." Likewise he approached Mr.
Fletcher. "Then mother won't know I'm buying her a book," he explained.
But he was uncertain what to order for Louise. He'd never made a present
to a girl before.
The Friday before the great holiday, the papers upset his plans. The
store of the _Toy Book_ announced that "Santa Claus leaves tomorrow for
his home at the North Pole. As a farewell inducement to the children of
this city to visit him, he will give a splendid present to each and
every girl or boy accompanied by an adult."
The North Pole part was all bosh. John knew that well, thanks to his
present sophistication. But the lure of the present set him to thinking.
Couldn't he--providing of course that maternal permission was given--go
down town and do his shopping Saturday afternoon and wander around the
different toy displays to his heart's content? But there was the paper
route. Blame the nuisance, anyway!
He sprinted up to see Bill after supper. Would his chum make the
deliveries if he gave him a list of the customers? John would be willing
to pay a dime for the service.
Silvey assented gladly, for ten-cent pieces were scarcities among the
small boy population just before Christmas, when the display of penny
and five-cent novelties in the school store window proved so tempting.
Thus the difficulty was solved.
Two o'clock the following day found John following the varied shopping
crowd through the revolving doors of the biggest department store.
Inside, the aisles were packed with a jostling, slowly moving throng.
Fat, breathless hausfraus rubbed elbows with high-cheeked, almond-eyed
Slav maidens, and tired office clerks took advantage of the half holiday
to fill their shopping lists. Here, a well-dressed, clear-complexioned
lady of leisure examined an expensive knickknack, there an Irish mother
led her brood to the throng around the elevators that they might see
Santa Claus. But they were all filled with a desire to buy, buy, buy, in
the name of the Christmas Spirit, and buyers and department heads rubbed
their hands gleefully as they watched the overworked clerks. John fought
his way to the nearest floorman, a white-haired veteran of many such
rush seasons.
"Where's the neckties?" he asked. That employee looked down at him
wearily. "Next to the last aisle--to your right."
Past the silverware counter, past the women's gloves, past innumerable
little booths with high-priced holiday trinkets, and past the
fountain-pen display--at last the long, oval counter came in sight.
Eager purchasers stood two and three deep around the spaces where goods
were on display. Clerks hurried back and forth in response to the calls
of the wrapping girls, and change carriers popped unceasingly from the
pneumatic tubes. John plied his elbows vigorously and worked his way
through the thickest of the crowd. Above him, hands grabbed feverishly
at the tangled heap of ties on the counter top, while querulous voices
requested instant attention from the sales force.
One of the four-in-hands dropped over the edge. The boy seized upon it,
fingered it, and threw the bit of goods back in the heap. Poor stuff
that, even at a quarter. His mother's frequent dissertations upon silk
samples which she had brought home had taught him that much. He waved a
frantic hand to attract attention until a tall, spectacled clerk took
pity on him.
"Let's see a tie, a real one! Don't care if I have to pay a whole
half-dollar for it!"
"What color?"
John's lower lip drooped. He hadn't noticed his father's taste in
neckwear. "Red," he hazarded at last.
A crimson horror was thrust in front of him. Yellow cross-stripes
clamored against the fiery background. The clerk twisted it deftly
around his forefinger and, behold, it was made up as if in the paternal
collar.
"Like it?"
John nodded and brought out a fifty-cent piece which he had forced from
the pig bank that morning. A moment later, the wrapped holly box was
given him, and he was off in the direction of the book department.
Still the crowds! They choked the aisles and carried him here and there
at the mercy of their eddies. Now he was forced up against a wooden
counter edge, now jammed against two fat women in rusty black who were
buying devotional books for the edification of less pious friends. At
last a sign, "Popular copyrights, fifty cents a volume," gave impetus to
his hitherto haphazard course.
The poorly dressed salesgirl behind the counter smiled down at him in a
manner which successive ten o'clock sessions had failed to eradicate.
"What kind?" she asked.
His gaze wandered helplessly over the bewildering array of volumes.
"Here's something everyone's reading," she suggested, holding up an
inane, pretty-girl covered book. He eyed it dubiously and pointed to a
title which hinted of the West and of Indian fights.
"Give me that one," he said decisively. His own love affair had proven
that heroes and heroines in every day life never have the easy sailing
which a limited reading of popular novels had implied. Anyway, cowboy
stories were the most exciting.
With the two packages wedged securely under his arm, he battled a way to
the elevators. The family shopping was over and the real business of the
day, a tour of the toy section and a present for Louise, called him.
"Fifth floor," droned the elevator man. "Toys, dolls, games,
Christmas-tree ornaments."
His words became drowned in a sudden babel which made ordinary
conversation impossible. A murmur of a thousand voices blended with the
rattle of mechanical trains and the tooting of toy horns. Impatient
salesmen called "Cash, cash, cash!" at the top of their lungs. Wails
arose from hot, disgruntled infants. Now and then a large steam engine
in operation at one counter corner, whistled shrilly when mischievous
juvenile hands swung back the throttle.
At the far end of the floor, where the carpet and rug department had
been shifted for the holiday season, a long line of people were waiting.
Heavily clad, perspiring women shifted infants from one arm to the other
as they walked patiently along. Poorly clad street loafers sought to
idle away their time with a visit to Santa Claus. Tall, slim young women
yanked their little brothers into place or besought small sisters to
"Hush up, we're nearly there!" And up and down the whole line, a baker's
dozen of streets gamins skirmished on the lookout for some adult to whom
they might attach themselves for the time being.
Clearly that pointed the way to the little house and the fulfillment of
the gift promise.
John worked himself cautiously along the line in spite of cries of,
"Cheater, look at him!" from boys with maternal impediments to prevent
like maneuvers. When the white, asbestos snow-covered house came in
view, John halted discreetly, for, with the goal so near, he could not
risk being thrown out of the line for cutting ahead of others.
Slowly the people moved forward until the interior of the room was
visible through the little side window. At the far end of a wooden
counter, a fat, red-coated Santa Claus passed trinket after trinket into
eager juvenile hands, pausing now and then, as childish lips lisped
requests for dolls, sleds, or other toys.
On the very threshold, a stocky store employee interposed a hand in
front of John.
"Where's your folks?" he demanded.
The boy gasped. That condition of the distribution had been completely
forgotten.
"Well?" pressed the inquisitor, a smile about his lips.
He gazed about desperately. Just leaving the room was a buxom German
woman in black, with a hat covered with bobbing, blue-green plumes.
"There she is," he pointed. "That's my mother. I got separated from
her."
The man removed his arm and chuckled. At least three other urchins had
claimed relationship with that self-same lady.
Up to the old saint at last. His ruddy-cheeked mask was softened by
perspiration, and there was a droop about his red-clad shoulders which
expressed a wish that this, the last day of his sojourn in the city,
were already over. John grabbed the cheap pencil box which was handed
him. The guardian at the exit was crying, "Keep moving, keep moving,"
and the lethargic line in obedience carried John beyond the confines of
the house to new wonders.
If the Brownie Village forced staid adults to pause and smile
appreciatively at the whimsicalities of gnome life, the juveniles halted
and dragged and impeded the progress of the procession as each new
wonder confronted them.
White-furred little bunnies moved solemnly along at intervals over
concealed runways, stopping now and then to bow to the amused audience.
Winking, gray-bearded elves bobbed up from behind canvas rocks to wave
diminutive hands before popping back to their shelters. One sun-bonneted
fellow in patched overalls bent spasmodically over a little wooden wash
tub on a hill. Further on, a perpetual clatter drew attention to the
rustic forge where a brown-clad smith hammered lustily at a miniature
horse shoe. At the end, stood a second brazen-lunged sentry, who like
the other, implored the crowd to "Keep moving. Please keep moving."
Out by the toy counters, John found a dirty-faced street gamin in
patched knee trousers confronting him. They eyed each other for a
moment.
"Going 'round again?" asked John.
The boy nodded. "What'd he give you?"
John displayed his pencil box; the boy, a discordant reed whistle.
"Want to trade?" No sooner offered than accepted. What was the use of a
school pencil box anyway?
Again they fell in with the Santa Claus line, hoping devoutly that the
sentry would not recognize them. But on the third trip as they nodded
toward an unkempt, brown-shawled Italian woman, the clerk bent over.
"Three times and _out_," he whispered as the boys' hearts went pitapat.
"See?"
They saw, and went off in search of new pleasures. First they stopped at
the mechanical train booth. When the operator of the miniature railroad
was engaged, John's new found friend threw over a tiny switch and caused
an unlooked for wreck on the line. A floorwalker pounced on them and
ordered them away, so they sauntered down the aisle to a crowd which
courted investigation.
"Kid lost," explained the street gamin, who possessed an uncanny trick
of working his way through a throng. "They're taking him away now."
Along counter after counter, the boys wandered, past the dollar
typewriter booth, through the doll carriage aisle, where a little girl
tried to carry a vehicle away with her and made things momentarily
exciting, and over by the electrical toys, the building blocks, and the
sleds.
"Gee," said the dirty-faced boy as they stooped to examine a price tag,
"My legs are 'most off me."
John examined his watch. Half past six! And he should have started for
home an hour ago. Already his stomach clamored for something to eat. He
invested a nickel in peanuts, and the pair devoured them ravenously.
Then John wiped the last traces of salt from the corners of his mouth,
said good-bye, and fled for the elevator. It would be nearly eight when
he arrived and mother might be anxious over this trip--his first
alone--to town.
He passed through the revolving doors for the second time that day and
stopped short in the brilliantly lighted street. He'd forgotten about
Louise! But perhaps some one would make a purchase for him later.
He passed a store with a red auction flag waving in the doorway. In the
window was a tempting array of cheap jewelry, watches, and holiday
goods. Surely there must be something that would be suitable for his
lady.
The room was filled with tobacco smoke and the odor of unwashed
humanity, for chilled vagrants helped to swell the throng which gathered
around the raucous-voiced auctioneer. As John entered, that worthy
lifted a glistening object in a green plush case high in the air that
all might see it.
"This lady's watch has been asked for, gentlemen. Sixteen jewels in its
movement and a solid gold-filled twenty-year case--and fit for any lady
in the land to wear. Will somebody start bidding?"
John fumbled in his pocket and took inventory of the remains of the two
dollars which had been filched from the pig bank. Presents for his
mother and father had depleted the sum by half, peanuts had cost a
nickel, and carfare, including the return trip, would account for
another dime.
"How much am I offered, gentlemen," persisted the man behind the glass
counter. "How much am I offered?"
There was no response. He passed the timepiece to a man in the front row
and requested that he examine it carefully.
"Isn't it a beauty?" He raised the watch in the air again. "Now, will
some one please bid?"
"Eighty-five cents," called John. Subdued laughter arose as the
auctioneer bowed elaborately. "I thank you. This gentleman knows a good
thing when he sees it. Eighty-five, eighty-five, a dollar and a half, a
dollar and a half, two dollars, two dollars, two dollars--"
The boy lost interest in the proceedings. What was the use of wishing
that you might give such a trinket to your lady love if you hadn't the
money to pay for it?
There were books, but Louise was not over fond of reading; ash trays,
atrocious Japanese vases with wart-like protuberances on their sides,
and cut-glass dishes--each in its turn went to some fortunate, or
unfortunate, who outbid John's modest offer.
At last the auctioneer rummaged among the conglomeration of articles on
the counter below him and brought forth a little china dish.
"I have here," he began, "a hand-painted china vanity box. Think of it,
gentlemen, these dainty violets are hand painted, and the top is solid
gold-filled. Inside is a soft, dainty, powder puff. How much am I
offered for this beautiful trinket. An ideal gift for wife, sister, or
sweetheart. How much am I offered?"
A man in a far corner of the room bid a quarter. The auctioneer looked
pained. "Only a quarter bid? Gentlemen, it's a shame. The time taken to
decorate it was worth more than that. Only a quarter bid? That gentleman
must be married. Is that all he thinks of his wife?"
The gathering tittered derisively. Came a bid of forty cents as a reward
for his efforts.
"Forty cents," the droning voice went on. "Forty cents--forty--forty,
fifty cents, I thank you--fifty cents, fifty cents, fifty-five,
fifty-five, going at fifty-five, fifty-five, better than nothing,
fifty-five--"
"EIGHTY-FIVE!" shouted John.
"Sold," concluded the auctioneer. "Sold to our friend here at
eighty-five cents. Will the lucky purchaser step up to the cashier?"
With the precious package safely in his pocket, the boy darted for the
car line. Another hour had elapsed, and he dreaded the "penny lecture"
which must be awaiting him on his arrival.
But inside the street car, though the air was stifling, and large,
heedless grown-ups crushed him with each jolt of the uneven roadbed, his
spirits rose buoyantly.
His holiday shopping was concluded. Christmas was less than a week away,
and he had a vision of a beautifully hand-painted vanity box with a
glistening solid gold-filled top greeting him from Louise's chiffonier
when his thousand dollars had been achieved and the age of twenty-one
reached which allowed him the independence of marriage.