“Merry Christmas!” shouted a gay little voice, so close to Uncle
Lemuel’s ear that he turned suddenly and almost dropped the pen with
which he was laboriously scratching upon a sheet of paper. “Merry
Christmas! You were such a dear not to wake me up, but it is really
scandalous, isn’t it, not to get up early on my namesake morning? And
you’ve been wanting your breakfast, I know. Aren’t you nearly starved,
Uncle Lemuel, honest?”
Uncle Lemuel permitted himself the luxury of a wintry smile.
“Pretty nigh,” he assented. “I hain’t had a bite to eat but half a pie,
and three, four doughnuts, and two cups of coffee, and a little bread
and butter. Before you get them buck-wheats going I’ll likely drop in
my tracks.”
Mary giggled appreciatively.
“Poor thing!” she cried, with tender mockery. “Well, I’ll hurry.
Wasn’t Mrs. Caldwell a dear to mix these for me before she went home?
And weren’t she and Mrs. Waters and Miss Watkins and Miss Porter
perfect _angels_ to stay and clear up the house for us? Oatka Centre
people are certainly the loveliest in the world, just as mother says.
Why, Uncle, what are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing,” returned Mr. Perkins briefly; “just a-writin’ a letter.”
He spoke as carelessly as if letter writing were a daily occurrence
with him, instead of an event that was more nearly decennial. “You
hurry with them cakes, sissy. I’m used to havin’ my breakfast some time
afore sundown, though I s’pose any time will do for them that’s lived
turned upside downward on Injy’s coral strand.”
This was a time-honoured joke between them by now, so Mary giggled
again, meanwhile beating her batter with a skilful hand and issuing
directions about the table setting.
“Let’s have it right over under the Christmas tree. I’m so glad they
had to leave that! And you must put on your new cup and drink your
coffee in it. See, I have my red chain on this morning. I didn’t dare
to wear my be-yoo-tiful red dress, but I’m going to put it on for
dinner when we go to Mrs. Caldwell’s. I’m so glad she’s going to have
Miss Porter, too—and Mr. Bennett. I was afraid they didn’t have any
nice place to go. And, oh, Uncle Lemuel, what’s that box you’re hiding
in my chair? Another present? You _dear_! I’m going to open it right
away!”
“You hold your horses, sissy, till you get them cakes done,” growled
Uncle Lemuel.
In due time a stack of cakes that matched Uncle Lemuel’s appetite was
ready, and then the box was opened and the girl “began to sing,” though
“sing” is really a very polite word with which to describe the series
of shrieks, squeals, and even whoops of ecstasy with which she greeted
the consecutive appearance of six wonderful sets of hair ribbons.
“I shall wear them all!” she cried recklessly, and promptly proceeded
to deck her neat brown braids like May poles with a series of
fluttering bows—red, light blue, dark blue, yellow, white, and, at the
very end, two wonderful rosettes of exquisite pink, which were rivalled
in colour only by the tint of the cheeks above them.
“Oh, Uncle Lemuel!” she cried, in solemn rapture. “I feel as if I must
have died and gone to heaven. I love pink so that it almost makes me
ache to look at it. That’s my only objection to being an angel—always
having to wear white clothes and wings. Don’t you think maybe, if
I was very good, the Lord would let me have a set of pink ones for
Sundays?”
But Uncle Lemuel’s theology was not prepared for such imaginative
flights.
“You’d better eat your vittles, sissy,” he remarked drily. “Time enough
for choosin’ your wings when you have them to wear. Coffee’s kind of
tasty this mornin’,” he added craftily. “Wonder if it’s the cup?”
“Let me taste yours and see,” cried Mary, prancing eagerly around the
table. “Yes, I believe it is. Oh, Uncle, see what I’ve done—got a
splash of coffee on your letter! I’ll see if I can’t mop it off. Why,
Uncle, it begins, ‘Niece Ellen!’ Were you writing to mother?”
Uncle Lemuel nodded.
“You see,” he explained slowly, “Ellen and me, we had some words a
while back, and I thought mebbe she mightn’t feel free—that is, I
thought mebbe she and Christie would feel freer to come and make their
home with us for a spell if I wrote and invited ’em right away. I told
’em that the school was first-class, and that I should start you right
there with Miss Porter till they come. Do you like that idee?” he ended
anxiously.
Mary embraced him rapturously.
“Like it?” she cried. “Oh, Uncle Lemuel, I like it so much I can
scarcely speak! I never saw anybody that did such lovely things for
people all the time!” She paused a minute, and then clapped her hands.
“Oh, I know what you are!” she said suddenly. “We are twins, just as I
said—for I am your little Merry Christmas, and you are the great, big
Happy New Year that goes with me.”