small folk of this household a rousing good Christmas for once. They’re poor I know, and I dare say pretty well pinched this year like most of the farmers hereabout after the crop failure.”
Mrs. Ralston untied the cover of the big basket. Then the two of them, moving as stealthily as if engaged in a burglary, transferred the contents to the table. Mr. Ralston got out a small pencil and a note book, and by dint of comparing the names attached to the gifts on the table they managed to divide theirs up pretty evenly among the little Josephs.
When all was done Mrs. Ralston said, “Now, I’m going to spread that tablecloth carelessly over the table. We will be going before daylight, probably, and in the hurry of getting off I hope that Mr. and Mrs. Joseph will not notice the difference till we’re gone.”
It fell out as Mrs. Ralston had planned. The dawn broke fine and clear over a vast white world. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph were early astir; breakfast for the storm-stayed travellers was cooked and eaten by lamplight; then the horse and sleigh were brought to the door and Mr. Ralston carried out his empty basket.
“I expect the trail will be heavy,” he said, “but I guess we’d get to Lindsay in time for dinner, anyway. Much obliged for your kindness, Mr. Joseph. When you and Mrs. Joseph come to town we shall hope to have a chance to return it. Goodbye and a merry Christmas to you all.”
When Mrs. Joseph went back to the kitchen her eyes fell on the heaped-up table in the corner.
“Why-y!” she said, and snatched off the cover.
One look she gave, and then this funny little mother began to cry; but they were happy tears. Mr. Joseph came too, and looked and whistled.
There really seemed to be everything on that table that the hearts of children could desire — three pairs of skates, a fur cap and collar, a dainty workbasket, half a dozen gleaming new books, a writing desk, a roll of stuff that looked like a new dress, a pair of fur-topped kid gloves just Mollie’s size, and a china cup and saucer. All these were to be seen at the first glance; and in one corner of the table was a big box filled with candies and nuts and raisins, and in the other a doll with curling golden hair and brown eyes, dressed in “real” clothes and with all her wardrobe in a trunk beside her. Pinned to her dress was a leaf from Mr. Ralston’s notebook with Maggie’s name written on it.
“Well, this is Christmas with a vengeance,” said Mr. Joseph.
“The children will go wild with delight,” said his wife happily.
They pretty nearly did when they all came scrambling down the stairs a little later. Such a Christmas had never been known in the Joseph household before. Maggie clasped her doll with shining eyes, Mollie looked at the workbasket that her housewifely little heart had always longed for, studious Jimmy beamed over the books, and Ted and Hal whooped with delight over the skates. And as for the big box of good things, why, everybody appreciated that. That Christmas was one to date from in that family.
I’m glad to be able to say, too, that even in the heyday of their delight and surprise over their wonderful presents, the little Josephs did not forget to appreciate the gifts they had prepared for each other. Mollie thought her calendar just too pretty for anything, and Jimmy was sure the new red mittens which Maggie had knitted for him with her own chubby wee fingers, were the very nicest, gayest mittens a boy had ever worn.
Mrs. Joseph’s taffy was eaten too. Not a scrap of it was left. As Ted said loyally, “It was just as good as the candy in the box and had more ‘chew’ to it besides.”
The Osbornes’ Christmas
Cousin Myra had come to spend Christmas at “The Firs,” and all the junior Osbornes were ready to stand on their heads with delight. Darby — whose real name was Charles — did it, because he was only eight, and at eight you have no dignity to keep up. The others, being older, couldn’t.
But the fact of Christmas itself awoke no great enthusiasm in the hearts of the junior Osbornes. Frank voiced their opinion of it the day after Cousin Myra had arrived. He was sitting on the table with his hands in his pockets and a cynical sneer on his face. At least, Frank flattered himself that it was cynical. He knew that Uncle Edgar was said to wear a cynical sneer, and Frank admired Uncle Edgar very much and imitated him in every possible way. But to you and me it would have looked just as it did to Cousin Myra — a very discontented and unbecoming scowl.
“I’m awfully glad to see you, Cousin Myra,” explained Frank carefully, “and your being here may make some things worth while. But Christmas is just a bore — a regular bore.”
That was what Uncle Edgar called things that didn’t interest him, so that Frank felt pretty sure of his word. Nevertheless, he wondered uncomfortably what made Cousin Myra smile so queerly.
“Why, how dreadful!” she said brightly. “I thought all boys and girls looked upon Christmas as the very best time in the year.”
“We don’t,” said Frank gloomily. “It’s just the same old thing year in and year out. We know just exactly what is going to happen. We even know pretty well what presents we are going to get. And Christmas Day itself is always the same. We’ll get up in the morning, and our stockings will be full of things, and half of them we don’t want. Then there’s dinner. It’s always so poky. And all the uncles and aunts come to dinner — just the same old crowd, every year, and they say just the same things. Aunt Desda always says, ‘Why, Frankie, how you have grown!’ She knows I hate to be called Frankie. And after dinner they’ll sit round and talk the rest of the day, and that’s all. Yes, I call Christmas a nuisance.”
“There isn’t a single bit of fun in it,” said Ida discontentedly.
“Not a bit!” said the twins, both together, as they always said things.
“There’s lots of candy,” said Darby stoutly. He rather liked Christmas, although he was ashamed to say so before Frank.
Cousin Myra smothered another of those queer smiles.
“You’ve had too much Christmas, you Osbornes,” she said seriously. “It has palled on your taste, as all good things will if you overdo them. Did you ever try giving Christmas to somebody else?”
The Osbornes looked at Cousin Myra doubtfully. They didn’t understand.
“We always send presents to all our cousins,” said Frank hesitatingly. “That’s a bore, too. They’ve all got so many things already it’s no end of bother to think of something new.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” said Cousin Myra. “How much Christmas do you suppose those little Rolands down there in the hollow have? Or Sammy Abbott with his lame back? Or French Joe’s family over the hill? If you have too much Christmas, why don’t you give some to them?”
The Osbornes looked at each other. This was a new idea.
“How could we do it?” asked Ida.
Whereupon they had a consultation. Cousin Myra explained her plan, and the Osbornes grew enthusiastic over it. Even Frank forgot that he was supposed to be wearing a cynical sneer.
“I move we do it, Osbornes,” said he.
“If
