There was an almost oppressive atmosphere of secrecy abroad. Each
family of children, working in the retirement of its particular
corner, would shriek, 'Oh, don't come!' and hide small objects under
pinafores and tables when Mary, Rhoda, Edith, or Helen appeared. The
neophyte in charge was always in the attitude of a surprised hen,
extending her great apron to its utmost area as a screen to hide
these wonderful preparations. Edith's group was slaving over Helen's
gift, Rhoda's over Edith's, and so on, while all the groups had some
marvellous bit of co-operative work in hand for Mistress Mary. At
the afternoon council, the neophytes were obliged to labour
conscientiously on presents destined for themselves, rubbing off
stains, disentangling knots, joining threads, filling up wrong holes
and punching right ones, surreptitiously getting the offerings of
love into a condition where the energetic infants could work on them
again. It was somewhat difficult to glow and pale with surprise when
they received these well-known and well-worn trophies of skill from
the tree at the proper time, but they managed to achieve it.
Never at any other season was there such a scrubbing of paws, and in
spite of the most devoted sacrifices to the Moloch of cleanliness the
excited little hands grew first moist, and then grimy, nobody knew
how.
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