'It must leak out of the inside of me,' wailed Bobby Baxter
when sent to the pump for the third time one morning; but he went
more or less cheerfully, for his was the splendid honour of weaving a
frame for Lisa's picture, and he was not the man to grudge an inch or
two of skin if thereby he might gain a glorious immortality.
The principal conversation during this festival time consisted of
phrases like: 'I know what you're goin' to have, Miss Edith, but I
won't tell!' 'Miss Mary, Sally 'most told Miss Rhoda what she was
makin' for her.' 'Miss Helen, Pat Higgins went right up to Miss
Edith and asked her to help him mend the leg of his clay frog, and
it's his own Christmas present to her!'
The children could not for the life of them play birds, or
butterflies, or carpenter, or scissors-grinder, for they wanted to
shout the live-long day -
'Christmas bells are ringing sweet,
We too the happy day must greet';
or -
'Under the holly, now,
Sing and be jolly, now,
Christmas has come and the children are glad';
or -
'Hurrah for Santa Claus!
Long may he live at his castle in Somewhere-land!'
There was much whispering and discussion about evergreens and
garlands and wreaths that were soon to come, and much serious
planning with regard to something to be made for mother, father,
sister, brother, and the baby; something, too, now and then, for a
grandpapa in Sweden, a grandmamma in Scotland, a Norwegian uncle, an
Irish aunt, and an Italian cousin; but there was never by chance any
cogitation as to what the little workers themselves might get.
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