Peace on Earth, Good-will to Dogs | Page 8

panted her Mother.
"I want to make a Christmas for myself!" said Flame. "Oh, of course, I know perfectly well," she agreed, "that I could go to a dozen places in the Parish and be cry-babied over for my presumable loneliness. And probably I should cry a little," she wavered, "towards the dessert--when the plum pudding came in and it wasn't like Mother's.--But if I made a Christmas of my own--" she rallied instantly. "Everything about it would be brand-new and unassociated! I tell you I want to make a Christmas of my own! It's the chance of a life-time! Even Father sees that it's the chance of a life-time!"
"Do you?" demanded his wife a bit pointedly.
"Honk-honk!" screamed the motor at the door.
"Oh, dear me, whatever in the world shall I do?" cried Flame's Mother. "I'm almost distracted! I'm--"
"When in Doubt do as the Doubters do," suggested Flame's Father quite genially. "Choose the most doubtful doubt on the docket and--Flame's got a pretty level head," he interrupted himself very characteristically.
"No young girl has a level heart," asserted Flame's Mother. "I'm so worried about the Lay Reader."
"Lay Reader?" murmured her Father. Already he had crossed the threshold into the hall and was rummaging through an over-loaded hat rack for his fur coat. "Why, yes," he called back, "I quite forgot to ask. Just what kind of a Christmas is it, Flame, that you want to make?" With unprecedented accuracy he turned at the moment to force his wife's arms into the sleeves of her own fur coat.
Twice Flame rolled up her cuffs and rolled them down again before she answered.
"I--I want to make a Surprise for Miss Flora," she confided.
"Honk-honk!" urged the automobile.
"For Miss Flora?" gasped her Mother.
"Miss Flora?" echoed her Father.
"Why, at the Rattle-Pane House, you know!" rallied Flame. "Don't you remember that I called there this afternoon? It--it looked rather lonely there.--I--think I could fix it."
"Honk-honk-honk!" implored the automobile.
"But who is this Miss Flora?" cried her Mother. "I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life! How do we know she's respectable?"
"Oh, my dear," deprecated Flame's Father. "Just as though the owners of the Rattle-Pane House would rent it to any one who wasn't respectable!"
"Oh, she's very respectable," insisted Flame. "Of a lineage so distinguished--"
"How old might this paragon be?" queried her Father.
"Old?" puzzled Flame. To her startled mind two answers only presented themselves.... Should she say "Oh, she's only just weaned," or "Well,--she was invented about 1406?" Between these two dilemmas a single compromise suggested itself. "She's awfully wrinkled," said Flame; "that is--her face is. All wizened up, I mean."
"Oh, then of course she must be respectable," twinkled Flame's Father.
"And is related in some way," persisted Flame, "to Edward the 2nd--Duke of York."
"Of that guarantee of respectability I am, of course, not quite so sure," said her Father.
With a temperish stamping of feet, an infuriate yank of the door-bell, Uncle Wally's chauffeur announced that the limit of his endurance had been reached.
Blankly Flame's Mother stared at Flame's Father. Blankly Flame's Father returned the stare.
"Oh, p-l-e-a-s-e!" implored Flame. Her face was crinkled like fine crêpe.
"Smooth out your nose!" ordered her Mother. On the verge of capitulation the same familiar fear assailed her. "Will you promise not to see the Lay Reader?" she bargained.
"--Yes'm," said Flame.


PART II
It's a dull person who doesn't wake up Christmas Morning with a
curiously ticklish sense of Tinsel in the pit of his stomach!--A sort of a Shine! A kind of a Pain!
"Glisten and Tears, Pang of the years."
That's Christmas!
So much was born on Christmas Day! So much has died! So much is yet to come! Balsam-Scented, with the pulse of bells, how the senses sing! Memories that wouldn't have batted an eye for all the Gabriel Trumpets in Eternity leaping to life at the sound of a twopenny horn! Merry Folk who were with us once and are no more! Dream Folk who have never been with us yet but will be some time! Ache of old carols! Zest of new-fangled games! Flavor of puddings! Shine of silver and glass! The pleasant frosty smell of the Express-man! The Gift Beautiful! The Gift Dutiful! The Gift that Didn't Come! Heigho! Manger and Toy-Shop,--Miracle and Mirth,--
"Glisten and Tears, LAUGH at the years!"
That's Christmas!
Flame Nourice certainly was willing to laugh at the years. Eighteen usually is!
Waking at Dawn two single thoughts consumed her,--the Lay Reader, and the humpiest of the express packages downstairs.
The Lay Reader's name was Bertrand. "Bertrand the Lay Reader," Flame always called him. The rest of the Parish called him Mr. Laurello.
It was the thought of Bertrand the Lay Reader that made Flame laugh the most.
"As long as I've promised most faithfully not to see him," she laughed, "how can I possibly go to church? For the first Christmas in my life," she laughed, "I won't