Peace on Earth, Good-will to Dogs | Page 9

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 have to go to church!"

With this obligation so cheerfully canceled, the exploration of the
humpiest express package loomed definitely as the next task on the
horizon.
Hoping for a fur coat from her Father, fearing for a set of encyclopedias
from her Mother, she tore back the wrappings with eager hands only to
find,--all-astonished, and half a-scream,--a gay, gauzy layer of animal
masks nosing interrogatively up at her. Less practical surely than the
fur coat,--more amusing, certainly, than encyclopedias,--the funny
"false faces" grinned up at her with a curiously excitative audacity.
Where from?--No identifying card! What for? No conceivable
clew!--Unless perhaps just on general principles a donation for the
Sunday School Christmas Tree?--But there wasn't going to be any tree!
Tentatively she reached into the box and touched the fiercely striped
face of a tiger, the fantastically exaggerated beak of a red and green
parrot. "U-m-m-m," mused Flame. "Whatever in the world shall I do
with them?" Then quite abruptly she sank back on her heels and began
to laugh and laugh and laugh. Even the Lay Reader had not received
such a laughing But even to herself she did not say just what she was
laughing at. It was a time for deeds, it would seem, and not for words.
Certainly the morning was very full of deeds!
There was, of course, a present from her Mother to be opened,--warm,
woolly stockings and things like that. But no one was ever swerved
from an original purpose by trying on warm, woolly stockings. And
from her Father there was the most absurd little box no bigger than
your nose marked, "For a week in New York," and stuffed to the brim
with the sweetest bright green dollar bills. But, of course, you couldn't
try those on. And half the Parish sent presents. But no Parish ever sent
presents that needed to be tried on. No gay, fluffy scarfs,--no lacey,
frivolous pettiskirts,--no bright delaying hat-ribbons! Just
books,--illustrated poems usually, very wholesome pickles,--and
always a huge motto to recommend, "Peace on Earth, Good Will to
Men."--To "Men"?--Why not to Women?--Why not at least to "Dogs?"
questioned Flame quite abruptly.
Taken all in all it was not a Christmas Morning of sentiment but a

Christmas morning of works! Kitchen works, mostly! Useful, flavorous
adventures with a turkey! A somewhat nervous sally with an apple pie!
Intermittently, of course, a few experiments with flour paste! A flaire or
two with a paint brush! An errand to the attic! Interminable giggles!
Surely it was four o'clock before she was even ready to start for the
Rattle-Pane House. And "starting" is by no means the same as arriving.
Dragging a sledful of miscellaneous Christmas goods an eighth of a
mile over bare ground is not an easy task. She had to make three
tugging trips. And each start was delayed by her big gray pussy cat
stealing out to try to follow her. And each arrival complicated by the
yelpings and leapings and general cavortings of four dogs who didn't
see any reason in the world why they shouldn't escape from their forced
imprisonment in the shed-yard and prance home with her. Even with
the third start and the third arrival finally accomplished, the crafty cat
stood waiting for her on the steps of the Rattle-Pane House,--back
arched, fur bristled, spitting like some new kind of weather-cock at the
storm in the shed-yard, and had to be thrust quite unceremoniously into
a much too small covered basket and lashed down with yards and yards
of tinsel that was needed quite definitely for something else.--It isn't
just the way of the Transgressor that's hard.--Nobody's way is any too
easy!
The door-key, though, was exactly where the old