The Little Mixer | Page 2

she's such a jumping-jack herself, her papa said. You
know, Mama, Santy Claus puts nuts and candy, and little things in your
stocking and puts your big things all around the room. Sometimes he
brings a tree and hangs them all on a tree. Virginia and Nellie want a
tree and a new doll. Virginia gets a new doll every Chris'mus, and she's
got every doll Santy ever brought her--even her little, baby, rubber doll.
She's eight years old and will have eight dolls! But Nellie ain't--hasn't
saved a single one, and she's scared she won't get one this

Chris'mus--awful scared."
"Why, dear?" asked Mrs. Joseph, when Hannah paused for breath.
"Because the doll Santy brought Nellie last Chris'mus, you know what?
She was playing Indian with her brother one day, and chopped her head
off! And Nellie's mama says she don't know whether old Santy's going
to forget that or not! But Nellie, she says she prays hard to the Virgin
Mary every night--if she don't go to sleep too quick. Mama, what's a
virgin? Mama, what's----"
"A virgin is a lady who has never been married," answered Mrs. Joseph,
putting the neglected musician back into his box.
Hannah wrestled alone for a moment with a mighty ecclesiastical
problem, and then gave it up.
"The Virgin Mary is God's mother," Hannah continued. "That's her
picture over our fireplace,"--pointing to a copy of a crude thirteenth
century Madonna and Child in a carved Gothic frame, which Eli and
Rose Joseph had bought in Italy while on their wedding trip. Flanked
now by candles burning in silver candelabra in honor of Chanuca, it
gave the mantel a passing resemblance to a Catholic shrine.
"I don't think God's mother is very pretty, do you, Mama? And I think
Nellie's little brother is a heap prettier'n God was when He was a baby."
Mrs. Joseph showed signs of having reached the limit. "Hannah," she
said firmly, "it is time you were in bed."
"But, Papa hasn't come home yet."
"Papa will be late to-night, dear."
"The Chris'mus rush," sighed Hannah. "Mama, you haven't looked
down my throat to-day," she added, playing for time.
Mrs. Joseph went through the daily ritual. "It looks all right," she
pronounced.

"It is all right," came the triumphant answer. "It is never going to be
sore again. Virginia says----"
"Never mind what Virginia says. If your throat ever hurts you the least
little bit, you are to come to me instantly and tell me. Do you
understand?"
"Yes, Mama, but it isn't going to hurt any more," Hannah insisted.
"Come on up-stairs to bed."
Still Hannah hung back. She had not played her trump card yet, and the
time was short. She caught her mother's slim white hand in hers and
fingered nervously at the rings. "Mama," she almost whispered,
"Virginia says it's Jewish mamas' fault that Santy Claus don't come to
see Jewish children. If the mamas would just go to Santy and tell him
to come--You will, won't you, Mama? Please, Mama!"
"Hannah, not another word about Christmas and Santy
Claus--not--another--word!"
Hannah swallowed something that came in her throat, and bravely
winked back her tears. "Can't Mandy put me to bed?"
"No, dear; Mandy is busy in the kitchen. Mama will put you to bed and
tell you stories." She bent down and kissed the child tenderly.
Hannah flung her arms about her mother's neck. She loved the feel of
the soft throat and the gently curving bosom against her little cheek,
and the fragrance of her mother's hair and silken laces. She didn't know
that her mother looked like a portrait by Raphael, but she did know that
her mama was the prettiest, sweetest mama in all the world; and yet--
"Mama, I'm so tired of stories about the children of Israel. They never
did anything funny. Mandy tells me tales about the old plantashun,
when her ma was a slave, and about ole Marse, and ole Mis' going to
town and giving Santy Claus money so's he'd bring beads and 'juice'
harps and things to the little niggers; and he never forgot one, from the

biggest to the littlest darky, Santy didn't."
The child's body began to tremble with repressed sobs. "I--I wisht I was
a--a little darky! It's--it's awful--sad to be a little Jewish child at
Chris'mus time."
And then the storm broke.
Two hours later Eli Joseph's tired step sounded on the veranda, and
Rose hurried to admit him, lifting a silencing hand as soon as he had
crossed the threshold. "Hannah has just gone to sleep," she whispered.
"No--no, she's not sick at all." He placed an arm around her and drew
her into the library.
"Eli, your overcoat is wet," she exclaimed, untwining her arms from his
neck.
"Snow," he said, his good-looking