Sometime in the night will come the
jingle of silver bells, and the patter of tiny hoofs. Old Santa
will halloo: "Whoa!" and come sliding down the chimney. The
drowsing heads, fuddled with weariness, wrestle clumsily with
the problem, "How is he to get through the stove without burning
himself?" Reason falters and Faith triumphs. It would be done
somehow, and then the reindeer would fly to the next house, and
the next, and so on, and so on. The mystic hour draws near. Like
a tidal wave it rolls around the world, foaming at its crest in a
golden spray of gifts and love. The mystic hour.
"Oh, just a little longer, just a little longer."
"No, no. You cain't hardly prop your eyes open now. Come now.
Get to bed. Now, Elmer Lonnie; now, Mary Ellen; now, Janey; now,
Eddie; now, Lycurgus. Don't be naughty at the last minute and say,
'I don't want to,' or else Santa Claus won't come a-near. No, sir."
After the last drink of water and the last "Now I lay me," a long
pause . . . . Then from the spare bedroom the loud rustling of
stiff paper, the snap of broken, string, and whispers of, "Won't
her eyes stick out when she sees that!" and, "He's been just
fretting for a sled; I'm so glad it was so 't we could get it for
him," and, "I s'pose we ort n't to spent so much, but seems like
with such nice young ones 's we've got 't ain't no more 'n right
we should do for 'em all we can afford, 'n' mebby a little more.
Pages:
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241