Part 25

“How'll he know?”

“How'll he know? Easy enough. He goes around all the houses evenings now to see how the young ones act, an' if he finds they're sassy, an' don't mind their Ma when she tells them to leave the cat alone, an' if they whine: 'I don' want to go out an' cut the kindlin'. Why cain't D. do it?' then he puts potatoes an' lumps o' coal in their stockin's. Oh, he'll be here, course o' the evenin'.”

“D' you s'pose he's round here now?” Eddie got a little closer to his brother.

“I wouldn't wonder. Yes, sir. There he goes now. Sure's you're alive.”

“Where?”

“Right over yan. Aw, you don't look. See? There he is. Aw! you're too slow. Didn't you see him? Now the next time I tell you--Look, look! There! He run right acrost the floor an' into the closet. Plain 's day. didn't you see him? You saw him, mother?”

Mrs. Allgire nodded her head. She was busy counting the stitches in a nubia she was knitting for old Aunt Pashy, Roebuck.

“W'y, you couldn't help but see him, didn't you take notice to his white whiskers?”

“Ye-es,” said the child, slowly, with the wide-open stare of hypnosis.

“Didn't you see the evergreen tree he carried?”

“M-hm,” said Eddie, the image taking shape in his mind's eye.

“And his brown coat all trimmed with fur, an' his funny peaked hat? An' his red nose? W'y, course you did.” The boy nodded his head. He was sure now. Yes. Faith was lost in sight. He believed.

“I expect he's in the closet now. Go look.”

“No. You.” He clung to D.

“I can't. I got this flat-iron in my lap, an' wouldn't spill the nut-shells all over the floor. You don't want me to, do you, Ma?”

Mrs. Allgire shook her head.

“Well, now,” said D. “Anybody tell you they ain't sich a person as Santy Claus, you kin jist stand 'em down 'at you know better, 'cause you seen him, didn't you?”

Eddie nodded his head. Anyhow, what D. told him was “the Lord said unto Moses,” and now that he had the evidence of his own eyes--Well, the next day he defied Bunt Rogers and all his works. To tell the plain truth, Bunt wasn't too well grounded in his newly cut infidelity.

In the public schools the children were no longer singing:

“None knew thee but to love thee, thou dear one of my heart; Oh, thy mem'ry is ever fresh and green. The sweet buds may wither and fond hearts be broken, Still I love thee, my darling, Daisy Deane.”

They turned over now to page 53, and there was a picture of Santa Claus just as in Plotner's window, except that he had a pack on his back and one leg in the chimney. This is what they sang:

“Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? Up on the house-top, click, click, click Down through the chimney with good St. Nick.”

Miss Munsell, who taught the D primary, traded rooms with Miss Crutcher, who taught the “a-b Abs.” Miss Munsell was a big fat lady, and she smiled so that the dimples came in both cheeks and her double Chin was doubter than ever, when she told the children what a dear, nice teacher Miss Crutcher was, and how fond she was of them, and wouldn't they like to make a Christmas present to their dear, kind teacher? They all said “Yes, mam.” Well, now, the way to do would be for each child to bring money (if Miss Munsell had smiled at a bird in the tree as she did then, it would have had to come right down and perch in her hand), just as much money as ever they could, and all must bring something, because it would make Miss Crutcher feel so bad to think that there was one little boy or one little girl that didn't love her enough to give her a Christmas present. And if everybody brought a dime or maybe a quarter, they could get her such a nice present. If their papas wouldn't let them have that much money, why surely they would let them have a penny, wouldn't they, children? And the children said: “Yes, mam.”

“And now all that love their dear, kind teacher, raise their hands. Why, there's a little girl over that hasn't her hand up! That's right, dear, put it up, bless your little heart! Now, we mustn't say a word to Miss Crutcher, must we? No. And that will be our secret, won't it? And all be sure to have your money ready by to-morrow. Now, I wonder if you can be just as still as little mice. I'm going to give this little girl a pin to drop and see if I can hear it out in the hall.”

Then she tiptoed down the hall clear to her own room and Mary Ellen Waldo let the pin drop, and Miss Mussell didn't come back to say whether she heard the pin drop or not. The children sat in breathless silence. Selma Morgenroth knocked her slate off and bit her lip with mortification while the others looked at her as much as to say: “Oh, my! ain't you 'shamed?” Then Miss Crutchet came back and smiled at the children, and they smiled back at her because they knew something she didn't know and couldn't guess at all. It was a secret.

The next morning Miss Crutchet traded rooms again, and the little children gave Miss Mussell their money, and she counted it, and it came to $2.84. The next day she came again because there were three that hadn't their money, so there was $2.88 at last. Miss Mussell had three little girls go with her after school to pick out the present. They chose a silver-plated pickle caster, which is exactly what girls of seven will choose, and, do you know, it came exactly to $2.88?

Then, on the last day of school, Miss Mussell came in, and, with the three little girls standing on the platform and following every move with their eyes as a dog watches his master, she gave the caster to Miss Crutchet and Miss Crutchet cried, she was so surprised. They were tears of joy, she said. After that, she went into Miss Munsell's room, and three little girls in there gave Miss Mussell a copy of Tennyson's poems that cost exactly $2.53, which was what Miss Crutchet had collected, and Miss Mussell cried because she was so surprised. How they could guess that she wanted a copy of Tennyson's poems, she couldn't think, but she would always keep the book and prize it because her dear pupils had given it to her. And just as Selma Morgenroth called out to the monitor, Charley Freer, who sat in Miss Crutchers chair, while she was absent: “Teacher! Make Miky Ryan he should ka-vit a-pullin' at my hair yet!” and the school was laughing because she called Charley Freer “teacher,” in came Miss Crutchet as cross as anything, and boxed Miky Ryan's ears and shook Selma Morgenroth for making so much noise. They didn't give anything, though they promised they would.

It was not alone in the day schools that there were extra preparations. The Sunday-schools were getting ready, too, and when Janey Pettit came home and told her Pa how big her class was, he started to say something, but her Ma shook her head at him and he looked very serious and seemed to be trying hard not to smile. He was very much interested, though, when she told him that Iky Morgenroth, whose father kept the One-Price Clothing House down on Main Street, had joined, and how he didn't know enough to take his hat off when he came into church. Patsy Gubbins and Miky Ryan and six boys from the Baptist Sunday-School had joined, too, and they all went into Miss Sarepta Downey's class, so that she had two whole pews full to teach, and they acted just awful. The infant class was crowded, and there was one little boy that grabbed for the collection when it was passed in front of him, and got a whole handful and wouldn't give it up, and they had to twist the money out of his fist, and he screamed and “hollered” like he was being killed. And coming home, Sophy Perkins, who goes to the Baptist Church, told her that there wasn't going to be any Christmas tree at their Sabbath-school. She said that there wasn't hardly anybody out. The teachers just sat round and finally went into the pastor's Bible class. Mr. Pettit said he was surprised to hear it. It couldn't have been the weather that kept them away, could it? Janey said she didn't know. Then he asked her what they were going to sing for Christmas, and she began on “We three kings of Orient are,” and broke off to ask him what “Orient” meant, and he told her that Orient was out on the Sunbury pike, about three miles this side of Olive Green, and her Ma said: “Lester Pettit, I wish't you'd ever grow up and learn how to behave yourself. Why, honey, it means the East. The three wise men came from the East, don't you mind?”