Part 10

She put the basket on the table, took a needle from her mother’s needle book, threaded it with a long, stout thread, and began stringing the berries.

Laura was a dear little thing! She was always busy. No one ever heard her say, “I wish I had something to do.” And she was generally doing something for some one else.

She made a sweet little picture as she sat bending over the basket of crimson cranberries. Some such idea may have come into Arthur’s mind as he turned and looked at her. As he watched her silently for some moments, the cross expression on his face became a little less cross.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Stringing cranberries for the Mullins’ Christmas tree,” answered Laura. “Don’t you want to help me?”

“It’s girls’ work,” replied Arthur.

“Isn’t a boy smart enough to do a girl’s work?” asked Laura.

“Of course, he’s SMART enough. I don’t mean that! Perhaps he doesn’t want to.”

“Oh,” said Laura, “I wish you did want to.”

“Why?” asked Arthur.

“I promised to string all these for the Mullins’ Christmas tree,” replied Laura. “The market-man brought them so late, I have not much time now.”

“Thread another needle,” said Arthur.

In a few moments he was working as busily as Laura, herself. As Arthur finished his last long string, he tied the ends together and threw it around Laura’s neck. When she bent her head a little, it reached the floor.

“There,” said he, “that proves that a boy can do a girl’s work.”

“Yes,” said Laura, “when”--then she stopped and smiled.

“When what?” asked Arthur.

“When he has a girl to show him how,” laughed Laura, as she danced out of the room with the cranberry strings.

CHRISTMAS IN CALIFORNIA.

“To think that this is Christmas Day!” Said Harold to his aunt, “I know it really is, and yet, Believe it--well, I can’t! I’ve had a tree, my stocking, too, This morning full I found, But how can I believe it With no snow upon the ground?

Look at the sea so bright and blue, And feel the soft, warm air, And there are roses all in bloom, And lilies, I declare! I think that California Is lovely, but it’s queer, How different Christmas is at home From what it is out here.”

“Ah, Harold!” gently said his aunt, “No matter where you go, In country strewn with flowers like this, Or clad in ice and snow, The birthday of the Christ-child is The same in every place, And happy greetings in His name, Bring smiles to every face.”

A TROUBLESOME CALL.

We were going, on Saturday, ever so far,-- My mamma and I,--to the Dollies’ Bazaar, Where fifty wax dollies,--the loveliest show, Went walking about when they wound ‘em, you know.

You wouldn’t believe half the things they could do: Why, one said “Good morning,” as plainly as you. One played the piano, and one, dressed in lace, Walked up to a mirror and powdered her face.

Well, when we were ready we stepped in the hall, And there was a lady a-coming to call. She said she just chanced to be passing that way, And she really had only a minute to stay.

We waited and waited, and hoped she would go, Till I saw it was almost the time for the show, For I heard the clocks striking all over the town, And I knew that the dollies would all be run down.

And so I just said, “I should s’pose, Mrs. Black, Your little girl wonders why don’t you come back.” That’s all that I spoke, every ‘dentical word; But she said, “Little girls should be seen and not heard.”

I guess that’s a proverb, so maybe ‘tis true; But, if people won’t see, what can little girls do? My mamma looked queer, but that ended the call, And we went to the Dollies’ Bazaar, after all.