Monday, December twenty-third.
Up to this morning the hard warm rain continued, and now the stars are all out and it might be thought a night in spring. At eight-thirty I walked over in sneakers and underwear for a moment’s call on Olson, but he had gone to bed. And now although we’ll have no snow the weather is fair for Christmas.
If Olson believes, as he says, that Christmas will pass as any other day he is quite wrong. The tree waits to be set up and it will surely be a thing of beauty blazing with its many candles in this somber log interior. I’ve given up the idea of dressing Olson as Santa Claus in goat’s wool whiskers. Santa Claus without presents would move us to tears. There are a few little gifts,—a pocketknife and a kitchen set of knife, fork, and can-opener for Olson. An old broken fountain pen for Rockwell, some sticks of candy,—and the dinner! What shall it be? Wait!
It is midnight. I’ve just finished a good drawing. The lamp is about at its accustomed low mark—yesterday it had to be filled twice! Those nights when without a clock I sat up so late and to so uncertain an hour I have discovered by the lamp and clock together to have been really long. My bedtime then was after two or three o’clock—but I arose later. To-day I finished a little picture for Olson and so did Rockwell. These were forgotten in my list of presents as I’ve just written it. I have shown in my picture the king of the island himself striding out to feed the goats while Billy, rearing on his hind legs, tries to steal the food on the way. Rockwell’s picture is of Olson surrounded by all the goats in a more peaceful mood. Olson’s cabin is in the background. I wish we had more to give the good old man. At any rate he dines with us.