Thus invited, the old man gently pushed open the kitchen door and sat down upon its step to share her happiness.
“Oh, it’s like a swan’s-down kitten—so white! Did it snow down, Uncle Hank? Oh, isn’t it lovely and dear?”
“Why, Sandy Claus brought him,” corrected the old man. Then, coming down to plain facts, he added, reassuringly, “Frosty said you could have your pick. There’s two others; one is a sorrel and one a pinto. I judged you’d like this one the best.”
The kitten, as though it thought poorly of these revelations, gave a tiny sneezelike “Whszt!” which set Hilda to laughing, and at this the gay little atom, pretending to be angry, backed off and, like a boxer, began to make passes at the corner of her coat.
“He’s a high-spirited kitten, all right,” commented Uncle Hank, watching them with a smile. “But there’s more live stock in that stocking—leastways more things with legs.”
Gently Hilda pulled the stocking from its nail, put in a cautious hand and began drawing out fat gingerbread animals.
“Oh—a pony!” she cried. “And the gingerbread is just the color of Shorty’s Gold-dust sorrel!”
“It’s just as well Shorty can’t hear you—and see that thing,” chuckled Uncle Hank. “I take no pride in that nag. He was a tricky, deceivin’ critter, Pettie; looked well enough in the dough, but, come to bake him, he sort of drawed up in the legs like he was spavined.”
“Oh, but this dear little jack-rabbit!” Hilda went on with her investigations.
The old man watched her a moment silently; then, as she made no correction of her statement, “That there was aimed for a burro,” he said mildly. “You can’t always go by the long ears. Look at the pack on his back.”