Half a Dozen Girls

by Anna Chapin Ray

Polly laughed at the memory.

"He has called once since then," she said. "I don't see what has started his doing that, and he comes to see Aunt Jane, of all people. This time I was telling about, he went on in the queerest way about his children, as if he didn't care anything for them. I wish you could have heard him. He said that they had very peculiar dispositions, and his wife never did know how to bring them up. But go call your mother, there's a dear boy. I do want to plan about Jean."

For the next hour there was held a council into which Mrs. Hapgood entered with spirit, restraining the girls' ardor, offering all manner of assistance, and making many a useful suggestion for the success of their frolic, which was to be extended to include something for the little brothers, as well as for Jean. There was no time to be lost, for there was only a week before Christmas, and there was much to be done. At dinner time the girls separated, with many vows of secrecy.

Christmas fell on Thursday that year. It had been cloudy all the early part of the week, and on Wednesday morning Jean had opened her eyes in the cold, gray dawn, to see the air filled with whirling snowflakes that went dancing and skurrying this way and that before the noisy wind. Such a tempting morning to pull the blankets over one's shoulders and nestle down for another nap! But there was no such luxury for Jean; she scarcely had time to realize that this was the dawn of the Christmas eve. A careless step on a slippery roof, a cutting wind which had numbed him too much to let him save himself, these had given her father a bad fall so that work was out of the question for a long time to come. Her mother was busy caring for her husband and doing a little sewing at odd moments, so the main charge of the house and of the children had fallen on Jean's strong young shoulders, which were bearing the load with a merry willingness that is so much more helpful than mere patient endurance. And really, if it had not been for Christmas, Jean would not have minded it so much. But it was hard to think of the fun the other girls were having over their mysterious plans; and though she had no time to join them, in fancy she pictured their merry afternoons together, while Alan dodged about them, pretending to pry and peep into the carefully covered work-baskets. Harder still it was to imagine the disappointment of her own young brothers, when Christmas morning should reveal the empty little stockings that Santa Claus had forgotten to fill.

"No, Jean," Mrs. Dwight had said sadly; "we can't have any Christmas this year. I'm sorry to disappoint you and the children; but with the uncertainty about father's going to work again, I feel that it would be really wrong for us to use our money for presents, when before winter is over, we may have to borrow some for food or clothes."

And Jean saw the right of it. Still, she cried herself to sleep that night, not so much for herself, as for the boys who had talked of the children's fur-clad saint for a month past. But by the next morning, Jean's inspiration had come. As soon as her work was done, she shut herself into her room and ransacked her few small stores. At least the boys should not be disappointed she thought, as she selected this treasure and that from the meagre number which she had hoarded with such care. A little planning and contriving changed them to fit the present need, and Jean had put them away until Christmas eve with the happy certainty that, at any rate, the toes of the stockings would bulge a little, even if the legs hung empty and lean.

But now it was the morning of Christmas eve, and breakfast was waiting until Jean should get it ready, so she sprang up and hastily dressed herself. Then, with her cheeks glowing from the shock of the icy water, and her fingers aching with cold, she ran across the hall to rouse the boys. But they were sitting up in bed, calling back and forth to each other through the open door between their rooms, in all the joyous excitement of the approaching Christmas tide; so Jean only stopped to caution them not to disturb their father, and hurried away down-stairs, to start the fire for their morning meal. The house was so cold, in the dim light, for the fire had burned low and the wind seemed to blow in through all the cracks and corners. But Jean never minded that; she was thinking with a quiet satisfaction of the little box up-stairs, and as she knelt on the bare floor to shake down the ashes in the kitchen stove, she was humming contentedly to herself,—

"'And pray a gladsome Christmas
On all good Christian men;
Carol, brothers, carol,
Christmas day again!'"

Her mother's step interrupted her.

"Good morning, mammy!" she exclaimed, jumping up. "Why in the world didn't you stay in bed till the house was a little warmer?"