Frank Wilson was employed at a grocery store some distance down the street. His brown eyes flashed merrily as he hurried from customer to customer, from salt to celery, from potatoes to lemons. The people liked to trade with him because he was so willing. He was just delivering a basket at the rear flat on the fourth floor of a tall tenement. His breath was still coming by jerks from the climb as he rapped at the “other door.” After a moment of perfect stillness the lock rattled, the knob turned, and the door opened as a little boy said:
“Who’s there?”
“Mrs. Asleson live here?”
“Ain’t home.”
“I’ve got a Christmas basket for her.”
At the magic word Christmas the door swung back, and a queer scene was revealed to the surprised gaze of the grocery boy.
“You all belong to Mrs. Asleson?” asked Frank as he set the basket on the table and pinched a little youngster. The group drew back. “Red, black, yellow, brown! Well, well—who’s the canary?” he continued, as he gave a whistle and looked around at the blinking youngsters. “Talk about your Indian chief!”
“I belong down stairs, Mister,” said one of the little girls.
The group was remarkable. Even aside from the dirty marks accumulated with a day of play. The young girl who had spoken was red-haired. The little tot in kirtles had golden locks, rather almost white. The other little girl had dark curls. While the two boys, brown-haired and blue-eyed, were enough alike to look like the brothers they were, except that the larger had an amount of freckles such as the younger had not found time to acquire. The four were the widow’s children.
“Hello!” exclaimed the grocery boy, “what have you got here?”