The next day was Christmas Eve. When Anne entered the 'Roseland' nursery, snow was beginning to fall, fluttering down in big wet flakes.
Dunlop, his stocking in his hand, was prancing about the room. He wished it would be dark and time to hang up his stocking—and he did wish it was to-morrow morning and time to get his presents. He wanted a nail driven in front of the fireplace; he was afraid Santa Claus wouldn't think to look at the end of the mantel-piece. His own stocking was too small. He had told Santa to bring him a football and an express wagon and lots of other things. He was going to borrow a big fat stocking from the big fat cook. Off he ran.
Little Arthur was sitting beside a low table on which lay two picture-books, one less badly torn than the other, and one of his favorite toys, a woolly white dog, now three-legged through some nursery mishap. Arthur regarded them thoughtfully. He had a pencil clenched in his chubby fist and on the table before him was a piece of paper.
"What are you doing, Artie dear?" asked Anne.
He looked up at her with big round blue eyes. He was a quiet, good-tempered little fellow, now perplexed with serious thoughts.
"I'm going to hang up all two my socks," he announced.
"Why, Arthur-boy! that sounds selfish—not like you," exclaimed Anne. "You don't want more than your share of Santa Claus's pretty things, do you? Don't you want him to save some toys and books and candies for other little boys?"
Arthur followed his own course of thought, without regard to Anne's questions. "One sock is for me," he said. "I hope Santa'll 'member and give me what I asked him."
"What did you ask him to bring you, honey?" inquired Anne.
Arthur looked at her gravely. "I'se forgot. Was so many fings. And one sock is for Santa C'aus. I'm going to fill it all full of fings. A apple. And popcorn balls—Marfa made 'em. And my dear woolly dog's for Santa. Will he care if it's foot's bwoke?"