Minerva—Do without Christmas! Oh, Ma!
Ma (brushing away tears)—I’m sorry Minerva, but with the twins down with the grippe last week and it snowing so hard this week we couldn’t get to town and—and (puts apron to eye). I feel every bit as bad as you youngsters. I’ve always prided myself on giving you a happy Christmas, and to think that I haven’t a thing ready this year. Oh, you poor, poor children (cries).
Pa—Now, see what you’ve done. Run away children and stop pesterin’ your Ma.
Minerva (kissing Ma)—Never mind, Ma. We know it couldn’t be helped. We can do one year without Christmas, can’t we, Sam?
Sam (patting Ma awkwardly)—Of course. Don’t you worry about us kids, Ma. We’ll get along.
Ma—Bless your dear, kind hearts. But the little ones, the twins, how can I tell them that Santa can’t come this year?
Pa—Those kids have got enough toys as it is to last them a life time. Look at this room. You’d think a hurricane had struck it.
Ma—I know, I know. But they’ve been stuck in the house so long that they’re bound to get their play things around. It’s not the toys they need, but to tell them Santa won’t be here. Oh, I can’t! I can’t!
Minerva—Perhaps, Ma, we older ones could make them some presents. I could make a dandy nigger doll out of a bottle and a black stocking. Sara Martin showed me how to do it.