Boy. Excuse me; but how’d you know it was trouble? It isn’t a serious trouble, you know; only boy trouble.
S. C. Boy troubles are hard to carry sometimes. What are yours?
Boy. Mostly, I guess, that I’ve not got my gifts done—and can’t finish them now, ’cause there’s not time. And that means that there will be less for the stockings, you know.
S. C. That is hard lines. But why couldn’t you finish them?
Boy. Sit down, won’t you? (They sit down.) Why—because—well, I had to do lots of things. Kindling, you know, and bringing in wood for mother—and taking care of the baby sometimes—and keeping little Bud out of mischief—and sometimes—well, you see, I’m the oldest, and the others are too little—sometimes I wash the dishes. Mother has so much to do, and I ought to, don’t you think so?
S. C. Indeed, you ought, and I’m proud to find a boy who does it. But do you know, son, I think you are making a great mistake.
Boy (looking alarmed). Am I? What? I’m sorry.
S. C. You say you have nothing to give at Christmas. It strikes me that you are giving a good many things, and very nice ones, too.
Boy (bewildered). I don’t understand.