Mother. Not Cinderella?—nor the Fairy Prince—or—
Child (wistfully). If I was Mary I would say, “Yes.” But I’m mamma. (Then suddenly runs to her mother and leans against her.) Oh, I don’t want to be Mother any more. It’s hard and tiresome. I want you to cuddle me—my head aches—and I haven’t played all—day—lo—o—ng. And Bridget has been horrid—and I never want to taste cream puffs again—nor fruit cake—nor lots of sugar in my tea. Bridget said I ate enough of ’em to sink a ship. And I feel awful here. (Hand on stomach.) Oh, mamma, mamma! (Mother holds her close and kisses her.) And, mamma, it’s almost Christmas, and I promised to take this for a present. And it’s all—just—wasted! Oh, dear me!
Mother. Little Mary, listen to me. Some day you will be as happy to be a really mother, I hope, as I am; but just now you are a little girl, and I don’t want you to be anything else.
Child. I don’t want to any more.
Mother. And I think the nicest present you can have will be to forget all about yourself, and have a lovely, happy time with some other children. Shall we ask Santa Claus for that?
Child. Yes, oh yes! But, mamma, I know there isn’t any really Santa Claus, but I like to think there is.
Mother. So do I, dear. There really is a Santa Claus spirit, though, which every one can have.
Child. Sing to me, mamma. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without it.
Mother (taking Child in her lap). You are rather a big little girl to be rocked, but I’ll try it. (Sings Christmas carol.)