‘I want a sewing-box,’ said Belinda—‘a sewing-box with a lock and key so that the children can never touch what is inside.’
Merrythought nodded. He could go straight to work at once. He started toward the door. Then suddenly he turned back again.
‘But you mustn’t look!’ exclaimed Merrythought. He had remembered how dreadful it would be if any one peeped out of the window and caught even a glimpse of Santa Claus and his sleigh. ‘You mustn’t look, you know. Promise me that not one of you will look.’
‘We will hide our eyes,’ said Belinda. ‘Come, children. Let’s hide our eyes on the side of the bed.’
So down by the side of the bed went the seven children, all in a row, their blankets and bits of shawls huddled round their shoulders and their pink toes and heels showing in the most comical way. They didn’t know what it was all about, to be sure, but it was Christmasy and fun and exciting, and they liked it, every one.
Then Merrythought, his pie in his hand, rushed out of the house to be met by Santa Claus, with both arms full, down at the gate.
‘Yes, yes, I know all about it,’ said Santa Claus, ruddy and smiling, with little icicles hanging from his beard. ‘Here, help me with these toys. This is Danny’s sled, a red one. Put it on the doorstep and pile these blankets on top. Don’t let them fall in the snow.’
‘Blankets?’ said Merrythought in surprise. ‘Nobody wants blankets here.’
‘Oh, yes, they do,’ answered Santa Claus firmly. ‘Their mother does. Didn’t you see how thin their blankets were?’
Merrythought stared at Santa Claus. There was no one in the world quite like him, after all.