"Will we put in a fum and pull out a plum?"
"They'll be funny plums. Come and I'll show you. But we'll lock the door, because this is our secret and nobody must know."
Under the bed was a shiny tin milk pan, and rolls of tissue paper, green and red. "Now I'm going to cover this pan with green paper," Peggy explained. "And there'll be a pasteboard cover, with a big round hole in the middle, and there's where we will put in our thumbs."
"And cry what a big boy'm I," added Dorothy, hopping on one foot, which with her was an indication of fascinated interest.
"The cover'll be all fixed with red tissue paper, and, instead of plums, there'll be little presents inside."
"Is it going on the Christmas tree, Aunt Peggy?" Dorothy squatted beside her aunt, carried away by the enchantment of the plan. And as Peggy looked at the beaming little face the isolation of her previous preparations suddenly seemed selfish.
"No, this isn't for the tree. It's going on the table for the Christmas dinner. The presents aren't nice ones, you know. They're funny little jokes. Here's Dick's present, a queer little make-believe alarm-clock, because he is so slow about getting up in the morning.
"Dick's a lazy boy to be my uncle," said Dorothy, giggling rapturously. "I guess he'll be 'shamed when he pulls out his plum."
"There's a rhyme to go with it, Dorothy. That's part of the fun. Do you want to hear it?"
Dorothy promptly became a statuette of attention, her hands folded, and her grave face flatteringly expectant, while Peggy read aloud.