"Gee!" he said, "your Christmas ain't just an extra Sunday, is it?"
Shocked, Abner Sawyer glinted over the tops of his glasses.
"No," he said with an effort, "it—it is somewhat different."
"I"—the first citizen froze—"I hardly know."
"What d'ye have that ye don't have Sundays?"
"I—I believe it's turkey," conceded Mr. Sawyer desperately, and feeling his dignity hopelessly compromised by a dialogue of such pronounced informality, returned to his paper.
"Gee!" said Jimsy, with a sigh of relief, "that's mos' enuff itself to make a Christmas. Hain't never tasted turkey." He was silent a minute, in which the clock ticked loudly. It was purple now beyond the old-fashioned panes and the lamp seemed brighter. Jimsy's shrill young voice broke the quiet, as it would, of course, be sure to do.
"Say," he said kindly, "don't you worry none about that there Christmas tree an' no holly. We'll have a thump-walloper of a day, anyhow!"