“Perhaps you will sometime, Phronsie, if you are a good girl,” Polly made haste to answer. “But never mind now, Pet, I must go on with the story.”
“Well, it was Santa Claus who hopped down the chimney with his pack on his back, and Mrs. Santa Claus sat in the sleigh and held the reins. And he went into every room, and looked at each sleeping child; and he could tell by its face whether he had been good or bad.”
“And had they?” cried Joel eagerly. “Say, Polly, oh, make them be good! and did Santa Claus give them a lot of presents?”
“Most of the children had been good,” said Polly; “but there was one, and he had been bad, very bad indeed. He had eaten up his brother’s piece of cake; and then he had cried and screamed for more, and made everybody unhappy. And Santa Claus stood over his bed and said, ‘Poor child.’”
“And didn’t he get any presents from Santa Claus?” cried Joel. “Do let him have a little bit of a present, Polly;” and he stuck his fingers in his eyes, trying not to cry.
“Why, how could he?” cried Polly, “when he had been bad, Joey?”
“P’raps he—he won’t—won’t eat up his brother’s cake any more?” mumbled [Joel], in great distress. Then he broke down, and [laid his head in Polly’s lap, and burst out crying.]
