“Well,” sez I, “the first thing to do is to put them aside,” sez I, motionin’ to the slippers, two-thirds of which wuz not done; “and them, too,” sez I, p’intin’ to the delicate cobweb-work hangin’ over the sides of her work-basket.
“Lay them aside!” sez she, in wonderin’, horrer-struck axents; “these Christmas gifts?”
And I leaned back in my chair and looked indifferent, and sez I, “I knew you wouldn’t do what I wanted you to.”
“Oh, I will, I will!” sez she. “I will do it.” And she went to a side table and laid the work-basket on it and throwed a scarf over it. I see she meant bizness, and she come back and sot down on a low stool at my feet and leaned her pretty head against my knee, and I smoothed down the clusterin’ curls on her pale forward and went on.
“Now,” sez I, “the first thing you do, you go to the book-store and buy a handsome copy of ‘Is Marriage a Failure?’ for Louis Arnold, and some other nice book or piece of useful silver-ware for his mother. Wrop these oncompleted gifts up in silk paper and put them in the draw; and as you shet that draw up, shet up in it all your cares and anxieties for Christmas; keep in your mind only the beauty and blessedness of the day, and its holy and hallowed meanin’. Keep this cobweb-work you have done for yourself as a motto that means ‘I will never do it agin,’ and buy of some poor girl that wants the money some of this hem-stitchin’ and tattin’ and drawn-work you want for your relations, and do them up, ready to send away, and put them in draws; and when you shet up them draws, shet up all anxieties for them. Then,” sez I, “all this off your mind, bathe your wore-out eyes and pale face in some good pure water, go to bed at nine, and get up in the early mornin’ fresh and vigorous, and go out into the sunlight and drink down the sweet air like a healin’ cordial.”
The weather wuz wonderful for October; Injun summer had made the country beautiful; the roads wuz hard and smooth as summer roads. Sez I, “Forgit all your cares, put on the pretty short dress you used to wear, and go out for a long ride.”
“Oh,” sez she, “I don’t ride the wheel any more.”
“Why?” sez I wonderin’ly.
“Oh, Louis don’t like to have me. He thinks it is old-fashioned and unladylike and unwomanly.”
“Don’t he ride?” sez I.