“The art of manufacturing dolls is carried to great perfection,” quietly replied the woman. “Did you say that you would take this, sir?”
Take it! what could have bribed him to forego the treat of witnessing Nettie’s rapture in the survey of this resplendent and accomplished demoiselle?
“We have some very pretty doll-carriages, in which the lady can take the air,” was the next attack, and Mr. Dryden fell a willing sacrifice to this new snare.
In very compassion for her victim, the woman directed his thoughts to the boy’s gifts. A velocipede; a wheelbarrow, with spade, rake, and hoe; a set of jackstraws, for winter evenings; a football and a sled made up the complement that was to transport the semi-infidel to the seventh heaven of ecstacy.
Truth obliges me to mention that the lavish parent sustained a slight shock when the obliging saleswoman figured up and presented the amount of his indebtedness; but he rallied bravely.
“Christmas comes but once a year!” he said, manfully, and paid his bill with a good grace.
“You could not purchase the same quantity of happiness so cheaply in any other manner,” remarked the bland merchant, oracularly.
The tit-bit of wisdom was assuredly not original with her, but it impressed the hearer as a profound and truthful observation—one well worth remembering. He was getting on very swiftly, indeed, in the acquisition of Christmas lore.
“You have but two children, then, sir?” remarked the lady, casually, in handing him his change.
“Bless my life! I forgot the twins!” exclaimed the father, aghast. “But I suppose they are too young to appreciate Christmas presents.”