“I wonder,” she said, “could you tell me anything you know how to do for a child’s Christmas? Something that won’t—that doesn’t—”
The woman leaned on the box for a moment. She nodded comprehendingly.
“Why,” she said, “no. Everything costs now. Did you ever try using the flowers?”
“The flowers?” Mother Margaret questioned.
“They decorate grand,” said the woman. “You can get a lot made up ahead, and string them around the room. You can make a tree look lovely with ’em, and nothing else. And it don’t hurt ’em none. Take ’em down, and they’re like new.”
Why had she never thought of that! She thanked the woman joyfully.
Mother Margaret flew along the street for the mile which she walked to save car fare, her head filled with visions. The pink and white and green tissue paper was there in their room; it was not hers, and it had not occurred to her that she could use it. But, just for one evening to borrow the flowers before she sent them out—oh, nobody could mind that. She could make the room beautiful, she could make a tree beautiful! But she knew she could not afford a tree.
There was one thing, however, which Mother Margaret could do. She had brought her library card in expectation of it. She went into the little branch library near where she lived, and eagerly to the desk. In these days before the holidays there was almost no one in the room. The pleasant-faced young woman at the desk had time to greet her with unusual cordiality.
“Oh,” said Mother Margaret, her cheeks flushed from her long walk, “I want you to find me a book. A book that a little child will like. A book all pictures. A Christmas book, if you can.”
“That ought to be easy,” the pleasant-faced young woman said, and went with her to the shelves, asking questions.