“Why not call her Agnes, after my old horse?” said the Parson.
And so the Maltese cat was named Agnes.
It was nice and warm in the Parson’s house, and there were lots of things to ask questions about. There were two big creaking chairs in front of the fire, and the old man sat in one and Bunny Face sat in the other and held Agnes on his lap. Finally the cat went to sleep, and they talked. Bunny Face told his new friend about a lot of things. And the Parson told about his horse that he had had once and about the dog that had barked at Agnes.
Just then a little bell rang, and the Parson said that supper was ready. They went out and washed their hands under the pump, then sat down to the table in the kitchen, where there was an old lady. The Parson said that she was his sister and then he told her who Bunny Face was. After that the old man said a grace and they ate little biscuits with honey and different things and Bunny Face enjoyed himself very much indeed. But the old lady wasn’t a bit like anyone he had ever seen before, because her face was different. And when Bunny Face started home she tied his muffler and asked if he was warm enough. He took Agnes with him and said, yes, he’d come again. And the Parson stood in the door and held the lamp up over his head till Bunny Face got ’way down the road.
The next morning there was snow on the ground, and the children at school began to talk about Christmas. And very soon all the shops fixed up their show windows with Christmas things. But Hampton’s Toy Shop was the finest. Everyone thought so, and each day we were nearly late at school because we stood and looked in so long. Old Mrs. Hampton always clerked with a black satin apron on and a scoopy black hat, and she wore thick glasses to look at the price with. Though the children didn’t buy, they always asked how much everything was.
One day Bunny Face followed some of the other children in, and there hanging up on the wall he saw a picture. It showed Santa Claus himself, pack and all, coming out of a little house with a bright green door and a red chimney. But there was something about that picture that made him feel very queer. Finally he knew what it was. It was the trees. You see, he knew exactly where those big, tall pine trees were, out on Clark’s road. He was sure of it. But he’d find out for himself. Anyway there wouldn’t be a picture of Santa Claus’ house if he really didn’t have one, and why wouldn’t it be out on Clark’s road anyway? He kept on thinking about it all the morning.
So that afternoon he played truant again. It was a cold day, and the snowflakes nipped you on the cheeks as they flew past, but Bunny Face pulled down his cap and hurried on. He scrambled over fences and took all the short cuts across the snowy fields that led off toward Clark’s road. It was a long way to go on such a cold day, but he kept saying to himself what fun it would be when he got there to knock on Santa Claus’ door. Then he’d wait and Santa Claus would say “Come in”—just like that, and open would pop the door and there he, Bunny Face, would be standing. Of course he’d tell Santa Claus right away who he was, and Santa Claus would probably say, “Stay to supper, won’t you?” Then he’d see all the toys that were ready for Christmas, and may be Santa Claus would say, “Help yourself, Bunny Face; pick out something nice.”
Now the road curves just before you come to those tall pines, and Bunny Face decided to close his eyes and take five hundred steps, then open them quick, for there he’d be exactly in front of Santa Claus’ house. It kept him busy counting steps, and he got mixed up and maybe he cheated a little to make five hundred come sooner, but finally it was four hundred and ninety-eight, then four hundred and ninety-nine. Then he opened his eyes.
The wind was whistling through the branches and blowing the snow in cloudy rings under the tall black trees. But no little Santa Claus’ house with a green door and red chimney was standing there. Bunny Face couldn’t see a house anywhere. Then he knew how cold he was, and his feet didn’t feel at all. He rubbed his eyes, for this was the place. Those were the very trees surely. Then he tried to think of all the other tall pine trees that he knew. Of course, maybe he had made a mistake; he would look at Mrs. Hampton’s picture again tomorrow. There was nothing to do now but to go back across the cold, white fields. He tried not to think about eating supper with Santa Claus and choosing a present for himself.
It seemed a thousand times farther going back than it had coming; indeed he thought that he never, never would get there. But at last, just as the street lights were coming on, he opened the door of Katie Duckworth’s store and dragged himself over to the stove.