"Sandy Claus," he answered readily.
Mis' Winslow stood looking down at him. Pep stepped nearer.
"We're doing it for little Emily," he said confidentially. "She couldn't get it straight about where Sandy Claus would be this Christmas. The rest of us—knew. But Emily's little—so we thought we'd play bury him on her 'count."
Mis' Bates, who had not heard, turned from Gussie.
"Going to do what on Christmas?" she exclaimed. "You ain't to do a thing on Christmas. Or ain't you grown up, after all?"
"Well, we thought a Christmas funeral wouldn't hurt," interposed Bennet, defensively. "Can't we even have a funeral for fun on Christmas?" he ended, aggrieved.
"It's Sandy Claus's funeral," observed little Emily putting a curl from her face.
"We're goin' dress up a Sandy Claus, you know," Pep added, sotto voce. "It's going to be right after breakfast, Christmas."
"Come on, come ahead, fellows," said Bennet; "I'll be corpse. Keep your lids on. I don't mind. Go ahead, sing."
Already Mis' Winslow was walking back to the house; the other two women overtook her; and from the porch they heard the children begin to sing:—