Jimsy shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “N’York snow's gray 
an’ dirty. Specks said the snow we seen on the hills from the 
train winder was Christmas-card snow, and with that the minister 
he up an' tells Specks an’ me 'bout reg-lar old-fashioned country 
Christmases — fire like this an’ Christmas trees an' — an’ sleigh- 
bells — an’ gifts an' wreaths an’ skatin’ an’ holly—Gee !" 
“That,” said Abner Sawyer, with cold finality,” will be quite 
enough.” 
“Sure,” agreed Jimsy. “A Christmas like that ’snuff fur any 
kid.” 
Irritably conscious that his reproof had been misinterpreted, the 
first citizen, conscience-driven, laid aside his paper. 
“James,” he began, primly, “I must take this occasion to inform 
you that Mrs. Sawyer and I spend Christmas quietly—very quietly. 
We have never had a Christmas tree, and personally I consider 
that holly is most suitable and decorative where Nature planted it. 
Christmas,” finished Mr. Sawyer, slightly discon¬ 
certed by Jimsy’s attentive stare, “Christmas is 
merely a day and a dinner. Let the frivolous make 
of it an — er—orgy of sentimentality.” 
Jimsy’s face fell. “Gee!” he said, “your Christ¬ 
mas ain’t just an extra Sunday, is it?” 
“No,” said Abner Sawyer, shocked, 
somewhat different.” 
“How’s it different?” 
“I,” the first citizen froze — “I hardly know." 
“What d’ye have that ye don’t have Sundays?” 
“I—I believe it’s turkey,” conceded Mr. 
Sawyer, desperately, and feeling his dignity 
hopelessly compromised, returned to his paper. 
“Gee!” said Jimsy, with a sigh of 
relief, “that’s mos’ enuff itself to make 
a Christmas. Hain’t never tasted tur¬ 
key.” He was silent a min¬ 
ute, in which the clock ticked 
loudly. It was purple now 
beyond the old - fashioned 
panes and the lamp seemed 
brighter. Jimsy’s shrill, young 
voice broke the quiet, as 
it would, of course, be 
sure to do. 
“Say,” he said, kind- r 
ly, “don’t you worry. 
none about 
that 
there Christmas 
tree an’ no holly. 
We’ll have a 
thump - walloper 
of a day, any¬ 
how !” 
It is conceiv¬ 
able that Abner 
Sawyer’s expe¬ 
rience with thump-wallopers had been limited. There was 
something in the boy’s words, however, that brought his gaze 
over the top of his spectacles again and over his paper. 
“My remark,” he said, coldly,” about the absence of a tree and 
holly was a statement—not an apology.” 
“Don’t get ye,” admitted Jimsy, and there was danger of a 
mutual deadlock of comprehension. Aunt Judith saved the day. 
Arriving in the doorway with a flutter, she said that supper was 
ready, and that James had better wash his face and hands. And 
James, who was Jimsy, meeting Aunt Judith’s gentle eyes, turned 
scarlet, and, stumbling to his feet, he stepped en route upon the 
statelv toe of Lindon’s pride. 
“Gee,” he burst forth, contritely, “I’m 
awful sorry. Spoiled yer shine, didn’t I? 
An’ it was a beaut, too !” 
Abner Sawyer rose, but even as he did so 
it seemed as if his world of law and order 
rocked in chaos about his feet. He was 
going out to supper—and he had not read a 
single line in the Lindon Evening Nezv<s! 
II 
"G wan! came a muffled roar. Say 
that again and I'll bust yer face 
good” 
It was at supper that the terrible realization came to Abner 
Sawyer that Jimsy liked everything and everyone rather too well. 
He liked the ham and he liked the biscuits; he accepted alarming- 
quantities of marmalade with utter confidence in his digestion; 
his round eyes swept every nook of the prim, old room, and mar¬ 
veled. Thanks to something in Aunt Judith’s eyes, furtively con¬ 
cessional to boyhood, Jimsy had misled what little constraint and 
shyness he had had at first. His at-homeness might be gauged 
at a glance by the way he gazed at the biscuits. 
“Dear me,” said Aunt Judith, glanc- 
3— ing from Jimsy to the biscuits to see 
which most threatened the other, “I — 
I scarcely think — I hardly know — 
Abner ?” 
“James,” decided Mr. Sawyer, with 
forbidding dignity, “you may have 
just one more biscuit!" 
And Aunt Judith nodded— 
“Just as you say, my dear!” as she- 
had been nodding effectively for thirty 
years. 
Jimsy’s eyes were very grateful, 
and it came over the first citizen with 
sickening conviction that Jimsy, mis¬ 
interpreting again, had regarded the 
biscuit as an overture, instead of a 
show of power. Ridiculous, indeed, 
to have thrown about your neck the 
unwelcome chain of a boy’s regard, 
and then, unintentionally, to cement 
that chain — by a biscuit! Abner Saw¬ 
yer departed hastily for his lamp, his 
fire and his paper. 
Jimsy followed Aunt Judith to the kitchen, and 
here, in the shining quiet of an old-fashioned 
kitchen, whose spotless rows of pans and its 
rocker by the window, reflected nothing of first 
citizenship, the memory-making mystery of child 
> and woman, in a homely setting, drew taut a 
chord of sympathy. Out of the hum of the kettle 
and the fire shadows of the grate — it came — out 
of the winter wind that rattled the checker-paned 
windows — that eternal something that is only 
given to women to understand. Jimsy did not know why Aunt 
Judith smiled, or why the smile made his throat hurt a little. He 
only knew by her eyes that she liked him, and that was enough. 
“Aunt Judith,” he blurted, “Lemme, aw, lemme wipe yer 
dishes.” 
But Aunt Judith, with the wisdom of women, knew that the 
best-behaved china is perversely given to leaping without warn¬ 
ing out of the hands of any boy, to his utter consternation, and 
she patted him on the back. 
“Bless your heart, Jimsy,” she said, “there are so few I can do 
them myself in no time.” 
Jimsy! — not James! Jimsy felt that he must do something 
348 
