It was the eighteenth of December when the first snow came sifting down. It covered the green lawns, and wrapped the young shade trees, and whitened the roofs of the little white houses. And not till then did Cherry Street remember that summer was gone and Christmas was near.
"We'll have a Christmas tree big enough for everybody," said Theodore. "John Thomas and I will go out and buy the largest we can find, and set it up in the parlour."
"Oh, it will be fine," said Margaret, clapping her hands. "Let us get at it right away."
The Christmas tree was brought, a noble fir,--and set up in the corner of the parlour amidst much bustle and confusion and laughter. John Thomas popped the corn, Miss Billy threaded it in whitened strings, Francis tacked up the evergreen boughs and holly, while Beatrice assisted,--a pretty picture with the heavy foliage held high above her head, and her sleeves falling away from her white arms. Margaret, in the kitchen, was aiding Maggie in making the cherished Christmas "pfeffernes," and as the little German cakes baked, the sweet spicy smell filled the air.
Theodore, on a stepladder, was hanging the mistletoe. "It smells Christmassy already," he announced hungrily. "Why doesn't Margaret make a bushel of those things? I could eat all she has there at one bite. Marie Jean, just hand me up a bit of that red ribbon, will you?"
Marie Jean's long arm stretched up the ladder, and Theodore leaned down. There was a resounding smack, and Marie Jean, with a scream of agitation, tripped over a rug and fell headlong into the arms of the Christmas tree.
"Land o' love!" she ejaculated, extricating herself from the branches. "Theodore Lee, I've a mind to slap you."
"The mistletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall,"
recited Theodore, putting as much feeling as he could into it without swallowing the tacks in his mouth. "Marie Jean, I expect to slay my thousands under this thing. But if you'd like to slap me, you can come again and try it."
"No, thanks," said Marie Jean, settling her ruffled plumage with dignity.
"Now," went on the irrepressible Theodore, "if good Kris Kringle will only hang a wig on the Christmas tree for Miss Billy,--nothing expensive or rich, of course, like her own hair was--but----"