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“Dump them all out–round the base of the tree?” puzzled young Derry Willard.

Carol did something suddenly that I never saw him do before with a stranger. He wrote a conversation on a sheet of paper and waved it at young Derry Willard. It was a short conversation. But it was written very tall.

“Phertalizer!” explained Carol.

My father made a little laugh. “In all my experience with horticulture,” he said, “I know of no fertilizer for a Christmas tree that equals a judicious application of nickels, dimes, and quarters–well stirred in.”

“Our uncle Charlie was here once for Thanksgiving,” I cried. “He stirred in a twenty-dollar gold piece. Our Christmas tree bloomed everything that year! It bloomed tinsel pompons on every branch! And gold-ribbon bow-knots! It bloomed a blackboard for Carol! And an ice-cream freezer for mother! And—-“

“And then we take the tree,” explained my mother, “and carry it into the parlor. And shut the door.”

“And lock the door,” said my father.

“And no one ever sees,” puzzled young Derry Willard, “what was written in the wishes?”

“No one,” I said.

Rosalee laughed.

“Some one–must see,” said Rosalee. “‘Cause just about a week before Christmas father and mother always go up to town and—-“

“Oh, of course mother has to see!” I admitted. “Mother is such friends with Christmas!”

“And father,” laughed Rosalee, “is such friends with mother!”

“Usually,” I said.

“Eh?” said father.

“And then,” explained mother, “on Christmas morning we all go to the parlor!”

“And there’s a fire in the parlor!” I explained. “A great hollow Yule log all stuffed full of crackly pine-cones and sputtering sparkers and funny-colored blazes that father buys at a fireworks shop! And the candles are lighted! And–and—-“

“And all the tin-foil buds have bloomed into presents!” laughed Derry Willard.

“Oh, no, of course–not all of them,” said mother.

“No tree ever fulfills every bud,” said my father.

“There’s Carol’s camel, of course,” laughed Rosalee. “Ever since Carol was big enough to wish, he’s always wished for a camel!”

“But mostly, of course,” I insisted, “he wishes for kites! He got nine kites last Christmas.”

“Kites?” murmured young Derry Willard.

“Kites!” I said. “I have to talk a good deal. Once always for myself. And all over again for Carol.” It seemed a good time to talk for Carol. Perhaps a person who came all the way from Cuba could tell us the thing we wanted to know. “Oh, Carol’s very much interested in kites!” I confided. “And in relationships! In Christmas relationships especially! When he grows up he’s going to be some sort of a jenny something–I think it’s an ologist! Or else keep a kite-shop!”

“Yes?” murmured young Derry Willard.

There are two ways I’ve noticed to make one listen to you. One is to shout. The other is to whisper. I decided to whisper.

“You don’t seem to understand,” I whispered. “It’s Christmas relationships that are worrying Carol and me so! It worries us dreadfully! Oh, of course we understand all about the Little Baby Christ! And the camels! And the wise men! And the frankincense! That’s easy! But who is Santa Claus? Unless–unless–?” It was Carol himself who signaled me to go on. “Unless–he’s the Baby Christ’s grandfather?” I thought Derry Willard looked a little bit startled. Carol’s ears turned bright red. “Oh, of course–we meant on his mother’s side!” I hastened to assure him.

“It is, I admit, a new idea to me,” said young Derry Willard. “But I seem to have gotten several new ideas to-day.”

He looked at mother. Mother’s mouth looked very funny. He looked at father. Father seemed to be sneezing. He looked at Rosalee. They laughed together. His whole face suddenly was very laughing. “And what becomes,” he asked, “of all the Christmas-tree buds that don’t bloom?” It was a funny question. It didn’t have a thing in the world to do with Santa Claus being a grandfather.

“Oh, mother never throws away any of the buds,” laughed Rosalee. “She just keeps them year after year and wires them on all over again.”