When The Door Opened
by
And of course Tomorrow came, as it always does–only to become Today.
Jehosophat didn’t climb on the chair that morning. There was no need of making black marks with his pencil, when that red number, 25, stood out above all the others, so bright in its scarlet splendor.
As a matter of fact, the children never looked at the calendar at all. They were too busy with their stockings. Now, ordinarily; stockings either hang limp on the line or else fit very evenly on smooth little legs. But the three which hung by the fireplace were stiff and queerly shaped, each full of knobs and bumps.
The children rose very early in the morning to get them, and were taking out the oranges, and apples, and tops, and nuts, and raisins, and marbles, and hair-ribbon (for Hepzebiah, of course) and the mouth-organs, tin wagons and candy-canes, when a voice called, “Merry Christmas,” and Mother’s face beamed in the doorway–then Father’s. Soon there was a stamping of feet on the kitchen porch, and the Toyman came in from his milking and called, “Merry Christmas,” too. And he and Mother and Father seemed to get more fun out of those stockings than the children themselves, or as much, which is saying a very great deal.
It was hard to dress properly that morning–and particularly hard to wash behind one’s ears. Jehosophat put on one stocking inside out; Marmaduke his union suit outside in; and one of his shoes was button and the other lace. But they were all covered up, anyway, and Ole Northwind couldn’t nip their flesh, and the Constable couldn’t arrest them, so it was sufficient, I suppose.
How they did it, I don’t know, but they managed to get through breakfast somehow. Then there was a glorious spinning of tops, and playing of mouth-organs, and blowing of trumpets, throughout the morning. Meantime the whole house was fragrant with the smells of cooking turkey, and sweet potatoes, and boiled onions, and chili sauce, and homemade chow chow, and doughnuts, and pumpkin pie, and plum pudding, and pound cake, and caramel cake, and jumbles (all cut in fancy shapes) and–but there, the list is long enough to make any one’s mouth water, and that isn’t fair. Needless to say, the children didn’t try all of the list, though they would have been quite willing, but Mother made rather a good selection for them. Anyway, the smells and tastes of that fine dinner seemed to go very nicely with the wreaths in the window and the bright red berries. But where was the Tree? It had vanished–probably in the parlor.
They couldn’t go in–oh, no–not yet. And after Mother had washed all the thousand and one dishes, helped by Black-eyed Susan–not Black-eyed Susan who lived in the pasture, but the one who lived in the cabin on the canal–she entered the parlor, closing the door very carefully so they couldn’t get even a glimpse of what was inside. It was funny how Mother found time to do all the things she did that day–yes, and all the week and month before it. Her hands, Marmaduke said, were like the magic hands in the “Arabian Nights,” and he was right. At least the Toyman said,–
“You can bet your bottom dollar on that, my son.”
All of which was very strange, when Marmaduke didn’t have any pennies even, in his bank, bottom or top, having spent them on surprises for Mother and all the rest of the folks. Nice surprises they were, too. In fact, it was really nicer planning them out, and getting them with the money he had earned, than dreaming about what he would get himself.
The parlor door was kept carefully locked all that long afternoon. The children tried to play with the things that had come in their stockings, but somehow these didn’t seem as interesting as what they guessed was going on behind the closed door. So they kept their eyes glued there, as Marmaduke’s story-book said, though he thought that was funny, when they hadn’t put any mucilage on them.