Classic Audiobook Collection - Christmas With Lucy Maud Montgomery - A Selection Of Stories by Lucy Maud Montgomery ~ Full Audiobook [family]

Episode Date: August 3, 2023

Christmas With Lucy Maud Montgomery - A Selection Of Stories by Lucy Maud Montgomery audiobook. Genre: family Christmas With Lucy Maud Montgomery - A Selection Of Stories gathers a sparkling handful of the beloved Canadian author s seasonal tales into one cozy listening experience. Set against snow-softened lanes, lamplit parlors, and windswept island shores, these stories follow ordinary people at a moment when the year feels both hardest and most hopeful. Montgomery introduces spirited young women hungry for independence, children determined to create magic on a tight budget, neighbors drawn together by storms and circumstance, and families learning what it really means to welcome someone home. Across shifting points of view and settings, the collection blends gentle humor with tender poignancy, capturing the bustle of preparations, the ache of old regrets, and the sudden grace of unexpected kindness. While each story stands alone, together they form a portrait of community life where small choices carry big emotional weight. With Montgomery s hallmark lyricism and clear-eyed warmth, these Christmas narratives explore generosity, belonging, faith in second chances, and the quiet courage it takes to keep your heart open in winter. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:19:31) Chapter 02 (00:40:44) Chapter 03 (00:56:49) Chapter 04 (01:03:57) Chapter 05 (01:22:56) Chapter 06 (01:36:14) Chapter 07 (01:50:08) Chapter 08 (02:08:32) Chapter 09 (02:24:32) Chapter 10 (02:42:16) Chapter 11 (02:56:14) Chapter 12 (03:13:34) Chapter 13 (03:24:42) Chapter 14 (03:36:14) Chapter 15 (03:52:51) Chapter 16 (04:09:55) Chapter 17 (04:22:47) Chapter 18 (04:35:34) Chapter 19 (04:57:28) Chapter 20 (05:06:38) Chapter 21 (05:15:31) Chapter 22 (05:29:45) Chapter 23 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Story 1. The Christmas Harp Great was the excitement in the houses of King as Christmas drew nigh. The air was simply charged with secrets. Everybody was very penurious for weeks beforehand, and hordes were counted scrutinizingly every day. Mysterious pieces of handiwork were smuggled in and out of sight, and whispered consultations were held about which nobody thought of being jealous,

as might have happened at any other time. Felicity was in her element, for she and her mother were deep in preparations for the day. Cecily and the Story Girl were excluded from these doings, with indifference on Aunt Janet's part and what seemed ostentatious complacency on Felicities. Cecily took this to heart and complained to me. about it. I'm one of the family, just as much as Felicity is, she said, with as much indignation as Cecily could feel, and I don't think she need shut me out of everything. When I wanted to stone the raisins for the mincemeat, she said, no, she would do it herself,

because Christmas mincemeat is very particular, as if I couldn't stone raisins right. The airs Felicity puts on about her cooking just make me sick, concluded Cecily. wrathfully. It's a pity she doesn't make a mistake in cooking once in a while herself, I said. Then maybe she wouldn't think she knew so much more than other people. All parcels that came in the mail from distant friends were taken charge of by Aunt Janet and Olivia not to be opened until the great day of the feast itself. How slowly the last week passed, but even watched pots will boil in the fullness of time, and finally Christmas Day came. gray and doer and frostbitten without, but full of revelry and rose-red mirth within.

Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia and the Story Girl came over early for the day, and Peter came too with his shining morning face to be hailed with joy, for we had been afraid that Peter would not be able to spend Christmas with us. His mother had wanted him home with her. Of course I ought to go, Peter had told me mournful, but we won't have turkey for dinner because Ma can't afford it, and Ma always cries on holidays because she says they make her think a father. Of course, she can't help it, but it ain't cheerful. Aunt Jane wouldn't have cried.

Aunt Jane used to say she never saw the man who was worth spoiling her eyes for, but I guess I'll have to spend Christmas at home. At the last moment, however, a cousin of Mrs. Craigs in Charlottetown invited her for Christmas, us, and Peter, being given his choice of going or staying, joyfully elected to stay. So we were all together, except Sarah Ray, who had been invited, but whose mother wouldn't let her come. Sarah Ray's mother is a nuisance, snapped the story, girl. She just lives to make that poor child miserable, and she won't let her go to the party

tonight either. It is just breaking Sarah's heart that she can't, said Cecily compassionately. I'm almost afraid I won't enjoy myself for thinking of her home there alone, most likely reading the Bible while we're at the party." She might be worse occupied than reading the Bible, said Felicity rebukingly. But Mrs. Ray makes her read it as a punishment, protested Cecily. Whenever Sarah cries to go anywhere, and of course she'll cry tonight, Mrs. Ray makes her read seven chapters in the Bible.

I wouldn't think that would make her very fond. of it, and I'll not be able to talk the party over with Sarah afterwards, and that's half the fun gone. You can tell her all about it, comforted Felix. Telling isn't a bit like talking it over, retorted Cecily. It's too one-sided. We had an exciting time opening our presence. Some of us had more than others, but we all received enough to make us feel comfortably that we were not unduly neglected in the matter. The contents of the box which the story girl's father had sent her from Paris made our eyes stick out. It was full of beautiful things. Among them another red silk dress, not the bright flame-hued tint of her old one, but a rich, dark crimson with the most

distracting flounces and bows and ruffles. And with it were little red satin slippers with gold buckles and heels that made Aunt Janet hold up her hands in horror. Felicity remarked scornfully that she would have thought the story girl would get tired wearing red so much, and even Cecily commented a part to me that she thought when you got so many things all at once you didn't appreciate them as much as when you only got a few. I'd never get tired of red, said the story girl. I just love it. It's so rich and glowing. When I'm Dressed in red, I always feel ever so much cleverer than in any other color. Thoughts just crowd into my brain, one after the other.

Oh, you darling dress, you dear sheeny, red-rosy, glistening, silky thing. She flung it over her shoulder and danced around the kitchen. Don't be silly, Sarah, said Aunt Janet a little stiffly. She was a good soul, that Aunt Janet, and she had a kind loving heart in her ample bosom. but i fancy there were times when she thought it rather hard that the daughter of a roving adventurer as she considered him like blair stanley should disport herself in silk dresses while her own daughters must go clad in gingham and muslin for those were the days when a feminine creature got one silk dress in her lifetime and seldom more than one the story girl also got a present from the awkward man a little shes waddy, worn volume, with a great many marks on the leaves. Why, it isn't new.

It's an old book, exclaimed Felicity. I didn't think the awkward man was mean, whatever else he was. Oh, you don't understand, Felicity, said the story girl patiently, and I don't suppose I can make you understand, but I'll try. I'd ten times rather have this than a new book. It's one of his own, don't you see? one that he has read a hundred times and loved and made a friend of. A new book, just out of a shop, wouldn't be the same thing at all.

It wouldn't mean anything. I consider it a great compliment that he has given me this book. I'm prouder of it than of anything else I've got. Well, you're welcome to it, said Felicity. I don't understand and I don't want to. I wouldn't give anybody a Christmas present that wasn't new, and I wouldn't thank anybody who gave me one. Peter was in the seventh heaven because Felicity had given him a present,

and, moreover, one that she had made herself. It was a bookmark of perforated cardboard with a gorgeous red and yellow worsted goblet, worked on it, and below, in green letters, the solemn warning, Touch not the cup! As Peter was not addicted to habits of intemperance, not even to looking on dandelion wine, when it was pale yellow, we did not exactly see why Felicity should have selected such a device.

But Peter was perfectly satisfied, so nobody cast any blight on his happiness by carping criticism. Later on, Felicity told me she had worked a bookmark for him because his father used to drink before he ran away. I thought Peter ought to be warned in time, she said. Even Pat had a ribbon of blue, which he clawed. off and lost half an hour after it was tied on him. Pat did not care for a vain adornment of the body. We had a glorious Christmas dinner, fit for the halls of Lusullis, and ate far more than was good for us, none daring to make us afraid on that one day of the year. And in the evening, oh, rapture and delight, we went to Kitty Mars party. It was a fine December evening,

the sharp air of morning had mellowed until it was as mild as autumn there had been no snow and the long fields sloping down from the homestead were brown and mellow a weird dreamy stillness had fallen on the purple earth the dark fir woods the valley rims the sear meadows nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands to rest knowing that her long wintry slumber was coming upon her at first when the invitation was to be able to rest-and-wintered slumber was coming upon her at first when the invitation to the party had come, Aunt Janet had said we could not go, but Uncle Alec interceded in our favor, perhaps influenced there too, by Cecily's wistful eyes. If Uncle Alec had a favorite among his children, it was Cecily, and he had grown even more indulgent towards her of late. Now and then I saw him looking at her intently, and following his eyes and thought, I had somehow seen that Cecily was paler and thinner, than she had been in the summer, and that her soft eyes seemed larger, and that over her little

face in moments of repose there was a certain languor and weariness that made it very sweet and pathetic, and I heard him tell Aunt Janet that he did not like to see the child getting so much the look of her Aunt Felicity. "'Cessaly is perfectly well,' said Aunt Janet sharply. "'She's only growing very fast. Don't be foolish, Alec.' but after that cecily had cups of cream where the rest of us got only milk and aunt janet was very particular to see that she had her rubbers on whenever she went out on this merry christmas evening however no fears or dim foreshadowings of any coming event clouded our hearts or faces cecily looked brighter and prettier than i had ever seen her with her soft shining eyes and the nut-brown gloss of her hair felicity's

was too beautiful for words, and even the story girl, between excitement and the crimson silk array, blossomed out with a charm and allurement more potent than any regular loveliness, and this, in spite of the fact that Aunt Olivia had tabooed the red satin slippers, and mercilessly decreed that stout shoes should be worn. I know just how you feel about it, you daughter of Eve, she said, with gay sympathy, But December roads are damp, and if you're going to walk to Mars, you are not going to do it in those frivolous Parisian concoctions, even with overboots on. So be brave, dear heart, and show that you have a soul above little red satin shoes. Anyhow, said Uncle Roger, that red silk dress will break the hearts of all the feminine small fry at the party.

You'd break their spirits, too, if you wore the slippers. Don't do it, Sarah. Leave them one wee loophole of enjoyment. What does Uncle Roger mean? whispered Felicity. He means you girls are all dying of jealousy because of the story girl's dress, said Dan. I am not of a jealous disposition, said Felicity loftily, and she's entirely welcome to the dress with a complexion like that. But we enjoyed that party hugely, every one of us, and we enjoyed the walk home afterwards.

through dim, in-shadowed fields, where silvery starbeams lay, while Orion trod his stately march above us, and a red moon climbed up the Black Horizons rim. A brook went with us part of the way, singing to us through the dark, a gay, irresponsible vagabond of valley and wilderness. Felicity and Peter walked not with us. Peter's Cup must surely have brimmed over that Christmas night. When we left the Mar-house, he had boldly said to Felicity, May I see you home?

And Felicity, much to our amazement, had taken his arm and marched off with him. The primness of her was indescribable, and was not at all ruffled by Dan's hoot of derision. As for me, I was consumed by a secret and burning desire to ask the story girl if I might see her home, but I could not screw my courage to the sticking point. how i envied peter his easy insusient manner i could not emulate him so dan and felix and cecily and the story girl and i all walked hand in hand huddling a little closer together as we went through james fruens woods for there are sharp harps in a fir grove and who shall say what fingers sweep them mighty and sonorous was the music above our heads as the winds of the night stirred the great boughs tossing athwart the starlit sky. Perhaps it was that Aeolian harmony,

which recalled to the story girl, a legend of elder days. I read such a pretty story in one of Aunt Olivia's books last night, she said. It was called the Christmas harp. Would you like to hear it? It seems to me it would just sue to this part of the road. There isn't anything about ghosts in it,

is there? said Cecily timidly. Oh, no, I wouldn't tell a ghost story. here for anything. I'd frighten myself too much. This story is about one of the shepherds who saw the angels on the first Christmas night. He was just a youth and he loved music with all his heart and he longed to be able to express the melody that was in his soul. But he could not. He had a harp and he often tried to play on it, but his clumsy fingers only made such discord that his companions laughed at him and mocked him and called him a madman because he would not

give it up, but would rather sit apart by himself with his arms about his heart, looking up into the sky, while they gathered around their fire and told tales to while while away their long night vigils as they watched their sheep on the hills. But to him the thoughts that came out of the great silence were far sweeter than their mirth, and he never gave up the hope which sometimes left his lips as a prayer, that some day he might be able to express those thoughts in music to the tired, weary, forgetful world. On the first Christmas night he was out with his fellow shepherds on the hills. It was chill and dark, and all except him, were glad together round the fire. He sat, as usual, by himself,

with his harp on his knee, and a great longing in his heart. And there came a marvelous light in the sky and over the hills, as if the darkness of the night had seen, suddenly blossomed into a wonderful meadow of flowery flame, and all the shepherds saw the angels and heard them sing. And as they sang, the harp that the young shepherd held began to play softly by itself. And as he listened to it, he realized that it was playing the same music that the angels sang, and that all his secret longings and aspirations and strivings were expressed in it. From that night, whenever he took the harp in his hands, it played the same music, and he wandered all over the world carrying it. Wherever the sound of its music was heard,

hate and discord fled away, and peace and goodwill reigned. No one who heard it could think an evil thought. No one could feel hopeless or despairing, or bitter, or angry. When a man had once heard that music, it entered into his soul and heart and life, and became a part of him forever. Years went by, the shepherd grew old and bent and feeble, but still he roamed over land and sea that his harp might carry the message of the Christmas night and the angel song to all mankind. At last his strength failed him, and he fell by the wayside in the darkness, But his harp played as his spirit passed, and it seemed to him that a shining one stood by him with wonderful starry eyes, and said to him, lo, the music thy harp has played for so many years, has been but the echo of the love and sympathy and purity and beauty in thine own soul.

And if at any time in the wanderings thou hadst opened the door of that soul to evil or envy or selfishness, thy harp would have ceased to play. Now thy life is ended, but what thou hast given to mankind has no end, and as long as the world lasts, so long will the heavenly music of the Christmas harp ring in the ears of men. When the sun rose, the old shepherd lay dead by the roadside with a smile on his face, and in his hands was a harp with all its strings broken. We left the fir woods as the tale was ended, and on the opposite hill was home. A dim light in the kitchen window betokened that Aunt Janet had no idea going to bed until all her young fry were safely housed for the night.

"'Maws waiting up for us,' said Dan. "'I'd laugh if she happened to go to the door just as Felicity and Peter were strutting up. I guess she'd be crossed. It's nearly twelve.' "'Christmas will soon be over,' said Cecily, with a sigh. hasn't it been a nice one it's the first we've all spent together do you suppose we'll ever spend another together lots of em said dan cheerily why not oh i don't know answered cecily her footsteps lagging somewhat only things seemed just a little too pleasant to last if willie fraser had had as much smunk as peter miss cecily king mightn't be so low-spirited quoth dan signet significantly. Cecily tossed her head and disdained reply. There are really some remarks a self-respecting young lady must ignore. End of Story 1. Story 2 of a Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection

of stories. This liverbox recording is in the public domain. Story 2, New Year Resolutions. If we did not have a white Christmas, we had a white Christmas. We had a quite new year. Midway between the two came heavy snowfall. It was winter in our orchard of old delights then, so truly winter that it was hard to believe summer had ever dwelt in it, or that spring would ever return to it. There were no birds to sing the music of the moon, and the path where the apple blossoms had fallen were heaped with less fragrant drifts. But it was a place of wonder on a moonlit night when the snowy arcades shone like avenues of ivory and crystal, and the bare trees cast fairy-like traceries upon them. Over Uncle

Stephen's walk, where the snow had fallen smoothly, a spell of white magic had been woven. Taintless and wonderful it seemed like a street of pearl in the New Jerusalem. On New Year's Eve, we were all together in Uncle Alex's kitchen, which was tacitly given over to our revels during the winter evenings. The Story Girl and Peter were there, of course, and Sarah Ray's mother had allowed her to come up on condition that she should be home by 8 Sharp. Cessaly was glad to see her, but the boys never hailed her arrival with overmuch delight, because, since the dark began to come down early, Aunt Janet always made one of us walk down home with her. We hated this because Sarah Ray was always so maddeningly self-conscious of having an escort.

We knew perfectly well that next day in school she would tell her chums as a dead secret that so-and-so kings saw her home from the hill farm the night before. Now, seeing a young lady home from choice and being sent home with her by your aunt or mother are two entirely different things, and we thought Sarah Ray ought to have sense enough to know it. Outside there was a vivid rose of sunset behind the cold hills of fir, and the long reaches of snowy fields glowed fairly pink in the western light. The drifts along the edges of the meadows and down the lane looked as if a series of breaking waves had by the lifting of a magician's wand been suddenly transformed into marble, even to their toppling curls of foam. Slowly the splendor died, giving place to the mystic beauty of a winter twilight when the moon is rising.

The hollow sky was a cup of blue. The stars came out over the white glens, and the earth was covered with a kingly carpet for the feet of the young year to press. I'm so glad the snow came, said the sorry, girl. If it hadn't, the new year would have seemed just as dingy and worn out as the old. There's something very solemn about the idea of a new year, isn't there? Just think of 365 whole days with not a thing happened in them yet. I don't suppose anything very wonderful. will happen in them, said Felix pessimistically. To Felix just then, life was flat,

stale, and unprofitable, because it was his turn to go home with Sarah Ray. It makes me a little frightened to think of all that may happen in them, said Cecily. Miss Marwood says it is what we put into a year, not what we get out of it, that counts at last. I'm always glad to see a new year, said the story, girl. I wish we could do as they do in Norway, the whole family sits up until midnight, and then, just as the clock is striking twelve, the father opens the door and welcomes the new year in. Isn't it a pretty custom? If Ma would let us stay up till twelve, we might do that, too, said Dan, but she never will. I call it mean. If I ever have children, I'll let them stay up to watch the new year in,

said the story girl decidedly. So will I, said Peter, but other nights they'll have to go to bed at You ought to be ashamed, speaking of such things, said Felicity, with a scandalized face. Peter shrank into the background, abashed, no doubt believing that he had broken some family guide precept all to pieces. I didn't know it wasn't proper to mention children, he muttered apologetically. We ought to make some New Year resolutions, suggested the story, Girl. New Year's Eve is the time to make them. I can't think of any resolutions I want to make, said Felicity, who was perfectly satisfied with herself. Well, I could suggest a few to you, said Dan sarcastically.

There are so many I would like to make, said Sicily, that I'm afraid it wouldn't be any use trying to keep them all. Well, let's make a few, just for the fun of it, and see if we can keep them, I said. And let's get paper and ink and write them out. That will make them seem more solemn and binding. And then pin them up in our bedroom walls, where we'll see them. see them every day, suggested the story girl, and every time we break a resolution, we must put a cross opposite. That will show us what progress we are making, as well as make us ashamed if we have

too many crosses. And let's have a role of honor in our magazine, suggested Felix, and every month we'll publish the names of those who keep their resolutions perfect. I think it's all nonsense, said Felicity, but she joined our circle around the table. though she sat for a long time with a blank sheet before her. Let's each make a resolution in turn, I said. I'll lead off. And recalling with shame certain unpleasant differences of opinion I had lately had with Felicity,

I wrote down in my best hand, I shall try to keep my temper always. You'd better, said Felicity tactfully. It was Dan's turn next. I can't think of anything to start. with, he said, gnawing his pin-holder fiercely. You might make a resolution not to eat poison berries, suggested Felicity. You'd better make one not to nag people everlastingly, retorted Dan.

Oh, don't quarrel the last night of the old year, implored Cecily. You might resolve not to quarrel any time, suggested Sarah Ray. No, sir, said Dan emphatically. There's no use making a resolution you can't keep. There are people in this family you just got to quarrel with if you want to live. But I thought of one. I won't do things to spite people. Felicity, who really was in an unbearable mood that night, laughed disagreeably.

But Cecily gave her a fierce nudge, which probably restrained her from speaking. I will not eat any apples, wrote Felix. What on earth do you want to give up eating apples for? asked Peter in astonishment. "'Never mind,' returned Felix. "'Apples make people fat, you know,' said Felicity sweetly. "'It seems a funny kind of resolution,' I said doubtfully. "'I think our resolutions ought to be giving up wrong things or doing right things.'

"'You make your resolutions to suit yourself, and I'll make mine to suit myself,' said Felix defiantly. "'I shall never get drunk,' wrote Peter Payne's takingly. "'But you never do,' said the story. girl in astonishment. Well, it will be all the easier to keep the resolution, argued Peter. That isn't fair, complained Dan. If we all resolved not to do the things we never do, we'd all be on the role of honor. You let Peter alone, said Felicity severely. It's a very good resolution, and one everybody ought to make. I shall not be jealous, wrote the story,

girl. But are you, I asked surprised. The story. story girl colored and nodded. Of one thing, she confessed, but I'm not going to tell what it is. I'm jealous sometimes, too, confessed Sarah Ray, and so my first resolution will be, I shall try not to feel jealous when I hear the other girls in school describing all the sick spells they've had. Goodness, do you want to be sick? demanded Felix in astonishment.

It makes a person important, replied Sarah Ray. I am going to try to improve my mind by reading good books and listening to older people, wrote Cecily. You got that out of the Sunday school paper, cried Felicity. It doesn't matter where I got it, said Cecily with dignity. The main thing is to keep it. It's your turn, Felicity. Felicity tossed her beautiful golden head.

I told you I wasn't going to make any resolutions. Go on yourself. I shall always study my grammar lesson. I wrote, I who loathed grammar with a deadly loathing. I hate grammar too, sighed Sarah Ray. It seems so unimportant. Sarah was rather fond of a big word, but did not always get hold of the right one. I rather suspected that in the above instance she really meant uninteresting.

I won't get mad at Felicity if I can help it, wrote Dan. I'm sure I never do anything to make you mad, exclaimed Felicity. "'I don't think it's polite to make resolutions about your sisters,' said Peter. "'He can't keep it anyway,' scoffed Felicity. He's got such an awful temper. "'It's a family failing,' flashed Dan. Breaking his resolution, ere the ink on it was dry. "'There you go,' taunted Felicity.

"'I'll work all my arithmetic problems without any help,' scribbled Felix. "'I wish I could resolve that, too,' sighed Sarah Ray, but it wouldn't be any use. I'd never be able to do those compound multiplication sums the teacher gives us to do at home every night if I didn't get Judy Pinot to help me. Judy isn't a good reader and she can't spell at all, but you can't stick her in arithmetic as far as she went herself.

I feel sure, concluded poor Sarah, in a hopeless tone, that I'll never be able to understand compound multiplication. multiplication is vexation division is as bad the rule of three perplexes me and fractions drive me mad quoted dan i haven't got as far as fractions yet sighed sarah and i hope i'll be too big to go to school before i do i hate arithmetic but i am passionately fond of geography i will not play tit-tat x on the fly leaves of my hymn-book in church wrote peter "'Mercy! Did you ever do such a thing?' exclaimed Felicity in horror. Peter nodded shamefacedly. "'Yes, that Sunday Mr. Bailey preached. "'He was so long-winded. I got awful tired,

"'and anyway he was talking about things I couldn't understand. "'So I played Tit-Tat X with one of the Markdale boys. "'It was the day I was sitting up in the gallery. "'Well, I hope if you ever do the like again, "'you won't do it in our pew,' said Phil. Felicity severely. I ain't going to do it at all, said Peter. I felt sort of mean all the rest of the day.

I shall try not to be vexed when people interrupt me when I'm telling stories, wrote the story girl. But it will be hard, she added with a sigh. Ah, never mind being interrupted, said Felicity. I shall try to be cheerful and smiling all the time, wrote Cecily. You are anyway, said Sarah Ray loyally. I don't believe we ought to be cheerful. all the time said the story girl the bible says we ought to weep with those who weep but maybe

it means that we're to weep cheerfully suggested cecily sorter as if you were thinking i'm very sorry for you but i'm mighty glad i'm not in the scrape too said dan dan don't be irreverent rebuked felicity i know a story about old mr mrs davidson of markdale said the story girl she was always smiling and it used to aggravate her husband. So one day he said very crossly, old lady, what are you grinning at? Oh, well, Iberum, everything's so bright and pleasant. I've just got to smile. Not long after, there came a time when everything went wrong. The crop failed and their best cow died, and Mrs. Davidson had rheumatism, and finally Mr. Davidson fell and broke his leg. But still, Mrs. Davidson smiled. What in the dick?

are you grinning about now, old lady, he demanded. Oh, well, Abiram, she said, everything is so dark and unpleasant, I've just got to smile. Well, said the old man crossly, I think you might give your face a rest sometimes. I shall not gossip, wrote Sarah Ray with a satisfied air. Oh, don't you think that's a little too strict? Asked Cecily anxiously.

Of course, it's not right to talk mean gossip, but the harmless kind doesn't hurt. If I say to you that Emmy McPhail is going to get a new fur collar this winter, that is harmless gossip. But if I say I don't see how Emmy McPhail can afford a new fur collar when her father can't pay my father for the oats he bought from him, that would be mean gossip. If I were you, Sarah, I'd put mean gossip.

Sarah consented to this amendment. I will be polite to everybody, was my third resolution, which passed without comment. I'll try not to use slang since Cecily doesn't like it, wrote Dan. I think some slang is real cute, said Felicity. The family guide says it's very vulgar, grinned Dan. Doesn't it, Sarah Stanley? Don't disturb me, said the story girl dreamily.

I'm just thinking a beautiful thought. I've thought of a resolution to make, cried Felicity. Mr. Marwood said last Sunday we should always try to think beautiful thoughts, and then our lives would be very beautiful. So I shall resolve to think a beautiful thought every morning before breakfast. Can you only manage one a day? queried Dan. And why before breakfast? I asked. Because it's easier to think on an empty stomach, said Peter, in all good faith. But Felicity shot a furious glance at him. I selected that time, she explained with dignity, because when I'm brushing my hair before my glass in the morning, I'll see my resolution and remember it. Mr. Marwood meant that all our

thoughts ought to be beautiful, said the story, girl. If they were, people wouldn't be afraid to say what they think. They oughtn't to be afraid to anyhow, said Felix stoutly. I'm going to make a resolution to say just what I think always. And do you expect to get through the year alive if you do asked Dan it might be easy enough to say what you think if you could always be sure just what you do think said the story girl so often I can't be sure how would you like it if people always said just what they think to you asked Felicity I'm not very particular what some people think of me rejoined Felix I notice you don't like to be told by anyone that you're fat retorted Felicity

Oh, dear me, I do wish you wouldn't all say such sarcastic things to each other, said poor Cecily, plaintively. It sounds so horrid the last night of the old year. Dear knows where we'll all be this night next year. Peter, it's your turn. I will try, wrote Peter, to say my prayers every night, regular, and not twice one night because I don't expect to have time the next, like I did the night before the party, he added. I suppose you never said your prayers until you got to go to church, said Felicity, who had had no hand in inducing Peter to go to church,

but had stoutly opposed it, as recorded in the first volume of our family history. I did, too, said to Peter. Aunt Jane taught me to say my prayers. Ma hadn't time, being as father had run away. Ma had to wash at night, same as in daytime. I shall learn to cook, wrote the story. girl frowning. You'd better resolve not to make puddings of began Felicity, then stopped as suddenly as if she had bitten off the rest of her sentence and swallowed it.

Cecily had nudged her, so she had probably remembered the story girl's threat that she would never tell another story if she was ever twitted with the pudding she had made from sawdust. But we all knew what Felicity had started to say, and the story girl dealt her a most un-cousinly glance. I will not cry because mother won't starch my aprons, wrote Sarah Ray. Better resolve not to cry about anything, said Dan kindly. Sarah Ray shook her head forlornly.

That would be too hard to keep. There are times when I have to cry. It's a relief. Not to the folks who have to hear you, muttered Dan, aside to Cecily. Oh, hush, whispered Cecily back. Don't go and hurt her feelings the last night of the old year. Is it my turn again? Well, I'll resolve not to worry because my hair is not curly. But, oh, I'll never be able to help wishing it was. Why don't you curl it as you used to do,

then? asked Dan. You know very well that I've never put my hair up in curl paper since the time Peter was dying of the measles, said that Cecily reproachfully. I resolved then I wouldn't, because I wasn't sure it was quite right. I will keep my fingernails neat and clean, I wrote. there, that's four resolutions. I'm not going to make any more. Four's enough. I shall always think twice before I speak, wrote Felix. That's an awful waste of time, commented Dan, but I guess you'll need to if you're always going to say what you think. I'm going to stop with three, said Peter. I will have all the good times I can, wrote the story, girl. That's what I call sensible, said Dan. It's a very easy resolution to keep anyhow,

commented Felix. I shall try to like reading the Bible, wrote Sarah Ray. You ought to like reading the Bible without trying to, exclaimed Felicity. If you had to read seven chapters of it every time you were naughty, I don't believe you would like it either, retorted Sarah Ray with the flash of spirit. I shall try to believe only half of what I hear, was Cecily's concluding resolution. But which half, scoffed Dan? The best half, said sweet Cecily simply. I'll try to obey Mother always, wrote Sarah Ray with a tremendous sigh,

as if she fully realized the difficulty of keeping such a resolution. And that's all I'm going to make. Felicity has only made one, said the story, girl. I think it better to make just one and keep it, then make a lot and break them, said Felicity loftily. She had the last word on the subject, for it was time for Sarah Ray to go, and our circle broke up. Sarah and Felix departed, and we watched them down the lane in the moonlight, Sarah walking demurely in one runner track, and Felix stalking grimly along in the other.

I fear the romantic beauty of that silver-shining night was entirely thrown away on my misanthropic brother. And it was, as I remember it, a most exquisite night, a white poem, a frosty, starry lyric of light. It was one of those nights on which one might fall asleep and dream happy dreams of gardens of mirth and song, feeling all the while through one's sleep the soft splendor and radiance of the white moon world outside, as one hears soft, far-away music sounding through the thoughts and words that are born of it. As a matter of fact, however, Cessaly dreamed that night that she saw three full moons in the sky

and wakened up crying with the horror of it. End of Story 2. Story 3 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories, this Libervox recording is in the public domain. Story 3, Ted's double, a Christmas falling. when morris stanley came east and ted stanley met him at the gate both boys looked at each other for a moment in a somewhat bewildered way if you're not me myself you must be my cousin morris from the wild and woolly west said ted with a hearty handshake welcome to chestnut hill old fellow when i first got a glimpse of you said morris with a smile i thought i'd come on ahead of myself and got here first in fact the resemblance because of you said morris with a smile i thought i'd come on ahead of myself and got here first in fact the resemblance

the two boys was wonderful. They were the same in age, height, and general build. Their features were similar, and both had curly reddish hair, clear, blue-gray eyes, and a healthy coloring. To be sure, when they were together, a close observer could easily have detected some difference. Morris had a graver more thoughtful expression than had rollicking Ted, and was quieter in his manner, though as fond of fun and jokes as a boy could be. this was his first visit east and the first occasion of his meeting with a host of uncles and aunts cousins and second cousins morris had never spent so delightful a vacation the prairie farm where he had lived all his life was so big a one and surrounded by so many still bigger ones that neighbors were few and far away so morris revelled in his host of eastern cousins and the comradeship he had always craved one day when he had been at chestnut hill about six weeks, he found Ted rummaging over a huge pile of books in his den.

Said den being a corner of the big garret where Ted kept all his household gods and sojourned on rainy days. Both boys were very fond of the den. It was such a jolly old place, as untidy as they pleased, where nobody ever disturbed them or their traps, up under the eaves, with one small window looking out over the uplands of chestnut. But this particular day was a sunny one, and the sight of unstudious dead, up to his ears and books in the middle of vacation, was one for which Morris was unprepared. Has anything serious happened, he queried solemnly? You'd think so to look at me, wouldn't you?

Grinned Ted. Well, something serious has happened, to be sure, but it has nothing to do with my present uncanny fit of bookishness. It simply occurred to me that the space taken up in this corner by all these books, whew, aren't they dusty shade of Mary Jane? Would be much better filled by my collection of birds' eggs, so I am patiently weeding them out.

All that I shall need for college in the fall must be left, and the rest I shall dump into the rag-room. You're a lucky chap, Ted, said Morris with a sigh. Because I'm going to college, queried Ted, blowing the dust from a venerable Julius Caesar. Well, it is jolly. Wish you could come, too. Think there's no chance of it?

Morris shook his head. Not a shadow of it. No use in talking about it, Ted. It only makes me grim. In the brief silence that followed, Ted sorted out some ill-used English classics, and Morris ruminated gloomily. To go to college was his greatest desire,

but he knew it could not be granted. the crops had failed for three years on the prairie farm. Morris knew that when he went home in the fall, he was to take a position as clerk in one of the big department stores in the nearest city, and he hated the prospect sturdily, even while he congratulated himself on being able to get it and so lighten his father's burden somewhat. What is the serious thing that has happened?

He asked at last, recalling that part of Ted's speech. I've had a letter from great Aunt Deborah inviting me to tea with her at her residence at Rexford on Christmas Day. I don't see anything dreadful in that. Enviable blindness. You don't know, great Aunt Deborah. I'd rather be invited up to sup with the king of the Cannibal Islands. Besides, Christmas morning is the day of the ice hockey game at Moorland, and I've been looking forward to it for weeks.

Well, don't go to your great Aunt Deborah's then. suggested morris my son you do not appear to realize that great aunt deborah's invitations are like unto royalties they are commands and must be obeyed under penalty of her eternal displeasure but don't say your great aunt deborah in a tone which implies that i have a monopoly on great aunts she is your great aunt as well as mine mistress deborah stanley is how is it that i've never seen her then asked Morris, I thought I had met all my relatives to the third and fourth generation of late. There is a bit of family history involved in the answer to that. Great Aunt Deborah knows you are here, but she doesn't like you because you are the son of your father. Did you ever hear Uncle Chester speak of his Aunt Deborah? Not that I remember. Well, when your father and mine were boys, your father was great Aunt Deborah's favorite nephew.

She was always very eccentric, father says, but Uncle Chester got along with her beautifully. She intended to make him her heir. She's worth a pot of money, you know. Well, when your father married, it made her very angry. She wanted him to marry someone else, the daughter of the man she had once expected to marry herself, I believe. They had a bitter quarrel, and it ended in great Aunt Deborah's forbidding your father ever to speak to her or cross her threshold again. He took her at her word.

Father says that is really what she has never forgiven him for, and went out west. She had never allowed his name to be spoken in her hearing since. Very vindictive lady, oh, great Aunt Deborah. She always been rather fond of me. Father says it is because I'm so like what your father was. When we met, she used to pat me on the head and give me peppermints. I haven't seen her for two years. She'll think I've grown a bit. Christmas happens to be her

birthday, too. I shall have to go, of course, father insists on it, and I shall miss the hockey game. Ted fired a harmless virgil across the den and scowled. At the same moment he saw himself and Morris reflected in the long cracked mirror, which hung at the other end of the garret. Christopher Columbus, he said. Morris Stanley, hearken unto me and lend me your ears. If you have a proper cousinly regard for me, I shall be able to eat my cake and have it too. I shall go to the game at Morland, and you shall go to tea with great Aunt Deborah at Rexford. But she hasn't invited me, and doesn't want me, objected Morris. Morris, my friend, you are singularly lacking in quickness of comprehension. You will go,

not as Morris Stanley, but as Theodore Stanley, to wit, myself. Great Aunt Deborah will never know the difference. No more will anybody else. I always knew we didn't look so much alike for nothing. Morris stared and then went off in a shout of laughter, but Ted, oh, I can't do that, I'd be discovered. And besides, no, you wouldn't. Now, don't refuse to help a fellow out, Morris.

I'd do as much for you. You don't care about the game. and I do, and no harm can be done. At first, Morris protested, but Ted eagerly overruled all his objections, and in the end he consented. The spice of mischief in the plan commended it to him. Besides, he was conscious of a curiosity to see great Aunt Deborah. I'll go, he said, but if Great Aunt Deborah discovers that I am a rank imposter and takes some fearful and summary vengeance, I trust you to break the news gently to my parents. On Saturday afternoon, Morris and Ted both set off.

At the crossroads they parted and Ted trudged down the hills to Moreland, while Morris steadily footed his way to Rexford. He did not feel altogether comfortable, but it was too late to back out now. Mrs. Deborah Stanley lived in an old-fashioned but picturesque house on the outskirts of Rexford. Morris admired the beautiful grounds as he walked up the serpentine drive under the chestnuts. He felt rather nervous, but his love of mischief bubbled up within him and primed him for the ordeal. It also lent an added sparkle to his eyes as he went up the steps. Great Aunt Deborah met him at the door.

I am glad to see you, Theodore, she said, with a kindly handshake. And I am glad to see you, Aunt Deborah, said Morris, sincerely. enough and to wish you many happy returns of the day the appearance of his great aunt was a surprise to morris who had somehow imbibed from ted an impression very different from the reality true she had as ted had warned him eyes like a hawk so keen and piercing that morris trembled for the success of his ruse but they were dark handsome eyes as well she was richly dressed and had a great deal of snow-white hair arranged in puffs so carefully as to be token that great Aunt Deborah had a pet vanity yet. Altogether, Morris liked her looks, as he would have said. He was taken into a big, gloomy room full of quaint old furniture, and here they talked for an hour.

Morris talked well, even under the handicap of talking as if he were Ted. He was not free from an unpleasant dread that he might inadvertently say something that would give him away, and several of great Aunt Deborah's questions were rather hard to answer. As he told Ted afterwards, I had to take some liberties with your imagination. But on the whole he got on very cleverly, although he felt the reverse of comfortable. If only Great Aunt Deborah were not so kind, if she had been cranky and crotchety, as he had expected, the joke would have had a much better flavor. His bad quarter of an hour came after tea when great Aunt Deborah said abruptly,

You have a cousin staying with you, I hear, Chester Stanley's son. What sort of a boy is he? Morris blushed so hotly that he felt thankful to the gloom. He's a, he's rather a jolly chap, he answered confused. A good deal like me, they say. You are very like what his father was at your age, said Great Aunt. Deborah, half sharply, half tenderly. He was my favorite nephew until he disobeyed me. Well, Theodore, I am glad I have seen you this afternoon. You have improved a great deal. As for this

cousin of yours, what does he intend to make of himself? Is he clever? Does he intend to go to college? I can hardly say, stammered Morris. No, I don't think he's going to college. He would like to, but, well, I don't think he's going. Can't afford it, I suppose. Chester Stanley is poor, said great Aunt Deborah, with a certain jarring note of satisfaction in her voice. But this is not to my purpose. It is of yourself, I wish to speak, Theodore. I have something to give you. She went to an old desk in the corner and took out two cases, one brand new, the other somewhat old-fashioned. Sitting down by Morris, she said, I'm going to give you this. I'm going to give you this. in remembrance of your visit and my birthday. It is very good of you to give up your other plans

and spend the afternoon with me. After this, you must come oftener. Here is your present, Theodore. It was a beautiful gold watch with Ted's monogram on the back. Morris took it foolishly. If floors ever did open to swallow up boys, he wished the one he was on would do so then. Oh, thank you, Aunt Deborah, he stammered. But great Aunt Deborah, did not notice his embarrassment. She was fumbling with the stiff catch of the other case, which, on being opened, revealed another watch of very elaborate, although old-fashioned, design and ornamentation. This watch, she said, I had made twenty years ago for your uncle Chester. When he disregarded my wishes, I did not give it to him. It is as good as ever for all

practical purposes. Take it to your cousin, Morris Stanley, with his great Aunt Deborah's love. She held it out to Morris, but instead of taking it, he stood up suddenly with a very grave, determined face. I can't take that watch, Aunt Deborah, he said quietly. I'm not Ted. I am Morris. I, Ted wanted to go to the game at Moreland today, so I agreed to come here in his place. I thought it a good joke at the time. I see now that it was a dishonorable trick. I am very sorry for it, Aunt Deborah. Well, so you should be, Aunt Deborah spoke sharply.

At first she had looked amazed, then angry. But now her keen old eyes were twinkling. I suppose you thought it was smart to play a trick on an old woman? Oh, no, said to Morris quickly. I never thought of it that way, although I did think it a joke.

Please forgive me. And don't blame Ted. It was mostly my fault. You and Ted are a pair of graceless, scamps, said Aunt Deborah severely, I ought to be very angry with you both. I feel sure Ted put you up to this. But I shall have to forgive you both, I suppose. And you are Chester Stanley's son. You look like him. Well, go home, take your watches and be off. Tell Ted he is to come here next Saturday afternoon and get his scolding. As for you, well, if you care to come back

Any time, I will be glad to see you, Morris. I am an old crank, but even cranks can be amiable at times. Now go. Morris went. He felt rather bewildered. When he got home, he told Ted the whole story. Jerusalem, said the latter. Won't great Aunt Deborah give me a combing down when she sees me?

I suppose I deserve it. She treated you pretty white, anyhow, and those watches are dandies. It is the most astonishing, thing that she wasn't furious at you when you blurted out that confession. Are you going to see her again? Of course I am. I like great Aunt Deborah, said Morris. He did go, not once only, but often. There was no denying that somehow or other Morris had found his way to great Aunt Deborah's

heart, and when he went back west, the departmental clerkship had vanished forever from his horizon. He was to go to college in the fall. Great Aunt Deborah had said so. and her will was law great aunt deborah is a brick said ted when they parted i repent in sackcloth and ashes of anything i ever said to the contrary good-bye till next month old chap won't we waken the old university up though End to Story 3. Story 4 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Liberbox recording is in the public domain.

Story 4, a Christmas of long ago. Hurrah, cried Ted jubilantly. Christmas will be here in a week. I wish it came every month. Christmas will be extra nice this year, because Grandma is with us, said Alice, with a loving glance at the old lady with the silver hair. and bright brown eyes who was knitting by the fire.

Grandma smiled. This will be only the second Christmas of my life that I have spent away from my own home, she said. The first one was sixty years ago, children, when I was a little girl of ten, and went with my three brothers to spend Christmas with our grandfather and grandmother. We had a delightful drive,

but it was a very different Christmas from your Christmas of today. We did not have your dozens of beautiful and expensive presents, nor your wonderful trees and decorations. Still, we thought our Christmas at Grandfathers just about right. Well, tell us about it, pleaded the children, who loved to hear Grandma talk of those far-away years when she was a little girl. When I came here last week, I came on the train, said Grandma, but in those days there were

no railroads near where we lived, and we drove the 30 miles to Grandfathers the day before Christmas. It was cold and frosty, and there was plenty of snow. Mother wrapped us all up warmly in shawls and homespun caps and mufflers, and we did not mind the cold. We went on what was called a wood sleigh, just boards on runners. Father had put some straw on it, and Mother had spread a big rug over it. We all sat close together on this, and when the sloughs or the pitches were very bad, we clung to the upright stakes in the corners or the jingling.

iron chains that connected them. When we got to Grandfathers at Twilight and trooped into the kitchen, such a fire as they had for us. You never see such fires nowadays. There was a big open fireplace taking up most of one end of the room with just snug corners on each side of it. Grandfather had heaped it with great hickory logs, and they were blazing with delightful fierceness, sending a rosy glow out on our faces and lighting up the whole of the old-fashioned room with its low ceiling and long black rafters, from which hung festoons of dried apples and grandmother's assortment of herbs. Grandfather had tacked green boughs all around the room in honor of the season. At home we thought ourselves very modern because we had stoves,

but we loved that splendid fireplace of grandfathers. Such a pleasant evening as we had, all sitting about, uncles, aunts, and cousins, not needing even candlelight. The older folks told stories, and we children listened, open-eyed, while we munched apples and cracked beech-nuts. Our dreams that night were haunted by Indians and bears galore. We did not have Christmas trees then. We had not even heard of them. Before we went to bed, grandmother took our stockings and hung them along the chimney-piece in a dangling row.

We had never hung up our stockings at home, for how could Santa Claus come down a stovepipe and through a stove? But we were sure he could come down that splendid big chimney, easy enough. In the morning our stockings were full when we all came trooping into the kitchen. I don't know what you would have thought of our presents, but we were delighted with them. There was not a bought present among them. All were homemade. I got a pair of red mittens knitted in a fan. fancy pattern, such as Aunt Emily could knit, a scarf of shaded wool in blues knitted in

grandmother's famous checkerboard pattern, a big rag doll dressed in a piece of Aunt Edda's wedding dress, a white muslin apron with six bows on the shoulders, and a bag of homemade candy. I remember there was a sled for each of the boys and one of the elderwood whistles for the making of which a grandfather was celebrated. I believed in Santa Claus wholeheartedly, and I begged Grandfather to tell me if he had shown Santa how to make the whistles. I thought Mrs. Santa Claus must have known the fancy stripe and checkerboard to pattern. The other children went to church with the grown-ups, for there was always service on Christmas mornings then.

I stayed home to help Grandmother with a dinner, for I was the oldest girl. I have never forgotten that big pantry with the stores of good things she had prepared, and the plum pudding cooked a fort not before, and bigger than I had ever thought a plum pudding could be. We sat the table in the kitchen, and as a special privilege I was allowed to place thereon the dishes of the set that had been part of Grandmother's wedding plenishings. They were a handsome dark blue, and not a piece had been broken in 40 years. We did not have any elaborate decorations, not at all indeed, except the two big dishes for, full of red apples polished until they shone. But there was really no room for decorations.

The good things to eat occupied all the available space. What delectable odors filled that big kitchen when the hungry guests came home from church. My brother Ted declared he smelt the roast goose four miles down the road. Everybody had good appetites and did full justice to grandmother's Christmas cheer. We all sat around the table until late in the afternoon,

talking, laughing, and telling stories. Finally, we girls helped grandmother wash the dishes, and then it was time to go home through the crisp waning December afternoon, and Christmas at Grandfathers was over to be talked of and remembered vividly all through the winter. That was the nicest Christmas I ever spent, dearie. Oh, it sounds jolly, said Ted.

I wish we could have Christmases like that now. Grandma smiled. You have just as good. Christmases, although in a different way. You would have thought that celebration very simple and quiet, I am afraid. But remember, dearie, it's the spirit of Christmas that counts. It must be a spirit of goodwill and kindness and joy and love. We must never forget the real meaning of Christmas, never let it be dimmed by any false meanings, and then our Christmases will always be happy and blessed, and long to be remembered, no matter where or how they are

celebrated. That is true, said Alice soberly. We'll all try to make our Christmas the right kind, Grandma. But I do wish we had a big fireplace, said Ted. End of story four. Story five of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This liverbox recording is in the public domain. Story five, Aunt Susanna's Thanksgiving dinner. Here's Aunt Susanna girls, said Laura, who is sitting by the north window. Nothing but North Light does for Laura, who is the artist of our talented family. Each of us has a little pet, new-fledged talent, which we are faithfully cultivating, in the hope that it will amount to something and soar highly some day, but it is difficult to

cultivate four talents on our tiny income. If Laura wasn't such a good manager, we never could do it. Laura's words were a signal for Kate to hang up her violin. and for me to push my pen and portfolio out of sight. Laura had hidden her brushes and watercolors as she spoke. Only Margaret continued to bend serenely over her Latin grammar. Aunt Susanna frowns on musical and literary and artistic ambitions, but she accords a faint approval to Margaret's desire for an education. A college course, with a tangible diploma at the end,

and a sensible pedagogic aspiration, is something Aunt Susanna can. understand when she tries hard. But she cannot understand messing with paints, fiddling, or scribbling, and she has only unmeasured contempt for messers, fiddlers, and scribblers. Time was when we had paid no attention to Aunt Susanna's views on these points, but ever since she had, on one in cautious day when she was in high good-humor, dropped a pale, anemic little hint that she might send Margaret to college if she were a good girl. We had been bending all our energies towards securing Aunt Susanna's approval.

It was not enough that Aunt Susanna should approve of Margaret. She must approve of the whole four of us, or she would not help Margaret. That is Aunt Susanna's way. Of late, we had been growing a little discouraged. Aunt Susanna had recently read a magazine article, which stated that the higher education of women was ruining our country, and that a woman who was a BA couldn't, in the very nature of things, ever be a housewifely, cookly creature. Consequently, Margaret's chances looked a little foggy, but we hadn't

quite given up hope. A very little thing might sway Aunt Susanna one way or the other, so that we walked very softly and tried to mingle serpent's wisdom and dove's harmlessness in practical portions. When Aunt Susanna came in, Laura was crocheting, Kate was sewing, and I was pouring over a recipe book. That was not deception at all, since we did all these things frequently, much more frequently, in fact, than we painted or fiddled or wrote. But Aunt Susanna would never believe it, nor did she believe it now. She threw back her lovely new sealskin cape, looked around the sitting room, and then smiled. A truly Aunt Susanna. suzannian smile what a pity you forgot to wipe that smudge of paint off your nose laura she said sarcastically you don't seem to get on very fast with your lace how long is it since you began it over three months isn't it

and that is the third piece of the same pattern i've done in three months aunt susanna said laura presently laura is an old duck she never gets cross and snaps back i do and it's so hard not to with Aunt Susanna sometimes, but I generally manage it, for I'd do anything for Margaret. Laura did not tell Aunt Susanna that she sold her lace at the women's exchange in town and made enough to buy her new hats. She makes enough out of her watercolors to dress herself. Aunt Susanna took a second breath and started in again. I noticed your violin hasn't quite as much dust on it as the rest of the things in this room, Kate. It's a pity you stopped playing, just as I came in. I don't enjoy fiddling much, but I'd prefer it to seeing anyone using a needle who isn't accustomed to it. Kate is really a most dainty needlewoman, and does all the fine

sewing in our family. She colored and said nothing, that being the highest pitch of virtue, to which our Katie, like myself, can attain. And there's Margaret ruining her eyes over books, went on Aunt Susanna severely. Will you kindly tell me Margaret Thorne, what good you ever expect Latin to do you. Well, you see, Aunt Susanna, said Margaret gently. Magsy and Laura are birds of a feather. I want to be a teacher if I can manage to get through, and I shall need Latin for that.

All the girls except me had now got their accustomed to rap, but I knew better than to hope I should escape. So you're reading a recipe book, Agnes. Well, that's better than pouring over a novel. I'm afraid you haven't been at it. it very long, though. People generally don't read recipes upside down. And besides, you didn't quite cover up your portfolio. I see a corner of it sticking out. Was a genius burning before I came in? It's too bad if I quench the flame. A cookery book isn't such a novelty to me as you

seem to think, Aunt Susanna, I said, as meekly as it was possible for me. Why, I'm a real good cook, if I do say it as an order. I am, too. well i'm glad to hear it said aunt susanna sceptically because that has to do with my errand here to-day i'm in a peck of troubles firstly miranda mary's mother has had to go and get sick and miranda mary must go home to wait on her secondly i've just had a telegram from my sister-in-law who has been ordered west for her health and i'll have to leave on to-night's train to see her before she goes i can't get back until the noon train thursday and that is thanksgift and I've invited Mr. Mrs. Gilbert to dinner that day. They'll come on the same train. I'm dreadfully worried. There doesn't seem to be anything I can do,

except get one of you girls to go up to the pinery Thursday morning and cook the dinner for us. Do you think you can manage it? We all felt rather dismayed, and nobody volunteered with a rush. But as I had just boasted that I could cook, it was plainly my duty to step into the breach, and I did it with fear and trembling.

i'll go aunt susanna i said and i'll help you said kate well i suppose i'll have to try you said aunt susanna with the air of a woman determined to make the best of a bad business here is the key of the kitchen door you'll find everything in the pantry turkey and all the men's pies are already made so you'll only have to warm them up i want dinner sharp at twelve for the train is due at eleven fifty mr mrs gilbert are very particular and i do hope you will have things right oh if i could only be home myself why will people get sick at such inconvenient times don't worry aunt susanna i said comfortably katie and i will have your thanksgiving dinner ready for you in tip-top style well i'm sure i hope so don't Don't get to mooning over a story, Agnes. I'll lock the library up, and fortunately there are no fiddles at the pinery. Above all, don't let any of the McGinnis's in. They'll be sure to be prowling around when I'm not home. Don't give that dog there's any scraps either.

That is Miranda Mary's one fault. She will feed that dog in spite of all I can do, and I can't walk out of my own back door without falling over him. We promise to eschew the McGinnis's and, all their works, including the dog, and when Aunt Susanna had gone, we looked at each other with mingled hope and fear. Girls, this is the chance of your lives, said Laura. If you can only please Aunt Susanna with this dinner, it will convince her that you are good

cooked in spite of your nefarious bent for music and literature. I consider the illness of Miranda Mary's mother a providential interposition, that is, if she isn't too sick. It's all very well for you to be pleased, Lola. i said dolefully but i don't feel jubilant over the prospect at all something will probably go wrong and then there's our own nice little thanksgiving celebration we've planned and pinched and economized for weeks to provide that is half spoiled now and what is that compared to margaret's chance of going to college exclaimed kate cheer up aggie you know we can cook i feel that it is now or never with aunt susanna i cheered up accordingly we are not given to pessimism, which is fortunate. Ever since father died four years ago, we have struggled on here, content to give up a good

deal just to keep our home and be together. This little grey house, oh, how we do love it and its apple trees, it's ours, and we have, as aforesaid, a tiny income and our ambitions, not very big ambitions, but big enough to give zest to our lives and hope to the future. been very happy as a rule. Aunt Susanna has a big house and lots of money, but she isn't as happy as we are. She nags us a good deal, just as she used to nag father, but we don't mind it very much after all. Indeed, I sometimes suspect that we really like Aunt Susanna tremendously if she'd only leave us alone long enough to find it out. Thursday morning was an ideal

Thanksgiving morning, bright, crisp, and sparkling. There had been a white frost in the night, and the orchard and the white birch wood behind it looked like fairyland. We were all up early. None of us had slept well, and both Kate and I had had the most fearful dreams of spoiling Aunt Susannis' Thanksgiving dinner. Never mind, dreams always go by contraries, you know, said Laura cheerfully. You'd better go up to the pinery early and get the fires on, for the house will be cold.

Remember the McGinnis's and the dog. Wave the turkeys so that you'll know exactly. how long to cook it. Put the pies in the oven in time to get piping hot. Loqu warm mince pies are an abomination. Be sure, Laura, don't confuse us with any more cautions, I groaned, or we shall get hopelessly fuddled. Come on, Kate, before she has time to. It wasn't very far up to the pinery, just ten minutes walk, and such a delightful walk on that delightful morning. We went through the orchard, and then through the white birch-wood, where the loveliness of the frosted boughs awed us. Beyond that, there was a lane between ranks of young

balzamy, white-misted furs, and then an open pasture field, sear and crispy. Just across it was the pinery, a lovely old house with dormer windows in the roof, surrounded by pines that were dark and glorious against the silvery morning sky. The McGinnis dog was sitting on the back door steps when we arrived. He wagged his tail ingratiatingly, but we ruthlessly pushed him off, went in and shut the door in his face. All the little McGinnis'es were sitting in a row on their fence, and they whooped derisively. The McGinnis manners are not those which appertained to the cast of Vue de Vere, but we rather like the urchins. There are eight of them, and we would probably have gone over to talk to them if we'd not had the fear of Aunt Susanna before our eyes.

We kindled the fires, weighed the turkey, put it in the oven, and prepared the vegetables. Then we set the dining room table and decorated it with Aunt Susanna's potted ferns and dishes of lovely red apples. Everything went so smoothly that we soon forgot to be nervous. When the turkey was done, we took it out, set it on the back of the range to keep warm, and put the mince pies in. The potatoes, cabbage and turnips were bubbling away cheerfully, and everything was going as merrily as a marriage bell. then all at once things happened in an evil hour we went to the yard window and looked out we saw a quiet scene the mcginnis dog was still sitting on his haunches by the steps just as he had been sitting all the morning down in the mcginnis yard everything wore an unusually peaceful aspect only one mcginnis was in sight tony aged eight who was perched up on the edge of the well-box swinging his legs and singing at the top of his legs and singing at the top of

his melodious Irish voice. All at once, just as we were looking at him, Tony went over backward and apparently tumbled head foremost down his father's well. Kate and I screamed simultaneously. We tore across the kitchen, flung open the door, plunged down over Aunt Susanna's yard, scrambled over the fence, and flew to the well. Just as we reached it, Tony's red head appeared as he climbed serenely out over the box. I don't know. know whether I felt more relieved or furious. He had merely fallen on the blank guard inside the box, and there are times when I am tempted to think he fell on purpose because he saw Kate and me looking out at the window. At least he didn't seem at all frightened and grinned most impishly

at us. Kate and I turned on our heels and marched back in as dignified a manner as was possible under the circumstances. Halfway up on his his yard, we forgot dignity and broke into a run. We had left the door open, and the McGinnis dog had disappeared. Never shall I forget the sight we saw, or the smell we smelled, when we burst into that kitchen. There on the floor was the McGinnis dog and what was left of Aunt Susanna's Thanksgiving turkey. As for the smell, imagine a commingled odor of scorching turnips and burning mince pies, and you have it. The dog fled out with a guilty yelp. I groaned, and, snatched the turnips off kate threw open the oven door and dragged out the pies pies and turnips

were ruined as irretrievably as the turkey oh what shall we do i cried miserably i knew margaret's chance of college was gone forever do kate was superb she didn't lose her wits for a second we'll go home and borrow the girls dinner quick there's just ten minutes before train time Throw those pies and turnips into this basket, the turkey too, will carry them with us to hide them. I might not be able to evolve an idea like that on the spur of the moment, but I can at least act up to it when it is presented. Without a moment delay, we shut the door and ran. As we went, I saw the McGinnis dog licking his chops over in their yard.

I have been ashamed ever since of my feelings toward that dog. They were murderous. Fortunately, I had no time to indulge them. it is ten minutes walk from pinery to our house but you can run it in five kate and i burst into the kitchen just as laura and margaret were sitting down to dinner we had neither time nor breath for explanations without a word i graft the turkey platter and the turnip terene kate caught one hot mince pie from the oven and whisk a cold one out of the pantry we've got to have them was all she said i've always said that laura and magsy was all she said i've always said that laura and magsy was would rise to any occasion. They saw us carry their Thanksgiving dinner off under their very eyes, and they never interfered by word or motion. They didn't even worry us with questions. They realized that something desperate had happened, and that the emergency called for deed,

not words. Agie gasped Kate behind me as we tore through the birch woods. The border of these eyes is crimped differently from Aunt Susanna's. She won't know the the difference i panted miranda mary crimpsed them we got back to the pinery just as the train whistle blew we had ten minutes to transfer turkey and turnips to aunt susanna's dishes hide our own air the kitchen and get back our breath we accomplished it when aunt susanna and her guests came we were prepared for them we were calm outwardly and the second mince-pie was getting hot in the oven it was ready by the time it was needed for Unfortunately, our turkey was the same size as Aunt Susanna's, and Laura had cooked a double supply of turnips, intending to warm them up the next day. Still, all things considered, Kate and I didn't enjoy that dinner much. We kept thinking of poor Laura and Magsie at home, dining off potatoes on Thanksgiving.

But at least Aunt Susanna was satisfied. When Kate and I were washing the dishes, she came out quite beamingly. Well, my dears, I must admit that you made a very good job. of the dinner indeed the turkey was done to perfection as for the mince pies well of course miranda mary made them but she must have had extra good luck with them for they were excellent and heated to just the right degree you didn't give anything to the mcgeness dog i hope no we didn't give him anything said kate aunt susanna did not notice the emphasis when we had finished the dishes we smuggled our platter and Terreen out of the house and went home.

Laura and Margaret were busy painting and studying, and were just as sweet-tempered as if we hadn't robbed them of their dinner. But we had to tell them the whole story before we even took off our hats. There is a special providence for children and idiots, said Laura gently. We didn't ask her whether she meant us or Tony McGuinness, or both. There are some things better left in obscurity. I'd have probably said something much sharper than that, if anybody had made off with my Thanksgiving turkey, so unceremoniously.

Aunt Susanna came down the next day and told Margaret that she would send her to college. Also, she commissioned Laura to paint her a watercolor for her dining room and said that she'd pay her $5 for it. Kate and I were rather left out in the cold in this distribution of favors, but when you come to reflect that Laura and Magsey had really cooked that dinner, it was only just. Anyway, Aunt Susanna has never since insinuated that we can't cook, and that is as much as we deserve. End of Story 5.

Story 6 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This liverbox recording is in the public domain. Story 6. The Bartlett's Thanksgiving Day. The tale of a father and daughter. both of whom were stubborn and proud, the Thanksgiving dinner which vanished by magic, the reconciliation after 12 years of estrangement.

Joseph Bartlett drove home from the store at the corners in such a brown study that he sat in the buggy in the muddy yard for fully ten minutes before he got out. His wife watched him from the window and wondered wistfully what he was thinking of. Then she sighed. She knew what she was thinking of and had been thinking all day. The morrow was Thanksgiving, and every other mother and father in Abbotsford

would have at least some of their family to help eat the Thanksgiving dinner. Everybody except Father and me, she reflected sadly. There's only Maggie, and she won't come because Paul won't ask her. And he won't. He's so desperate, proud, and stubborn. And so she. There is like each other as two peas. Tear me is 12 years since Maggie went away.

Twelve thanksgivings without her. It doesn't seem worthwhile to cook and fuss just for paw and me. Her husband now came in with his arms full of bundles. Here's your turkey mother, he said. I picked the best Sam Kennedy had. And here's all your other fixings. Tea ready? I'm hungry enough to eat a graven image.

So said Joseph Bartlett, but he failed to make his words good, for when he sat down to the table he ate little and slowly. Between mouthfuls he fell into reveries, staring at his plate, with his knife and fork poised upright at either side. Did you see many at the store? asked Mrs. Bartlett. No, there wasn't anybody there except Mrs. Allen and them two children of Maggie's. They looked desperate, miserable, never saw such sickly-looking young-uns. Roberts's to the backbone, that's what they are.

Did you speak to them, Paul? asked Mrs. Bartlett timidly. "'Ah? What's that? Speak to them. "'It's likely, ain't it? I thought you knew me better than that. "'When I say a thing, I stand by it.' "'Mrs. Bartlett sighed. "'I do wonder if Maggie'll have a good dinner tomorrow,' she said wistfully. "'I heard that John hadn't sent her any money for a long time.' "'How do you hear things like that?' exclaimed to Joseph Bartlett angrily.

"'I've told you often enough that I'm not going to have you gossiping to people about her.' "'It was the minister's wife told me, father.' The minister's wife can mind her own business then. As for Maggie and her young-ins, I don't care whether they've got a good Thanksgiving dinner or no dinner at all. Maggie made her bed and must lie in it. She might have known what to expect when she married John Roberts. I dare say it's quite likely he hasn't sent her anything lately.

He'll never make enough to bring himself home. It was just like his foolishness starting off to the Klondike, thought he was going to pick up gold by the handfuls, I suppose, instead of staying home and looking after his wife and family. Now, don't you mention Maggie's name to me again, mother? Mrs. Bartlett did not remind her husband that he had been the first to mention it. She only sighed again and proceeded to clear away the dishes. Then she stepped softly about the pantry, preparing the Thanksgiving dinner for the Marles' cooking,

while Joseph Bartlett smoked moodily in the chimney corner. Twelve years before this, their only daughter, Maggie, had married, John Roberts against her father's will. He had never forgiven her for it. He had forbade her his house and had never spoken to her from that day. Maggie had all her father's pride and obstinacy. She never sought a reconciliation. Her mother spoke to her when they met, but Joseph Bartlett had forbidden his wife to visit Maggie, and although it nearly broke her heart, she obeyed. Maggie had had a hard time since her marriage. Her husband was poor, and never seemed to get along.

Two years before this, he had gone to Klondike, and Maggie had lived alone with her two children ever since. Klondike remittances were few and scanty, but if she found it hard to make both ends meet, she never complained. At nine o'clock, the bartlets went to bed. On the pantry dresser, the turkey reposed in state, stuffed with Joseph's favorite sage and onion dressing. A big, firm white cabbage lay in a paned,

sited, flanked with a couple of turnips. Above it, on the shelf, were two rich ments pies, a dish of cranberry jelly, and a plate of red apples. Joseph Bartlett stood at the pantry door and looked at the good things approvingly, while his wife covered the turkey with a towel. Pretty appetizing, mother, pretty appetizing, he said, I can't take no pleasure in them, his wife said sadly, when I don't know whether Maggie will have a good dinner tomorrow or not. i wish you'd stop harping about maggie didn't i tell you not to speak about her again she'll have as good a dinner as she deserves probably i'm going to bed thanksgiving morning dawned fair and bright joseph bartlett arose at seven i declare i'm tireder than when i went to bed he said i don't feel a bit rested now just look at the mud of my boots will you mother how on earth did i get em in such a mess i was as careful as i could be

yesterday. You'll have to slick them up a bit for church time. When Mrs. Bartlett went downstairs, the fire was on and her husband had gone out to the barn. She went into the pantry for the oatmeal and became aware of a curious sense of bareness. Where was the turkey, the men's pies, the vegetables? Nowhere to be seen. She opened the lower door of the cupboard and peered in. No, they were not there. It was curious. must have moved them but where had he put them pa she said to her husband who entered at that moment with an armful of wood what have you done with the turkey and things done with him why i ain't touched them joseph bartlett responded in bewilderment mrs bartlett sat down on the

nearest chair well they're gone she cried gone nonsense mother you're dreaming i ain't dreaming said his wife positively go into the pantry and see for yourself that turkey has gone, hide and hair, and likewise everything else that I put there for dinner. Joseph Bartlett stepped into the pantry and saw for himself. He gave a whistle of amazement. A clean sweep, sure enough. We've been burgled, mother. Some of them scamps from Abbots Creek have slipped in here last night and snooped our Thanksgiving dinner. That's what comes to having the woodshed door unfastened. I'll make a button this very day. Well, ain't that too bad now? search revealed that the midnight prowler had helped himself to a basket to carry off his booty,

but revealed nothing else. We're out of our Thanksgiving dinner, that's one sure thing, mother, said Joseph Bartlett at last, as they sat down to breakfast. It's a wonder I didn't hear nothing last night. You sleep so sound it ain't to be wondered at. You didn't, but I really didn't think anybody or anything could come into this house at night, and me not hear them. since the dinner is gone i'm going to church said his wife i'd plan to stay home and cook it but there's nothing to cook now well i hope whoever got it will enjoy it i don't think i'd be very thankful to be eating stolen victuals they drove to church two miles away arriving early simon green was on the porch when they entered the two men shook hands how are all your folks simon inquired joseph while mrs bartlett turned away to speak to another woman very well thank you said simon i'm glad to see you and the wife are all right i was afraid mrs bartlett was sick when i heard that you passed down the corner's road at one o'clock last night me corners road said joseph bartlett blankly i wasn't travelling the corners road or any other road at one o'clock last night i was in my bed well now merendi must have been mistaken she got up at one and went down to the pantry to get some stuff for the toothache and when she came back she said she was mistaken she got up at one and went down to the pantry to get some stuff for the toothache and when she came back she said she said she said she was

said she was afraid Mrs. Bartlett was sick, for she'd just seen you go by down the corner's road. She must have taken someone else for you. Yes, she must, said Joseph Bartlett, but he said it uncomfortably, and he whisked his wife away into church before Simon could speak to her. All through the sermon he sat in a brown study. Had he? Could he at? But no, it was impossible. He hadn't done such a thing for forty years. Merandi Green must have. have been mistaken. When the service was over and Mr. Mrs. Bartlett were standing on the green in front of the church, Maggie Roberts, with her little son, came up to speak to her mother. Then, with a scarlet spot outflowering on each of her thin cheeks, she offered her hand

to her father. He took it with an answering flush of surprise. He had always said that the first advance toward a reconciliation must come from Maggie. He would never make it, that was certain, But now that she had made Ed, he was willing to respond. But what was Maggie saying? Thank you for the turkey father. It was real good and kind of you. Oh, I saw you. I was downstairs at half-past one last night getting something for Jackie's cough,

and I saw you come into the yard in the moonlight and leave the basket on the porch steps. And won't you and the mother come home with me and help us eat the dinner? Molly stayed home to cook it. I want you to come. "'My, I reckon, we might as well,' said Joseph Bartlett gruffly. "'Here, you and your ma go and drive yourselves down in the buggy. I'll walk with Jackie.' "'I was so touched last night when I saw Paul steal in with that basket,' said Maggie,

as she and her mother drove down the road, and when I found what was in it, I just said to myself, "'Now, Paul has come halfway at last, and I'll go the other half. I'll just ask him to-morrow to come and have dinner with me.' mrs bartlett preserved the silence of utter bewilderment there was something here that completely mystified her but until she could get alone with her husband and find out the truth she decided that silence was the part of a wise woman that thanksgiving dinner was an unqualified success molly maggie's eleven-year-old daughter had cooked it to perfection she was a smart little thing if she were rather delicate looking in her brisk yet noiseless way of stepping about her work, Joseph Bartlett found that she resembled her grandmother. For the sake of this, he forgave her her surname at last.

"'This is a good Thanksgiving,' said Maggie joyfully. "'I had a letter from John last night, saying that he was coming home in the spring. And now you and father are here to dinner. This turkey is a prime one, isn't it, Paul?' "'It ought to be,' said Joseph Bartlett. "'I picked it myself. I've learned to tell a good turkey in sixty years if I haven't learned much else.' sam kennedy can't cheat me as much as he does some people when mr mrs bartlett found themselves on the homeward road the latter turned to her husband with the air of a good sorely-tried woman whose patience has come to an end at last

i'd like to know what this means pa she said joseph bartlett laughed shamefacedly you know pretty near as much as i do now mother but i'll tell you what i suppose has happened simon green told me that-ympathedly you know pretty near as much as i do now mother but i'll tell you what i suppose has happened simon green told me that that his wife saw me go down the road last night, and Maggie says she saw me sneak into her yard and leave a basket on the steps, and our Thanksgiving dinner certainly was on her table today. When I was a boy, I used to walk in my sleep. My folks had a terrible time with me, but I grew out of it before I married you,

and I never told you of it because, well, I was ashamed of it. I ain't walked in my sleep for over 40 years, but that's what I must have done last night. I was thinking a lot about Maggie after I went to bed, for all I shut you up so sharp when you talked of her. I was worrying over her having no Thanksgiving dinner, so I suppose I just got up in my sleep and took her hours. But don't you ever let on to Maggie how it was, Ma?

I ain't sorry it happened the way it did, but she mustn't ever know. Anyway, he added to himself as he put the horse away. That was how my boots came to be so muddy. I declare that was puzzling me as much as the disappearance of the dinner. It's a comfort to have it solved, but I certainly hope I'm not going to take to sleepwalking in my old age. End of Story 6. Story 7 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories.

This liverbox recording is in the public domain. Story 7, Elizabeth Thanksgiving Dinner. Well, said Mrs. Murray, laying down the letter, been reading, that settles the question of our Thanksgiving guests. Your Aunt Margaret writes that her husband's parents wish to have a Thanksgiving reunion at the homestead this year, and so they must go there instead of coming here as usual. I must confess I'm very sorry, for I thought we might count on them, at least. You and I will have to hunt up some new guests if we do not want to eat our Thanksgiving turkey all alone, Elizabeth. What a clean sweep,

said Elizabeth a little blankly. Of course I knew we couldn't have all the old crowd this year, but to think not even one will come, how strange it will seem. Why, as far back as I can remember, Elizabeth spoke as if her memory were reviewing a period of 70 years

instead of 17. We've always had so many here at Thanksgiving. Grandpa Murray and Aunt Alice and Uncle Archibald and Uncle Jeff and Aunt Margaret and Uncle Howard, with cousins' gullors and

Lord have filled up the chinks. They were all here last Thanksgiving, and not one of us thought them but that they'd all be back this year. Really, mother mine, I have an uncomfortable feeling that we ought not to be here either, and will presently be whisted away. Mrs. Murray smiled and sighed. She felt the change in the old order even more keenly than did Elizabeth. Every year, the same circle of brothers and sisters, nieces, and nephews, had come joyously to the big townhouse to eat their Thanksgiving dinner, and now not one would come. Dear old Grandpa Murray was dead and Aunt Alice was ill. Uncle Archibald and Uncle Jeff had moved out west with their families,

and now Aunt Margaret and Uncle Howard must go to the Homestead reunion. It won't seem a bit Thanksgiving-e, went on Elizabeth dolefully, looking for once, grave enough to match her name. As a rule, she did not. Her blue eyes were too merry, her fair hair, too girly, her laughter and smile too quick and full of mischief, to suit her queenly title, which only her mother ever gave her in full. Her friends called her Betty and Beth and Beth and Elsie interchangeably, and Elizabeth liked it so. She always said that when she wanted to bring herself

into a sedate, dignified mood for some special occasion, she said her full name, Elizabeth Patterson Murray, over to herself three times, and it always worked like a charm. I ordered a twenty-pound turkey from Mr. Whiteside last week, said her mother laughingly. You see, I knew Aunt Margaret's boys had such appetites, and Mr. Whiteside said he had a big gobbler who had taken a prize at the agricultural fair and was foreordained for a Thanksgiving feast, so I bespoke him on the spot. Mother mine, said Elizabeth solemnly, though with dancing, eyes. How long do you suppose it will take us to eat up

20 pounds of turkey? Not to mention chestnut stuffing and all the other appointments of any well-regulated Thanksgiving gobbler. Just think of us sitting down, one at each end of the long dining-room table, with that foreordained bird between us. You will try to carve him, and you know, darling, many and varied as your accomplishments are, you cannot carve a turkey. And I shall watch you in agony, lest you cut off your own dear wee fingers instead of the monster's wings. It would destroy my appetite completely, and you're so exhausted you couldn't eat anything yourself.

That settles it, laughed her mother. We must have enough guests to eat that turkey at least. I'll tell you what I'll do, my dear. I'll put the responsibility on your own young shoulders. This shall be your Thanksgiving dinner, and you may ask all the young folks you please to help you demolish Mr. Whiteside's prize turkey. Elizabeth hopped up from her ottoman, threw her arms about her mother's neck, and gave the little woman a vigorous hug. Mother mine, you are delicious. There, did I must up your crimps?

Never mind, I'll fix them all up pretty again. I wish your daughter had just such lovely brown ripples instead of these disorderly girls that never will stay neat. Why, we'll have a delightful Thanksgiving after all. I'll have in my very dearest girl chums, Agnes Baxter, of course, and Connie Bentley, and Kathleen Black, and the Burton girls, and Helen Campbell, and Ella Chase. Oh, I have a dozen plans simmering in my brain already. Well, I leave it all to you, smiled Mrs. Murray indulgently, only don't ask more than the turkey will go around, and do have somebody who can carve it. Elizabeth, with a final hug and

kiss ran upstairs, and as she dressed for shopping, she planned out her Thanksgiving day. She was very fond of entertaining her young friends, and her little parties and afternoon teas were always delightful. She was deservedly popular in her set, for she was sweet-tempered, good-hearted, and full of fun. Moreover, her wealth and social position gave her an acknowledged leadership. In the first shop she entered downtown, a bargain sale was in progress, and the counters were crowded. The shop girls looked tired and worn. One of them brightened up as Elizabeth approached her. Elizabeth knew Maggie Blackwood very well. A year ago, her mother and she had spent the summer in a country village and had boarded at Maggie's home. While the latter was showing

her some handkerchiefs, Elizabeth noticed that the girl looked pale and tired, very different from the rosy creature of a year ago. I'm afraid you are working too hard, Maggie, she said, kindly, these big sales must be terribly trying. But you'll have a holiday next week, anyhow, and I suppose you're going home for it. To Elizabeth surprise, Maggie's eyes suddenly filled with tears. No, Miss Mary, I can't. You see, it's too far. It would take three days to go and come.

I shall just have to stay a year. Won't it be very lonesome to spend Thanksgiving in a boarding house? asked Elizabeth sympathetically. Oh, I suppose there are words. places said Maggie trying to speak lightly of course I will be lonesome but there will be hundreds like me but I was never away from home at Thanksgiving before and when I think of them all at home around the table and me not there oh I mustn't think of it I know I've a great deal to be thankful for how many handkerchiefs did you say

half a dozen said Elizabeth absently but she was not thinking of handkerchiefs and when Maggie had wrapped them up and handed them to her she went away without even a goodbye smile and walked down the long store like a girl in a dream bumping into people and not knowing it at all. As she went down the street, her thoughts ran something like this. How miserable Maggie looks! And to spend Thanksgiving in a boarding house, especially such a boarding house as she can afford, it makes me shiver to think of it. I feel as if I ought to invite Maggie to dinner. But how can I? She wouldn't know my other guest. and she'd feel stiff and out of place among them and wouldn't enjoy herself a bit by this time elizabeth had reached her dressmakers miss claxton was busy so she had to wait two other girls were waiting also bertha and winnie burrows

elizabeth knew them slightly because they were members of the flower committee of the christian endeavor of which she was chairman they taught in the big uptown school and were strangers in the city that was really all she knew about them, but she began to chat to them in her friendly way, and they soon responded. Yes, I like teaching, said Bertha in answer to Elizabeth's question, but I get tired at times. Sometimes things go wrong, and the children try one's patience, and I feel discouraged, and I get so homesick, too, at times. You'll be going home for Thanksgiving, of course, said Elizabeth. Bertha shook her head. No, we haven't any home now. mother died last year. We will have a holiday, of course, and we have planned to walk together in the big beach woods over at Rocky Point, but it won't seem like Thanksgiving. Oh, it just seems to me

that I'm getting to hate all these special festivals like Thanksgiving and Christmas, said Winnie, impatiently. At other times one can jog on comfortably enough, but times like these, when nearly everyone else seems to be planning to go home and have a good time, make me. me remember all that used to be and isn't anymore. It emphasizes our loneliness. There now, Bertha, don't pinch me. I won't grumble anymore. Of course, I know it's foolish, but I just have to break out once in a while. All three girls laughed, but Elizabeth went away with a very serious look on her pretty face. She had other errands, but she forgot them and went musingly home. In her own pretty room she sat down in a rocker looking gravely,

at herself in the mirror, and said, Elizabeth Patterson Murray, three times. Now, what is to be done? My Thanksgiving celebration, as I planned it, has gone out in a puff. I wouldn't enjoy it a bit if I did have it. I'd be seeing Maggie's tired face and Bertha's sad eyes and hearing the bitterness in Winnie's voice all the time. Elizabeth Patterson Murray, just put on your thinking cap and think to some purpose. Evidently she did, for when she went downstairs she looked bright and serene again. It was twilight, and Mrs. Murray was in the library. Elizabeth curled herself up on the rug at her mother's feet and laid her curly head in the

motherly lap. Mother mine, I want to talk to you. I want your advice and assistance, spelled in capitals. Then she told her mother all about the experiences of the afternoon. Now, mother dear, I want to have Maggie and Winnie and Burry, and Bertha here for Thanksgiving. And I know several other girls like them, whom I mean to invite, too,

girls who are working here in the big city and have no homes or can't go to them. What do you say to it? Mrs. Murray patted the golden head on her lap tenderly. This is your dinner, as I said, and you may ask anyone you like. But I'll whisper this in your ear, dearie, I like your last list of guests

very much better than your first. What excellent judgment I had to select a mother like you, said Elizabeth with a hug. And so it came to pass that the guests who came on Thanksgiving morning to the handsome uptown house were not those whom Elizabeth had at first planned to ask. Maggie Blackwood was there, looking bright and happy again, Bertha and Wendy Burroughs, Maggie's cousin, who worked at the same counter, the timid little dressmaker who sat next to Elizabeth in her Bible class, the girl who gave Elizabeth embroidery lessons, the clever little girl who was on the sap of a society paper, and half a dozen other hard-working girls who had looked forward to

nothing more than a boarding-house Thanksgiving until Elizabeth's invitation came, given with the sweet graciousness that made it seem a favor asked, not conferred. What a merry day they had, those girls who had learned by hard work how to appreciate a holiday when it did come. Mr. White-Sides-Turkey was the very ideal of a Thanksgiving gobbler, and it was carved expertly by the newspaper girl who amused them all with the story of her first attempt at carving. It was a school. We had turkey one day for dinner, and the teacher, who had charge of our table, wasn't there. We girls drew lots to see which of us must carve the turkey, and it fell to me. I didn't know the first thing about it, and the girls all gave advice

and rattled me still further. And oh, that turkey was so tough. I saw it away and cut it up after a fashion, but the very next day I bought one of those little books that tell you how to carve with diagrams and letters like a geometry problem, you know. I studied up the rules until I knew them off by heart, and when I went home for Christmas I made father let me carve the turkey, and I've never forgotten. When the girls went home in the clear purple twilight of the autumn evening, Elizabeth had the satisfaction of realizing that her guests had thoroughly enjoyed themselves. I just dreaded this Thanksgiving, whispered Winnie, and it has been the very pleasantest I ever spent. I never once thought of being homesick, said Maggie, radiantly. Each and all had some such sentence to whisper to Elizabeth when they bad her good night, and Elizabeth, with shining eyes, told them that they must come often to see her after this,

and that she meant to have them all back again at Christmas. This Thanksgiving has taught me something, she said to her mother, when they were once more alone, you've often said I hadn't any hobby, mother, but I'll have one after this, and it is to be all the busy girls who are working so bravely and cheerfully in this big city without homes

and with few friends. I'm sure I can help them, and I mean to try. End of Story 7. Story 8 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Liberbox recording is in the public, main. Story 8. Aunt Cirilla's Christmas basket. When Lucy Rose met Aunt Sorilla coming downstairs,

somewhat flushed and breathless from her ascent to the garret, with a big, flat-covered basket hanging over her plump arm, she gave a little sigh of despair. Lucy Rose had done her brave best for some years, in fact, ever since she had put up her hair and lengthened her skirts, to break Aunt Sorilla of the habit of carrying that basket, with her every time she went to Pembroke, but Aunt Sorilla still insisted on taking it

and only laughed of what she called Lucy Rose's finicky notions. Lucy Rose had a horrible haunting idea that it was extremely provincial for her aunt always to take the big basket, packed full of country good things, whenever she went to visit Edward and Geraldine. Geraldine was so stylish and might think it queer, and then Aunt Sorilla always would carry it

on her arm and give cookies and apples and molasses tathy out of it to every child she encountered, and just as often as not, to older folks as well. Lucy rose, when she went to town with Aunt Cirilla, felt chagrined over this, all of which goes to prove that Lucy was as yet very young and had a great deal to learn in this world. That troublesome worry over what Geraldine would think nerved her to make a protest in this instant. Now Aunt Sorilla, she was a little bit. she pleaded, you're surely not going to take that funny old basket to Pimbroke this time, Christmas Day and all. Dede and deed I am, returned Aunt Sorilla briskly as she put it on the table and proceeded to dust it out.

I never went to see Edward and Geraldine since they were married that I didn't take a basket of good things along with me for them, and I'm not going to stop now. As for its being Christmas, all the more reason. Edward is always real glad to get some of the old farmhouse goodies, He says they beat city cooking all hollow, and so they do. But it's so countrified, moaned Lucy Rose. Well, I am countrified, said Aunt Sorilla firmly, and so are you. And what's more, I don't see that it's anything to be ashamed of.

You've got some real silly pride about you, Lucy Rose. You'll grow out of it in time, but just now it is giving you a lot of trouble. The basket is a lot of trouble, said Lucy Rose crossly. you're always mislaying it or afraid you will, and it does look so funny to be walking through the streets with that big bulgy basket hanging on your arm. I'm not a mite worried about its looks, returned Aunt Sorilla calmly, as for its being a trouble, why maybe it is, but I have that, and other people have the pleasure of it. Edward and Geraldine don't need it, I know that, but there may be those that will, and if it

hurts your feelings to walk alongside of a country-fied old lady with a country-fied basket, why you can just fall behind, as it were. Aunt Sorilla nodded and smiled good-humoredly, and Lucy Rose, though she privately held to her own opinion, had

to smile, too. Now let me see, said Aunt Sarilla, effectively, tapping the snowy kitchen table with the point of her plump, dimpled forefinger, what shall I take? That big fruit-cake for one thing, Edward does like my fruit cake, and that cold-boiled tongue for another. Those three mince pies, too.

They'll spoil before we get back, or your uncle make himself sick eating them. Mints pie is his besetting sin. And that little stone bottle full of cream. Geraldine may carry any amount of style, but I've yet to see her look down on real good country cream, Lucy Rose, and another bottle of my raspberry vinegar, That plate of jelly cookies and donuts will please the children and fill up the chinks, and you can bring me that box of ice cream candy out of the pantry,

and that bag of striped candy sticks your uncle brought home from the corner last night, and apples, of course, three or four dozen of those good eaters, and a little pot of my Green Gage preserves. Edward will like that, and some sandwiches and pound cake for a snack for ourselves. Now, I guess that will do for eatables. The presents for the children can go on top. There's a doll for Daisy and the little boat your uncle made for Ray and a tatted lace handkerchief a piece for the twins

and the crochet hood for the baby. Now, is that all? There's a cold-roached chicken in the pantry, said Lucy Rose wickedly, and the pig, Uncle Leo, killed, is hanging up in the porch. Wouldn't you put them in to? Aunt Sorilla smiled broadly. Well, I guess we'll leave the pig alone, but since you have reminded me of it, the chicken may as well go in. I can make room.

Lucy Rose, in spite of her prejudices, helped with the packing, and not having been trained under Aunt Cirilla's eye for nothing, did it very well, too, with much clever economy of space. But when Aunt Cirilla had to put in as a finishing touch, a big bouquet of pink and white everlastings, and tied the bulging covers down with a firm hand, Lucy Rose stood over the basket and whispered vindictively, "'Someday I'm going to burn that basket when I get courage enough, then there'll be an end of lugging it everywhere we go, like an old marketwoman.' Uncle Leopold came in just then, shaking his head dubiously.

He was not going to spend Christmas with Edward and Geraldine, and perhaps the prospect of having to cook and eat his Christmas dinner all alone, made him pessimistic. I mistrust you, folks, won't get to Pembroke tomorrow, he said sagely. It's going to storm. Aunt Sorilla did not worry over this. She believed matters of this kind were foreordained, and she slept calmly. But Lucy Rose got up three times in the night to see if it were storming,

and when she did sleep, had horrible nightmares of struggling through blinding snowstorms, dragging Aunt Sorilla's Christmas basket along with her. It was not snowing in the early morning. morning and Uncle Leopold drove Aunt Sorilla and Lucy Rose in the basket to the station four miles off. When they reached there, the air was thick with flying flakes. The station master sold them their tickets with a grim face. If there's any more snow comes, the trains might as well keep Christmas too, he said. There's been so much snow already that traffic is blocked half the time, and now there ain't no place to shovel the snow off on two. Aunt Sorilla

said that if the train were to get to Pembroke in time for Christmas, it would get there, and she opened her basket and gave the stationmaster and three small boys an apple apiece. That's the beginning, groaned Lucy Rose to herself. When their train came along, Aunt Sorilla established herself in one seat and her basket in another, and looked beamingly around her at her fellow travelers. These were few in number, a delicate little woman at the end of the car, with a baby and four other children, a young girl across the aisle with a pale pretty face, a sunburned lad, three seats ahead, and a khaki uniform, a very handsome, imposing old lady

and a sealskin coat ahead of him, and a thin young man with spectacles opposite. A minister, reflected Aunt Sorilla, beginning to classify, who takes better care of other folk's souls than of his own body, and that woman in the sealskin is discontented to cross at something, got up too early to catch the train, maybe. And that young chap must be one of the boys not long out of the hospital. That woman's children look as if they hadn't enjoyed a square meal since they were born. And if that girl across from me has a mother, I'd like to know what the woman means, letting her daughter go from home in this weather, in clothes like that.

Lucy rose merely wondered uncomfortably what the others thought of Aunt Cirilla's basket. They expected to reach Pembroke that night, but as the day of her, wore on, the storm grew worse. Twice the train had to stop while the train hands dug it out. The third time it could not go on. It was dusk when the conductor came through the train, replying brusquely to the questions of the anxious passengers. A nice lookout for Christmas? No, impossible to go on or back. Track block for miles. What's that, madam? No, no station near. Woods for miles. We're here for the night. These storms have late. have played the mischief with everything.

Oh, dear, groaned Lucy Rose. Aunt Sorilla looked at her basket complacently. At any rate, we won't starve, she said. The pale pretty girl seemed indifferent. The sealskin lady looked crosser than ever. The khaki boy said, Just my luck, and two of the children began to cry. Aunt Sorilla took some apples and striped candy sticks from her basket

and carried them to them. She lifted the oldest into her ample lap, and soon had them all around her, laughing and contented. The rest of the travelers straggled over to the corner and drifted into conversation. The cacky boy said it was hard lines not to get home for Christmas after all. I was invalided from South Africa three months ago, and I've been in the hospital at Netley ever since, reached Halifax three days ago and telegraphed the old folks I'd eat my Christmas dinner with them,

and to have an extra big turkey because I didn't have any last. year. They'll be badly disappointed. He looked disappointed, too. One khaki sleeve hung empty by his side. Aunt Cirilla passed him an apple. We were all going down to Grandpa's for Christmas, said the little mother's oldest boy dolefully. We've never been there before, and it's just too bad. He looked as if he wanted to cry, but thought better of it and bit off a mouthful of candy. Will there be any Santa Claus on the train? demanded his small sister tearfully. Jack's says there won't. I guess he'll find you out, said Aunt Sarilla, reassuringly. The pale pretty girl came up and took the baby from the tired mother.

What a dear little fellow, she said softly. Are you going home for Christmas, too? asked Aunt Sorilla. The girl shook her head. I haven't any home. I'm just a shop girl out of work at present, and I'm going to Pembroke to look for some. Aunt Sorilla went to her basket and took out her box of cream candy. I guess we might as well enjoy ourselves. Let's eat it all up and have a good time. Maybe we'll get down to Pembroke in the morning. The little group grew cheerful as they nibbled, and even the pale girl brightened up. The little mother told Aunt Sorilla her story aside. She had been long estranged from her family who had disapproved of her marriage. Her husband had died the

previous summer, leaving her in poor circumstances. Father wrote to me last week and asked me to let bygones, be bygones, and come home for Christmas. I was so glad, and the children's hearts were set on it. It seems too bad that we are not to get there. I have to be back at work the morning after Christmas. The cacky boy came up again and shared the candy. He told amusing stories of campaigning in South Africa. The minister came to, and listened, and even the sealskin lady turned her head over her shoulder. By and by the children fell asleep, one on Aunt Cirilla's lap, and one on Lucy roses and two on the seat. Aunt Sorilla and the pale girl helped the mother make up beds for them. The minister gave his overcoat and the sealskin lady came forward with a shawl.

This will do for the baby, she said. We must get up some Santa Claus for these youngsters, said the khaki boy. Let's hang their stockings on the wall and fill them up as best we can. I've nothing about me but some hard cash and a jack-knife. I'll give each of them a quarter and the boy can have the knife. I've nothing but money either, said the sealskin lady regretfully. Aunt Sarilla glanced at the little mother. She had fallen asleep with her head against the seat back. I've got a basket over there, said Aunt Sarilla firmly, and I've some presents in it that I was taking to my nephew's children. I'm going to give them to these. As for the money, I think the mother is the one for it to go to. She's been telling me her story, and a pitiful one it is. Let's make up a

little purse among us for a Christmas present. The idea met with favor. The cacky boy passed his cap and everybody contributed. The sealskin lady put in a crumpled note. When Aunt Cirilla straightened it out, she saw that it was for $20. Meanwhile, Lucy Rose had brought the basket. She smiled at Aunt Sirilla as she lugged it down the aisle, and Aunt Sorilla smiled back. Lucy Rose had never touched that basket of her own accord before. Ray's boat went to Jackie and Daisy doll to his oldest sister, the twins lace handkerchief to the two smaller girls, and the hood to the baby. Then the stockings were filled up with donuts and jelly cookies, and the money was put in an envelope and pinned to the little mother's jacket. That baby is such a dear little

fellow, said the sealskin lady gently. He looks something like my little son. He died 18 Christmases ago. Aunt Cirilla put her hand over the lady's kid glove. So did mine. She she said. Then the two women smiled tenderly at each other. Afterwards they rested from their labors and all had what Aunt Sorilla called a snack of sandwiches and pound cake. The khaki boy said he hadn't tasted anything half so good since he left home. They didn't give us pound cake in South Africa, he said. When morning came, the storm was still raging. The children wakened and went wild with delight over their stockings. The little mother found her envelope and tried to utter thanks and broke down, and nobody knew what to say or do when the conductor

fortunately came in and made a diversion by telling them they might as well resign themselves to spending Christmas on the train. "'This is serious,' said the khaki boy, when you consider that we've no provisions. Don't mind for myself, used to half rations or no rations at all, but these kitties will have tremendous appetites. Then Aunt Sorilla rose to the occasion. I've got some emergency rations here, she announced. There's plenty for all, and we'll have our Christmas dinner, although a cold one.

Breakfast first thing. There's a sandwich a piece left, and we must fill up on what is left of the cookies and donuts, and save the rest for a real good spread at dinner time. The only thing is I haven't any bread. I've a box of soda crackers, said the little mother eagerly. Nobody in that car will ever forget that Christmas. To begin with, after breakfast, they had a concert. The cacky boy gave two recitations,

sang three songs, and gave a whistling solo. Lucy Rose gave three recitations and the minister a comic reading. The pale shop girl sang two songs. It was agreed that the cacky boy's whistling solo was the best number, and Aunt Cerella gave him the bouquet of Everlastings as a reward of merit. Then the conductor came in with the cheerful news that the storm was almost over, and he thought the track would be cleared in a few hours. If we can get to the next station, we'll be all right, he said.

The branch joins the main line there, and the tracks will be clear. At noon they had dinner. The train hands were invited in to share it. The minister carved the chicken with the breakman's jack-knife, and the khaki-boy cut up the tongue and then mint spies, while the sealskin lady mixed the raspberry vinegar with its due proportion of water. bits of paper served as plates. The train furnished a couple of glasses, a tin-pint cup was discovered, and given to the children. Aunt Sorilla and Lucy Rose and the Sealskin lady, drank, turn about,

from the latter's graduated medicine glass, the shop girl and the little mother shared one of the empty bottles, and the khaki boy, the minister and the trainman, drank out of the other bottle. Everybody declared that they had never enjoyed a meal more in their lives. certainly it was a merry one and aunt cerrilla's cooking was never more appreciated indeed the bones of the chicken and the pot of preserves were all that was left they could not eat the preserves because they had no spoons so aunt cerilla gave them to the little mother when all was over a hearty boat of thanks was passed to aunt cerilla and her basket the sealskin lady wanted to know how she made her pound cake and the khaki boy asked for her receipt for jelly cookies and when two hours later the conductor came in and said the snow-cloughs had got along and they soon be starting. They all wondered if it could really be less than 24 hours since they met. I feel as if I've been campaigning with you all my life, said the cacky boy.

At the next station they all parted. The little mother and the children had to take the next train back home. The minister stayed there and the cacky boy and the sealskin lady changed trains. The sealskin lady shook Aunt Sorilla's hand. She no longer looked disarrick. discontented or cross. This has been the pleasant as Christmas I have ever spent, she said heartily. I shall never forget that wonderful basket of yours. The little shop girl is going home with me. I've promised her a place in my husband's store. When Aunt Cirilla and Lucy Rose reached Pembroke,

there was nobody to meet them because everyone had given up expecting them. It was not far from the station to Edward's house and Aunt Sorilla elected a walk. I'll carry the basket, said Lucy Rose. Aunt Cirilla relinquished it with a smile. Lucy Rose smiled too. It's a blessed old basket, said the latter, and I love it. Please forget all the silly things I ever said about it, Aunt Sarilla. End of Story 8. Story 9 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Story 9, Bertie's New Year. He stood on the sagging doorstep and looked out on the snowy world. His hands were clasped behind him, and his thin face wore a thoughtful, puzzled look. The door behind him opened jerkingly, and a scowling

woman came out with a pan of dishwater in her hand. Ain't you gone yet, Bert? She said sharply. What in the world are you hanging around for? That's early yet, said Bertie cheerfully. I thought maybe George Fraser be along, and I'd get a lift as far as the store. Well, I ever saw such laziness. no wonder old Sampson won't keep you longer than the holidays if you're no smarter than that. Goodness, if I don't settle that boy, as the sound of fretful crying came from the kitchen behind her. What's wrong with William John? asked Bertie. Why, wants to go out coast him with those Robinson boys, but he can't. He hasn't got any mittens, and he would catch his death a cold again.

Her voice seemed to imply that William John had died of cold several times already. Bertie looked soberly down at his old well-darned mittens. It was very cold, and he would have a great many errands to run. He shivered and looked up at his aunt's hard face as she stood wiping her dishpan with a grim frown which boded no good to the discontented William John. Then he suddenly pulled off his mittens and held them out. Here, he can have mine. I'll get on without them well enough. Nonsense, said Mrs. Ross, but,

less unkindly. The fingers would freeze off you. Don't be a goose. It's all right, persisted Bertie. I don't need them, much. And William John doesn't hardly ever get out. He thrust them into her hand and ran quickly down the street, as though he feared that the keen air might make him change his mind in spite of himself. He had to stop a great many times that day to breathe on his purple hands. Still, he did not regret having lent his mittens to William John. poor, pale, sickly little William John, who had so few pleasures. It was sunset when Bertie laid an armful of parcels down on the steps of Dr. Forbes' handsome house.

His back was turned towards the big bay window at one side, and he was busy trying to warm his hands, so he did not see the two small faces looking at him through the frosty panes. Just look at that poor little boy, Amy, said the taller of the two. he is almost frozen, I believe. Why doesn't Carolyn hurry and open the door? There she goes now, said Amy. Edy, couldn't we coax her to let him come in and get warm? He looks so cold. And she drew her sister out into the hall where the housekeeper was taking Bertie's parcels. Caroline, whispered Edith timidly, please tell that poor little fellow to come in and get warm.

He looks very cold. He's used to the cold, I warrant you, said the housekeeper. Keep her rather impatiently. It won't hurt him. But it is Christmas week, said Edith gravely, and you know, Carolyn, when Mama was here, she used to say that we ought to be particularly thoughtful of others who were not so happy or well off as we were at this time. Perhaps Edith's reference to her mother softened Caroline, for she turned to Bertie and said, cordially enough, come in and warm yourself before you go. It's a cold day. Bertie shyly followed her to the kitchen. Head up to the fire, said Carolyn, placing a chair for him,

while Edith and Amy came round to the other side of the stove and watched him with friendly interest. What's your name? asked Carolyn. Robert Ross, ma'am. Oh, your Mrs. Ross nephew, then, said Caroline, breaking eggs into her cake bowl and whisking them deftly around, and your Sampson's errand-boy just now? My goodness!

as the boy spread his blue hands over the fire. Where are your mittens, child? You never go out without mittens a day like this. Why, I lent them to William John. He hadn't any, faltered Bertie. He did not know, but that the lady might consider it a grave crime to be mittens. No mittens, exclaimed Amy in dismay. Why, I have three pairs.

And who is William John? He is my cousin, said Bertie, and he's awfully sickly. he wanted to go out to play, and he hadn't any mittens, so I lent him mine. I didn't miss them much. What kind of a Christmas did you have? We didn't have any. No, Christmas, said Amy, quite overcome. Oh, well, I suppose you're going to have a good time on New Year's instead.

Bertie shook his head. No, I guess not. We never have it different from other times. Amy was silent from sheer amazement. Edith understood better, and she changed the subject. Have you any brothers or sisters, Bertie? Noam returned Bertie cheerfully. I guess there's enough of us without that.

It must be going now. I'm very much obliged to you. Edith slipped from the room as he spoke and met him again at the door. She held out a pair of warm-looking mittens. These are for William John, she said simply, so that you can have your own. are a pair of mine, which are too big for me. I know Papa will say it is all right. Goodbye, Birdie. Good-bye, and thank you, stammered to Bertie as the door closed. Then he hastened home

to William John. That evening, Dr. Forbes noticed a peculiarly thoughtful look on Edith's face as she sat facing into the glowing coal fire after dinner. He laid his hand on her dark curls inquiringly. What are you musing over? There was a little boy here today began Edith. Oh, such a dear little boy, broke in Amy eagerly from the corner where she was playing with her kitten. His name was Bertie Ross. He brought up the parcels, and we asked him in to get warm.

He had no mittens, and his hands were almost frozen. And, oh, Papa, just think, he said he never had any Christmas or New Year at all. Poor little fellow, said the doctor. I've heard of him a pretty hard time. he has a bit, I think. He was so pretty, Papa, and Edie gave him her blue mittens for William John. The plot deepens. Who is William John? Oh, a cousin or something, didn't he say, Eaddy? Anyway, he is sick, and he wanted to go coasting, and Bertie gave him his mittens. And I suppose he never had any Christmas either. There are plenty who haven't, said the doctor,

taking up his paper with a sigh. Well, Gurley's, you seem interested in the little fellow, so if you like, you may invite him and its cousin to take a dinner with you on New Year's night. Oh, Papa, said Edith, her eyes shining like stars. The doctor laughed. Write him a nice little note of invitation. You are the lady of the house, you know, and I'll see that he gets it tomorrow. And this was how it came to pass that Bertie received the next day his first invitation to

dine out. He read the little note through three times in order fully to take in a little note. its contents, and then went around the rest of the day in deep abstraction, as though he was trying to decide some very important question. It was with the same expression that he opened the door at home in the evening. His aunt was stirring some oatmeal mush on the stove. "'That you, Bert?' she spoke sharply. She always spoke sharply, even when not intending it. It had grown to be a habit. Asum said Bertie meekly as he hung up his cap, I suppose you've only got one day more at the store, said Mrs. Ross.

Samson didn't say anything about keeping you longer, did he? No, he said he couldn't. I asked him. Well, I didn't expect he would. You'll have a holiday on New Year's anyhow. Whether you'll have anything to eat or not is a different question. I've an invitation to dinner, said Bertie timidly, me and William John. It's from Dr. Forbes' little girls, the ones that gave me the mittens.

He handed her the little note, and Mrs. Ross stooped down and read it by the fitful gleam of light, which came from the cracked stove. Well, you'll please yourself, she said, she handed it back. But William Don couldn't go if he had ten invitations. It caught cold ghosting yesterday. Told him he would, but he was bound to go, and now he's laid up for a week. Listen to him, barking in the bedroom there. Well, then, I won't go either, said Bertie, with a sigh.

it might be of relief, or it might be of disappointment. I wouldn't go there all alone. You are a goose, said his aunt. That wouldn't eat you, but as I said, please yourself. Anyhow, hold your tongue about it to William John, or you'll have him crying and bawling to go to. The caution came too late. William John had already heard it, and when his mother went in to rub his chest with liniment, she found him with the ragged quilt over his head, crying. Come, William John, I want to rub him. I want to rub him. you. I don't want to be robbed. Go away. sobbed William John. I heard you out there. You needn't think I didn't. Bertie's going to Dr. Forbes to dinner and I can't go. Well, you've only got yourself to thank for it, returned his mother. If you hadn't presented in going out-coast

and yesterday when I wanted you to stay in, you'd have been able to go to Dr. Forbes's. Little boys who won't do as they're told always get into trouble. Stop crying now. I dared say if Bertie goes, they'll send you some candy or something. But William John refused to be comforted. He cried himself to sleep that night, and when Bertie went in to see him next morning, he found him sitting up in bed with his eyes red and swollen, and the faded quilt drawn up around his pinched face.

Well, William John, how are you? Ain't any better, replied William John mournfully. I suppose you'll have a great time tomorrow night, Bertie. Oh, I'm not going, since you can't. said Bertic cheerily. He thought this would comfort William John, but it had exactly the opposite effect. William John had cried until he could cry no more, but he turned around and sobbed. There now, he said in tearless despair, that's just what I expected. I did suppose if I couldn't go, you would, and tell me about it, your mean as mean can be. Come now, William John, don't be so

cross, I thought you'd rather have me home, but I'll go if you want me to." Honest now? Yes, honest. I'll go anywhere to please you. I must be off to the store now. Goodbye." Thus committed, Bertie took his courage in both hands and went. The next evening at dusk found him standing at Dr. Forbes's door with a very violently beating

heart. He was carefully dressed in his well-worn best suit and a neat white collar. The frosty air had crimsoned his cheeks, and his hair was curling around his face. Caroline opened the door and showed him into the parlor where Edith and Amy were eagerly awaiting him. Happy New Year, Bertie, cried Amy, and—but why? Where is William John? He couldn't come, answered Bertie anxiously. He was afraid he might not be welcome without William John. He's real thick. He caught cold and has to stay in bed, but he wanted to come awful bad. Oh, dear me, poor William John," said Amy in a disappointed tone.

But all further remarks were cut short by the entrance of Dr. Forbes. How do you do, he said, giving Bertie's hand a hearty shake? But where's the other little fellow my girls were expecting? Bertie patiently reaccounted for William John's non-appearance. It's a bad time for Coles, said the doctor, sitting down and attacking the fire. I dare say, though, you have to run so fast these. days that a cold couldn't catch you. I suppose you'll soon be leaving Samson's. He told me he didn't need you after the holiday season was over. What are you going at next? Have you anything in view?

Bertie shook his head sorrowfully. No, sir, but he added more cheerfully, I guess I'll find something if I hunt around lively. I almost always do. He forgot his shyness, his face flushed hopefully, and he looked straight at the doctor with his bright, earnest eyes. The doctor poked the fire energetically and looked very wise but just then the girls came up and carried bertie off to display their holiday gifts and there was a fur cap and a pair of mittens for him he wondered whether he was dreaming and here's a picture book for william john said amy and there's a sled out in the kitchen for him oh there's the dinner-bell i'm awfully hungry papa says that is my normal condition but i don't know what that means as for that At dinner, Bertie might sometimes have seen such a repast in delightful dreams, but certainly never out of them it was a feast to be dated from. When the plum pudding came on, the doctor, who had been notably silent, leaned back in

his chair, placed his fingertips together, and looked critically at Bertie. So Mr. Sampson can't keep you. Bertie's face sobered at once. He had almost forgotten his responsibilities. No, sir. He says, I'm too small for the heavy work. Well, you are rather small, but no doubt you will grow. Boys have a queer habit of doing that.

I think you know how to make yourself useful. I need a boy here to run errands and look after my horse. If you like, I'll try you. You can live here and go to school. I sometimes hear of places for boys in my rounds, and the first good one that will suit you, I'll speak for you. How will that do? "'Oh, sir, you are too good,' said Bertie, with a choke in his voice.

"'Well, that is settled,' said the doctor genially. "'Come on Monday, then, and perhaps we can do something for that other little chap, William or John, or whatever his name is. We have some more pudding, Bertie.' "'No, thank you,' said Bertie. "'Pudding, indeed. He could not have eaten another mouthful after such wonderful and unexpected good fortune.' after dinner they played games and cracked nuts and roasted apples until the clock struck nine then bertie got up to go off are you said the doctor looking up from his paper well i'll expect you on monday remember yes sir said bertie happily he was not likely to forget

as he went out amy came through the hall with a red sled here is william john's present i've tied all the other things on so that they can't fall off edith was a at the door with a parcel. Here are some nuts and candies for William John, she said, and tell him we all wish him a happy New Year. Thank you, said Bertie. I've had a splendid time. I'll tell William John, good night. He stepped out. It was frostier than ever. The snow crackled and snapped. The stars were keen and bright, but to Bertie, running down the street with William John's sled, thumping merrily behind him, the world was aglow with red and red. The world was aglow with rosy hope and promise. He was quite sure he could never forget this wonderful New Year. End of Story 9.

Story 10 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Liber Fox recording is in the public domain. Story 10, Christmas at Red Butte. Of course, Santa Claus will come, said Jimmy Martin confidently. Jimmy was 10, and at 10 it is easy to be confident. Why, he's got to come because it is Christmas Eve, and he always has come. You know that, twins. Yes, the twins knew it and cheered by Jimmy's superior wisdom, their doubts passed away.

There had been one terrible moment when Theodora had sighed and told them they mustn't be too much disappointed if Santa Claus did not come this year because the crops had been poor and he might not have had enough presents to go around. That doesn't make any difference to Santa Claus, scoffed Jimmy. You know as well as I do, Theodora Prentice, that Santa Claus is rich, whether the crops fail or not. They failed three years ago before Father died, but Santa Claus came all the same. Probably you don't remember it, twins, because you were too little, but I do. Of course he'll come, so don't you worry you might, and he'll bring my skates and your dolls.

He knows we're expecting them, Theodora, because we wrote him a letter last week and threw it up the chimney. And there'll be candy and nuts, of course, and mother's gone to town to buy a turkey. I tell you, we're going to have a ripping Christmas. Well, don't use such slangy words about it, Jimmy Boy, sighed Theodora. She couldn't bear to dampen their hopes any further, and perhaps Aunt Elizabeth might manage it if the cold sold well. But Theodora had her painful doubts, and she'd be able. sighed again as she looked out of the window far down the trail that wound across the prairie, red-lighted by the declining sun of the short wintry afternoon. Do people always sigh like that

when they get to be 16? asked Jimmy curiously. You didn't sigh like that when you were only 15, Theodora. I wish you wouldn't. It makes me feel funny. And it's not a nice kind of funniness either. It's a bad habit I've got into lately, said Theodora. Theodora, trying to laugh. Old folks are dull sometimes, you know, Jimmy boy. Sixteen is awful old, isn't it? said Jimmy reflectively. I'll tell you what I'm going to do when I'm 16, Theodora. I'm going to pay off the mortgage and buy mother a silk dress and a piano for the twins. Won't that be elegant? I'll be able to do that because I'm a man.

Of course, if I was only a girl, I couldn't. I hope you'll be a good, kind, brave man and a real, help to your mother," said Theodora softly, sitting down before the cozy fire and lifting the fat little twins into her lap. Oh, I'll be good to her, never you fear," answered Jimmy, squatting comfortably down on the little fur rug before the stove, the skin of the coyote his father had killed four years ago. I believe in being good to your mother when you've only got the one. Now tell us a story, Theodora, a real jolly story you know, with lots of fighting in it.

Only please don't kill anybody. I like to hear about fighting, but I like to have all the people come out alive. Theodora laughed and began a story about the real rebellion of 85, a story which had the double merit of being true and exciting at the same time. It was quite dark when she finished and the twins were nodding, but Jimmy's eyes were wide open and sparkling. That was great, he said, drawing a long breath. Tell us another.

No, it's best. time for you all, said Theodora firmly, one story at a time is my rule, you know. But I want to sit up till mother comes home, objected Jimmy. You can't. She may be very late, for she would have to wait to see Mr. Porter. Besides, you don't know what time Santa Claus might come, if he comes at all.

If he were to drive along and see you children up instead of being sound asleep in bed, he might go right on and never call at all. This argument was too much, for Jimmy. All right, we'll go, but we have to hang up our stockings first. Twins, get yours. The twins toddled off in great excitement and brought back their Sunday stockings, which Jimmy proceeded to hang along the edge of the mantel shelf. This done, they all trooped obediently off to bed. Theodora gave another sigh and seated herself at the window, where she could watch

the moonlit prairie for Mrs. Martin's homecoming and knit at the same time. I am afraid that you will think from all the sighing Theodora was doing that she was a very melancholy and despondent young lady. You couldn't think anything more unlike the real Theodora. She was the jolliest, bravest girl of sixteen in all Saskatchewan, as her shining brown eyes and rosy-dimpled cheeks would have told you. And her sighs were not on her own account, but simply for fear the children were going to be disappointed. She knew that they would be almost heartbroken if Santa Claus did not come, and that this would hurt the patient, hard-working little mother more than all else. Five years before this, Theodora had come to live with Uncle George and Aunt Elizabeth in the little log house at Red Butte.

Her own mother had just died, and Theodora had only her big brother Donald left, and Donald had Klondike fever. The Martins were poor, but they had gladly made room for their little niece, and Theodora had lived there ever since, her aunt's right-hand girl and the beloved playmate of the children. They've been very happy until Uncle George's death two years before this Christmas Eve. But since then, there have been hard times in the little log house, and though Mrs. Martin and Theodora did their best, it was a woefully hard task to make both ends meet, especially this year when their crops had been poor. Theodora and her aunt had made every sacrifice possible for the children's sake, and at least Jimmy and the twins had not felt the pinch very severely yet. At seven, Mrs. Martin's bells jingled at the door, and Theodora flew out.

Go right in and get warm, Auntie, she said briskly, I'll take Ned away and unharness him. It's a bitterly cold night, said Mrs. Martin wearily. was a note of discouragement in her voice that struck dismay to Theodora's heart. I'm afraid it means no Christmas for the children tomorrow, she thought sadly, as she led Ned away to the stable. When she returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Martin was sitting by the fire, her face in her chilled hands sobbing convulsively. "'Auntie! Oh, Auntie, don't!' exclaimed Theodora impulsively. It was such a rare thing to see her plucky, resolute little.

little aunt in tears. You're cold and tired. I'll have a nice cup of tea for you and a trice. No, it isn't that, said Mrs. Martin brokenly. It was seeing those stockings hanging there. Theodora, I couldn't get a thing for the children, not a single thing. Mr. Porter would only give forty dollars for the cold, and when all the bills were paid there was barely enough left for such necessaries as we must have. I suppose I ought to to feel thankful I could get those. But the thought of the children's disappointment tomorrow is more than I can bear. It would have been better to have told them long ago, but I kept building on getting more for the cope. Well, it's weak and foolish to give away like this. We'd

better both take a cup of tea and go to bed. It will save fuel. When Theodora went up to her little room, her face was very thoughtful. She took a small box from her table and carried it to the window. in it was a very pretty little gold locket hung on a narrow blue ribbon theodora held it tenderly in her fingers and looked out over the moonlit prairie with a very sober face could she give up her dear locket the locket donald had given her just before he started for the klondike she had never thought she could do such a thing it was almost the only thing she had to remind her of donald handsome merry impulsive warm-hearted donald who had gone away four years ago with a smile on his bonny face and splendid hope in his heart here's a locket for you gift of god he had said gaily he had such a dear loving habit of calling her by the beautiful meaning of her name a lump came into theodora's throat as she remembered it i couldn't afford a chain too but when i come back i'll bring you a rope of klondike nuggets for it then he had gone away for two years letters had come from him regularly then he wrote that he had joined a prospecting party to a remote wilderness after that was silence deepening into anguish of suspense that finally ended in hopelessness a rumor came that donald prentice was dead none had returned from the expedition he had just joined. Theodora had long ago given up all hope of ever seeing Donald again, hence her

locket was doubly dear to her. But Aunt Elizabeth had always been so good and loving and kind to her. Could she not make the sacrifice for her sake? Yes, she could and would. Theodora flung up her head with a gesture that meant decision. She took out of the locket the bits of hair, her mothers and Donald's, which it contained, perhaps a tear or two fell as she did so, and then hastily donned her warmest cap and wraps. It was only three miles to Spencer. She could easily walk it in an hour, and, as it was Christmas Eve, the shops would be open late. She must walk, for Ned could not be taken out again, and the mare's foot was sore. Besides, Aunt Elizabeth must not know until it was done. As stealthy,

As if she were bound on some nefarious errand, Theodora slipped downstairs and out of the house. The next minute she was hurrying along the trail in the moonlight. The great dazzling prairie was around her, the mystery and splendor of the northern night all about her. It was very calm and cold, but Theodora walked so briskly that she kept warm. The trail from Red Butte to Spencer was a lonely one. Mr. Lurgens' house, halfway to town, was the only one. only dwelling on it. When Theodora reached Spencer, she made her way at once to the only jewelry store the little town contained. Mr. Benson, its owner, had been a friend of her uncles,

and Theodora felt sure that he would buy her locket. Nevertheless, her heart beat quickly, and her breath came and went uncomfortably fast as she went in. Suppose he wouldn't buy it. Then there would be no Christmas for the children at Red Butte. Good evening, Miss Theodora. said to Mr. Benson briskly, what can I do for you? I'm afraid I'm not a very welcome sort of customer, Mr. Benson, said Theodora, with an uncertain smile. I want to sell, not buy.

Could you, will you, buy this locket? Mr. Benson pursed up his lips, took up the locket, and examined it. Well, I don't often buy secondhand stuff, he said, after some reflection. But I don't mind obliging you, Miss Theodora. I'll give you five. $4 for this trinket.

Theodora knew the locket had cost a great deal more than that, but four dollars would get what she wanted, and she dared not ask for more. In a few minutes, the locket was in Mr. Benson's possession, and Theodora, with four crisp new bills in her purse, was hurrying to the toy store. Half an hour later, she was on her way back to Red Butte, with as many parcels as she could carry.

Jimmy Skates, two lovely dolls for the twins, packages of nuts and candy, and a nice plump turkey. Theodora beguiled her lonely tramp by picturing the children's joy in the morning. About a quarter of a mile past Mr. Lurgan's house, the trail curved suddenly about a bluff of poplars. As Theodora rounded the turn, she halted in amazement. Almost at her feet the body of a man was lying across the road. He was clad in a big fur coat and had a fur cap pulled well down,

over his forehead and ears. Almost all of him that could be seen was a full bushy beard. Theodora had no idea who he was or where he had come from, but she realized that he was unconscious and that he would speedily freeze to death if help were not brought. The footprints of a horse galloping across the prairie suggested a fall and a runaway, but Theodora did not waste time in speculation.

She ran back at full speed. to Mr. Lurgens and roused the household. In a few minutes Mr. Lurgan and his son had hitched a horse to a wood sleigh and hurried down the trail to the unfortunate man. Theodora, knowing that her assistance was not needed and that she ought to get home as quickly as possible, went on her way as soon as she had seen the stranger in safekeeping. When she reached the little log house, she crept in, cautiously put the children's gifts in their stockings, placed the turkish, on the table where Aunt Elizabeth would see it the first thing in the morning, and then slipped off to bed, a very weary but very happy girl.

The joy that reigned in the little log house the next day more than repaid Theodora for her sacrifice. Opie, didn't I tell you that Santa Claus would come all right? shouted the delighted Jimmy. Oh, what splendid skates! The twins hugged their dolls in silent rapture, but Aunt Elizabeth's face was the best of all. Then the dinner had to be prepared, and everybody had a hand in that. Just as Theodora, after a grave peep into the oven, had announced that the turkey was done, a sleigh dashed

around the house. Theodora flew to answer the knock at the door, and there stood Mr. Lurgan and a big, bewhiskered, fur-coated fellow whom Theodora recognized as the stranger she'd found on the trail. But was he a stranger? There was something oddly familiar in those merry brown eyes. Theodora felt herself growing dizzy. Donald! She gasped. Oh, Donald!

And then she was in the big fellow's arms, laughing and crying at the same time. Donald, it was indeed. And then followed half an hour during which everybody talked at once, and the turkey would have been burned to a crisp had it not been for the presence of mind of Mr. Lurgan, who, being the least,

excited of them all, took it out of the oven, and set it on the back of the stove. To think that it was you last night, and that I never dreamed it, exclaimed Theodora. Oh, Donald, if I hadn't gone to town. I'd have frozen to death, I'm afraid, said Donald soberly. I got into Spencer on the last train last night. I felt that I must come right out. I couldn't wait till morning. But there wasn't a team to be got for Lovener money.

It was Christmas Eve, and all the love. livery rigs were out. So I came on horseback. Just by that bluff, something frightened my horse, and he shied violently. I was half asleep and thinking of my little sister, and I went off like a shot. I suppose I struck my head against a tree. Anyway, I knew nothing more until I came to in Mr. Lurgan's kitchen. I wasn't much hurt, feel none the worse of it, except for a sore head and shoulder. But, oh, gift a God, how you have grown. I can't realize that you are the little sister I left four years ago. I suppose you've been thinking I was dead?

Yes, and, oh, Donald, where have you been? Well, I went away up north with a prospecting party. We had a tough time the first year, I can tell you, and some of us never came back. We weren't in a country where post offices were lying around loose, either, you see. Then at last, just as we were about giving up in despair, we struck it rich. I've brought a snug little pile home with me, and things are going to look up in this log house. Gift to God, there'll be no more worrying for you, dear people, over mortgages.

I'm so glad, for auntie's sake, said Theodora, with shining eyes, but, oh, Donald, it's best of all to have you back. I'm so perfectly happy that I don't know what to do or say. well i think you might have dinner said jemmy in an injured tone that turkey's getting stone cold and i'm most starving i just can't stand it another minute so with a laugh they all sat down to the table and ate the merriest christmas dinner the little log house had ever known end of story ten story eleven of christmas with lucy maud montgomery a selection of stories this liver-fox recording is in the public domain story eleven a christmas inspiration well i really think santa claus has been very good to us all said jean lawrence pulling the pins out of her heavy coil of fair hair and letting it ripple over her shoulders so do i said nelly preston as well as she could with a mouth of her hair and letting it ripple over her shoulders so do i said nelly preston as well as she could with a mouth of her mouth full of chocolates. Those blessed home folks of mine seemed to have divined by instinct the very things I most wanted. It was the dusk of Christmas Eve, and they were all in Jean Lawrence's

room at No. 16 Chestnut Terrace. Number 16 was a boarding house, and the boarding houses are not proverbially cheerful places in which to spend Christmas, but Jean's room, at least, was a pleasant spot, and all the girls had brought their Christmas presents in to show each other. Christmas came on Sunday that year, and the Saturday evening mail at Chestnut Terrace had been an exciting one. Gene had lighted the pink-globed lamp on her table, and the mellow light fell over merry faces as the girls chatted about their gifts. On the table was a big white box, heaped with roses that betokened a bit of Christmas extravagant on somebody's part. Jean's brother had sent them to her from Montreal, and all the girls were enjoying them in common.

Number 16, Chestnut Terrace, was overrun with girls generally. But just now only five were left. All the others had gone home for Christmas, but these five could not go and were bent on making the best of it. Bell and Olive Reynolds, who were sitting on the bed, Jean could never keep them off it, were high school girls. They were said to be always laughing, and even the fact that they could not go home for Christmas because a young brother had measles did not dampen their spirits. Beth Hamilton, who was hovering over the roses, and Nellie Preston, who was eating candy, were art students, and their homes were too far away to visit.

As for Jean Lawrence, she was an orphan and had no home of her own. She worked on the staff of one of the big city newspapers, and the other girls were a little in awe of her cleverness, but her nature was a chummy one, and her room was a favorite rendezvous. Everybody liked Frank, open-handed and hearted Jean. It was so funny to see the postman when he came this evening, said Olive. He just bulged with parcels. They were sticking out in every direction. We all got our share of them, said Jean with a sigh of content. Even the cook got six. I counted. Miss Allen didn't get a thing, not even. even a letter, said Beth quickly. Beth had a trick of seeing things that other girls did not.

I forgot, Miss Allen. No, I don't believe she did, answered Jean thoughtfully, as she twisted up her pretty hair. How dismal it must be to be so forlorn as that on Christmas Eve of all times. I'm glad I have friends. I saw Miss Allen watching us as we opened our parcels and letters, Beth went on. I happened to look up once, and such an expression as was on her face, girls. It was pathetic and sad and envious all at once. It really made me feel bad. For five minutes, she concluded honestly. Hasn't Miss Allen any friends at all? asked Beth. No, I don't think she has, answered Jean. She has lived here for 14 years, so Mrs. Pickerel says, Think of that, girls, fourteen years at Chestnut Terrace.

Is it any wonder that she is thin and dried up and snappy? Nobody ever comes to see her and she never goes anywhere, said Beth. Dear me, she must feel lonely now when everybody else is being remembered by their friends. I can't forget her face tonight. It actually haunts me. Girls, how would you feel if you hadn't anyone belonging to you and if nobody thought about you a Christmas. Oh, said Olive, as if the mere idea made her shiver.

A little silence followed. To tell the truth, none of them liked Miss Allen. They knew that she did not like them either, but considered them frivolous at Purt, and complained when they made a racket. The skeleton at the feast, Jane called her, and certainly the presence of the pale, silent, discontented-looking woman at the number 16 table,

did not tend to heighten its festivity. Presently, Jean said, with a dramatic flourish, Girls, I have an inspiration, a Christmas inspiration. What is it? cried four voices. Just this. Let us give Miss Allen a Christmas surprise. She has not received a single present, and I'm sure she feels lonely.

Just think how we would feel if we were in her place. Well, that is true, said Olive thoughtfully. Do you know, girl? this evening i went to a room with a message from mrs pickerel and i do believe she had been crying her room looked dreadfully bare and cheerless too i think she is very poor what are we to do jean let us each give her something nice we can put the things just outside of her door so that she will see them whenever she opens it i'll give her some of fred's roses too and i'll write a christmassy letter in my very best style to go with them," said Jean, warming up to her idea as she talked. The other girls caught her spirit and entered into the plan with enthusiasm. "'Splendid!' cried Beth.

"'Jean, it is an inspiration, sure enough. Haven't we been horribly selfish, thinking of nothing but our own gifts and fun and pleasure? I really feel ashamed.' "'Let us do the thing up the very best we can,' said Nellie, forgetting even her beloved chocolates in her eagerness. The shops are open yet. Let us go uptown and invest. Five minutes later, five capped and jacketed figures were scurrying up the street in the frosty starlet December dusk. Miss Allen, in her cold little room, heard their gay voices and sighed. She was crying by herself in the dark. It was Christmas for everybody but her, she thought drearily.

In an hour the girls came back with their purchases. now let's hold a council of war said jean jubilantly i hadn't the faintest idea what miss allan would like so i just guessed wildly i got her a lace handkerchief and a big bottle of perfume and a painted photograph frame and i'll stick my own photo in it for fun that was really all i could afford christmas purchases have left my purse dreadfully lean i got her a glove-box and pen-tray said bell and olive got her a calendar and whittier's poems and besides we are going to give her half of that big plumy fruit-cake mother sent us from home i'm sure she hasn't tasted anything so delicious for years for fruit-cakes don't grow on chestnut terrace and she never goes anywhere else for a meal beth had bought a pretty cup and saucer and said she meant to give one of her pretty watercolors too nellie true to her reputation had a very cup and saucer and said she meant to give one of her pretty watercolors too nellie true to her reputation had invested in a big box of chocolate creams, a gorgeously striped candy cane, a bag of oranges, and a brilliant lampshade of rose-colored crepe paper to top off with. It makes such a lot of show for the money, she explained.

I am bankrupt, like Jean. Well, we've got a lot of pretty things, said Jean, in a tone of satisfaction. Now, we must do them up nicely. Will you wrap them in tissue paper girls and tie them with a baby ribbon? here's a box of it, while I write that letter? While the others chatted over their parcels, Jean wrote her letter, and Jean could write delightful letters.

She had a decided talent in that respect, and her correspondence all declared her letters to be things of beauty and joy forever. She put her best into Miss Allen's Christmas letter. Since then, she has written many bright and clever things, but I do not believe she ever in her life wrote anything more genuinely original and delightful than that letter besides it breathed the very spirit of christmas and all the girls declared that it was splendid you must all sign it now said jean and i'll put it in one of those big envelopes and nelly won't you write her name on it in fancy letters which nelly proceeded to do and furthermore embellished the envelope with a border of chubby cherubs dancing hand in hand around

it and a sketch of number 16 chestnut terrace in the corner in lieu of a stamp not content with this she hunted out a huge sheet of drawing paper and drew upon it an original pen and ink design after her own heart a dudish cat miss allen was fond of the number 16 cat if she could be said to be fond of anything was portrayed seated on a rocker arrayed in smoking jacket and cap, with a cigar waved airily aloft in one paw, while the other held out a placard bearing the legend, Merry Christmas. A second cat in full street costume bowed politely, hat in paw, and waved a banner inscribed with Happy New Year, while faintly suggested kittens gambled around the border. The girls laughed until they cried over it and voted it to be the best thing

Nellie had yet done in original work. All this had taken time, and it was past 11 o'clock. Miss Allen had cried herself to sleep long ago, and everybody else in Chestnut Terrace was abed, when five figures cautiously crept down the hall, headed by Jean with a dim lamp. Outside of Miss Allen's door, the procession halted, and the girls silently arranged their gifts on the floor. "'That's done!' whispered Jean in a tone of satisfaction. as they tiptoed back and now let us go to bed or miss pickerel bless her heart will be down on us for burning so much midnight oil oil has gone up you know girls it was in the early morning that miss allan opened her door but early as it was another door down the hall was half open two and five rosy faces were peering cautiously out the girls had been up for an hour for fear they would miss the sight and were all in nellie's room which commanded a view of Miss Allen's door.

That lady's face was a study. Amazement, incredulity, wonder, chased each other over it, succeeded by a glow of pleasure. On the floor before her was a snug little pyramid of parcels topped by Jean's letter. On a chair behind it was a bowl of delicious hot-house roses and Nellie's placard. Miss Allen looked down the hall but saw nothing, for Jean had slammed the door. just in time. Half an hour later, when they were going down to breakfast, Miss Allen came along the hall with outstretched hands to meet them. She had been crying again, but I think her tears were happy ones, and she was smiling now. A cluster of Jean's roses were pinned on her breast.

Oh, girls, girls, she said with a little tremble in her voice. I can never thank you enough. It was so kind and sweet of you. You don't know how much good you have done. me. Breakfast was an unusually cheerful affair at number 16 that morning. There was no skeleton at the feast, and everybody was beaming. Miss Allen laughed and talked like a girl herself. Oh, how surprised I was, she said. The roses were like a bit of summer, and those cats of Nellys were so funny and delightful. And your letter, too, Jean, I cried and laughed over it. I shall read it every day for a year. After breakfast, almost everyone went to Christmas service.

The girls went uptown to the church they attended. The city was very beautiful in the morning sunshine. There had been a white frost in the night, and the tree-lined avenues in public squares seemed like glimpses of fairyland. How lovely the world is, said Jean. This is really the very happiest Christmas morning I have ever known, declared Nellie. I never felt so really Christmasy in my inmost soul before.

I suppose, said Beth thoughtfully, that it is because we have discovered for ourselves the old truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive. I've always known it in a way, but I never realized it before. Blessing on Jean's Christmas inspiration, said Nellie, but girls, let us try to make it an all-the-year-round inspiration, I say. We can bring a little of our own sunshine into Miss Allen's life as long as we live with Amen to that, said Jean Hartily. Oh, listen, girls, the Christmas chimes.

And over all the beautiful city was wafted the grand old message of peace on earth and goodwill to all the world. End of Story 11. Story 12 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Liverpool's recording is in the public domain. Story 12, A Christmas Mistake. Tomorrow is Christmas. announced Teddy Grant exultantly as he sat on the floor, struggling manfully with a refractory

bootlace that was knotted and tagless, and stubbornly refused to go into the eyelids of Teddy's patched boots. And I'm glad, though, hurrah! His mother was washing the breakfast dishes in a dreary, listless sort of way. She looked tired and broken-spirited. Ted's enthusiasm seemed to grate on her, for she answered sharply, Christmas indeed. I can't see that it is anything for us to rejoice over. Other people may be glad enough, but what with winter coming on? I'd sooner it was spring than Christmas.

Mary Alice, do lift that child out of the ashes and put its shoes and stockings on. Everything seems to be at sixes and sevens here this morning. Keith, the oldest boy, was coiled up on the sofa, calmly working out some algebra problems, quite oblivious to the noise around him. But he looked up from his slate,

with his pencil suspended above an obstinate equation, to declaim with the flourish, Christmas comes but once a year, and then Mother wishes it wasn't here. I don't then, said Gordon's son number two, who was preparing his own noon lunch of bread and molasses at the table, and making an atrocious mess of crumbs and sugary syrup over everything, I know one thing to be thankful for,

and that is that there'll be no school, will have a whole week of holidays. Gordon was noted for his aversion to school and his affection for holidays. And we're going to have turkey for dinner, declared Teddy, getting up off the floor and rushing to secure his share of bread and molasses, and cranberry sauce and panky, ain't we ma? No, you are not, said Mrs. Grant desperately, dropping the dishcloth and snatching the baby on her knee

to wipe the crust of cinders and molasses from the chubby pink and white face. You may as well know it now. I've kept it from you so far in hopes that something will turn up, but nothing has. We can't have any Christmas dinner tomorrow. We can't afford it. I've pinched and saved every way I could for the last month, hoping that I'd be able to get a turkey for you anyhow, but you'll have to do without it.

There's that doctor's bill to pay and a dozen other bills coming in, and people say they can't wait. I suppose they can't, but it's kind of hard, I must say. The little grants stood with open mouths, and horrified eyes. No, turkey for Christmas? Was the world coming to an end? Wouldn't the government interfere

if anyone ventured to dispense with a Christmas celebration? The gluttonous teddy stuffed his fist into his eyes and lifted up his voice. Keith, who understood better than the others, the look on his mother's face, took his blubbering young brother

by the collar and marched him into the porch. The twins, seeing the summary proceedings, swallowed the outcry they had intended to make, although they couldn't keep a few big tears from running down their fat cheeks. Mrs. Grant looked pityingly at the disappointed faces around her. Don't cry, children, you make me feel worse. We're not the only ones who have to do without a Christmas turkey. We ought to be very thankful that we have anything to eat at all. I hate to disappoint you, but it can't be helped. Never mind, mother, said Keith comfortingly, relaxing his hold upon the porch

door, whereupon it suddenly flew open and precipitated Teddy, who had been tugging at the handle, heels overhead, backwards. We know you've done your best. It's been a hard year for you. Just wait, though. I'll soon be grown up, and then you and these greedy youngsters shall feast on turkey every day of the year. Hello, Teddy, have you got on your feet yet? Mine, sir, no more blubbering. When I'm a man announced Teddy with dignity, I'd just like to see you a put me in the porch, and I mean to have turkey all the time, and I won't give you any either. All right, you greedy small boy, only take yourself off to school now, and let us hear no more squeaks out of you, tramp all of you, and give mother a chance to get her work done.

Mrs. Grant got up and fell to work at her dishes with the brighter face. Well, we mustn't give in. Perhaps things will be better after a while. I'll make a famous bread-pudding, and you can boil some molasses taffy and ask those little smithsons next door to help you pull it. They won't wine for turkey, I'll be bound. I don't suppose they ever tasted such a thing in all their lives. If I could afford it, I'd have had them all into dinner with us. That sermon Mr. Evans preached last Sunday kind of stirred me up.

He said we ought always to try and share our Christmas joy with some poor souls who had never learned the meaning of the word. I can't do as much as I'd like to. it was different when your father was alive the noisy group grew silent as they always did when their father was spoken of he had died the year before and since his death the little family had had a hard time keith to hide his feelings began to hector the rest mary alice do hurry up here you twin nuisance says get off to school if you don't you'll be late and then the master will give you a whipping he won't answered the irrepressible teddy he never whips us he doesn't He stands us on the floor sometimes, though, he added, remembering the many times his own chubby legs had been seen to better advantage on the school platform. That man, said Mrs. Grant, alluding to the teacher, makes me nervous.

He is the most abstracted creature I ever saw in my life. It is a wonder to me he doesn't walk straight into the river someday. You'll meet him meandering along the street, gazing into vacancy, and he'll never see you nor hear a word you say half the time. yesterday said gordon chuckling over the remembrance he came in with a big piece of paper he had picked up on the entry floor in one end and his hat in the other and he stuffed his hat into the coal scuttle and hung up the paper on a nail as a grave as you please never knew the difference till ted slocum went and told him he's always doing things like that keith had collected his books and now marched his brothers and sisters off to school left along with the baby mrs grant betook her took herself to her work with a heavy heart. But a second interruption broke the progress of her dishwashing.

I declare, she said, with a surprised glance through the window, if there isn't that absent-minded schoolteacher coming through the yard, what can he want? Dear me, I do hope Teddy hasn't been cutting capers in school again. For the teacher's last call had been in October and had been occasioned by the fact that the irrepressible Teddy would persist in going to school with his, his pockets filled with live crickets, and in driving them harnessed two strings up and down

the aisle when the teacher's back was turned. All mild methods of punishment having failed, the teacher had called to talk it over with Mrs. Grant, with the happy result that Teddy's behavior had improved, in the matter of crickets at least. But it was about time for another outbreak. Teddy had to been unnaturally good for too long a time. Poor Mrs. Grant feared that it was the calm before a storm, and it was with nervous haste that she went to the door and greeted the young teacher. He was a slight, pale, boyish-looking

fellow with an abstracted, amusing look in his large, dark eyes. Mrs. Grant noticed, with amusement that he wore a white straw hat in spite of the season. His eyes were directed to her face with his usual unseeing gaze. Just as though he was looking through me. at something a thousand miles away said mrs grant afterwards i believe he was too his body was right there on the step before me but where his soul was is more than you or i or anybody can tell good morning he said absently i've just called on my way to school with a message from miss miller she wants you all to come up and have christmas dinner with her to-morrow for the land's sake said mrs grant blankly I don't understand. To herself, she thought, I wish I dared take him and shake him

to find out if he's walking in his sleep or not. You and all the children, everyone, went on the teacher dreamily, as if he were reciting a lesson learned beforehand. She told me to tell you to be sure and come. Shall I say that you will? Oh, yes, that is, I suppose I don't know, said Mrs. Grant incoherently. I never expected.

Yes, you may tell her will come, she concluded abruptly. Thank you, said the abstracted messenger, gravely lifting his hat and looking squarely through Mrs. Grant into unknown regions. When he had gone, Mrs. Grant went in and sat down, laughing in a sort of hysterical way. I wonder if it is all right. Could Cornelia really have told him?

She must, I suppose, but it is enough to take one's breath. Mrs. Grant and Cornelia Miller were cousins, and had once been the closest of friends, but that was years ago before some spiteful reports and ill-natured gossip had come between them, making only a little rift at first that soon widened into a chasm of coldness and alienation. Therefore, this invitation surprised Mrs. Grant greatly. Miss Cornelia was a maiden lady of certain years with a comfortable bank account, handsome, old-fashioned house on the hill behind the village. She always boarded the school teachers and looked after them maternally. She was an active church worker and a tower of strength

to struggling ministers and their families. If Cornelia has seen fit at last to hold out the hand of reconciliation, I'm glad enough to take it. Dear knows, I've wanted to make up often enough, but I didn't think she ever would. We've both of us got too much pride and stubbornness. the Turner blood in us that does it. The turners were all so set. But I mean to do my part, now she has done hers. And Mrs. Grant made a final attack on the dishes with a beaming face. When the little Grants came home and heard the news, Teddy stood on his head to express his delight, the twins kissed each other, and Mary Alice and Gordon danced around the kitchen. Keith thought himself too big to betray any joy over a Christmas dinner, but he whistled,

while doing the chores until the bear welkin in the yard rang, and Teddy, in spite of unheard-of misdemeanors, was not collared off into the porch once. When the young teacher got home from school that evening, he found the yellow house full of all sorts of delectable odors. Miss Cornelia herself was concocting mince pies after the famous family recipe, while her ancient and faithful handmaiden Hannah was straining into moles the cranberry jelly. The old open pantry door revealed a tempting array of Christmas delicacies. Did you call and invite the smithsons up to dinner, as I told you? Ask Miss Cornelia anxiously.

Yes, was the dreamy response as he glided through the kitchen and vanished into the hall. Miss Cornelia crimped the edges of her pies delicately with a relieved air. I made certain he'd forget it, she said, you just have to watch him as if he were a mere child. Didn't I catch him yesterday starting off to school with his carpet's slippers? And in spite of me, he got away today in that ridiculous summer hat. You'd better set that jelly in the out pantry to cool, Hannah. It looks good. We'll give those poor little Smithsons a feast for once in their lives if they never get another. At this juncture, the hall door flew open, and Mr. Palmer appeared on the threshold. He seemed considerably agitated,

and for once his eyes had lost their look of space-searching. Miss Miller, I am a afraid I did make a mistake this morning. It has just dawned on me. I am almost sure that I called at Mrs. Grant's and invited her and her family instead of the Smithsons, and she said they would come. Miss Cornelius' face was a study. Mr. Palmer, she said, flourishing her crimping fork tragically, do you mean to say you went and invited Linda Grant here tomorrow? Linda Grant. of all women in this world?" I did, said the teacher with penitent wretchedness. It was very careless of me.

I'm very sorry. What can I do? I'll go down and tell him I made a mistake, if you like. You can't do that, groaned Miss Cornelia, sitting down and wrinkling up her forehead in dire perplexity. It would never do in the world. For pity's sake, let me think for a minute. Miss Cornelia did think, to good purpose evident,

for her forehead smoothed out as her meditations proceeded and her face brightened then she got up briskly well you've done it and no mistake i don't know that i'm sorry either anyhow we'll leave it as it is but you must go straight down now and invite the smithson's too and for pity's sake don't make any more mistakes when he had gone and miss cornelia opened her heart to hannah i never could have done it myself never that Turner is too strong in me, but I'm glad it is done. I've been wanting for years to make up with Linda, and now the chance has come, thanks to that blessed, blundering boy. I mean to make the most of it. Mind, Hannah, you never whisper a word about it's being a mistake. Linda must never know. Poor Linda, she's had a hard time. Hannah, we must make some more pies, and I must go straight down to the store and get some more Santa Claus stuff. I've only got enough to go around this When Mrs. Grant and her family arrived at the Yellow House next morning,

Miss Cornelia herself ran out bareheaded to meet them. The two women shook hands a little stiffly, and then a rill of long-repressed affection trickled out from some secret spring in Miss Cornelia's heart, and she kissed her newfound old friend tenderly. Linda returned the kiss warmly, and both felt that the old-time friendship was theirs, again. The little Smithans all came, and they and the little grants sat down on the long, bright dining table to a dinner that made history in their small wives, and was eaten over again in happy dreams for months. How those children did eat, and how beaming Miss Cornelia and grim-faced,

soft-hearted Hannah, and even the absent-minded teacher himself, enjoyed watching them. After dinner, Miss Cornelia distributed among the delighted little souls the presents she had bought for them, and then turned them loose in the big, shining kitchen to have a taffy pole, and they had it to their heart's content. And as for the shocking, taffified state into which they got their own rosy faces, and that once immaculate domain, well, as Miss Cornelia and Hannah never said one word about it, neither will I. The four women enjoyed the afternoon in their own way, and the school-teacher buried himself in algebra to his own great satisfaction. When her guests went home in the Starlit December dusk, Miss Cornelia walked part of the way with them and had a long confidential

talk with Mrs. Grant. When she returned, it was to find Hannah groaning in and over the kitchen, and the schoolteacher dreamily trying to clean some molasses off. his boots with the kitchen hairbrush. Long-suffering Miss Cornelia rescued her property and dispatched Mr. Palmer into the woodshed to find the shoe brush. Then she sat down and laughed. Hannah, what will become of that boy yet? There's no counting on what he'll do next. I don't know how he'll ever get through the world, I'm sure, but I'll look after him while he's here, at least. I owe him a huge debt of gratitude for this Christmas blunder. What an awful mess this place is in. But Hannah, did you ever in the world see anything so delightful as that

little Tommy Smith's son stuffing himself with plum cake? Not to mention Teddy Grant. It did me good just to see them. End of story 12. Story 13 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Story 13, The Christmas Surprise Surprise. at Enderley Road. Phil, I'm getting fearfully hungry. When are we going to strike civilization? The speaker was my chum, Frank Ward.

We were home from our academy for the Christmas holidays and had been amusing ourselves on this sunshiny December afternoon by a tramp through the backlands, as the barons that swept away south behind the village were called. They were grown over with scrub, maple, and spruce, and were quite pathless, save for a lot of. meandering sheep tracks that crossed and recrossed but led apparently nowhere. Frank and I did not know exactly where we were, but the backlands were not so extensive, but that we would come out

somewhere if we kept on. It was getting laid, and we wished to go home. I have an idea that we ought to strike civilization somewhere up the Inderly road pretty soon, I answered. Do you call that civilization, said Frank with a laugh? No Blackburn Hill boy was a was ever known to miss an opportunity of flinging a slur at Enderly Road, even if no Enderly Roader were by to feel the sting. Enderly Road was a miserable little settlement straggling back from Blackburn Hill. It was a forsaken-looking place, and the people, as a rule, were poor and shiftless. Between Blackburn Hill and Enderley Road, very little social intercourse existed,

and, as the road people resented what they called the pride of Blackburn Hill, there was a good deal of bad feeling between the two districts. Presently, Frank and I came out on the Inderly Road. We sat on the fence a few minutes to rest and discuss our route home. If we go by the road, it's three miles, said Frank. Isn't there a shortcut? There ought to be one by the wood lane that comes out by Jacob Hart's, I answered, but I don't know where to strike it.

Here is someone coming now. We'll inquire, said Frank, looking up the curve of the hard frozen road, the someone was a little girl of about ten years old, who was trotting along with a basketful of school books on her arm. She was a pale, pinched little thing, and her jacket and red hood seemed very old and thin. Hello, missy, I said as she came up, and then I stopped, for I saw she had been crying.

What is the matter? asked Frank, who was much more at ease with children than I was, and had always a warm spot in his heart for their small troubles. Has your teacher kept you in for being naughty? The mite dashed her little red knuckles across her eyes, and answered indignantly, No, indeed, I stayed after school with Minnie Lawler to sweep the floor. And did you and Minnie quarrel, and is that why you were crying? asked Frank solemnly. Many and I never quarrel.

I am crying because we can't have the school decorated on Monday for the examination after all. The Dickies have gone back on us, after promising, too, and the tears began to swell up in the blue eyes again. Very bad behavior on the part of the Dickies, commented Frank, but can't you decorate the school without them? Why, of course not. They are the only big boys in the school. They said they will cut the boughs and bring a ladder tomorrow and help us nail the wreaths up, and now they won't, and everything is spoiled. And Miss Davis will be so disappointed.

By dent of questioning, Frank soon found out the whole story. The semi-annual public examination was to be held on Monday afternoon, the day before Christmas. Miss Davis had been drilling her little flock for the occasion, and a program of recitations, speeches, and dialogues had, been prepared. Our small informant, whose name was Maggie Bates, together with many Lawler and several other little girls, had conceived the idea that it would be a fine thing to decorate the schoolroom with greens. For this it was necessary to ask the help of the boys. Boys were scarce at an early school, but the Dickies, three in number, had promised to see that the thing

was done. And now they won't, sobbed Maggie, Matt Dickie is mad at Miss Davis, because she stood him on the floor today for not learning his lesson, and he says he won't do a thing nor let any of the other boys help us. Matt just makes all the boys do as he says. I feel dreadful bad, and so does many. Well, I wouldn't cry any more about it, said Frank consolingly. Crying won't do any good, you know. Can you tell us where to find the wood lane that cuts across to Blackburny ill?

Maggie could and gave us minute directions. So having thanked her, we left her to pursue her disconsolate way and betook ourselves homeward. I would like to spoil Matt Dickie's little game, said Frank. He is evidently trying to run things at Inderly Road School and revenge himself on the teacher. Let us put a spoke in his wheel and do Maggie a good turn as well. Agreed, but how? Frank had a plan ready to hand, and when we were. reached home, we took his sisters, Carrie and Mabel, into our confidence, and the four of us worked

to such good purpose all the next day, which was Saturday, that by night everything was in readiness. At dusk, and I set out for the Inderly Road, carrying a basket, a small step-ladder, an unlit lantern, a hammer, and a box of tacks. It was dark when we reached the Inderly Road Schoolhouse. fortunately it was quite out of sight of any inhabited spot being surrounded by woods hence mysterious lights in it at strange hours would not be likely to attract attention the door was locked but we easily got in by a window lighted our lantern and went to work the schoolroom was small and the old-fashioned furniture bore marks of hard usage but everything was very snug and the carefully swept floor and dusted desks bore testimony to the neatness of our small friend maggie and her chum minnie our basket was full of mottoes made from letters cut out of cardboard and covered with lidsom sprays of fur they were moreover adorned with gorgeous pink and red tissue roses which carrie and mabel had contributed we had considerable trouble in getting them tacked up properly but when we had succeeded and had furthermore surmounted doors windows and blackboard with rees of green, the little Inderly Road schoolroom was quite transformed.

It looks nice, said Frank in a tone of satisfaction. Hope Maggie will like it. We swept up the litter we had made and then scrambled out of the window. I like to see Matt Dickie's face when it comes Monday morning, I laughed as we struck into the backlands. I'd like to see that midget of a Maggie's, said Frank. See here, Phil. Let's attend the examination Monday afternoon. I'd like to see our decorations and daylight. We decided to do so and also thought of something else. Snow fell all day Sunday so that on Monday morning, Slays had to be brought out. Frank and I drove down to the store and invested a considerable share of our spare cash in a varied assortment of knick-knacks. After dinner, we drove through to the Interley Road Schoolhouse, tied our horse in a quiet spot, and went in.

Our arrival created quite a sensation, for as a rule, Blackburn Hillites did not patronize Enderly Road functions. Miss Davis, the pale, tired-looking little teacher, was evidently pleased, and we were given seats of honor next to the minister on the platform. Our decorations really looked very well, and were further enhanced by two large red geraniums in full bloom, which it appeared Maggie had brought from home to adorn. the teacher's desk. The side benches were lined with Interley Road parents and all the pupils were in their best attire. Our friend

Maggie was there, of course, and she smiled and nodded towards the reefs when she caught our eyes. The examination was a decided success and the program which followed was very creditable indeed. Maggie and Minnie in particular covered themselves with glory, both in class and on the platform. At its close, while they The minister was making his speech, Frank slipped out. When the minister sat down, the door opened and Santa Claus himself, with a big fur coat, ruddy mask and long white beard, strode into the room with a huge basket on his arm amid a chorus of surprised, Oves!

From old and young. Wonderful things came out of that basket. There was some little present for every child there, tops, knives, and whistles for the boys, and ribbons for the girls, and a prize-box of candy for everybody, all of which Santa Claus presented with appropriate remarks. It was an exciting time, and it would have been hard to decide which were the most pleased, parents, pupils, or teacher. In the confusion, Santa Claus discreetly disappeared, and school was dismissed. Frank, having tucked his toggery away in the sleigh, was waiting for us outside, and we were promptly pounced to

upon by Maggie and Minnie, whose long braids were already adorned with the pink silk ribbons which had been their gifts. You decorated the school, cried Maggie excitedly. I know you did. I told Minnie it was you the minute I saw it. You're dreaming child, said Frank. Oh, no, I'm not, retorted Maggie shrewdly, and wasn't Matt Dickie mad this morning? Oh, it was such fun.

I think you are two real nice boys, and so does Minnie. Don't you many?" Many nodded gravely. Evidently Maggie did the talking in their partnership. This has been a splendid examination, said Maggie, drawing a long breath. Real Christmassy, you know, we never had such a good time before. Well, it has paid, don't you think? asked Frank as we drove home. Rather, I answered.

It did pay in other ways than the mere pleasure of it. There was always a better feeling between the rotors and the hill-lights. thereafter. The big brothers of the little girls, to whom our Christmas surprise, had been such a treat, thought it worthwhile to bury the hatchet, and quarrels between the two villages became things of the past. End of Story 13. Story 14 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This lipper box recording is in the public domain. Story 14, Clorinda's Gifts. It is a dreadful thing to be poor, Fortinet, before Christmas, said Clarenda, with the mournful sigh of 17 years. Aunt Emmy smiled. Aunt Emmy was 60, and spent the hours she didn't spend in a bed, on a sofa or in a wheelchair,

but Aunt Emmy was never heard to sigh. I suppose it is worse then than at any other time, she admitted. That was one of the nice things about Aunt Emmy. She always sympathized, and understood. I'm worse than poor this Christmas. I'm stony broke, said Glorinda dolefully. My spell of fever in the summer and the consequent doctor's bills have cleaned out my coffers completely. Not a single Christmas present can I give, and I did so want to give some little thing to each of my dearest people, but I simply can't afford it. That's the hateful, ugly truth. Clarinda sighed again. the gifts which money can purchase are not the only ones we can give said aunt emmy gently nor the best either oh i know it's nicer to give something of your own work agreed clarenda but materials for fancy work cost too

That kind of gift is just as much out of the question for me as any other. That was not what I meant, said Aunt Emmy. What did you mean, then? asked Clarenda, looking puzzled. Aunt Emmy smiled. Suppose you think out my meaning for yourself, she said. That would be better than if I explained it. Besides, I don't think I could explain it. Take the beautiful line of a beautiful poem to help you in your thinking out.

The gift without the giver is bare. I'd put it the other way and say the giver without the gift is bare, said Glinda, with a grimace. That is my predicament exactly. Well, I hope by next Christmas I'll not be quite bankrupt. I'm going into Mr. Collander's store down at Murray Bridge in February. He has offered me the place, you know. Won't your aunt miss you terribly? said Aunt Emmy gravely.

Clorinda flushed. There was a note in Aunt Emmy's voice that disturbed her. Oh, yes, I suppose she will, she answered hurriedly, but she'll get used to it very soon, and I will be home every Saturday night, you know. I'm dreadfully tired of being poor, Aunt Emmy, and now that I have a chance to earn something for myself, I mean to take it. I can help Aunt Mary, too. I'm to get four dollars a week. I think she would rather have your companionship than a part of your salary, Clorinda, said Aunt Emmy, but of course you must decide for yourself, dear. It is hard to be poor. I know it. I am poor. You, poor, said Clarenda,

Kissinger. Why, you are the richest woman I know, Aunt Emmy, rich in love and goodness and contentment. And so are you, dearie, rich in youth and health and happiness and ambition. Aren't they all worthwhile? Of course they are, laughed Clorinda, only, unfortunately, Christmas gifts can't be coined out of them. Did you ever try? asked Aunt Aunt Emmy? Think out that question too when you're thinking out, Clarenda. Well, I must say bye-bye and run home. I feel cheered up. You always cheer people up, Aunt Emmy. How gray it is outdoors. I do hope we'll have snow soon. Wouldn't it be jolly to have a white Christmas? We always have such faded brown december's.

Clarenda lived just across the road for Aunt Emmy in a tiny white house behind some huge willows, but Aunt Mary lived there too, the only relative Clarenda had, for Aunt Emmy wasn't really her aunt at all. Clorinda had always lived with Aunt Mary ever since she could remember. Clorinda went home and upstairs to her little room under the eaves, where the great bear willow boughs were branching athwart her windows. She was thinking over what Aunt Emmy had said. about Christmas gifts and giving. I'm sure I don't know what she could have meant,

pondered Clarenda. I do wish I could find out if it would help me any. I'd love to remember a few of my friends at least. There's Miss Mitchell. She's been so good to me all this year and helped me so much with my studies. And there's Mrs. Martin out in Manitoba. If I could only send her something,

she must be so lonely out there. And ah in me herself, of course. and poor old Aunt Kitty down the lane, and Aunt Mary, and, yes, Florence, too, although she did treat me so meanly, I shall never feel the same to her again. But she gave me a present last Christmas, and so out of mere politeness I ought to give her something. Clarenda stopped short suddenly. She had just remembered that she would not have liked to say that last sentence to Aunt Emmy, therefore there was something wrong about it. Clarenda had long ago, learned that there was sure to be something wrong in anything that could not be said to Aunt

Emmy. So she stopped to think it over. Clarenda puzzled over Aunt Emmy's meaning for four days and part of three nights. Then all at once it came to her. Or if it wasn't Aunt Emmy's meaning, it was a very good meaning in itself, and it grew clearer and expanded in meaning during the days that followed, although at first Clarenda shrank a little from some of the conclusions to which it led her. I've solved the problem of my Christmas giving for this year, she told Aunt Emmy. I have some things to give, after all. Some of them quite costly, too.

That is, they will cost me something, but I know I'd be better off and richer after I've paid the price. That is what Mr. Grierson would call a paradox, isn't it? I'll explain all about it to you on Christmas. Day. On Christmas Day, Clarenda went over to Aunt Emmys. It was a faded brown Christmas, after all, for the snow had not come. But Clarenda did not mind. There was such joy in her heart that she thought it the most delightful Christmas Day that ever dawned. She put the queer, cornery armful she carried down on the kitchen floor before she went into the sitting room.

Aunt Emmy was lying on the sofa before the fire, and Clarenda sat down beside her. I've come to tell you all about it, she said. Aunt Emmy patted the hand that was in her own. From your face, dear girl, it will be pleasant hearing and telling, she said. Clorinda nodded. Aunt Emmy, I thought for days over your meaning, thought until I was dizzy. And then one evening it just came to me without any thinking at all, and I knew that I could give some gifts after all.

I thought of something new every day for a week. At first I didn't think I could give some of it. of them, and then I thought how selfish I was. I would have been willing to pay any amount of money for gifts if I had had, but I wasn't willing to pay what I had. I got over that, though, Ah, Emmy, now I'm going to tell you what I did give. First, there was my teacher, Miss Mitchell. I gave her one of Father's books. I have so many of his, you know, so that I wouldn't miss one, but still it was one I loved very much, and so I felt that love made it worthwhile. That is, I felt that on second thought. At first on Emmy, I thought I would be ashamed to offer

Miss Mitchell a shabby old book, worn with much reading and all marked over with father's notes and pencilings. I was afraid she would think of queer of me to give her such a present, and yet somehow it seemed to me that it was better than something brand new and unmelowed, that old book which father had loved and which I loved, so I gave it to her. And she, I think it pleased her so much the real meaning in it. She said it was like being given something out of another's heart and life. Then you know Mrs. Martin, last year she was Miss Hope, my dear Sunday school teacher. She married a home missionary and they are in a lonely part of the West.

Well, I wrote her a letter. Not just an ordinary letter. Dear me, no. I took a whole day to write it. And you should have seen the post-Mist's story. mistress's eye, stick out when I mailed it. I just told her everything that had happened in Greenvale since she went away. I made it as newsy and cheerful and loving as I possibly could. Everything bright and funny I could think of went into it. The next was old Aunt Kitty.

You know, she was my nurse when I was a baby, and she's very fond of me. But, well, you know, Aunt Emmy, I'm ashamed to confess it, but really I've never found Aunt Kitty very entertaining. to put it mildly. She is always glad when I go to see her, but I've never gone except when I couldn't help it. She is very deaf and rather dull and stupid, you know. Well, I gave her a whole day. I took my knitting yesterday and sat with her the whole time and just talked and talked. I told her all the Greenvale news and gossip and everything else I thought she'd like to hear. She was so pleased and proud she told me when I came away that she hadn't had such a nice time for years. Then there was Florence. You know, Emmy, we were always intimate friends until last year.

Then Florence once told Rose Watson something I had told her incompetence. I found it out, and I was so hurt I could not forgive Florence, and I told her plainly I could never be a real friend to her again. Florence felt badly because she really did love me, and she asked me to forgive her, but it seemed as if I could not. Well, Aunt Emmy, that was my Christmas gift to her, my forgiveness. I went down last night and just put my arms around her and told her that I loved her as much as ever and wanted to be real close friends again.

I gave Aunt Mary her gift this morning. I told her I wasn't going to Murray Bridge that I just meant to stay home with her. She was so glad, and I'm glad too, now that I've decided so. Your gifts have been real gifts, Clarenda, said Aunt Emmy, something of you, the best of you, went into each of them. Clarenda went out and brought her cornery armful in. I didn't forget you, Aunt Emmy, she said, as she unpinned the paper.

There was a rosebush, Clarenda's own pet rosebush, all snowed over with fragrant blossoms. Aunt Emmy loved flowers. She put her finger under one of the roses and kissed it. It's as sweet as yourself, dear time. child," she said tenderly, and it will be a joy to me all through the lonely winter days. You found out the best meaning of Christmas giving, haven't you, dear? Yes, thanks to you, Aunt Emmy, said Clarenda softly. End of Story 14.

Story 15 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Story 15, The End of the Young Family Feud. A week before Christmas, Aunt Jean wrote to Elizabeth inviting her and Alberta and me to eat our Christmas dinner at Monkshead. We accepted with delight. Aunt Jean and Uncle Norman were delightful people, and we knew we should have a jolly time at their house. Besides, we wanted to see Monkshead, where father had lived in his boyhood, and the old young homestead where he had been born and brought up, and where Uncle William still lived. Father never said much about it, but we knew he loved it very dearly, and we had always

greatly desired to get at least a glimpse of what Alberta liked to call our ancestral halls. Since Monk's Head was only 60 miles away, and Uncle William lived there as aforesaid, it may be pertinently asked what there was to prevent us from visiting it, and the homestead, as often as we wished. We answer promptly the family feud. Father and Uncle William were on bad terms, or rather on no terms at all, and had been ever since we could remember. After Grandfather Young's death, there had been a wretched quarrel over the property.

Father always said that he had been as much to blame as Uncle William, but Great Aunt Emily told us that Uncle William had been by far the most to blame, and that he had behaved scandalously to Father. Moreover, she said that Father had gone to him when cooling down time came, apologized for what he had said and asked Uncle William to be friends again, and that William simply turned his back on father and walked into the house without saying a word. But, as Great Aunt Emily said, with the young temper sticking out of every kink and curve of his figure, great Aunt Emily is our aunt on Mother's side, and she does not like any of the youngs,

except Father and Uncle Norman. This is why we had never visited Monk's head. We had never seen Uncle William, and we always thought of him as a sort of ogre when we thought of him at all. When we were children, our old nurse, Margaret Hannah, used to frighten us into good behavior by saying, ominously, if y'uns ain't good, your Uncle William a cotcha. What he would do to us when he cotched us, she never specified, probably reasoning that the unknown was always more terrible than the known. My private opinion in those days was that he would boil us in oil, and pick our bones. Uncle Norman and Aunt Jean had been living out west for years.

Three months before this Christmas they had come east, bought a house in Monk's Head, and settled there. They had been down to see us, and father and mother and the boys had been up to see them, but we three girls had not, so we were pleasantly excited at the thought of spending Christmas there. Christmas morning was fine, white as a pearl and clear as a diamond. We had to go by the seven o'clock train, since there was no other before eleven, and we reached Monk's head at 8.30. When we stepped from the train, the stationmaster asked us if we were the three Miss Youngs. Alberta pleaded guilty, and he said, well, here's a letter for you then. We took the letter and went into the waiting room with sundry misgivings.

What had happened? Were Uncle Norman and Aunt Jean quarantined for Scarlet fever? or had burglars raided the pantry and carried off the Christmas supplies? Elizabeth opened and read the letter aloud. It was from Aunt Jean to the following effect. Dear girls, I am so sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot help it. Word has come from Streatham that my sister has met with a serious accident and is in a very critical condition.

Your uncle and I must go to Streatham immediately and are leaving on the 8 o'clock express. I know you have started before this, so there is no use in telegraphing. We want you to go right to the house and make yourself at home. You will find the key under the kitchen doorstep and the dinner in the pantry all ready to cook. There are two mince pies on the third shelf and the plump pudding only needs to be warmed up. You will find a little Christmas remembrance for each of you on the dining room table. I hope you will make as merry as you possibly can, and we will have you down again as soon as we come back. You're hurried and affectionate, Aunt Jean. We looked at each other

somewhat dolefully, but, as Alberta pointed out, we might as well make the best of it, since there was no way of getting home before the five o'clock train. So we trailed out to the station master and asked him limply if he could direct us to Mr. Norman Young's house. He was a rather grumpy individual, very busy with pencil and notebook over some freight. But he favored us with his attention long enough to point with his pencil and say jerkily, Young's, see that red house on the hill? That's it. The red house was about a quarter of a mile from the station, and we saw it plainly. Accordingly to the red house, we betook ourselves. On nearer view, it proved to be a trim, handsome place, with nice grounds and very fine old

trees. We found the key under the kitchen doorstep and went in. The fire was black out, and somehow things wore a more cheerless look than I had expected to find. I may as well admit that we marched into the dining room first of all to find our presence. There were three parcels, two very small and one pretty big, lying on the table, but when we came to look for names, there were none. Evidently, Ajean, in her hurry and excitement forgot to label them, said Elizabeth. Let us open them. We may be able to guess from the contents which belongs to whom. say we were surprised when we opened those parcels. We had known that Aunt Jean's gifts would be nice, but we had not expected anything like this. There was a magnificent stone Martin collar,

a dear little gold watch, and pearl chattelaine, and a gold chain bracelet set with turquoises. The collar must be for you, Elizabeth, because Mary and I have one already, and Aunt Jean knows it, said Alberta. The watch must be for you, Mary, because I have one. and by the process of exhaustion, the bracelet must be for me. Well, they are all perfectly sweet. Elizabeth put on her collar and paraded in front of the sideboard mirror. It was so dusty she had to take her handkerchief and wipe it before she could see herself properly. Everything in the room was equally dusty.

As for the lace curtains, they looked as if they hadn't been washed for years, and one of them had a long, ragged hole in it. i couldn't help feeling secretly surprised for aunt jean had the reputation of being a perfect housekeeper however i didn't say anything and neither did the other girls mother had always impressed upon us that it was the height of bad manners to criticize anything we might not like in a house where we were guests well let's see about dinner said alberta practically snapping her bracelet on her wrist and admiring the effect we went to the kitchen where elizabeth proceeded to light the fire, that being one of her specialties, while Alberta and I explored the pantry. We found the dinner supplies laid out, as Aunt Jean had explained. There was a nice fat turkey all stuffed and vegetables galore. The mince pies were in their place, but they were almost the only thing about which that could be truthfully said, for the disorder of that pantry was

enough to give a tidy person nightmares for a month. I never in all my life saw, began a and then stopped short, evidently remembering Mother's teaching. Where is the plum pudding, said I, to turn the conversation into safer channels? It was nowhere to be seen, so we concluded it must be in the cellar. But we found the cellar door padlocked, good, and fast. Never mind, said Elizabeth, you know none of us really likes plum pudding. We only eat it because it is the proper traditional dessert. The mince pies will suit us better.

We hurried the turkey into the oven, and soon everything was going merrily. We had lots of fun getting up that dinner, and we made ourselves perfectly at home, as Aunt Jean had commanded. We kindled a fire in the dining room and dusted everything in sight. We couldn't find anything remotely resembling a duster, so we used our handkerchiefs. When we got through, the room looked like something, for the furnishings were really very handsome, but our handkerchiefs... well. Then we set the table with all the nice dishes we could find. There was only one long tablecloth in the sideboard drawer, and there were three holes in it, but we covered them with dishes and put a little potted palm in the middle for a centerpiece. At one o'clock, dinner was ready for us,

and we for it. Very nice that table looked, too, as we sat down to it. Just as Alberta was about to spear the turkey with a fork and began carving, that being one of her specialty, the kitchen door opened and somebody walked in. Before we could move, a big, handsome, bewhiskered man in a fur coat appeared in the dining-room doorway. I wasn't frightened. He seemed quite respectable, I thought, and I suppose he was some intimate friend of Uncle Normans.

I rose politely and said, good day. You never saw such an expression of amazement as was on that poor man's face. He looked from me to Alberta, and from Alberta to a little bit of. Elizabeth, and from Elizabeth, to me again, as if he doubted the evidence of his eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Norman Young are not at home, I explained, pitying him. They went to Streatham this morning because Mrs. Young's sister is very ill. What does all this mean? said the big man gruffily. This isn't Norman Young's house. It is mine. I'm William Young. Who are you? And what are you doing here?

I fell back into my chair, speechless. My very first impulse was, to put up my hand and cover the gold watch. Alberta had dropped the carving knife and was trying desperately to get the gold bracelet off under the table. In a flash we had realized our mistake and its awfulness. As for me, I felt positively frightened. Margaret Hannah's warning of old had left an ineffaceable impression. Elizabeth rose to the occasion.

Rising to the occasion is another of Elizabeth's specialties. Besides, she was not hampered by the tingling consciousness that she was wearing a gift that had not been intended for her. We have made a mistake, I fear, she said, with a dignity which I appreciated, even in my panic, we are very sorry for it. We were invited to spend Christmas with Mr. and Mrs. Norman Young. When we got off the train, we were given a letter from them stating that they were summoned away, but telling us to go to their house and make ourselves at home. The stationmaster told us that this was the house, so we came here.

We've never been in Monkshead, so we did not know the difference. Please pardon us. I got off the watch by this time and laid it on the table, unobserved as I thought. Alberta, not having the key of the bracelet, had not been able to get it off, and she sat there, a crimson, with shame. As for Uncle William, there was positively a twinkle in his eye. He did not look in the least ogreish. Well, it has been quite a fortunate mistake for me, he said,

I came home expecting to find a cold house and a raw dinner, and I find this instead. I'm very much obliged to you. Alberta Rose went to the mantelpiece, took the key of the bracelet therefrom, and unlocked it. Then she faced Uncle William. Mrs. Young told us in her letter that we would find our Christmas gifts on the table, so we took it for granted that these things belong to us, she said desperately. And now if you will kindly tell us where Mr. Norman Young does live, we won't intrude on you any longer. Come, girls. Elizabeth and I rose with a sigh. There was nothing

else to be done, of course, but we were fearfully hungry, and we did not feel enthusiastic over the prospect of going to another empty house and cooking another dinner. Wait a bit, said Uncle William, I think since you have gone to all the trouble of cooking the dinner, it's only fair you should stay and help to eat it. Accidents seem to be rather fashionable just now. My, My housekeeper's son broke his leg down at Weston, and I had to take her there early this morning. Come, introduce yourselves. To whom am I indebted for this pleasant surprise? We are Elizabeth, Alberta, and Mary Young of Green Village, I said,

and then I looked to see the ogre creep out if it were ever going to. But Uncle William merely looked amazed for the first moment, foolish for the second, and the third he was himself again. Robert's daughters, he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that Robert's daughters should be there in his house. So you are my nieces. Well, I'm very glad to make your acquaintance. Sit down and we'll have dinner as soon as I can get my coat off.

I want to see if you're good a cook as your mother used to be long ago. We sat down and so did Uncle William. Alberta had her chance to show what she could do at carving, for Uncle William said it was something he never did. He kept a housekeeper just for that. At first we felt a bit stiff and awkward, but that soon wore off, for Uncle William was genial, witty, and entertaining. Soon, to our surprise, we found that we were enjoying ourselves.

Uncle William seemed to be, too. When we had finished, he leaned back and looked at us. I suppose you've been brought up to abhor me and all my works, he said abruptly. Not by father and mother, I said frankly. they never said anything against you. Margaret Hanna did, though she brought us up in the way we should go through fear of you. Uncle William laughed. Margaret Hanna was a faithful old enemy of mine, he said. Well, I acted like a fool, and worse. I've been sorry for it ever since. I was in the

wrong. I couldn't have said this to your father, but I don't mind saying it to you, and you can tell him if you like. He'll be delighted to hear that you were no longer angry with him, said Alberta. He has always longed to be friends with you again, Uncle William, but he thought you were still bitter against him. No, no, nothing but stubborn pride, said Uncle William. Now, girls, since you are my guests, I must try to give you a good time. We'll take the double sleigh and have a jolly drive this afternoon, and about those trinkets there. They are yours. I did get them for some young friends of mine here, but I'll give them something else. I want you. to have these. That watch looked very nice on your blouse, Mary, and the bracelet became

Alberta's pretty wrist very well. Come and give your cranky old uncle a hug for them." Uncle William got his hugs heartily, then we washed up the dishes and went for our drive. We got back just in time to catch the evening train home. Uncle William saw us off at the station, under promise to come back and stay a week with him when his housekeeper came home. One of you will have to come and stay with me altogether pretty soon he said tell your father he must be prepared to hand over one of his girls to me as a token of his forgiveness i'll be down to talk it over with him shortly when we got home and told our story father said thank god very softly there were tears in his eyes he did not wait for uncle william to come down but went to monk's head himself

the next day in the spring alberta is to go and live with uncle Uncle William. She is making a supply of dusters now. And next Christmas we are going to have a grand family reunion at the old homestead. Mistakes are not always bad. End Story 15. Story 16 of Christmas with Lucy Maude Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Story 16, the Folsom's Christmas dinner. Well, so it's all settled, said Stephen Falsam. Yes, assented Al-Alaxina. Yes, it is, she repeated, as if somebody had questioned it. Then Alexina sighed, whatever it was, the fact of its being settled,

did not seem to bring Alexina in a great peace of mind, nor Stephen either, judging from his face, which were a sort of suffer-and-be-strong expression just then. When do you go, said Alexina, after a pause, during which she had frowned out of the window and across the Tracy yard. josephine tracy and her brother duncan were strolling about the yard in the pleasant december sunshine arm in arm laughing and talking they appeared to be a nice harmless pair of people but the sight of them did not seem to please alexina just as soon as we can sell the furniture and move away said stephen moodily peo so this is what all our fine ambitions have come to lexy your music and my m d a place in a department store for you and one in a lumber mill for me I don't dare to complain, said Alexina slowly.

We ought to be so thankful to get the positions. I am thankful, and I don't mind so very much about my music, but I do wish you could have gone to college, Stephen. Never mind me, said Stephen, brightening up determinedly. I'm going to go into the lumber business enthusiastically. You don't know what unsuspected talents I may develop along that line. The worst of it is that we can't be together, but I'll keep my eyes open, and perhaps I'll find a place for you in Lessing.

Alexina said nothing. Her separation from Stephen was the one point in their fortunes she could not bear to discuss. There were times when Alexina did not see how she was going to exist without Stephen, but she never said so to him. She thought he had enough to worry about without her making matters worse. Well, said Stephen getting up, I'll run down to the office, and see here, Lexie, a day after tomorrow, is Christmas. Are we going to celebrate it at all? If so, we'd better order the turkey.

Alexina looked thoughtful. I don't know, Stephen. We're short of money, you know, and the fund is dwindling every day. Don't you think it's a little extravagant to have a turkey for two people? And somehow I don't feel a bit Christmassy. I think I'd rather spend it just like any other day and try to forget that it is Christmas. Everything would be so different. That's a little bit of Christmas. That's That's true, Lexie, and we must look after the Bobbies closely, I'll admit. When Stephen had gone out, Alexina cried a little, not very much, because she didn't want her eyes to be read against Stephen's return. But she had to cry a little.

As she had said, everything was so different from what it had been a year ago. Their father had been alive then, and they had been very cozy and happy in the little house at the end of the street. There had been no mother there since Alexina's birth, six years. 16 years ago. Alexina had kept house for her father and Stevens since she was 10. Stephen was a clever boy and intended to study medicine. Alexina had a good voice, and something was to be done about training it. The Tracy's lived next door to them.

Duncan Tracy was Stephen's particular chum, and Josephine Tracy was Alexina's dearest friend. Alexina was never lonely when Josie was nearby to laugh and chat and plan with. Then, all at once, troubles came. In June, the firm of which Mr. Falsam was a member, failed. There was some stigma attached to the failure, too, although the blame did not rest upon Mr. Falsam, but with his partner. Worry and anxiety aggravated the heart trouble from which he had suffered for some time, and a month later he died.

Alexina and Stephen were left alone to face the knowledge that they were penniless, and must look about for some way of supporting themselves. At first they hoped to be able to get something to do in Thorndale so that they might keep their home. This proved impossible. After some discouragement and disappointment, Stephen had secured a position in the lumber mill at Lessing, and Alexina was promised a place in a department store in the city. To make matters worse, Duncan Tracy and Stephen had quarreled in October. It was only a boyish disagreement over some trifle, but bitter words had passed. Duncan, who was a a quick-tempered lad, had twitted Stephen with his father's failure, and Stephen had resented it hotly. Duncan was sorry for and ashamed of his words as soon as they were uttered,

but he would not humble himself to say so. Alexina had taken Stephen's part, and her manner to Josie assumed a tinge of coldness. Josie quickly noticed and resented it, and the breach between the two girls widened almost insensibly, until they barely spoke when, and they met. Each blamed the other and cherished bitterness in her heart. When Stephen came home from the post office, he looked excited. Were there any letters? asked Alexina. Well, rather, one from Uncle James. Uncle James, exclaimed Alexina incredulously. Yes, beloved, sis. Oh, you needn't try to look as surprised as I did, and I ordered the turkey after all. Uncle James has invited himself here to dinner on Christmas Day.

You'll have a chance to show your culinary skill, for you know we've always been told that Uncle James was a gourmand. Alexina read the letter in a maze. It was a brief epistle, stating that the writer wished to make the acquaintance of his niece and nephew, and would visit him on Christmas Day. That was all. But Alexina instantly saw a future of rosy possibilities. For Uncle James, who lived in the city and was really a great uncle,

had never taken the slightest notice of their family since his quarrel with their father twenty years ago. But this looked as if Uncle James were disposed to hold out the olive branch. Oh, Stephen, if he likes you and if he offers to educate you, breathe Alexina. Perhaps he will if he is favorably impressed, but will have to be so careful, he is so whimsical and odd, at least everybody has always said so, A little thing may turn the scale either way. Anyway, we must have a good dinner for him. I'll have plum pudding and mince pie.

For the next 36 hours, Alexina lived in a whirl. There was so much to do. The little house was put in apple pie order from top to bottom. Stephen was set to stoning raisins and chopping meat and beating eggs. Alexina was perfectly reckless. No matter how big a hole it made in their finances, Uncle James must have a proper Christmas dinner. A favorable impression must be made.

Stephen's whole future, Alexina did not think about her own at all just then, might depend on it. Christmas morning came fine and bright and warm. It was more like a morning in early spring than in December, for there was no snow or frost, and the air was moist and balmy. Alexina was up at daybreak,

cleaning and decorating at a furious rate. By 11 o'clock, everything was finished or going forward briskly. The plum pudding was bubbling in the pot. The turkey, Burton's plumpist, was sizzling in the oven. The shelf in the pantry bore two mince pies upon which Alexina was willing to stake her culinary reputation. And Stephen had gone to the train to meet Uncle James. From her kitchen window, Alexina could see brisk preparations going on in the Tracy kitchen. She knew Josie and Duncan were all alone.

Their parents had gone to spend Christmas with friends in Lessing. In spite of her hurry and excitement, Alexina found time to sigh. Last Christmas, Josie and Duncan had come over and eaten their dinner with them. But now last Christmas seemed very far away, and Josie had behaved horridly. Alexina was quite clear on that point. Then Stephen came with Uncle James. Uncle James was a rather pompous, fussy old man with red cheeks and bushy eyebrows. Hmm, smells nice in here, was his salutation to Alexina. I hope it will taste as good as it smells. I'm hungry.

Alexina soon left Uncle James and Stephen talking in the parlor and betook herself anxiously to the kitchen. She set the table in the little dining room, now and then, pausing to listen with a delighted nod to the murmur of voices and laughter in the parlor. She felt sure that Stephen was making a favorable impression. She lifted the plum pudding and put it on a plate on the kitchen table. Then she took out the turkey, beautifully done, and put it on a platter. Finally, she popped the two mince pies into the oven. Just at this moment, Stephen stuck his head in at the door. Lexi, do you know where that letter of Governor Howland's to father is?

Uncle James wants to see it. Alexina, not waiting to shut the oven door, for Deluxe. lay might impress Uncle James unfavorably, rushed upstairs to get the letter. She was ten minutes finding it, then remembering her pies, she flew back to the kitchen. In the middle of the floor she stopped as if transfixed, staring at the table. The turkey was gone, and the plum pudding was gone, and the mince pies were gone. Nothing was left but the platters. For a moment Alexina refused to believe her eyes. Then she saw a trail of greasy drops on the floor to the open door, out over the doorstep, and along the

boards of the walk to the back fence. Alexina did not make a fuss. Even at that horrible moment, she remembered the importance of making a favorable impression, but she could not quite keep the alarm and excitement out of her voice as she called Stephen, and Stephen knew that something had gone wrong as he came quickly through the hall. Is the turkey burned, Lexi? he cried. burned? No, it's ten times worse, gasped Alexina. It's gone. Gone, Stephen, and the pudding and the mince pies, too. Oh, what shall we do? Who can have taken them? It may be stated right here and now that the falseums never really knew anything more about the disappearance of their Christmas dinner than they did at that moment, but the only reasonable explanation of

the mystery was that a tramp had entered the kitchen and made off with the good thing. The Folsom House was right at the end of the street. The narrow backyard opened on a lonely road. Across the road was a stretch of pine woods. There was no house very near except the Tracy one. Stephen reached this conclusion with a bound. He ran out to the yard gate, followed by the distracted Alexina. The only person visible was a man some distance down the road.

Stephen leaped over the gate and tore down the road in pursuit of him. Alexina went back to the doorstep, sat down upon it, and began to cry. She couldn't help it. Her hopes were all in ruins around her. There was no dinner for Uncle James. Josephine Tracy saw her crying. Now Josie honestly thought that she had a grievance against Alexina, but an Alexina walking unconcernedly by with a cool little nod and her head held high

was a very different person from an Alexina sitting on a back door. on Christmas morning, crying. For a moment Josie hesitated, then she slowly went out and across the yard to the fence. What is it trouble? she asked. Alexina forgot that there was such a thing as dignity to be kept up. Or if she remembered it, she was past caring for such a trifle. Our dinner is gone, she sobbed, and there is nothing to give Uncle James to eat except vegetables, and I do so want to make a favorable impression. This was not particularly, but particularly lucid, but Josie, with a flying mental leap, arrived at the conclusion that it was very important that Uncle James, whoever he was, should have a dinner, and she knew

where one was to be had. But before she could speak, Stephen returned, looking rueful. No use, Lexie. That man was only old Mr. Byers, and he had seen no signs of a tramp. There is a trail of Greece right across the road. The tramp must have taken directly to the woods. simply have to do without our Christmas dinner." By no means," said Josie quickly, with a little red spot on either cheek,

our dinner is already, turkey, pudding, and all. Let us lend it to you. Don't say a word to your uncle about the accident." Alexina flushed and hesitated. It's very kind of you, she stammered, but I'm afraid it would be too much. Not a bit of it, Josie interrupted warmly, didn't Duncan and I i have christmas dinner at your house last year just come and help us carry it over if you lend us your dinner you and duncan must come and help us eat it said alexina resolutely i'll come of course said josie and i think that duncan will too if if she looked at stephen the scarlet spots

deepening stephen colored too duncan must come he said quietly i'll go and ask him two Two minutes later, a peculiar procession marched out of the Tracy kitchen door across the two yards and into the Folsom House. Josie headed it, carrying a turkey on a platter. Alexina came next with a plum pudding. Stephen and Duncan followed with a hot mince pie apiece, and in a few more minutes, Alexina gravely announced to Uncle James that dinner was ready. The dinner was a pronounced success, marked by much suppressed hilarity among the younger members of the party. Uncle James ate very heartily and seemed to enjoy everything, especially the mince pie.

This is the best mince pie I have ever sampled, he told Alexina. I am glad to know that I have a niece who can make such a mince pie. Alexina cast an agonized look at Josie and was on the point of explaining that she wasn't the maker of the pie. But Josie frowned her into silence. I felt so guilty to sit there and take the credit. Your credit! she told Josie afterwards as they washed up the dishes. Nonsense, said Josie, it wasn't as if you couldn't make mince pies.

Your mince pies are better than mine. If it comes to that, it might have spoiled everything if you'd said a word. I must go home now. Won't you and Stephen come over after your uncle goes and spend the evening with us? We'll have a candy pull. When Josie and Duncan had gone, Uncle James called his nephew and niece into the parlor and sat down before them with a proving eyes. I want to have a little talk with you, too.

I'm sorry I've let so many years go by without making your acquaintance because you seem worth getting acquainted with. Now, what are your plans for the future? Well, I'm going to a lumber mill at Lessing, and Alexina is going into the T. Morrison store, said Stephen quietly. Tuck, tut, no you're not, and she's not. You're coming to live with me, both of you. If you have a fancy for cutting and carving people up, young man,

you must be trained to cut and carve them scientifically. Anyhow, as for you, Alexina, Stephen tells me you can sing. Well, there's a good conservatory of music in town. Wouldn't you rather go there instead of behind a counter? Oh, Uncle James! exclaimed Alexina, with shining eyes. She jumped up, put her arms around Uncle James's neck, and kissed him. Uncle James said, tut-tut, again, but he liked it. When Stephen had seen his uncle off on the six o'clock train, he returned home and looked at the radiant Alexina. Well, you made your favorable impression all right, didn't you? he said gaily. But we owe it to Josie Tracy. Isn't she a brick? I suppose you're going over this evening? Yes, I am. I'm so tired that I feel as if I couldn't crawl across the yard.

But if I can't, you'll have to carry me. Go, I will. I can't begin to tell you how glad I am about everything, but really the fact that you and Duncan and Josie and I are good friends again seems the best of all. I'm glad that Tramp stole the dinner, and I hope he enjoyed it. I don't grudge him one single bite. End of Story 16. Story 17 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Story 17, Ida's New Year cake. Mary Craig and Sarah Reed and Joe Pye had all flocked into Ida Mitchell's room at their boarding house to condole with each other because none of them was able to go home for New Year's. Mary and Josie had been home

for Christmas so they didn't really feel so badly off, but Ida and Sarah hadn't even that consolation. Ida was a third-year student at the Clifton Academy. She had holidays and nowhere, so she mournfully affirmed, to spend them. At home, three brothers and a sister were down with the measles, and as Ida had never had them, she could not go there, and the news had come too late for her to make any other arrangements. Mary and Josie were clerks in a Clifton bookstore, and Sarah was stenographer in a Clifton lawyer's office, and they were all jolly and thoughtless and very fond of one another. This will be the first New Year's I have ever spent away from home, side Sarah, nibbling chocolate

fudge. It does make me so blue to think of it, and not even a holiday. I'll have to go to work just the same. Now, Ida here, she doesn't really need sympathy. She has holidays, a whole fortnight, and nothing to do but enjoy them. Holidays are dismal things when you've nowhere to holiday, said Ida mournfully. The time dragged horribly. But never mind, girls, I've a plummy bit of news for you. I'd a letter from Mother Today, and bless the dear woman, she is sending me a cake, a New Year's cake, a great, big, spicy, mellow, delicious fruit cake. It will be a long tomorrow, and girls will celebrate when it comes. I've asked everybody in the house up to my room for New Year's Eve, and will have a royal good time.

How splendid, said Mary, there's nothing I like more than a slice of real countrified homemade fruit cake where they don't scrimp on eggs or butter or raisins. You'll give me a good big piece, won't you, Ida? As much as you can eat, promised Ida. I can warrant a mother's fruitcake. Yes, we'll have a jamboree. Miss Monroe has promised to come in, too. She says she has a weakness for fruit cake.

Oh, breathed all the girls. Miss Monroe was their idol, whom they had to be content to worship at a distance as a general thing. She was a clever journalist who worked on a paper and was reputed to be writing a book. The girls felt they were highly privileged to be boarding in the same house and counted that day lost on which they did not receive a business-like nod or an absent-minded smile from Miss Monroe. If she ever had time to speak to one of them about the weather,

that fortunate one put on airs for a week, and now to think that she had actually promised to drop into Ida's room on New Year's Eve and eat fruit cake. There goes that funny little namesake of yours, Ida, said Josie, who was sitting by the window. She seems to be staying in town over the holidays, too. Wonder why. Perhaps she doesn't belong anywhere. She really is a most forlorn appearing little mortal. There were two Ida Mitchells attending the Clifton Academy. The other Ida was a plain, quiet, pale-faced little girl of 15, who was in the second year. Beyond that, none of of the third year Ida Mitchell's set knew anything about her, or tried to find out.

She must be very poor, said Ida carelessly. She dresses so shabbily, and she always looks so pinched and subdued. She boards in a little house out on Marlborough Road, and I pity her if she has to spend her holidays there for a more dismal place I never saw. I was there once on the trail of a book I had lost. Going, girls? Well, don't forget tomorrow night. spent the next day decorating her room and watching for the arrival of her cake.

It hadn't come by tea time, and she concluded to go down to the express office and investigate. It would be dreadful if that cake didn't turn up in time, with all the girls and Miss Monroe coming in. She felt that she would be mortified to death. Inquiry at the express office discovered two things. A box had come in for Miss Ida Mitchell Clifton, and said box had been to live. delivered to Miss Ida Mitchell Clifton. One of our clerks said he knew you personally, boarded next door to you, and he'd take it round himself,

the manager informed her. Oh, there must be some mistake, said Ida in perplexity. I don't know any of the clerks here. Oh, why, there's another Ida Mitchell in town. Can it be possible my cake has gone to her? The manager thought it very possible and offered to send round and see. but Ida said it was on her way home and she would call herself. At the dismal little house on Marlborough Road,

she was sent up three flights of stairs to the other Ida Mitchell's small hall bedroom. The other Ida Mitchell opened the door for her. Behind her on the table was the cake, such a fine big brown cake with raisins sticking out all over it. Why, how do you do, Miss Mitchell? exclaimed the other Ida with shy pleasure. Come in. didn't know you were in town. It's real good of you to come and see me, and just see what I've had

sent to me. Isn't it a beauty? I was so surprised when it came, and oh, so glad. I was feeling so blue and lonesome as if I hadn't a friend in the world. I, well, yes, I was crying when that cake came. It has just made the world over for me. Do sit down and I'll cut you a piece. I'm sure you're as fond of fruitcake as I am. Ida sat down in a chair feeling bewildered and awkward. This was a nice predicament. How could she tell that other Ida that the cake didn't belong to her? The poor thing was so delighted, and oh, what a bare, lonely little room.

The big, luxurious cake seemed to emphasize the barrenness and loneliness. Who sent it to you? she asked lamely. It must have been Mrs. Henderson, because there is nobody else who, would, answered the other Ida. Two years ago I was going to school in Trenton, and I boarded with her. When I left her to come to Clifton, she told me she would send me a cake for Christmas. Well, I expected that cake last year, and it didn't come. I can't tell you how disappointed I was. You'll think me very childish, but I was so lonely with no home to go to like the other girls but she sent it this year you see it is so nice to think that somebody has remembered me at new

years it isn't the cake itself it's the thought behind it it has just made all the difference in the world there just sample it miss mitchell the other ida cut a generous slice from the cake and passed it to her guest her eyes were shining and her cheeks were flushed she was really a very sweet-looking little thing not a bit like her usual pale himself. Ida ate the cake slowly. What was she to do? She couldn't tell the other Ida the truth about the cake, but the girls she had asked in to help eat it that very evening. And Miss Monroe, oh dear, it was too bad, but it couldn't be helped. She wouldn't blot out that light on the other Ida's face for anything. Of course, she would find out the truth in time, probably

after she had written to thank Mrs. Henderson for the cake. But meanwhile, she would would have enjoyed the cake, and the supposed kindness back of it would tied her over her new year loneliness. It's delicious, said Ida heartily, swallowing her own disappointment with the cake. I'm glad I happened to drop in as I was passing. Ida hoped that speech didn't come under the head of a fib. So am I, said the other Ida brightly. Oh, I've been so lonesome and downhearted this week.

I'm so alone, you see. There isn't anybody to care. Father died three years ago, and I don't remember my mother at all. There is nobody but myself, and it is dreadfully lonely at times. When the academy is open and I have my lessons to study, I don't mind so much, but the holidays take all the courage out of me. We should have fraternized more this week, smiled Ida, regretting that she hadn't thought of it before.

I couldn't go home because of the measles, and I've moped a bit. We might have spent the time together and have had to be. had a real nice jolly holiday the other ida blushed with delight i'd love to be friends with you she said slowly i've often thought i'd like to know you isn't it odd that we have the same name it was so nice of you to come and see me i'd love to have you come often i will said ida heartily perhaps she will stay the evening suggested the other ida i've asked some of the girls who board here in to have some kate i'm so glad to be able to give them something they've all been so good to me they are all clerks in stores and some of them are so tired and lonely it's so nice to have a pleasure to share with them won't you stay

i'd like to laughed ida but i have some guests of my own invited in for tonight i must hurry home for they will most surely be waiting for me she laughed again as she thought what else the guests would be waiting for but her face was sober enough as she walked home but i'm glad i left the cake with her she said resolutely poor little thing it means so much to her it meant only a good feed as josie says to me i'm simply going to make it my business next term to be good friends with the other Ida Mitchell. I'm afraid we third-year girls are very self-centered and selfish, and I know what I'll do. I'll write to Abby Morton and Trenton to send me Mrs. Anderson's address, and I'll write her a letter and ask her not to let Ida know she didn't send the cake. Ida went into a confectionery store and invested in what Josie Pye was want to call ready-to-wear eatables, fancy cakes, fruit, and candies.

When she reached her room, she found it full of excessive. expectant girls, with Miss Monroe enthroned in the midst of them. Miss Monroe had a wonderful evening dress of black lace and yellow silk, with roses in her hair and pearls on her neck, all donned in honor of Ida's little celebration. I won't say that just for a moment Ida didn't regret that she had given up her cake. Good evening, Miss Mitchell, cried Mary Craig Galey. Walk right in and make yourself at home in your own room.

Do! We all met in the hall and knocked and knocked. Finally, Miss Monroe came, so we made bold to walk right in. Where is the only and original fruitcake, Ida? My mouth has been watering all day. The other Ida Mitchell is probably entertaining her friends at this moment with my fruitcake, said Ida, with a little lap. Then she told the whole story.

I'm so sorry to disappoint you, she concluded, but I simply could not tell that poor, lonely little child that the cake wasn't intended for her. I've brought all the goodies home with me that I could buy, and will have to do the best we can without the fruit cake. Their best proved to be a very good thing. They had a jolly New Year's Eve, and Miss Monroe sparkled and entertained most brilliantly.

They kept their celebration up until 12 to welcome the New Year in, and then they bad-eyed a good night. But Miss Monroe lingered for a moment behind the others to say softly, i want to tell you how good and sweet i think it was of you to give up your cake to the other ida that little bit of unselfishness was a good guerdin for your new year and ida radiant faced at this praise from her idol answered heartily i'm afraid i'm anything but unselfish miss monroe but i mean to try to be more this coming year and think a little about the girls outside of my own little set who may be lonely or discouraged the other other The other item, Mitchell, isn't going to have to depend on that fruit cake alone for comfort and encouragement for the next 12 months. End.

Story 17 Story 18 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Story 18, the Joseph's Christmas. The month before Christmas was always the most exciting and mysterious time in the Joseph household. Such scheming and planning, such putting of curly heads together in corners, such counting of small hordes, such hiding and smuggling of things out of sight, as went on among the little Josephs. There were a good many of them,

and very few of the pennies, hence the reason for so much contriving and consulting. From 14-year-old Molly down to four-year-old Lenny, there were eight small Josephs in all in the little log-house on the prairie, so that when each little Joseph wanted to give a Christmas box to each of the other little Joseph's, and something to father and mother, Joseph. Besides, it is no wonder that they had to cudgel their small brains for ways and means thereof. Father and mother were always discreetly blind and silent through December. No questions were asked, no matter what, queer things were done. Many secret trips to the little store at the railway station two miles away were ignored, and no little Joseph's

was called to account because he or she looked terribly guilty when somebody suddenly came into the room. The air was simply charged with secrets. Sister Molly was the grand repository of these. All the little Josephs came to her for advice and assistance. It was Molly, who for troubled small brothers and sisters did such sums in division as this. How can I get a ten-cent present for Emmy and a fifteen-cent one for Jimmy out of of 18 cents. Or, how can seven sticks of candy be divided among eight people so that each shall have one? It was Molly who advised regarding the purchase of ribbon and crept paper. It was Molly

who put the finishing touches to most of the little gifts. In short, all through December, Molly was weighed down under an avalanche of responsibility. It speaks volumes for her sagacity and will, that she never got things mixed up or made any such terrible mistake as letting one little Joseph find out what another was going to give him. Dead secrecy was the keystone of all plans and confidences. During this particular December, the planning and contriving had been more difficult and the results less satisfactory than usual. The Josephs were poor at any time, but this winter they were poorer than ever. The crops had failed in the same. The crops had failed in the summer and as a consequence the family were as jimmy said on short commons but they made

the brave best of their little resources and on christmas eve every little joseph went to bed with a clear conscience for was there not on the corner table in the kitchen a small mountain of tiny sometimes very tiny giths labeled with the names of recipients and givers and worth their weight in gold if love and good wishes count for anything. It was beginning to snow when the small, small Josephs went to bed, and when the big small Josephs climbed the stairs, it was snowing thickly. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph sat before the fire and listened to the wind, howling about the house. I'm glad I'm not driving over the prairie tonight, said Mr. Joseph. It's quite a storm. I hope it will be fine tomorrow, for the children's sake. They've set their hearts on having

a sleigh ride and it will be too bad if they can't have it when it's about all the Christmas they'll have this year. Mary, this is the first Christmas since we came west that we couldn't afford some little extras for them, even if it was only a box of nuts and candy. Mrs. Joseph sighed over Jimmy's worn jacket, which she was mending, and then she smiled. Never mind, John, things will be better next Christmas, we'll hope. The children will not mind, bless their hearts. look at all the little knick-knacks they've made for each other. Last week when I was over at Taunton, Mr. Fisher had his store all gayified up, as Jimmy says, with Christmas presents.

I did feel that I'd ask nothing better than to go in and buy all the lovely things I wanted just for once and give them to the children tomorrow morning. They've never had anything really nice for Christmas, but there we've all got each other and good health and spirits, and a christmas wouldn't be much without those if we had all the presents in the world mr joseph nodded that so i don't want to grumble but i tell you i did want to get maggie a real-life doll as she calls it she never has had anything but home-made dolls and that small heart of hers is set on a real one there was one at fisher's store to-day a big beauty with real hair and eyes that opened and shut just fancy Maggie's face if she saw such a Christmas box as that tomorrow morning. Don't let's fancy it, laughed Mrs. Joseph. It is only aggravating. Talking of candy reminds me that I made

a big plateful of taffy for the children today. It's all the Christmassy I could give them. I'll get it out and put it on the table along with the children's presents. That can't be someone at the door. It is, though, said Mr. Joseph as he strode to the door and flung it open. Two snowed-up figures were standing on the porch. As they stepped in, the Joseph recognized one of them is Mr. Ralston, a wealthy merchant in a small town 15 miles away. Late hour for callers, isn't it? said Mr. Ralston. The fact is our horse has about given out, and the storm is so bad that we can't proceed.

This is my wife, and we are on our way to spend Christmas with my brother's family at Lindsay. Can you take us in for the night, Mr. Joseph? Well, certainly and welcome, exclaimed Mr. Joseph heartily, if you don't mind a shake-down by the kitchen fire for the night. My, Mrs. Ralston, as his wife helped her off with her things, but you are snowed up. I'll see to putting your horse away, Mr. Ralston, this way, if you please. When the two men came stamping into the house again, Mrs. Ralston and Mrs. Joseph were sitting at the fire, the former, with a steaming hot cup of tea in her hand.

Mr. Ralston put the big basket he was carrying down on a bench in the corner. Thought I'd better bring our Christmas flummery in, he said, You see, Mrs. Joseph, my brother has a big family, so we are taking them a lot of Santa Claus stuff. Mrs. Ralston packed this basket, and goodness knows what she put in it, but she half cleaned out my store. The eyes of the Lindsay youngsters will dance tomorrow, that is, if we ever get there.

Mrs. Joseph gave a little sigh in spite of herself, looked wistfully at the heap of gifts on the corner table. How meager and small they did look, to be sure, beside that bulgy basket with its cover suggestively tied down. Mrs. Ralston looked too. Santa Claus seems to have visited you already, she said with a smile. The Joseph's laughed. Our Santa Claus is somewhat out of pocket this year, said Mr. Joseph frankly.

Those are the little things the small folks here have made for each other. They've been a month at it, and I'm always kind of relieved when Christmas is over, and there are no more mysterious doings. We're in such cramped quarters here that you can't move without stepping on somebody's secret. A shakedown was spread in the kitchen for the unexpected guests, and presently the Ralston's found themselves alone. Mrs. Ralston went over to the Christmas table and looked at the little gifts half tenderly, and half pityingly.

They're not much like the content of the content of the Christmas. of our basket, are they, she said, as she touched the calendar Jimmy had made for Molly out of cardboard and autumn leaves and grasses. "'Just what I was thinking,' returned her husband, and I was thinking of something else, too. I have a notion that I'd like to see some of the things in our basket right here on this table. "'I'd like to see them all,' said Mrs. Ralston promptly. "'Let's just leave them here, Edward.

Roger's family will have plenty of presents without them, and for that matter we can send them ours when we go back home just as you say agreed mr ralston i like the idea of giving a small folk of this household a rousing good christmas for once they're poor i know and i dare say pretty well pinched this year like most of the farmers hereabouts after the crop failure mrs ralston untied the cover of the big basket then the two of them moving out stealthily as if engaged in a burglary transferred the contents to the table Mr. Ralston got out a small pencil and a notebook, and by dint of comparing the names attached to the gifts on the table, they managed to divide theirs up pretty evenly among the little Josephs. When all was done, Mrs. Ralston said, Now, I'm going to spread that tablecloth carelessly over the table. We will be going before daylight, probably, and in the hurry of getting off, I hope that Mr. Mrs. Joseph will not

notice the difference till we're gone. It fell out as Mrs. Ralston had planned. The dawn broke fine and clear over a vast white world. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph were early astir. Breakfast for the storm-state travelers was cooked and eaten by lamplight. Then the horses and sleigh were brought to the door, and Mr. Ralston carried out his empty basket. I expect the trail will be heavy, he said, but I guess we'll get to Lindsay in time for dinner anyway. Much obliged for your kindness, Mr. Joseph. When you and Mrs. Joseph come to town, we shall hope to have a chance to return it. Goodbye and a Merry Christmas to you all."

When Mrs. Joseph went back to the kitchen, her eyes fell on the heaped-up table in the corner. Why? she said, and snatched off the cover. One look she gave, and then this funny little mother began to cry, but they were happy tears. Mr. Joseph came, too, and looked and whistled. There really seemed to be everything on that table that the hearts of children could desire. three pairs of skates, a fur cap and a collar, a dainty work-basket, half a dozen gleaming new books, a writing-desk, a roll of stuff that looked like a new dress, a pair of fur-topped kid gloves just molly's size, and a china cup and saucer. All these were to be seen at the

first glance, and in one corner of the table was a big box filled with candies and nuts and raisins, and in the other a doll with curling golden hair and brown eyes dressed in real clothes, and with all her wardrobe in a trunk beside her. Pinned to her dress was a leaf from Mr. Ralston's notebook with Maggie's name written on it. Well, this is Christmas with a vengeance, said Mr. Joseph. The children will go wild with delight, said his wife happily. They pretty nearly did when they all came scrambling down the stairs a little later. Such a Christmas had never been known in the Joseph household before. Maggie clasped her doll with shining eyes. Molly looked at the work basket that her housewifely little heart had always longed for. Studious Jimmy beamed over

the books, and Ted and Howe whooped with delight over the skates. And as for the big box of good things, why everybody appreciated that, that Christmas was one to date from in that family. I'm glad to be able to say, too, that even in the heyday of their delight and surprise over their wonderful presents, the little Josephs did not forget to appreciate the gifts they had prepared for each other. Molly thought her calendar just too pretty for anything, and Jimmy was sure the new red mittens which Maggie had knitted for him with her own chubby wee fingers were the very nicest gayest mittens of boy had ever worn. Mrs. Joseph's Taffy was eaten. 2. Not a scrap of it was left. As Ted said loyally, it was just as good as the candy in the box

and had more chew to it besides. End Story 18. Story 19 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This liverbox recording is in the public domain. Story 19, Matthew insists on puffed sleeves, Chapter 25 of Anne of Green Gables. matthew was having a bad ten minutes of it he had come into the kitchen in the twilight of a cold gray december evening and had sat down in the wood-box corner to take off his heavy boots unconscious of the fact that anne and a bevy of her schoolmates were having a practice of the fairy queen in the sitting-room presently they came trooping through the hall and out into the kitchen laughing and chatting gaily they did not see matthew who shrank bashfully back into the shadows beyond the wood box, with a boot in one hand and a bootjack in the other, and he watched them shyly for the aforesaid ten minutes as they put on caps and jackets and talked about the dialogue and the concert. Anne stood among them, bright-eyed and animated as they, but Matthew

suddenly became conscious that there was something about her different from her mates, and what worried Matthew was that the difference impressed him as being something that should not exist. Anne had a brighter face and bigger, starrier eyes, and more delicate features than the others. Even shy, unobservant Matthew had learned to take note of these things, but the difference that troubled him did not consist in any of these respects than in what did it consist. Matthew was haunted by this question long after the girls had gone, arm and arm, down the long, hard-frozen lane, and Anne had be taken herself to her books. He could not refer it to Marilla, who he felt would be quite sure to sniff scornfully and remarked that the only difference she

saw between Anne and the other girls was that they sometimes kept their tongues quiet, while Anne never did. This Matthew felt would be no great help. He had recourse to his pipe that evening to help him study it out, much to Marilla's discuss. After two hours of smoking and hard reflection, Matthew arrived at a solution of his problem. Anne was not dressed like the other girls. The more Matthew thought about the matter, the more he was convinced that Anne never had been dressed like the other girls, never since she had come to green gables. Marilla kept her clothes in plain dark dresses all made after the same unvarying pattern.

If Matthew knew there was such a thing as fashion in dress, It is as much as he did, but he was quite sure that Anne's sleeves did not look at all like the sleeves the other girls wore. He recalled the cluster of little girls he had seen around her that evening, all gay and wastes of red and blue and pink and white, and he wondered why Marilla always kept her so plainly and soberly gowned. Of course, it must be all right. Marilla knew best, and Marilla was bringing her up, probably some wise, inscrutable motion.

was to be served thereby. But surely it would do no harm to let the child have one pretty dress, something like Diana Barry always wore. Matthew decided that he would give her one, that surely could not be objected to as an unwarranted putting in of his oar. Christmas was only a fortnight off. A nice new dress would be the very thing for a present. Matthew, with a sigh of satisfaction, put away his pipe and went to bed. while Marilla opened all the doors and aired the house. The very evening Matthew betook himself to Carmody to buy the dress, determined to get the worst over and have done with it.

It would be, he felt assured, no trifling ordeal. There were some things Matthew could buy and prove himself no mean bargainer, but he knew he would be at the mercy of shopkeepers when it came to buying a girl's dress. After much cogitation, Matthew resolved to go to Samuel Lawson's store instead of William Blair's. To be sure, the Cuthbert's always had gone to William Blair's. It was almost as much a matter of conscience with them as to attend the Presbyterian Church and vote conservative. But William Blair's two daughters frequently waited on customers there,

and Matthew held them in absolute dread. He could contrive to deal with them when he knew exactly what he wanted, and could point it out. But in such a matter as this, requiring explanation and consultation, Matthew felt that he must be sure of a man behind the counter, so he would go to Lawson's, where Samuel or his son would wait on him. Alas, Matthew did not know that Samuel, in the recent expansion of his business, had set up a lady clerk also. She was a niece of his wife's, and a very dashing young person indeed, with a huge drooping pompadour, big, rolling-brown eyes, and a most extensive and bewildering smile.

She was dressed with extensive smartness and wore several bangle bracelets that glittered and rattled and tinkled with every movement of her hands. Matthew was covered with confusion at finding her there at all, and those bangles completely wrecked his wits at one fell swoop. What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Cuthbert? Miss Lucilla Harris inquired, briskly and ingratiatingly, tapping the counter with both hands. Have you any, well, any, well, now say, any garden rakes? Stammered Matthew?

Miss Harris looked somewhat surprised, as well she might, to hear a man inquiring for garden rakes in the middle of December. I believe we have one or two left over, she said. but they're upstairs in the lumber room. I'll go and see. During her absence, Matthew collected his scattered senses for another effort. When Miss Harris returned with the rake and cheerfully inquired, Anything else to deny, Mr. Cuthbert? Matthew took his courage in both hands and replied,

Well, now, since you suggested, I might as well take, take that is, look at, buy some hayseed. Miss Harris had heard Matthew Cuthbert called awed. She now concluded that he was entirely crazy. We only keep hastied in the spring, she explained loftily. We've none at hand just now. Oh, certainly, certainly, just as you say, stammered unhappy Matthew, seizing the rake and making for the door.

At the threshold, he recollected that he had not paid for it, and he turned miserably back, While Miss Harris was counting out as change, he rallied his powers for a final, desperate attempt. Well, now, if it isn't too much trouble, I might as well, that is, I'd like to look at some sugar. White or Brown, queried Miss Harris patiently. Well, now, Brown, said to Matthew feebly. There's a barrel of it over there, said to Miss Harris patiently. Harris, shaking her bangles at it, it's the only kind we have.

I'll take twenty pounds of it, said Matthew, with beads of perspiration standing on his forehead. Matthew had driven halfway home before he was his own man again. It had been a gruesome experience, but it served him right, he thought, for committing the heresy of going to a strange store. When he reached home, he hid the rake in the toolhouse, but the sugar he carried into Marilla. brown sugar exclaimed marilla whatever possessed you to get so much you know i never use it except for the hired man's porridge or black fruit cake jerry's gone and i've made my cake long ago it's not good sugar either it's coarse and dark william blair doesn't usually keep sugar like that i thought it might come in andy sometimes said matthew making good his escape when matthew came to think the matter over he decided that a woman was required to cope with the situation marilla was out of the question matthew felt sure she would throw cold water on his project at once remained only mrs lynde for of no other woman in avonlea would matthew have dared to ask advice

to mrs lynde he went accordingly and that good lady promptly took the matter out of the harassed man's hands pick out a dress for you to give anne to be sure i will i'm going to carmonde tomorrow and I'll attend to it. Have you something particular in mind? No. Well, I'll just go by my own judgment then. I believe a nice rich brown would just suit Anne and William Blair has some new Gloria in that's real pretty. Perhaps you'd like me to make it up for her too, seeing that if Marilla was to make it, Anne would probably get wind of it before the time and spoil the surprise. Well, I'll do it. No, it isn't a mite of trouble. I like sewing. A marylowe. A mrs. A mrs. make it to fit my niece, Jenny Gillis, for she and Anne are as like as two beads as far as figure goes.

Well, now, I'm much obliged, said Matthew, and I don't know, but I think they make the sleeves different nowadays to what they used to be. If it wouldn't be asking too much, I'd like them made in the new way. Puffs? Of course, you needn't worry a speck more about it, Matthew. I'll make it up in the very latest fashion, said Mrs. Lynn, to herself. she added, when a Matthew had gone. It'll be a real satisfaction to see that poor child wearing something decent for once. The way Marilla dresses her is positively ridiculous. That's

what, and I've ate to tell her so plainly a dozen times. I've held my tongue, though, for I can see Marilla doesn't want advice, and she thinks she knows more about bringing children up than I do, for all she's an old maid. But that's always the way, folks that has brought up children know that there's no hard and fast method in the world that'll suit every child, but them as never have think it's all as plain and easy as rule of three. Just set your three turns down so fashion, and the sum will work out correct. But flesh and blood don't come under the head of arithmetic, and that's where Marilla Cuthbert makes her mistake.

I suppose she's trying to cultivate a spirit of humility in Anne by dressing her as she does, but it's more likely to cultivate envy and discontent. I'm sure the child must feel the difference between her clothes and the other girls. But to think of Matthew taking notice of it, that man is waking up after being asleep for over 60 years. Marilla knew all the following fortnight that Matthew had something on his mind, but what it was she could not guess, until Christmas Eve when Mrs. Lynde brought up the new dress.

Marilla behaved pretty well on the whole, although it is very likely she distrusted Mrs. Lynn's diplomatic explanation that she had made the dress because Matthew was afraid Anne would find out about it too soon if Marilla made it. So this is what Matthew has been looking so mysterious over and grinning about to himself for two weeks, is it? She said a little stiffly, but tolerantly. I knew he was up to some foolishness. Well, I must say I don't think Anne needed any more dresses. I made her three good, warm, serviceable ones this fall,

and anything more is sheer extravagance. There's enough material in those sleeves alone to make a waste. I declare there is. You'll just pamper Anne's vanity, Matthew, and she's as vain as a peacock now. Well, I hope she'll be satisfied at last, for I know she's been hankering after those silly sleeves ever since they came in, although she never said a word after the first.

The puffs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous, right along. They're as big as balloons now. Next year, anybody who wears them will have to go through a door sideways. Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been a very mild December, and people had looked forward to a green Christmas, but just enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure Avonle. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable window with delighted eyes. The firs in the haunted wood were all feathery and wonderful. The birches and wild cherry trees were outlined in pearl. The plowed fields were stretches of snowy dimples, and there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious. Anne ran downstairs, singing, until her voice re-echoed through

Green Gables. Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew! Isn't it a lovely Christmas? I'm so glad it's white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn't seem real, does it? I don't like Green Christmases, they're not green, they're just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes people call them green? Why, Matthew, is that for me? Oh, Matthew! Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper swathings, and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested

air. Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty it was, a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk, a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings, a waist elaborately pin tucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves, they were the crowning glory, long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown silk ribbon. That's a Christmas present for you, Anne, said Matthew shyly. Why? Why, and don't you like it? Well now, well now, for Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. Like it? Oh, Matthew! Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasper hands. Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite.

Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves. Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream. Well, well, let us have breakfast, interrupted Marilla. I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress. But since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it, there's a hair ribbon and Mrs. Lynn left for you. It's round to match the dress.

Come now, sit in. I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast, said Anne. rapturously. Breakfast seemed so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see? It was lovely of Mrs. Lynn to give me the ribbon, too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl, indeed. It's at times like this. I'm sorry I'm not a model, the little girl, and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out

your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this. When the commonplace breakfast was over, Diana appeared crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster, Anne flew down the slope to meet her. Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful. Christmas, I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress with such sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer. I've got something more for you, said Diana breathlessly. Here, this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it, and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come till

after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the haunted wood in the dark now. anne opened the box and peeped in first a card with for the ann girl and merry christmas written on it and then a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles oh said anne diana this is too much i must be dreaming i call it providential said diana you wouldn't have to borrow ruby slippers now and that's a blessing, for their two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that? All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated

and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was, a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded, all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy in the shape of Josie pie, dared not deny. Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening, sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark starry sky. Everything went off very well, said Diana practically. I guess we must have made as much as $10. Mind you, Mr. Allen is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers. Oh, Diana, will we really see our names

in print? It makes me thrilled to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encore. I just said to myself, it is my dear bosom friend who is so honored. Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne, that sad one was simply splendid. Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allen called out my name, I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and threw me, and for one dreadful moment, I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana, so I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practice

those recitations so often up in the garret, or I never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right? Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely, assured Diana. I saw old Mrs. Sloan wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I touched somebody's heart. It's so romantic to take part in a concert, isn't it? Oh, it's been a very memorable occasion indeed. Wasn't the boy's dialogue fine, said Diana? Gilbert Blythe was just splendid, Anne. I do think it's awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you, when you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue, one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up, and put it in his breast pocket.

There now, you're so romantic that I'm sure you ought to be pleased at that. It's nothing to me what that person does, said Anne loftily. I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana. That night, Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in 20 years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed. Well, now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them, said Matthew, proudly. Yes, she did, admitted Marilla. She's a bright child, Matthew, and she looked real nice, too. I've been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I guess there's no real harm in it after

all. Anyhow, I was proud of Antonite, although I'm not going to tell her so. Well, now, I was proud of her, and I did tell her so, for she went upstairs, said Matthew. We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than avonlea school by and by there's time enough to think of that said marilla she's only thirteen in march though to-night it struck me she was growing quite a big girl mrs lynde made that dress a mite too long and it makes anne look so tall she's quick to learn and i guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to queen's after a spell but nothing need to be said about that for a year or two yet well now it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on said matthew Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over. End of Story 19. Story 20 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories.

This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. Story 20, the Osbournes Christmas. Cousin Myra had come to spend Christmas at the firs, and all the junior Osbournes were ready to stand on their heads with delight. Darby, whose real name was Charles, did it, because he was only eight, and at eight you have no dignity to keep up. The others, being older, couldn't. But the fact of Christmas itself awoke no great enthusiasm in the hearts of the junior

Osbournes. Frank voiced their opinion of it the day after Cousin't Myra had arrived. He was sitting on the table with his hands in his pockets and a cynical sneer on his face. At least Frank flattered himself that it was cynical. he knew that uncle edgar was said to wear a cynical sneer and frank admired uncle edgar very much and imitated him in every possible way but to you and me it would have looked just as it did to cousin mira a very discontented and unbecoming scowl i'm awfully glad to see you cousin mira explained frank carefully and your being here may make some things worth while but christmas is just a bore a regular bore. That was what Uncle Edgar called things that didn't interest him, so that Frank felt pretty sure of his word. Nevertheless, he wondered uncomfortably what made Cousin Myra smile so queerly.

Why, how dreadful, she said brightly. I thought all boys and girls looked upon Christmas as the very best time in the year. We don't, said Frank gloomily. It's just the same old thing, year in and year out. We know just exactly what is going to happen. We even know pretty well what presents we're going to get, and Christmas Day itself is always the same. We'll get up in the morning, and our stockings will be full of things, and half of them we don't want. Then there's dinner.

It's always so pokey, and all the uncles and aunts come to dinner, just the same old crowd every year, and they say just the same things. Aunt Desda always says, Why, Frankie, how you have grown? She knows I hate to be called Frankie, and after dinner they'll sit around and talk the rest of the day, and that's all.

Yes, I call Christmas a nuisance. There isn't a single bit of fun in it, said Ida discontentedly. Not a bit, said the twins, both together, as they always said things. There's lots of candy, said Darby stoutly. He rather liked Christmas, although he was ashamed to say so before Frank. Cousin Myra smothered another of those queer scyoutly. smiles. You've had too much Christmas, you Osbournes, she said seriously. It has palled on your taste, as all good things will if you overdo them. Did you ever try giving Christmas to somebody else?

The Osbournes looked at Cousin Myra doubtfully. They did not understand. We always sent presents to all our cousins, said Frank hesitatingly. That's a bore, too. They've all got so many things already. It's no end of bother to think of something new. That isn't what I mean, said Cousa. How much Christmas do you suppose those little Rollins down there in the hollow have? Or Sammy Abbott with his lame back, or French Joe's family over the hill. If you have too much Christmas, why don't you give some to them? The Osbournes looked at each other. This was a new idea. How could we do it? asked Ida. Whereupon they had a consultation.

Cousin Myra explained her plan, and the Osbournes grew enthusiastic over it. Even Frank forgot that he was supposed to be wearing a cynical sneer. I move, we do it, Osbournes, said he. If father and mother are willing, said Ida. Won't it be jolly? exclaimed the twins. Well, rather, said Darby scornfully. He did not mean to be scornful. He had heard Frank saying the same.

same words in the same tone, and thought it signified approval. Cousin Myra had a talk with father and mother Osborne that night, and found them heartily in sympathy with her plans. For the next week the Osbournes were agog with excitement and interest. At first, Cousin Myra made the suggestions, but their enthusiasm soon outstripped her, and they thought out things for themselves. Never did a week pass so quickly, and the Osbournes had never had never had such fun, either. Christmas morning there was not a single present given or received at the furs,

except those which Cousin Myra and Mr. Mrs. Osborne gave to each other. The junior Osborne's had asked that the money which their parents had planned to spend on presents for them be given to them the previous week, and given it was, without a word. The uncles and aunts arrived in due time, but not with them was the junior Osborne's concern. They were the guests of Mr. Mrs. Osborne, the junior Osbournes were having a Christmas dinner party of their own. In the small dining room, a table was spread and loaded with good things. Ida and the twins cooked that dinner all by themselves. To be sure, Cousin Mira had helped some, and Frank and Darby had stoned all the raisins,

and helped pull the homemade candy, and altogether they had decorated the small dining room royally with Christmas greens. Then their guests came. First, all the little Rowlands from the hollow arrived, seven in all, with very red shining faces and not a word to say for themselves, so shy were they. Then came a troop from French Joes, four black-eyed lads, who never knew what shyness meant. Frank drove down to the village in the cutter and brought lame Sammy back with him,

and soon after the last guest arrived, little Tilly. Mather, who was Miss Rankin's Orphans Island girl from over the road. Everybody knew that Miss Rankin never kept Christmas. She did not believe in it, she said, but she did not prevent Tilly from going to the Osborne's dinner party. Just at first, the guests were a little stiff and unsocial, but they soon got acquainted and so jolly was Cousin Myra, who had her dinner with the children in preference to the grown-ups, and so friendly the junior Osburns, that all stiffness vanished. What a merry dinner

it was! What peals of laughter went up, reaching to the big dining-room across the hall, where the grown-ups sat in rather solemn state. And how those guests did eat and frankly enjoy the good things before them! How nicely they all behaved, even to the French Joes! Myra had secretly been a little dubious about those four mischievous-looking lads, but their manners were quite flawless. Mrs. French Joe had been drilling them for three days, ever since they had been invited to da quesma dinner at the big house. After the merry dinner was over,

the junior Osbournes brought in a Christmas tree loaded with presents. They had bought them with the money that Mr. and Mrs. Osborne had meant for their own presents, and a splendid assortment they were. All the French Joel boys got a pair of skates apiece, and Sammy, a set of beautiful books, and Tilly was made supremely happy with a big wax doll. Every little Roland got just what his or her small heart had been longing for. Besides, there were nuts and candies galore. Then Frank hitched up his pony again, but this time into a great pung sleigh,

and the junior Osbournes took their guests for a sleigh drive, chaperoned by cousin Myra. It was just dusk when they got back, having driven the Rollins and the French Joes and Sammy and Tilly to their respective homes. This has been the jolliest Christmas I ever spent, said Frank emphatically. I thought we were going to give the others a good time, but it was they who gave it to us, said Ida. Weren't the French Joes jolly, giggled the twins, such cute speeches as they would make. Me and Teddy Roland are going to be chums after this, announced Arby. He's an inch taller than me, but I'm wider. That night, Frank and Ida and Cousa Myra had a little talk

after the smaller Osbournes had been hailed off to bed. We're not going to stop with Christmas, Cousa said Frank at the end of it. We're just going to keep on throughout the year. We've never had such a delightful old Christmas before. You've learned the secret of happiness, said Cousin Mira gently, and the Osbournes understood what she meant. End of Story 20.

Story 21 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Story 21, Uncle Richard's New Year's Dinner. Prissy Baker was in Oscar Miller's store New Year's morning buying matches, for New Year's was not kept as a business holiday in Quincy when her uncle, Richard Baker, came in. He did not look at Prissy, nor did she wish him a happy New Year. She would not have dared. Uncle Richard had not been on speaking terms with her or her father, his only brother, for eight years.

He was a big, ruddy, prosperous-looking man, an uncle to be proud of, Prissy thought wistfully, if only he were like other people's uncles, or indeed, like what he used to be himself. He was the only uncle Prissy had, and when she had been a little girl, they had been great friends, but that was before the quarrel, in which Prissy had had no share, to be sure, although Uncle Richard seemed to include her in his rancor. Richard Baker, so he informed Mr. Miller, was on his way to Navarre with a load of pork. I didn't intend going over until the afternoon, he said, but Joe Hemming sent word yesterday

he wouldn't be buying pork after 12 today, so I have to tote my hogs over at once. I don't care about doing business New Year's morning. Should think New Year's would be pretty much the same as any other day to use, said Mr. Miller, for Richard Baker was a bachelor, with only old Mrs. Janeway to keep house for him. Well, I always like a good dinner on New Year's, said Richard Baker. It's about the only way I can celebrate. Mrs. Janeway wanted to spend the day with her son's family over at Oriental, so I was laying out to cook my own dinner.

I got everything ready in the pantry last night. for a got word about the pork. I won't get back from Navarre before one o'clock, so I reckon I'll have to put up with a cold bite. After her uncle Richard had driven away, Prissy walked thoughtfully home. She had planned to spend a nice, lazy holiday with the new book her father had given her a Christmas

and a box of candy. She did not even mean to cook a dinner, for her father had had to go to town that morning to meet a friend and would be gone the whole day. There was nobody else to. to cook dinner for. Chrissy's mother had died when Prissy was a baby. She was her father's housekeeper, and they had jolly times together.

But as she walked home, she could not help thinking about Uncle Richard. He would certainly have cold New Year cheer, enough to chill the whole coming year. She felt sorry for him, picturing him returning from Navarre, cold and hungry, to find a fireless house and an uncooked dinner in the pantry. Suddenly an idea popped into Prissy's head. Dared she? Oh, she never could. But he would never know.

There would be plenty of time. She would. Prissy hurried home, put her matches away, took a regretful peep at her unopened book, then locked the door and started up the road to Uncle Richard's house half a mile away. She meant to go and cook Uncle Richard's dinner for him, get it all beautifully ready, then slip away before he came home.

He would never suspect her of it. Prissy would not have him suspect for the world. She thought he would be more likely to throw a dinner of her cooking out of doors than to eat it. Eight years before this, when Prissy had been nine years old, Richard and Irving Baker had quarreled over the division of a piece of property. The fault had been mainly on Richard's side, and that very fact made him all the more unrelenting and stubborn. He had never spoken to his brother's sense, and he declared he never would.

Prissy and her father felt very badly over it, but Uncle Richard did not seem to feel badly at all. To all appearance he had completely forgotten that there were such people in the world as his brother Irving and his niece Prissy. Prissy had no trouble in breaking into Uncle Richard's house, for the woodshed door was unfastened. She tripped into the hostile kitchen with rosy cheeks and mischiefs. sparkling in her eyes. This was an adventure. This was fun. She would tell her father all about it when he came home at night, and what a laugh they would have. There was still a good fire in the stove, and in the pantry Prissy found the dinner in its raw state, a fine roast of fresh pork, potatoes, cabbage, turnips, and the ingredients of a raisin pudding for Richard Baker was fond of

raisin puddings, and could make them as well as Mrs. Janeway could, if that was anything to boast of. In a short time, the kitchen was full of bubbling and hissing and appetizing odors. Prissy enjoyed herself hugely, and the raisin pudding, which she rather doubtfully mixed up, behaved itself beautifully. Uncle Richard said he'd be home by one, said Prissy to herself, as the clock struck twelve. So I'll set the table now, dish up the dinner, and leave it where it was.

will keep warm until he gets here. Then I'll slip away home. I'd like to see his face when he steps in. I suppose he'll think one of the Jenner girls across the street has cooked his dinner. Prissy had the table set, and she was just peppering the turnips, when a gruff voice behind her said, Well, well, what does this mean? Prissy whirled around as if she had been shot,

and there stood Uncle Richard in the woodshed door. Poor Prissy! She could not have looked or felt more guilty if Uncle Richard had caught her robbing his desk. She did not drop the turnips for a wonder, but she was too confused to set them down. So she stood there, holding them, her face crimson, her heart thumping, and a horrible choking in her throat. I came to cook your dinner for you, Uncle Richard, she stammered. I heard you say in the store that Mrs. Janeway had gone home and that you had nobody to cook your New Year's dinner for you. So I thought I'd come and do it, but I meant to slip away before you

came home. Poor Prissy felt that she would never get to the end of her explanation. Would Uncle Richard be angry? Would he order her from the house? I was very kind of you, said Uncle Richard dryly. It's a wonder your father let you come. Father was not home, but I am sure he would not have prevented me if he had been. Father has no hard feelings against you, Uncle Richard. said Uncle Richard. Well, since you've cooked the dinner, you must stop and help me eat it. Smells good, I must say. Mrs. Janeway always burns pork when she roast it.

Sit down, Prissy, I'm hungry. They sat down. Prissy felt quite giddy and breathless and could hardly eat for excitement. But Uncle Richard had evidently brought home a good appetite from Navarre, and he did full justice to his New Year's dinner. He talked to Prissy too quite kindly and politely, and when the meal was over he said slowly,

I'm much obliged to you, Prissy, and I don't mind owning to you that I'm sorry for my share in the quarrel and have wanted for a long time to be friends with your father again, but I was too ashamed and proud to make the first advance. You can tell him so for me, if you like, and if he's willing to let bygones be bygones, tell him I'd like him to come up here with you tonight when he gets home and spend the evening with me.

Oh, he will come, I know, cried to... Prissy joyfully. He has felt so badly about not being friendly with you, Uncle Richard. I'm as glad as can be. Pissy ran impulsively around the table and kissed Uncle Richard. He looked up at his tall, girlish niece with a smile of pleasure. You're a good girl, Prissy, and a kind-hearted one, too, or you'd never have come up here to cook a dinner for a crabbed old uncle who deserved to eat cold dinner for his stubbornness. It made me cross today when folks wish me a happy new year. It seemed like mockery when I hadn't a soul belonging to me to make it happy. But it has brought me happiness already, and I believe it will be a happy year all the way through.

Indeed it will, laughed Prissy. I'm so happy now I could sing. I believe it was an inspiration, my idea of coming up here to cook your dinner for you. You must promise to come and cook my New Year's dinner for me every new year we live near enough together, said, Uncle Richard and Prissy promised. End Story 21. Story 22 of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This liverbox recording is in the public domain. Story 22, the Unforgotten One.

It was Christmas Eve, but there was no frost or snow or sparkle. It was a green Christmas, and the night was mild and dim with hazy starlight. A little wind was laughing freakishly among the firs around Ingleside and rustling among the sear grasses along the garden walks. It was more like a night in early spring or late fall than in December. But it was Christmas Eve and there was a light in every window of Ingleside, the glow breaking out through the whispering darkness like a flame-red blossom swung against the background of the evergreens, for the children were coming home for the Christmas reunion, as a

as they always came, Fritz and Margaret and Laddy and Nora, and Robert's two boys in the place of Robert, who had died fourteen years ago, and the old house must put forth its best of light and good cheer to welcome them. Dr. Fritz and his brood were the last to arrive, driving up to the hall door amid a chorus of welcoming barks from the old dogs and a hail of merry calls from the group in the open doorway. We're all here now, said the little mother as she put her arms about the neck of her stalwart firstborn and kissed his bearded face. There were handshakings and greetings and laughter. Only nanny, far back in the shadows of the firelit hall, swallowed a resentful sob,

and wiped two bitter tears from her eyes with her little red hand. We're not all here, she murmured under her breath. Miss Avis isn't here. Oh, how can they be so glad? How, can they have forgotten? But nobody heard or heeded Nanny. She was only the little orphan help girl at Ingleside. They were all very good to her, and they were all very fond of her. But at the times of family reunion, Nanny was unconsciously counted out. There was no bond of blood to unite her to them, and she was left on the fringe of things.

Nanny never resented this. It was all the matter of course to her. But on this Christmas Eve her heart was broken. because she thought that nobody remembered miss avas after dinner they all gathered round the open fireplace of the hall hung with its berries and evergreens in honor of the morrow it was their unwritten law to form a fireside circle on Christmas Eve and tell each other what the year had brought them of good and ill sorrow and joy the circle was smaller by one than it had been the year before

but none spoke of that there was a smile on every face and had happiness in every voice. The father and mother sat in the center, gray-haired and placid, their fine old faces written over with the history of gracious lives. Beside the mother, Dr. Fritz sat like a boy on the floor with his massive head, gray as his father's, on her lap, and one of his smooth muscular hands that were as tender as a woman's at the operating table clasped in hers. Next to him sat sweet Nora, the twenty-year old baby, who taught in a city school. The rosy firelight gleamed lovingly over her girlish beauty of burnished brown hair, dreamy blue eyes, and soft virginal curves of cheek and throat.

Dr. Fritz's spare arm was about her, but Nora's own hands were clasped over her knee, and on one of them sparkled a diamond that had not been there at the last Christmas reunion. Laddy, who figured as Archibald, only in the family by, Bible sat close to the inglenock, a handsome young fellow with a daring brow and rollicking eyes. On the other side sat Margaret hand in hand with her father, a woman whose gracious sweetness of nature enveloped her as a garment, and Robert's two laughing boys filled up the circle, looking so much alike that it was hard to say, which was Cecil and which was Sid.

Margaret's husband and Fritz's wife were playing games with the children in the parlor, Hence shrieks of merriment drifted out into the hall. Nanny might have been with them had she chosen, but she preferred to sit alone in the darkest corner of the hall and gaze with jealous, unhappy eyes at the mirthful group about the fire, listening to their story and jest and laughter with unavailing protest in her heart. Oh, how could they have forgotten so soon! It was not yet a full year since Miss Mavis had gone. Last Christmas Eve she had sat there a sweet and saintly presence in the Ingle-Nook,

more so it had almost seemed, the center of the home circle than the father and mother. And now the December stars were shining over her grave, and not one of that heedless group remembered her. Not once was her name spoken. Even her old dog had forgotten her. He sat with his nose in Margaret's lap, blinking with drowsy aged contentment. at the fire. Oh, I can't bear it, whispered Nanny, undercover of the hearty laughter, which greeted a story Dr. Fritz had been telling.

She slipped out into the kitchen, put on her hood and cloak, and took from a box under the table a little wreath of Holly. She had made it out of the bits left over from the decorations. Miss Avis had loved Holly. Miss Avis had loved every green growing thing. As Nanny opened the kitchen door, something cold touched her hand, and there stood the old dog, wagging his tail and looking up at her with wistful eyes, mutely pleading to be taken, too. So you do remember her, Jippy, said Nanny,

patting his head. Come along, then, we'll go together. They slipped out into the night. It was quite dark, but it was not far to the graveyard, just out through the evergreens and along a field by-path and across the road. The old church was there, with its square tower, and the white stones gleaming all around it. Nanny went straight to a shadowy corner and knelt on the sear grasses while she placed her holly wreath on Miss Avis's grave. The tears in her eyes brimmed over. Oh, Miss Avis, Miss Avis!

She sobbed, I missed you so. I miss you so. It can't ever seem like Christmas to me without you. You are always so sweet and kind to me. There ain't a day passes, but I think of you. and all the things you used to say to me, and I try to be good like you want me to be, but I hate them for forgetting you. Yes, I do. I'll never forget you, darling, Miss Avis. I'd rather be here alone with you in the dark than back there with them.

Nanny sat down by the grave, the old dog lay down by her side, with his forepaws on the turf and his eyes fixed on the tall, white marble shaft. It was too dark for Nanny to read the inscription, but she knew every word of it. In loving remembrance of Avis Maywood died January 20, 1902, aged 45, and underneath the lines of her own choosing, say not good night, but in some brighter climb bid me good morning. But they had forgotten her. Oh, they had forgotten her already. When half an hour had passed, Nanny was startled by approaching footsteps. Not wishing to be seen, she crept softly behind the headstones into the shadow of the willow on the farther side, and the old dog followed.

Dr. Fritz, coming to the grave, thought himself alone with the dead. He knelt down by the headstone and pressed his face against it. "'Avis,' he said gently, dear Avis, I have come to visit your grave tonight because you seem nearer to me here than elsewhere. And I want to talk to you, Avis, as I have always talked to you every time. Christmas tide since we were children together. I have missed you so tonight, dear friend and sympathizer. No word can tell how I have missed you, your welcoming hand-clasp and your sweet face in the firelit shadows. I could not bear to speak your name. The aching sense of loss was so

bitter. Amid all the Christmas mirth and good fellowship, I felt the sorrow of your vacant chair. Avis, I wanted to tell you what the year have brought to me. My theory has been proved. It has made me a famous man. Last Christmas, Avis, I told you of it, and you listened and understood and believed in it. Dear, Avis, once again I thank you for all you have been to me, all you are yet. I have brought you your roses. They are as white and pure and fragrant as your life.

Other footsteps came so quickly on Dr. Fritz's retreating ones that Nanny could not rise. It was Laddie this time, gay, careless, thoughtless laddie. Roses! So Fritz has been here. I have brought you lilies, Avis. Oh, Avis, I miss you so. You were so jolly and good. You understood a fellow so well. I had to come here tonight to tell you how much I miss you.

It doesn't seem half home without you. you. Avis, I'm trying to be a better chap. More the sort of man you'd have me be. I've given the old set the go-by. I'm trying to live up to your standard. It would be easier if you were here to help me. When I was a kid, it was always easier to be good for a while after I'd talk things over with you. I've got the best mother a fella ever had, but you and I were such chums, weren't we, Avis? I thought I'd just break down in there tonight and put a damper on every day. everything by crying like a baby. If anybody had spoken about you, I should have." "'Hello?' Laddie wheeled about with a start, but it was only Robert's two boys who came

shyly up to the grave, half hanging back to find anyone else there. "'Hello boys,' said Laddie huskily, "'so you've come to see her grave, too.' "'Yes,' said Cecil solemnly, "'we just had to. We couldn't go to bed without coming.' Oh, isn't it lonesome without Cousin Avis? She was always so good to us, said Sid. She used to talk to us so nice, said Cecil Chocolie, but she liked fun, too. Boys, said Laddie gravely, never forget what Cousan Avis used to say to you,

never forget that you've got to grow up into men she'd be proud of. They went away then, the boys and their boyish uncle, and when they had gone, Nora came, stealing timidly, through the shadows, starting at the rustle of the wind in the trees. Oh, Avis, she whispered, I want to see you so much. I want to tell you all about it, about him. You would understand so well. He is the best and dearest lover a girl ever had.

You would think so, too. Oh, Avis, I miss you so much. There's a little shadow even on my happiness, because I can't talk it over with you in the old way. oh avis it was dreadful to sit around the fire to-night and not see you perhaps you were there in spirit i love to think you were but i wanted to see you you were always there to come home to before avis dear sobbing she went away and then came margaret the grave strong margaret dear cousin dear to me as a sister it seemed to me that i must come to you here to-night i cannot tell you how much i miss your wise clear-sighted advice and judgment your wholesome companionship a little son was born to me this past year avis how glad you would have been for you knew as none other did the bitterness of my childless heart how we were born to me this past year avis how we would have been for you knew as none other did the bitterness of my childless heart how we were would have delighted to talk over my baby together and teach him wisely between us.

Avis, Avis, you're going made a blank that can never be filled for me. Margaret was still standing there when the old people came. Father, mother, isn't it too late and chilly for you to be here? No, Margaret, no, said the mother. I couldn't go to my bed without coming to see Avis's grave. I brought her up from a baby. Her dying mother gave her to me. She was as much my own child as any of you.

And, oh, I miss her so. You only miss her when you come home, but I miss her all the time, every day. We all miss her mother, said the old father, tremulously. She was a good girl. Avis was a good girl. Good night, Avis. Say not good night,

but in some brighter climb bid her good morning, quoted Margaret softly. That was her own wish, you know. Let us go back now. It is getting late. When they had gone, Nanny crept out from the shadows. It had not occurred to her that perhaps she should not have listened. She had been too shy to make her presence known to those who came to Avis's grave.

But her heart was full of joy. Oh, Miss Avis, I'm so glad. I'm so glad. They haven't forgotten you after all. Oh, Miss Avis, dear, not one of them. I'm sorry I was so cross at them, and I'm so glad they haven't forgotten you. I love them for it.

Then the old dog and nanny went home together. End of story 22. A poem for Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories. This Liverfox recording is in the public domain. A poem, The Christmas Night. Wrapped was the world in slumber deep, by seaward valley and sea-durned steep, and bright and blessed were the dreams of its sleep. All the hours of that wonderful night-tide through, the stars out blossomed in fields of blue, a heavenly chaplet to diadem the king in the manger of Bethlehem.

Out on the hills the shepherds lay, wakeful, that never a lamb might stray. humble and clean of heart were they. Thus it was given them to hear marvelous harping strange and clear, thus it was given them to see the heralds of the nativity. In the dim-lit stable the mother mild looked with holy eyes on her child, cradled him close to her heart and smiled. Kingly purple nor crown had he, never a trapping of royalty, but Mary saw that the baby's head, with a slender nimbus, was garland dead. Speechless her joy as she watched him there, forgetful of pain and grief and care,

and every thought in her soul was a prayer. While under the dome of the desert sky, the kings of the east from afar drew nigh, and the great white star that was guide to them kept ward over the manger of Bethlehem. End of poem. End of Christmas with Lucy Maud Montgomery, a selection of stories by Lucy Maud Montgomery.