Belles on their Toes

the others," Mother warned, "you may find ashes in your stocking."
    "I always thought there was something funny about that fainting act."
    "Up to the brim with ashes," Mother repeated.
    "So all you want for Christmas," Martha said, "is a little love and affection. Well, you can't shake, pinch and smell those!"
    "Sit down and have a pinch," Mother grinned. "I won't tell on you, if you don't tell on me."
    "I'll be doggoned," said Martha, squatting next to her on the floor. "Do you see any for me?"
    "Here's one to you from Anne," Mother replied, feeling, rattling, listening, smelling and using every other sense known to man—and some known only women. "I think it's a pocketbook."
    "You think," Martha scoffed. "You're as sure as if you had taken the package to the hospital and had it X-ayed.”

    We went down and got our stockings Christmas morning, and Mother took her first official look at the parlor. She didn't forget to "oh" and "ah," and to tell us that the tree never looked lovelier. We took the stockings upstairs to Mother's room, and opened them there. Then we cleaned up the wrappings, had breakfast, and walked to church. The air was bracing, and all of us felt happy and good.
    Tom had a fire for us in the parlor when we returned. Mother sat down at the piano, and we went up to the second-story hall and formed a line by ages. Then Mother started to play AdesteFidelis. We sang and marched single-file down the stairs and into the parlor. Anne led the way, as she always had done. In the past, Dad had brought up the rear, either carrying the baby or letting the baby stand on his shoes, while Dad took big steps and sometimes long jumps. This year Jane brought up the rear by herself.
    We wound up the song standing around the piano, pushing as close to Mother as we could. Frank did his best to sing bass, but all of us knew something was missing from the harmony.
    Underneath the tree, besides the presents we had wrapped, were twenty or more cartons from relatives and friends. Mother slipped into the office to get a stenographer's pad and pencil, to make notes for the thank-you letters.
    Frank started passing out the presents. The custom was that only one gift was opened at a time, so that everyone could watch and so that Christmas would last longer.
    That year Dan had insisted that he was old enoughto do his own Christmas shopping, and Mother had agreed. He had gone downtown by himself, pulling the express wagon after him, and had come home with the wagon piled high. No amount of pumping, even on the part of Fred from whom he had few secrets, could elicit the slightest information about the nature of the gifts.
    It was obvious, though, from just a casual glance under the tree, that Dan's purchases were identical and that he had wrapped them without assistance.
    There were eleven of them. He had placed them in a row, a little away from the general pile. Each was as large as a basketball, although irregular in shape.
    Each gift, whatever it was, was enmeshed—trapped rather than wrapped—in green tissue paper, held in place with scores of stickers. Some of these wished you a joyous Yuletide; others voiced dire threats about what would happen if you opened it before Christmas.
    All of us had wondered about Dan's presents, ever since he had brought them down from his bedroom the night before. Even Mother and Martha hadn't managed to pinch out a single clue.
    In Christmases past, Dan had been primarily interested in presents for himself. Sometimes he had been impatient at the delay involved in distributing the gifts one at a time, and had asked Dad to dig through the pile and find all of the presents for him.
    But this Christmas Dan was quiet. Even when he opened a present for himself, he seemed detached and the usual enthusiasm was lacking. He kept his eyes on the eleven packages he had wrapped.
    Mother sensed the situation and whispered something to Frank. Frank walked over to the row of misshaped green bundles and picked up one.
    "To Mother with love from Dan," Frank read the scrawl on the tag. "Here you are, Mother."
    Dan now was squirming with eagerness and embarrassment. "You probably won't like it," he mumbled. "It isn't much."
    "I wonder what in the world it can be," said Mother.
    "It’s nice," Martha told her, dropping her voice, "that you have at least one surprise left."
    "I can't imagine what it is, Dan," Mother said.
    "Aw, I'll bet you've already guessed what it is," Dan replied. "It isn't much." His cheeks