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The Soul of a Child by Edwin Björkman
page 133 of 302 (44%)
"Why can it not be Christmas every day," asked Keith suddenly.

"Because Christmas then would be like any other day," the father
replied, reaching for the first parcel which was always for Keith.

One by one they were handed out. Each one was elaborately addressed and
furnished with a rhymed or unrhymed tag that often hid a sting beneath
its clownish exterior. The father read the inscription aloud before he
handed each parcel to its recipient, who had to open it and let its
contents be admired by all before another gift was distributed.

The table became crowded. The floor was a litter of paper. Lena giggled.
Granny's cap was down on one ear. Keith could not sit still on
his chair.

"To Master Keith Wellander," the father read out. "A friendly warning,
to be remembered in the morning and all through the day. He who slops at
meals is a pig that squeals and hurts his parents alway."

Keith took the parcel with less than usual zest. It was rectangular and
very heavy. For a moment he hesitated to open it. There was something
about its inscription that puzzled and bothered him.

At last the wrapper came off, and he gazed uncomprehendingly at a large
piece of wood hollowed out like a canoe.

"A boat ..." he stammered.

"A trough," rejoined his father, a strange, almost embarrassed look
appearing on his face. "This is Christmas and I want you to be happy,
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