inter-family presents are apt to be trivial and futile--or worse yet,
utile.

The Carthaginian mother generally finds that Father has credited the
hat she got last fall, to this Christmas; the elder brothers receive
warm under-things and the young ones brass-toed boots, mitts and
mufflers. The girls may find something ornamental in their
stockings, and their stockings may be silk or nearly--but then girls
have to be foolishly diked up anyway, or they will never be married
out. Dressing up daughters comes under the head of window-display or
coupons, and is charged off to publicity.

Nearly everybody in Carthage--except Mrs. Ulysses S. G.
Budlong--celebrates Christmas behind closed doors. People find it
easier to rhapsodize when the collateral is not shown. It is amazing
how far a Carthaginian can go on the most meager donation. The
formula is usually: "We had Such a lovely Christmas at our house.
What did I get? Oh, so many things I can't reMember!"

But Mrs. Ulysses S. G. Budlong does not celebrate her Christmasses
behind closed doors--or rather she did not: a strange change came
over her this last Christmas. She used to open her doors
wide--metaphorically, that is; for there was a storm-door with a
spring on it to keep the cold draught out of the hall.

As regular as Christmas itself was the oh-quite-informal reception
Mrs. Budlong gave to mitigate the ineffable stupidity of Christmas
afternoon: that dolorous period when one meditates the ancient
platitude that anticipation is better than realization; and suddenly
understands why it is blesseder to give than to receive: because one