December 27th--It is the fashion, I believe,
to regard Christmas as a bore of rather a gross description,
and as a time when you are invited to over-eat yourself,
and pretend to be merry without just cause.
As a matter of fact, it is one of the prettiest and most poetic
institutions possible, if observed in the proper manner,
and after having been more or less unpleasant to everybody
for a whole year, it is a blessing to be forced on that one day
to be amiable, and it is certainly delightful to be able to give
presents without being haunted by the conviction that you
are spoiling the recipient, and will suffer for it afterward.
Servants are only big children, and are made just as happy
as children by little presents and nice things to eat, and,
for days beforehand, every time the three babies go into the garden
they expect to meet the Christ Child with His arms full of gifts.
They firmly believe that it is thus their presents are brought,
and it is such a charming idea that Christmas would be worth
celebrating for its sake alone.

As great secrecy is observed, the preparations devolve
entirely on me, and it is not very easy work, with so many people
in our own house and on each of the farms, and all the children,
big and little, expecting their share of happiness.
The library is uninhabitable for several days before and after,
as it is there that we have the trees and presents.
All down one side are the trees, and the other three sides
are lined with tables, a separate one for each person in the house.
When the trees are lighted, and stand in their radiance shining