she could find; for nothing sweet suited her just then.

"He was one of Dickens's best people, and you can read the charming story
some day. He hated Christmas until a strange dream showed him how dear and
beautiful it was, and made a better man of him."

"I shall read it; for I like dreams, and have a great many curious ones
myself. But they don't keep me from being tired of Christmas," said Effie,
poking discontentedly among the sweeties for something worth eating.

"Why are you tired of what should be the happiest time of all the year?"
asked mamma, anxiously.

"Perhaps I shouldn't be if I had something new. But it is always the same,
and there isn't any more surprise about it. I always find heaps of goodies
in my stocking. Don't like some of them, and soon get tired of those I do
like. We always have a great dinner, and I eat too much, and feel ill next
day. Then there is a Christmas tree somewhere, with a doll on top, or a
stupid old Santa Claus, and children dancing and screaming over bonbons
and toys that break, and shiny things that are of no use. Really, mamma,
I've had so many Christmases all alike that I don't think I _can_
bear another one." And Effie laid herself flat on the sofa, as if the mere
idea was too much for her.

Her mother laughed at her despair, but was sorry to see her little girl so
discontented, when she had everything to make her happy, and had known but
ten Christmas days.

"Suppose we don't give you _any_ presents at all,--how would that
suit you?" asked mamma, anxious to please her spoiled child.