And of course Tomorrow came, as it always does--only to become Today.

Jehosophat didn't climb on the chair that morning. There was no need
of making black marks with his pencil, when that red number,
25, stood out above all the others, so bright in its scarlet
splendor.

As a matter of fact, the children never looked at the calendar at all.
They were too busy with their stockings. Now, ordinarily; stockings
either hang limp on the line or else fit very evenly on smooth little
legs. But the three which hung by the fireplace were stiff and queerly
shaped, each full of knobs and bumps.

The children rose very early in the morning to get them, and were
taking out the oranges, and apples, and tops, and nuts, and raisins,
and marbles, and hair-ribbon (for Hepzebiah, of course) and the
mouth-organs, tin wagons and candy-canes, when a voice called, "Merry
Christmas," and Mother's face beamed in the doorway--then Father's.
Soon there was a stamping of feet on the kitchen porch, and the Toyman
came in from his milking and called, "Merry Christmas," too. And he
and Mother and Father seemed to get more fun out of those stockings
than the children themselves, or as much, which is saying a very great
deal.

It was hard to dress properly that morning--and particularly hard to
wash behind one's ears. Jehosophat put on one stocking inside out;
Marmaduke his union suit outside in; and one of his shoes was button
and the other lace. But they were all covered up, anyway, and Ole
Northwind couldn't nip their flesh, and the Constable couldn't arrest
them, so it was sufficient, I suppose.