Christmas Every Day
652 Words
The little girl came into her papa's study, as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him. So he began:
Well, once there was a little pig
She put her hand over his mouth and stopped him at the word. She said she had heard little pig-stories till she was perfectly sick of them.
Well, what kind of story shall I tell, then?
About Christmas. It's getting to be the season. It's past Thanksgiving already.
It seems to me, her papa argued, that I've told as often about Christmas as I have about little pigs.
No difference! Christmas is more interesting.
Well! Her papa roused himself from his writing by a great effort. Well, then, I'll tell you about the little girl that wanted it Christmas every day in the year. How would you like that?
First-rate! said the little girl; and she nestled into comfortable shape in his lap, ready for listening.
Very well, then, this little pigOh, what are you pounding me for?
Because you said little pig instead of little girl.
I should like to know what's the difference between a little pig and a little girl that wanted it Christmas every day!
Papa, said the little girl, warningly, if you don't go on, I'll give it to you! And at this her papa darted off like lightning, and began to tell the story as fast as he could.
Here the little girl pounded her papa in the back, again.
Well, what now? Did I say pigs?
You made them act like pigs.
Well, didn't they?
No matter; you oughtn't to put it into a story.
Very well, then, I'll take it all out.
Her father went on:
You needn't go over it all, papa; I guess I can remember just what was there, said the little girl.
Papa!
Well, what now?
What did you promise, you forgetful thing?
Oh! oh yes!
Papa!
Well, what?
You're beginning to fib.
Well, two thousand, then.
I thought you said everybody had gone to the poor-house, interrupted the little girl.
They did go, at first, said her papa; but after a while the poor-houses got so full that they had to send the people back to their own houses. They tried to cry, when they got back, but they couldn't make the least sound.
Why couldn't they?
Because they had lost their voices, saying Merry Christmas so much. Did I tell you how it was on the Fourth of July?
No; how was it? And the little girl nestled closer, in expectation of something uncommon.
The little girl drew a deep sigh of satisfaction.
And how was it at Thanksgiving?
Her papa hesitated. Well, I'm almost afraid to tell you. I'm afraid you'll think it's wicked.
Well, tell, anyway, said the little girl.
She found it was all nothing but a dream, suggested the little girl.
No, indeed! said her papa. It was all every bit true!
Well, what did she find out, then?
Why, that it wasn't Christmas at last, and wasn't ever going to be, any more. Now it's time for breakfast.
The little girl held her papa fast around the neck.
You sha'n't go if you're going to leave it so!
How do you want it left?
Christmas once a year.
All right, said her papa; and he went on again.
How will that do? asked the papa.
First-rate! said the little girl; but she hated to have the story stop, and was rather sober. However, her mamma put her head in at the door, and asked her papa:
Are you never coming to breakfast? What have you been telling that child?
Oh, just a moral tale.
The little girl caught him around the neck again.
We know! Don't you tell what, papa! Don't you tell what!
- Writer
