creeping spruce, and Susan’s pantry was crammed to overflowing. Then, late in the afternoon, when everyone had resigned themselves to a dingy ‘green’ Christmas somebody looked out of a window and saw white flakes as big as feathers falling thickly.
‘Snow! Snow!! Snow!!!’ shouted Jem. ‘A white Christmas after all, Mummy.’
The Ingleside children went to bed happy. It was so nice to snuggle down warm and cosy and listen to the storm howling outside through the grey, snowy night. Anne and Susan went to work to deck the Christmas-tree… ‘acting like two children themselves,’ thought Aunt Mary Maria scornfully. She did not approve of candles on a tree… ‘suppose the house caught fire from them’… she did not approve of coloured balls… ‘suppose the twins ate them’. But nobody paid any attention to her. They had learned that that was the only condition on which life with Aunt Mary Maria was livable.
‘Finished!’ cried Anne, as she fastened the great silver star to the top of the proud little fir. ‘And oh, Susan, doesn’t it look pretty? Isn’t it nice we can all be children again at Christmas without being ashamed of it? I’m so glad the snow came… but I hope the storm won’t outlast the night.’
‘It’s going to storm all day tomorrow,’ said Aunt Mary Maria positively. ‘I can tell by my poor back.’
Anne went through the hall, opened the big front door and peered out. The world was lost in a white passion of snowstorm. The window-panes were grey with drifted snow. The Scotch pine was an enormous sheeted ghost.
‘It doesn’t look very promising,’ Anne admitted ruefully.
‘God manages the weather yet, Mrs Doctor dear, and not Miss Mary Maria Blythe,’ said Susan over her shoulder.
‘I hope there won’t be a sick call tonight at least,’ said Anne as she turned away. Susan took one parting look into the gloom before she locked out the stormy night.
‘Don’t
you
go and have a baby tonight,’ she warned darkly in the direction of the Upper Glen, where Mrs George Drew was expecting her fourth.
In spite of Aunt Mary Maria’s back, the storm spent itself in the night and morning filled the secret hollows of snow among the hills with the red wine of winter sunrise. All the small fry were up early, looking starry and expectant.
‘
Did
Santa get through the storm, Mummy?’
‘No. He was sick and didn’t dare try,’ said Aunt Mary Maria, who was in a good humour… for her… and felt joky.
‘Santa Claus got here all right,’ said Susan before their eyes had time to blue, ‘and after you’ve had your breakfast you’ll see what he did to your tree.’
After breakfast Dad mysteriously disappeared, but nobody missed him because they were so taken up with the tree… the lovely tree, all gold and silver bubbles and lighted candles in the still dark room, with parcels in all colours and tied with the loveliest ribbon, piled about it. Then Santa appeared, a gorgeous Santa, all crimson and white fur, with a long white beard and
such
a jolly big stomach… Susan had stuffed three cushions into the red velveteen cassock Anne had made for Gilbert. Shirley screamed with terror at first, but refused to be taken out for all that. Santa distributed all the gifts with a funny little speech for every one in a voice that sounded oddly familiar even through the mask; and then, just at the end, his beard caught fire from a candle, and Aunt Mary Maria had some slight satisfaction out of the incident though not enough to prevent her from sighing mournfully.
‘Ah me, Christmas isn’t what it was when I was a child.’ She looked with disapproval at the present Little Elizabeth had sent Anne from Paris… a beautiful little bronze reproduction of Artemis of the Silver Bow.
‘What shameless hussy is that?’ she inquired sternly.
‘The goddess Diana,’ said Anne, exchanging a grin with Gilbert.
‘Oh, a heathen! Well, that’s different, I suppose. But if I were you, Annie, I
‘Snow! Snow!! Snow!!!’ shouted Jem. ‘A white Christmas after all, Mummy.’
The Ingleside children went to bed happy. It was so nice to snuggle down warm and cosy and listen to the storm howling outside through the grey, snowy night. Anne and Susan went to work to deck the Christmas-tree… ‘acting like two children themselves,’ thought Aunt Mary Maria scornfully. She did not approve of candles on a tree… ‘suppose the house caught fire from them’… she did not approve of coloured balls… ‘suppose the twins ate them’. But nobody paid any attention to her. They had learned that that was the only condition on which life with Aunt Mary Maria was livable.
‘Finished!’ cried Anne, as she fastened the great silver star to the top of the proud little fir. ‘And oh, Susan, doesn’t it look pretty? Isn’t it nice we can all be children again at Christmas without being ashamed of it? I’m so glad the snow came… but I hope the storm won’t outlast the night.’
‘It’s going to storm all day tomorrow,’ said Aunt Mary Maria positively. ‘I can tell by my poor back.’
Anne went through the hall, opened the big front door and peered out. The world was lost in a white passion of snowstorm. The window-panes were grey with drifted snow. The Scotch pine was an enormous sheeted ghost.
‘It doesn’t look very promising,’ Anne admitted ruefully.
‘God manages the weather yet, Mrs Doctor dear, and not Miss Mary Maria Blythe,’ said Susan over her shoulder.
‘I hope there won’t be a sick call tonight at least,’ said Anne as she turned away. Susan took one parting look into the gloom before she locked out the stormy night.
‘Don’t
you
go and have a baby tonight,’ she warned darkly in the direction of the Upper Glen, where Mrs George Drew was expecting her fourth.
In spite of Aunt Mary Maria’s back, the storm spent itself in the night and morning filled the secret hollows of snow among the hills with the red wine of winter sunrise. All the small fry were up early, looking starry and expectant.
‘
Did
Santa get through the storm, Mummy?’
‘No. He was sick and didn’t dare try,’ said Aunt Mary Maria, who was in a good humour… for her… and felt joky.
‘Santa Claus got here all right,’ said Susan before their eyes had time to blue, ‘and after you’ve had your breakfast you’ll see what he did to your tree.’
After breakfast Dad mysteriously disappeared, but nobody missed him because they were so taken up with the tree… the lovely tree, all gold and silver bubbles and lighted candles in the still dark room, with parcels in all colours and tied with the loveliest ribbon, piled about it. Then Santa appeared, a gorgeous Santa, all crimson and white fur, with a long white beard and
such
a jolly big stomach… Susan had stuffed three cushions into the red velveteen cassock Anne had made for Gilbert. Shirley screamed with terror at first, but refused to be taken out for all that. Santa distributed all the gifts with a funny little speech for every one in a voice that sounded oddly familiar even through the mask; and then, just at the end, his beard caught fire from a candle, and Aunt Mary Maria had some slight satisfaction out of the incident though not enough to prevent her from sighing mournfully.
‘Ah me, Christmas isn’t what it was when I was a child.’ She looked with disapproval at the present Little Elizabeth had sent Anne from Paris… a beautiful little bronze reproduction of Artemis of the Silver Bow.
‘What shameless hussy is that?’ she inquired sternly.
‘The goddess Diana,’ said Anne, exchanging a grin with Gilbert.
‘Oh, a heathen! Well, that’s different, I suppose. But if I were you, Annie, I
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