Nothing," said Anne, turning her reddened eyes from the light.
"Perhaps my eyes are sore. Maybe the snow hurts them."
"Oh, ho! You just ought 'a' been with me," said Dunlop, strutting in. "I
hanged a wreath in the parlor window. I did it all to myself. Martha she
just held it straight and mother tied the string. Martha said I
bothered. Martha don't know. Mother says I'm her little man.--Come
along, you old Santa Claus! Hurry! Or I'll come up that chimney and take
all your toys and your reindeers, too," he shouted up the chimney.
"Don't, 'Lop," remonstrated Arthur who was sleepily rubbing his eyes and
opening his mouth, bird-like, for spoonfuls of bread and milk. "Don't
talk that way. It's ugly. And Santa C'aus'll get mad and not come. Or
he'll bring you switches."
"Mother won't let him," blustered Dunlop. "Mother says she told him to
bring me a heap of things--a gun and a 'spress wagon and a engine that
runs on a track and lots more things.--Say, Anne, is there really truly
a sure-'nough Santa Claus? George Bryant says there isn't not. Tell me,
Anne. Does Santa Claus really come down the chimney?"
"You stay awake and see," advised Anne.
"I'm going to.
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