and they did not say anything. Even Mary, who was always so good, did not say a word.
That night after supper Pa drew Laura and Mary close to him in the crook of his arms.
Laura looked up at his face, and then she snuggled against him and said, “Pa . ”
“What is it, little half-pint of sweet cider?”
Pa asked, and Laura said:
“Pa, I want Santa Claus—to bring—”
“What?” Pa asked.
“Horses,” said Laura. “If you will let me ride them sometimes.”
“So do I!” said Mary. But Laura had said it first.
Pa was surprised. His eyes shone soft and bright at them. "Would you girls really like horses?" he asked them.
“Oh yes, Pa ! ” they said.
“In that case,” said Pa, smiling, “I have an idea that Santa Claus will bring us all a fine team of horses.”
That settled it. They would not have any Christmas, only horses. Laura and Mary soberly undressed and soberly buttoned up their nightgowns and tied their nightcap strings. They knelt down together and said,
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take, and please bless Pa and Ma and Carrie and everybody and make me a good girl for ever'n'ever. Amen."
Quickly Laura added, in her own head,
"And please make me only glad about the Christmas
horses, for ever'n'ever
amen
again."
She climbed into bed and almost right away she was glad. She thought of horses sleek and shining, of how their manes and tails blew in the wind, how they picked up their swift feet and sniffed the air with velvety noses and looked at everything with bright, soft eyes.
And Pa would let her ride them.
Pa had tuned his fiddle and now he set it against his shoulder. Overhead the wind went wailing lonely in the cold dark. But in the dugout everything was snug and cosy.
Bits of fire-light came through the seams of the stove and twinkled on Ma's steel knitting needles and tried to catch Pa's elbow. In the shadows the bow was dancing, on the floor Pa's toe was tapping, and the merry music hid the lonely crying of the wind.
A MERRY CHRISTMAS
Next morning, snow was in the air.
Hard bits of snow were leaping and whirling in the howling wind.
Laura could not go out to play. In the stable, Spot and Pete and Bright stood all day long, eating the hay and straw. In the dugout, Pa mended his boots while Ma read to him again the story called Millbank. Mary sewed and Laura played with Charlotte. She could let Carrie hold Charlotte, but Carrie was too little to play with paper dolls; she might tear one.
That afternoon, when Carrie was asleep, Ma beckoned Mary and Laura. Her face was shining with a secret. They put their heads close to hers, and she told them. They could make a button-string for Carrie's Christmas!
They climbed onto their bed and turned their backs to Carrie and spread their laps wide. Ma brought them her button-box.
The box was almost full. Ma had saved buttons since she was smaller than Laura, and she had buttons her mother had saved when her mother was a little girl. There were blue buttons and red buttons, silvery and goldy buttons, curved-in buttons with tiny raised castles and bridges and trees on them, and twinkling jet buttons, painted china buttons, striped buttons, buttons like juicy black-berries, and even one tiny dog-head button.
Laura squealed when she saw it.
“Sh!” Ma shushed her. But Carrie did not wake up.
Ma gave them all those buttons to make a button string for Carrie.
After that, Laura did not mind staying in the dugout. When she saw the outdoors, the wind was driving snowdrifts across the bare frozen land. The creek was ice and the willow-tops rattled. In the dugout she and Mary had their secret.
They played gently with Carrie and gave her everything she wanted. They cuddled her and sang to her and got her to sleep whenever they could. Then they worked on the button-string.
Mary had one end of the string and Laura had the other. They picked out the
That night after supper Pa drew Laura and Mary close to him in the crook of his arms.
Laura looked up at his face, and then she snuggled against him and said, “Pa . ”
“What is it, little half-pint of sweet cider?”
Pa asked, and Laura said:
“Pa, I want Santa Claus—to bring—”
“What?” Pa asked.
“Horses,” said Laura. “If you will let me ride them sometimes.”
“So do I!” said Mary. But Laura had said it first.
Pa was surprised. His eyes shone soft and bright at them. "Would you girls really like horses?" he asked them.
“Oh yes, Pa ! ” they said.
“In that case,” said Pa, smiling, “I have an idea that Santa Claus will bring us all a fine team of horses.”
That settled it. They would not have any Christmas, only horses. Laura and Mary soberly undressed and soberly buttoned up their nightgowns and tied their nightcap strings. They knelt down together and said,
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take, and please bless Pa and Ma and Carrie and everybody and make me a good girl for ever'n'ever. Amen."
Quickly Laura added, in her own head,
"And please make me only glad about the Christmas
horses, for ever'n'ever
amen
again."
She climbed into bed and almost right away she was glad. She thought of horses sleek and shining, of how their manes and tails blew in the wind, how they picked up their swift feet and sniffed the air with velvety noses and looked at everything with bright, soft eyes.
And Pa would let her ride them.
Pa had tuned his fiddle and now he set it against his shoulder. Overhead the wind went wailing lonely in the cold dark. But in the dugout everything was snug and cosy.
Bits of fire-light came through the seams of the stove and twinkled on Ma's steel knitting needles and tried to catch Pa's elbow. In the shadows the bow was dancing, on the floor Pa's toe was tapping, and the merry music hid the lonely crying of the wind.
A MERRY CHRISTMAS
Next morning, snow was in the air.
Hard bits of snow were leaping and whirling in the howling wind.
Laura could not go out to play. In the stable, Spot and Pete and Bright stood all day long, eating the hay and straw. In the dugout, Pa mended his boots while Ma read to him again the story called Millbank. Mary sewed and Laura played with Charlotte. She could let Carrie hold Charlotte, but Carrie was too little to play with paper dolls; she might tear one.
That afternoon, when Carrie was asleep, Ma beckoned Mary and Laura. Her face was shining with a secret. They put their heads close to hers, and she told them. They could make a button-string for Carrie's Christmas!
They climbed onto their bed and turned their backs to Carrie and spread their laps wide. Ma brought them her button-box.
The box was almost full. Ma had saved buttons since she was smaller than Laura, and she had buttons her mother had saved when her mother was a little girl. There were blue buttons and red buttons, silvery and goldy buttons, curved-in buttons with tiny raised castles and bridges and trees on them, and twinkling jet buttons, painted china buttons, striped buttons, buttons like juicy black-berries, and even one tiny dog-head button.
Laura squealed when she saw it.
“Sh!” Ma shushed her. But Carrie did not wake up.
Ma gave them all those buttons to make a button string for Carrie.
After that, Laura did not mind staying in the dugout. When she saw the outdoors, the wind was driving snowdrifts across the bare frozen land. The creek was ice and the willow-tops rattled. In the dugout she and Mary had their secret.
They played gently with Carrie and gave her everything she wanted. They cuddled her and sang to her and got her to sleep whenever they could. Then they worked on the button-string.
Mary had one end of the string and Laura had the other. They picked out the
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