All of the Family

A Christmas story

May seemed a little early to think about Christmas, but to Theodore and Amelia, who thought about it all year anyway, it took on the frightening appearance of being too late. It began with the letter from Charlotte telling them that she wouldn’t be able to come home for Mother’s birthday after all. Charlotte was staying with an uncle in Baltimore where there was a good high school. She was quite clever and hoped to go to college. Her letter said that she was studying for exams and couldn’t get away.
There had once been a tradition in the Arnold family that on Mother’s birthday everyone behaved as if a holiday, as important as Thanksgiving or the fourth of July, was afoot. The day began with her breakfast being brought to her in bed and she ate it while being serenaded by the children with “I’m to be Queen of the May, Mother”. She was not allowed, on pain of the highest displeasure of the rest of the family, to do any work whatsoever all day long. When suppertime came, the festivities culminated in a splendid birthday cake and a poem written expressly for the occasion by Father, which always had at least one word in it that didn’t quite rhyme unless you pronounced it wrong and that was very funny if you could get the sense of it.
It was looked forward to quite as much as any other holiday, and once not one Arnold would have missed it for the world. You are not to blame Charlotte however for it had been a long time since all the Arnolds had been together for Mother’s birthday. This year only Theodore and Amelia were home, besides Father and Mother themselves, of course.
The morning did not go so very well. The two children made a very nice breakfast with the help of Miranda and Mother was as pleased and surprised as usual. But when they tried to sing “I’m to be Queen of the May, Mother”, they started too high and stopped abruptly in the middle.
“If you don’t mind, Mother,” said Amelia, “I think we won’t go on.”
Mother laughed. “Run downstairs, children, and have your breakfast,” she said.
The whole day was spent in trying to keep Mother from doing work. It was always a difficult job, but it was even harder when there were only two people to do it. Mother tidied up out of habit and she always noticed when something was out of place before anyone else and would try to set it to rights. Theodore and Amelia were quite busy trying to keep up with her. And then, of course, it was always found out on Mother’s birthday just how much work she did all the other days of the year.
The children were just beginning to feel that Mother’s birthday was longer than it had ever been before when their older brother Roger came by to surprise Mother. It was a great surprise for everybody because Roger had enlisted that winter and had been sent to a training camp in Georgia. He had gotten leave for a few days and had spent most of his money on a train ticket to come up expressly for Mother’s birthday.
“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble for me,” said Mother rather anxiously.
“No fear,” said Roger. “I’ve never missed your birthday yet, have I?”
“No, darling,” said Mother kissing him, and Roger wondered if she had forgotten for the moment that he was twenty-three years old.
Things went better after Roger arrived. Last winter he had had a bad bout with pneumonia and that was the reason he had enlisted late and was not yet in France. Roger was the third born and had been the first to break the Arnold custom of being good-looking. He had a plain, though good-natured face, long arms and legs that made him look like a grasshopper, and large, awkward hands that were a terror around teacups but were remarkably skilful when it came to clocks, motors, wind-up toys, and other things with parts inside them. Whenever anything broke in the Arnold household, Roger was always the one called to fix it.
Before enlisting, he had worked as a mechanic at a nearby mill, but that, as Mother and Father had declared whenever the fact was mentioned, was only temporary. They were convinced that Roger was far too clever to be a mere mechanic. –An engineer, perhaps, but for that one must have schooling and Roger had left college after only a year because he could not make “a go of it”, as he said. All the other Arnold children had done well so far—Elliot, the eldest, had finished medical school and was now a practicing physician who was in a good way to begin earning the money he had already spent on school. Margaret, the oldest girl, had married a man who worked for the railroad. They did not know what he did exactly, because his explanation was always rather confusing, but they knew that it was a good position, whatever it was.
Roger was the only Arnold who lacked ambition. He was quite content with whatever came along and although he was really a wonder in the mechanic business, he had never made much money at it and had always spent what he had made on the other members of his family. But perhaps because of this trait he had not gone far from home as Elliot and Margaret had. The farthest away he had ever been was Georgia. Now it was to be France.
He was not able to stay a whole day, but had to set out that same evening to be back at the training camp by morning. After he had gone the holiday feel seemed to go out of everything. Mother of course did her best to be gay, and Father’s poem was even funnier than usual, but the whole day passed off rather flat.
Theodore, who was less afraid than Amelia of being caught out of bed after bedtime now that he was thirteen and too old to be spanked, came into the nursery where Amelia slept to discuss the failures of the day.
“Mother didn’t enjoy it much,” said Amelia.
“No,” said Theodore. “We didn’t pull it off very well, and that’s a fact.”
“But I don’t see how we could have tried harder,” said Amelia, woefully.
“It wasn’t our fault,” growled Theodore. “We did our best and Mother tried hard to pretend to like it for our sakes, but I caught her crying once before Gerry came, and I don’t blame her. If I were Mother I would have cried too.”
“I feel rather like crying as it is,” confessed Amelia, and then added quickly, “if I weren’t almost eleven, that is. What do you suppose went wrong?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve several clues to the mystery,” said Theodore, who was fond of forensic science. “The first is our singing this morning.”
“It was rather bad,” said Amelia.
“It wasn’t how bad it was,” said Theodore. “We always sound bad. The trouble was that there were only two of us.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been quite right if we’d gotten Daddy or Miranda to help. It’s supposed to be the children, you know.”
“Yes, I know. The second thing was Gerry’s coming. Mother liked it a lot. I heard her tell him it was better than a present.”
“That’s just the thing. Of course Elliot and Margaret’s presents were very nice and all, but Mother would have liked it better if only they’d come themselves.”
“Yes,” said Theodore. “And the last thing is what Mother said when she kissed us goodnight just a little while ago.”
Amelia waited for him to explain.
“She said ‘My dears, you’re growing up too fast,’” said Theodore. “She almost sounded as if she were crying. I tell you what it is, Amy, she misses the rest of them.”
“Of course,” said Amelia. “I’ve seen her looking at their pictures in the hall and sighing. I wish they didn’t all have to live so far away.”
“I know,” said Theodore. Then he said as if changing the subject, “I think Cherry could have come.”
“So do I,” said Amelia. “I don’t think she really had to study so badly as that, and it would only have been one day.”
“I think Mother deserves a day once in awhile,” said Theodore. “If Gerry could come up from Georgia, Cherry could have managed to come down from Baltimore. It seems no one cares about Mother’s birthday anymore.”
“Mother says it’s different when you’ve a family of your own,” said Amelia.
“But Cherry hasn’t a family of her own. She’s only sixteen and she’s already like that. I tell you what, it isn’t right to treat your family like they aren’t important anymore just because you’re grown up and out on your own. Gerry’s all right, of course, but the others don’t seem to care. And when Terry comes back he’ll probably be the same way.”
“No, he won’t!” cried Amelia fiercely, for Lt. Peter Arnold, AEF, aged nineteen was her favourite brother.
“Well, perhaps not,” said Theodore, “but he’ll probably get married and move away. Do you realise, Amy, that in five more years I’ll be going to college?—or to the army, if the war isn’t over by then. Then it will just be you left at home.”
“I don’t want to think about it,” said Amelia. “It’s perfectly awful.”
“Which is just why we’ve got to do something now, while some of us are still left at home. I say, Amy, let’s try to get everyone to come home for Christmas.”
“Oh, Ted!” cried Amelia, “Let’s! Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely? We’ll make them come!”
“So we shall,” said Theodore. “And we won’t say anything to Mother or Father about it. We’ll manage it all ourselves. That way they won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t work.”
“We can write to Elliot and Margie,” said Amelia, entering on the plan practically. “We’ll tell them they’ve got to come, and we won’t let them say no.” Suddenly she stopped and her face fell as she remembered something. “Oh, Ted,” she said mournfully, “we won’t be able to have everyone. Terry won’t be here, and Gerry will probably be sent to France before Christmas. Oh, I hate the war!”
“I know, I’ve just thought of that,” said Theodore. “But it can’t be helped, of course. We’ll just have to do the best we can. Cherry will be here, of course, so it’s just Elliot-and-Susan and Margaret-and-Richard-and-Rick-and-Jane that we’ll have to talk into coming.
“It’s a pity about Gerry not being here, you know,” added Teddy. “Because he’s the only one we could have really counted on to come.”
I think I ought to explain something before going on, to save the reader from confusion. In the Arnold family each of the children had a pet name given him by Mother and Father, which was generally some shortened version of his real name. It had begun with Elliot, the eldest, and it had really been an accident. Father had one day, with unutterable horror, overheard Mother call the heir and representative of the Arnold family by the appellative “Ellie”, and he had been so appalled at the insult that he determined to provide his son at once with a more suitable pet name. Unfortunately, the name lent itself to all sorts of feminine shortenings, such as Lottie or Lettie, but not many appropriate for young gentlemen, so that Father had been obliged to change the letters about considerably and ended up at last with Tollie.
After that all the children had been given a pet name at birth. The names had stuck through infancy and childhood but had had less success after coming of age. Elliot’s had been the first to go, as it was so queer. Margaret’s followed when she had her first baby and began calling it by a pet name. She was still Margie at times, but seldom to her face. She was too much of a mother to be called a child’s name anymore.
Gerry had kept his still because none of the Arnolds could bring themselves to call him Roger. Peter had not outgrown his yet for family use, but if anyone called him Terry when his friends were about the offender was liable to having his toes stepped on.
This being explained, I hope the reader will excuse me if I call the Arnolds (those who still went by them) by their alternate names as, with the exception of Peter’s, I prefer them to their real ones.
The children’s letters were written and dispatched before the month was out. It isn’t really important to write out the replies for you to read, because I could make this story a good deal shorter by simply telling you what the answers were. However, as the letters give you a bit of an idea of what the people were like who wrote them, and as I for one like to read other people’s mail, I will print them here in their entirety.

Dear little brother and sister,
You dear darlings! How lovely of you to try to make Mother and Father’s Christmas nice for them. I think it is a very nice idea, but I really do think you ought to try something else. This year, I mean, for you know two of your brothers won’t be here, and after all, Elliot may go before Christmas too, for all we know, and I really think it would make Mother and Father feel their loss all the more keenly for having everyone else there. It would be simply lovely another year, of course, after Dicky and Janet are a bit older. They are rather too young this year, I think. It is hard for little children to be away from home at Christmas when they especially want familiar surroundings. Perhaps you remember how it was when you were their age. Besides that, there is not a great deal of money just now and Richard says we must economise. So of course I am very sorry at having to spoil your plan, but I think it was a lovely idea all the same and it was sweet of you to think of Mother and Father. All my love to you both, and Dicky and Janet send their love as well.

Most Sincerely,
Sister Margaret
Dear Teddy, and Dear Amy,
I’m most awfully sorry. I think it’s a good idea of yours, but we can’t come this year. We’re terribly short of funds and we likely won’t have any sort of Christmas at all. If it will make you feel better, we’ll do our best to come next year. I really am sorry, for it was a splendid idea.

Sincerely,
Elliot

P.S. I’m sorry too, and if there is any way we will come after all. I am saving my pennies. Much love to you both. -Susan
“Oh, how could they?” said Amy. “I do think they might have tried.”
“Of course they can’t help it if they haven’t any money,” said Teddy. “Susan’s a trump, though. She’d make Elliot come if they really could afford it, and she’ll probably do her best as it is. I say, Amy, let’s do all we can to help them out. We can save our pennies too and try to earn some money this summer and send it to them.”
“I’ve my chicken money,” said Amy, brightening. “And we can work in Mr. Water’s garden like we did last summer.”
“But not a word to anyone,” said Teddy, “for after all, they mightn’t be able to come even if we do earn the money. I’m glad we didn’t tell Mother or Father anything yet. They’d just have said ‘I told you so’.”

The summer passed and the autumn came. At the end of every month the children added up their money hopefully, but it was never enough for two railroad tickets from New York City, not to mention four from Illinois, and as Christmas came closer and closer hope began to wane. October was half-way over when Gerry came home unexpectedly. Teddy and Amy were walking home from school and met him coming up the lane.
“Hullo, Ted, Hullo Amy!” said Gerry cheerfully.
“Gerry, you’re home!” cried Amy, throwing her arms about him.
“’Lo, Gerry,” said Theodore with a more dignified shake of the hand. “How long have you got?”
“Three days; that’s all,” said Gerry, his face growing long. “And I think it’s my last leave. Someone said we’re to be shipped before the end of the month.”
The little spark of hope the children had kept alive for months was abruptly snuffed. They had tried to, but they had not quite been able to stop hoping that somehow Gerry would be there for Christmas. He saw their disappointment and tried to change the subject.
“How have you been getting on in school; what have you been doing lately?” he asked.
“Not much,” said Amy glumly.
“Maybe you can think of a way to earn money,” said Teddy, speaking of what was foremost in his mind.
“What are you saving for?” asked Gerry.
Then they told him their whole plan. Neither felt it a breach of security, for it was not to be Gerry’s surprise. Gerry was always interested in their ideas and he never said “I told you so.” He listened with interest and when they had finished he thrust his hands into his pockets and thought long and hard.
“I haven’t much money of my own,” he said at last. “But I have a little. Look here, I’ll help you out all I can with whatever I get. I’ll post home my pay.”
“Oh, Gerry, will you?” asked Amy. “Then perhaps we’ll have enough after all!”
“Not likely,” said Teddy. “It’s a hopeless business, really. Do you realise how much it actually costs for train fare? Well, I asked at the station the other day and they told me. We’ll never make enough by Christmas, and that’s the truth.”
“Well,” said Gerry, who was rather an optimist, “You never know what will happen, after all. Maybe Toll will be called to operate on some sick millionaire and save his life and make a whole lot of money, or maybe the railway will give Richard a free ticket, or maybe you’ll find some money lying about in the road. You never know. I say, I wish I had a hundred dollars!”
“You might as well wish for a million while you’re at it,” said Teddy. “It’ll buy those tickets just as soon.”
“Oh, wouldn’t it be nice to have a million dollars?” said Amy. “Just think how easy everything would be.”
They all looked up then, for they heard Mother’s voice calling from the house. In another moment she was hurrying down the walk towards them.
“Oh, Gerry,” she said affectionately as Gerry threw his arms about her, “what on earth are you doing standing here in the lane?”
“Wishing, Mother,” said Gerry.
Mother’s face fell slightly, but she smiled with a pretence of cheerfulness. “Can you stay long?” she asked.
Gerry hated to disappoint her. “Not very long,” he said, “but I mean to make the most of it.” He was not brave enough to tell her the news that he was to be shipped.
“Well,” said Mother briskly, “come along inside then, and don’t stand out here talking.”
She bent to pick up Gerry’s knapsack, which he and Teddy immediately attempted to take from her, for the Arnold boys had been raised as gentlemen.
“What was it you were wishing for?” asked Mother, as she walked to the house with one arm in Gerry’s and one hand in Amy’s while Teddy followed behind whistling.
“Lots of things,” said Amy. “Mostly that we were rich.”
“We are rich,” said Mother, which was what she said whenever the subject was brought up.
“We aren’t poor,” said Amy, “but we aren’t exactly rich, Mother. There are lots of people who have far more things than we do.”
“But we have each other,” said Mother. “That’s the most important, you know. All the money in the world couldn’t take the place of one person you love.”
Amy turned to look at Teddy who, she found, was looking at her. Their looks said the same thing: “We were right”. Mother wanted everyone home again.
“Oh dear,” said Amy, turning her head again and looking at the ground. “I wish—”
She broke off suddenly and said nothing.
“More wishing?” said Mother. But she squeezed Amy’s hand as if to say, “So do I”.
After Gerry had gone away again the children fell into despondency. There seemed nothing left to plan; nothing to look forward to. They were used to anticipating Christmas from the first week of October, but now that there was nothing particular to look forward to there seemed to be a great hole in the calendar. They were in Teddy’s bedroom one grey November day, lying on the floor and painting in Amy’s paint book.
“I tell you what it is, Amy,” said Teddy, “it’s no use our saving up our money anymore. Even if Elliot and Margie come with their families, Christmas won’t be like it ought to be. They were right. We’ll just have to wait until next year.”
“I don’t think next year will be any different,” said Amy, pessimistically. “How do you make everyone come at the same time? They’ll either be too busy or won’t have the money, or something. It’s hopeless.”
“We’ll just have to promise ourselves that we’ll always come home for Christmas when we’re grown,” said Teddy. “Kids, wives and all. A chap belongs at home on Christmas day, I say. You know what, Amy—”
He paused suddenly as a cry was heard from downstairs. Both children waited and listened in breathless silence.
“That was Mother,” said Teddy.
They gazed into each other’s eyes, a dreadful fear creeping over them.
“Gerry hasn’t been shipped yet,” said Teddy slowly, “so it must be—”
“Oh, Ted!” gasped Amy. “I can’t go downstairs and see what’s happened. I can’t! Oh, Teddy, supposing—Oh Terry!”
And so saying, she dived into Teddy’s bed and buried herself under the blankets.
Teddy got to his feet.
“I’ll go,” he said with the air of a soldier going to cut the wire.
He went shakily to the door and put his head cautiously out.
“I say, Amy,” he said, drawing it in again and speaking in a whisper, “they’re all talking downstairs. They wouldn’t be talking if—”
He broke off and slipped out of the room. Amy, in the middle of the bed, heard his boots going down the stairs but she did not move. She was curled up into a tight ball, her arms clasped around herself and her eyes squeezed shut. It couldn’t be that anything terrible had happened. It couldn’t be. If only Teddy would hurry and find out. If only someone would come and tell her everything was all right. Oh, what had happened? What had happened?At last she heard a loud clumping on the stairs and the next instant Teddy's fists were pummelling her back.
“Amy, get up, I tell you! Get out from under there! The war’s over!”

That was a wonderful day. The first thing Amy did was to throw off the covers and throw her arms around Teddy and kiss him, which was something she had not done since she was seven. The next thing she did was to run downstairs and hug Mother and Father and Miranda and join their excited conversation. But she broke away soon and hurried to Terry’s room.
Terry had insisted on his own room so that he might conduct his experiments in it in peace. He cherished hopes of being a physicist one day and kept a collection of bottles, beakers, and little phials of dark-coloured chemicals in boxes here and there, and on a table by the window he kept his gas burner and an apparatus he had built of wire to hold the beakers over the flame. His room was built out over the porch (so he wouldn’t blow up the rest of the house, Miranda said) and it got very cold in wintertime. It was cold today, but Amy didn’t notice. She sat down on the bed and thought about all the wonderful things that had suddenly come piling down on them.
The war was over. Terry would come home and Gerry would not have to go to France. They no longer had to get a sick feeling when a telegram was delivered. The horrid things that no one ever thought about but which always hung in the background, untalked about, no longer mattered. Everything would be as it had been before the war had started.
Teddy opened the door and put his head into the room.
“Thought you might be here, Amy,” he said, sitting down on the rail at the foot of the bed. “I say, everything’s started over again, hasn’t it? I mean about Christmas. The boys might be here after all, you know.”
“Yes, and maybe Elliot and Margaret will come after all,” said Amy. “Oughtn’t we to write them and ask again?”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Teddy. “We might send the money we’ve got so far to Elliot and Susan. If they’ve been saving too there might be enough for them to come. Anyhow, we should try. We won’t get a chance like this another year.”
The money was posted accordingly. For over a week the children haunted the post office, afraid that Mother or Father would find the letter first and begin to suspect something. But the days went by without any reply and the children began to worry, until at last a reply came that made up for the delay.
“Teddy, Teddy!” called Amy, bursting into Teddy’s room where he lay sprawled on the bed with Father Brown. “Two letters, Teddy! Both for us! One from Susan and one from Margie!”
“Not so loud,” said Teddy, coolly. “You wouldn’t want Mother to hear, would you?”
“She’s in the kitchen. She won’t hear anything,” said Amy. “Open it, quick, Teddy, or I’ll open it.”
“Go ahead,” said Teddy. “And read it too. Not too fast, please; I can never tell what you’re saying when you’re reading aloud and get to the exciting parts.”
“Shut your book, then,” said Amy. She composed herself and read,

Dear Teddy and Amy,
I’ve done as I promised and saved every cent I could. It was quite embarrassing sometimes, counting the change so carefully at the grocer’s, but I was quite determined that if it was in human power, we would come this Christmas. Elliot said if we didn’t know by the second week of November we would decide quite definitely that we wouldn’t be coming this year, and you may imagine how I worried I was when I saw how much we still needed for the fare. Then your letter came. To think of you saving all that money just to bring us home! Don’t think me silly, Teddy, but I cried, I was so happy. Then I told Elliot and he didn’t say anything at first, but I could see he felt it just as much as I did. At last he said, “I’ve had Christmas in my mind ever since we heard about the armistice and I’ve been thinking how it would be something for us to have Christmas at home this year, but I couldn’t see how we could do it.” But now we can and we are just as excited as we can be. You’ll excuse my not writing right away, but Elliot had trouble cancelling an appointment and we began to think we would be disappointed after all. But that is all right now and we are coming! I can’t wait to see you, dear little brother and sister. I should like to go on and plan all the lovely things we will do while we are together (carolling and baking—I’ve the loveliest recipe for fudge) but I mustn’t make this letter too much longer, or it will cost a fortune to post. Never mind, I shall see you soon. Won’t Mother and Father be surprised?”

Love,
Susan
There was a short silence after the conclusion of this epistle.
“Susan” said Teddy with gravity, “is A-1.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful! Good old Susan!” said Amy. “I knew she’d do it.”
If the reader will allow me to make a digression, I will say a few words on the Arnolds’ sister-in-law. When Elliot had married Susan a year before (he had married three years after Margaret had, though he was three years older), the children had been rather uncertain of how she would fit into the family. She was a beautiful, clever “city girl” who wore paint and the latest fashions, and she did her hair in a different way than Mother and Margaret. They soon discovered however that Susan had the warmest, kindest heart and the pleasantest, cheeriest ways. She was devoted to Elliot, and didn’t seem to mind at all their straightened life, though she had always been used to riches. She was taken into the Arnold clan even more rapidly than Margaret’s husband Richard had been, though he was a good, pleasant fellow and they had all loved him once they had forgiven him for taking Margaret away from them. Susan often said she had been adopted into the family, and she very well might have been; they all looked on her as a sister and she seemed to prefer visiting them than her own family who were all grown up and most of whom lived on Long Island.
“What about Margie’s?” asked Teddy, taking the second letter from the bed where Amy had dropped it in her haste.
“You read it, Teddy. It’s your turn,” said Amy complacently. “I don’t know what it can be about.”

Dear children, (read Teddy. “Well, really,” said Amy, “she might have called us by our names. We’re not that little.”)
I want to tell you that we are going to come this Christmas after all.“Hurrah!” shouted Amy.
“Not so loud,” said Teddy. “And let me finish.”
I will tell you why we changed our minds. Susan wrote us last week about the money you and Gerry had sent and I thought it was wonderful of you. I had no idea that you were so set on us all coming as that. I thought about it a great deal and I began to think that, what with the boys being back and everything, it really would be a shame if we couldn’t all be there, so I spoke to Richard about it. I said, “If Teddy and Amy and Gerry can save their money to bring Susan and Elliot home (and they’ve so little), we certainly ought to try to save ours.” “But I certainly don’t see what else we can do to save,” he said. “Well I do,” I said. “We can give Dicky and Janet fewer presents this year. I really think we give them more than children of that age really need, and there are lots of children who don’t get anything at all.” “Of course, if you say so,” said Richard, “but they’ll be disappointed.” “They’ll be pleased to see all their uncles and aunts,” I said, and the matter was settled. So we are coming and will be there probably the week before Christmas. I love you, dears, and kiss Mother for me.

Love,
Margie
“Well,” said Teddy, “that’s everyone.”
But it was not everyone after all, for only the next week a letter came from Terry. Mother had written to him as soon as they had gotten the news of the armistice to ask how soon he would be home. Of course everyone was eager to know, for they had not seen him since he had been shipped over a year before. In his letter, though, he said that he would not be home for quite a while—when exactly he did not know.
Definitely not before Christmas, he wrote, though I’m awfully sorry to miss it. They’ve such a regular load of chaps here that they can’t begin to get them back across the Atlantic. I’m afraid I won’t have my turn for several months yet. Perhaps not before spring.This was a sad blow to everyone’s hopes, so much so that even Gerry’s cheery telegram telling them he would be there the week after Thanksgiving could not cheer them up.
Teddy stopped Amy at the gate as she was returning to the house one afternoon.
“What were you doing in town?” he asked.
“Nothing,” replied Amy.
“If you were sending a letter to Terry, it was downright mean of you.”
“Why?”
“Because he can’t come home for Christmas and you’ve only made it worse for him by telling him our plans.”
“He may be able to come.”
“He will not be able to come, and it’s no use wishing about it.”
“I think he may,” said Amy stubbornly.
“You’ve got to face facts, Amy,” said Teddy philosophically. “Terry won’t be home for Christmas. What’s more, now that you’ve told him everything he’ll probably feel that he’s spoiling Christmas for the rest of us and he won’t be able to do anything about it.”
“I don’t care!” cried Amy, breaking past him and running into the house.
“Don’t be a baby!” called Teddy after her. He said this because he had seen traces of tears on her cheeks as she ran past.

Charlotte returned home for several days at Thanksgiving. She was not particularly pleased with her holiday; it seemed that she preferred to be at school with her friends, a feeling that Teddy and Amy did not understand at all for they hated school.
“Cherry dear, can you baste the turkey, please?” asked Mother, as they bustled about the kitchen on Thanksgiving morning getting the dinner ready.
“Mother,” said Charlotte, “I wish you wouldn’t call me by that childish nickname. I’m not used to it.”
“But dear, we’ve always called you that,” said Mother in surprise.
“Nobody calls me that at school,” said Charlotte. “I shouldn’t mind it if it were something more sensible, but whoever thought up the name Cherry?”
“As I recall, Margaret did,” said Mother. “We thought it was sweet, though I admit you have rather outgrown it.”
“I should hope so,” said Charlotte indignantly. “It makes me feel round and red.”
“Goodness,” exclaimed Mother. “I shouldn’t wonder you don’t fancy it.”
And she called her Charlotte after that. Teddy, however, who had been in the pantry drying spoons, was indignant.
“Fancy sassing Mother like that,” he said to Amy who was putting the crumb topping on a brown betty.
“I’m never going to go to a fancy school if they teach you to be smarter than your own parents,” said Amy. “I wonder what makes her so cross?”
“Girls are always cross at that age. Learn a lesson, Amy.”
“Teddy!” said Charlotte, putting her head in at the pantry door. “How long is it taking you to dry those dishes? Can’t you hurry?”
“Charlotte,” said Teddy, “I wish you wouldn’t call me by that childish nickname. It makes me feel like a round, red man with spectacles.”

Dinner was dismal. There had never been so few people at an Arnold Thanksgiving before, and there had always been Gerry there to make things cheerful. Father made a few half-hearted attempts to liven them up but nobody felt like being livened up, not even Miranda.
“I’d like to know what our boys beat the Kaiser for if they’re to be cooped up in France for months to come,” said Miranda, setting the potatoes on the table with a thump.
“Please, Miranda,” said Mother. “Not just now. We know there isn’t anything anyone can do.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Miranda. “If we had some Republicans in power, something might be done. The way the government runs things is disgraceful. Takes weeks for 'em even to get a letter over there. And that reminds me, I picked up a letter when I was in town this morning. It’s for you, Cherry.”
Charlotte took the letter eagerly and opened it without bothering to wait until dinner was over.
“Oh, Mother,” she said with glowing cheeks, “it’s from Uncle Felix. You know Miss Grierson whom I was telling you about? Well, she’s going to give a talk on elocution in Baltimore the day after Christmas. Uncle Felix has gotten a ticket and invited me to come to hear her. Oh, may I, Mother?”
“How ever will you get there in time?” asked Mother in amazement.
“Why, leave Christmas Eve, I suppose,” said Charlotte. “There isn’t any train going from here to Baltimore on Christmas day, you know.”
“But what about Christmas, dear?”
“Oh, I can spend Christmas with Uncle Felix and Aunt Kate. Oh, do let me go, Mother. I’ve wanted to hear Miss Grierson speak for ages and I never expected I should ever be able to. Tickets for her talks always sell out immediately; Uncle says he was only able to get a ticket for this one because it was the day after Christmas.”
“I don’t know, dear,” said Mother.
“Please, Mother,” begged Charlotte. “After all, I may be an actual speaker some day, and this may be the only chance I’ll ever have to hear one so great as Miss Grierson.”
Mother looked at Father. Teddy and Amy looked at each other and then at Miranda. Miranda had, of necessity, been let into the plans, but Charlotte had not been told anything. They had simply counted on her being there for Christmas.
“I suppose you may, if you really want to,” said Father slowly, looking at Mother.
“Oh, may I cable Uncle Felix tonight?” asked Charlotte eagerly.
Father fumbled in his pocket for a moment and brought out a handful of coins.
“Very well,” he said. “This should be enough for the telegram, I think.”
“Oh, thank you, Father,” said Charlotte, kissing him.
She hurried through supper and afterwards bundled up in her wraps and slipped out into the early twilight. The rest of the family finished more slowly. Mother and Father ate in silence. Miranda rattled pans in the kitchen.
“Didn’t even wait to eat dessert,” she said to no one in particular, entering the dining room again and setting the dessert plates on the table with unnecessary energy. “But what does it matter? Who wants to be with one’s family anyhow?”
“Never mind, Miranda,” said Mother. “Charlotte is growing up. It’s only natural that Christmas doesn’t mean as much to her as it used to.”
“It means something to some folks,” said Miranda sharply, and the children trembled lest she give away their secret. But Miranda was trustworthy and she said no more.
Mother looked rather tired after supper and Teddy and Amy told her to sit and rest while they helped Miranda clear up. They kept a sharp eye on the side door and when Cherry came back they waylaid her on the back stair.
“We want to speak to you,” said Teddy in a sepulchral voice.
“What about?” asked Cherry carelessly.
“About Christmas,” said Amy.
“Father’s already given me permission, so it’s too late,” said Charlotte.
“It’s something bigger than that,” said Teddy. “Come up to Amy’s room. Mother and Father mustn’t overhear.”
Charlotte hesitated. “All right,” she said, and followed them.
“You ought to have told me sooner,” she said when they had explained everything. “It would have made a difference, you know. As it is, I’ve already told Uncle Felix I’d come.”
“We couldn’t stop you before you left without making Mother and Father suspicious,” said Amy. “Anyway, you’ve got to stay. The whole point of it all is to have everyone home.”
“Mother and Father will be suspicious if I cancel now,” defended Charlotte. “Besides, not everyone will be here for Christmas, anyway. Terry won’t.”
“He might be,” said Amy.
“No, he won’t,” said Charlotte. “You know that, so don’t be childish, Amy.”
“That’s different; Terry can’t help it,” said Teddy.
“Neither can I,” said Charlotte. “It’s too late to change.”
The children were unconvinced, but there was no use arguing. Charlotte would not be persuaded.
Mother found Amy one afternoon on the window seat, deep in Mary Frances’ Book of Housekeeping.
“I’ve a letter for you, dear,” she said softly. “It’s from Terry.”
Amy sat up at once with an eager look. She tore the letter open shakily and Mother, with characteristic understanding, left her alone with it.
The reader may be wondering how much postage this story has absorbed by this time. I do not mean to divulge that fact, but as this letter is the last in the story, I mean to use it to advantage, and the reader will have to make the most of it.

Dear Amy,
It was a splendid idea of yours and Ted’s. Really first-rate. It does seem as if it will only be right if the whole family is home together, so I’m very sorry to have to say that I can’t make it. It’s a great shame, but there’s no help for it. Look here, if a chance presents itself I’ll pop over somehow, but I really don’t see what sort of a chance could happen here. But I think you were quite right in coming up with a plan like that and I’m glad Elliot and the rest agreed to it. Because you see, after being away from you all for so long, I’m beginning to see how important it all is—family, I mean. I used to think that I’d like to get out on my own and look after myself, but I’m not so keen on it anymore. I miss you all, and I felt awfully homesick last Christmas, I can’t tell you how much. It’s just this: one thinks pretty highly of things like universities, and automobiles, and Wall Street, and things like that, but over here they don’t seem so important as they used to. I used to always want to go to France and now all I can think about is the dear old U.S. It’s like Mother always said, The things you take for granted are the ones that are the most important. But you’ve heard all this before, and it’s probably stale. Anyhow, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas and I’ll haunt you all in spirit. I’ll think about you all, anyhow.

Sincerely,
Terry
Teddy came up with his hands in his pockets and sat down on the further end of the window seat.
“Got a letter?” he asked carelessly.
Amy tossed it in his lap.
“You can read it if you like,” she said. “It’s only what you said it would be.”
“Never mind, Amy. I didn’t come over here to pry into your letter, I came to apologise for tiffing with you and calling you a baby. It was rotten of me, and I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” said Amy with a sigh. “I was awful mad at you at first, but it was too much trouble to stay that way. You’re all I’ve got to play with now that Cherry’s gone. Do you remember what splendid games she used to play with us?”
“I feel sorry for Cherry,” said Teddy. “Off by herself in a big school in the city with nobody but a lot of stuck-up girls for company.”
“Poor Cherry,” said Amy. “You ought to apologise for being rude to her at Thanksgiving, you know. I think she really was sorry and wanted to stay after all. You should read that letter, Teddy. It says everything we’ve been thinking since Mother’s birthday. It is important, isn’t it—being with your family, I mean? It’s not the most important thing, but it’s one of the most, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” said Teddy. “But anyhow, we tried our best, Amy, and there isn’t anything more we can do.”

The days before Christmas grew fewer and fewer and the Arnold family began their usual preparations for the holiday. There was no rationing now that the war was over, and Miranda and Mother were kept busy baking. Mother protested against Miranda’s liberal plans as to food for, she said, even with Gerry there they would never eat it all. But Miranda only smiled grimly and refused compromise.
Gerry arrived as he had promised and made everyone cheery. He explained that he had not been discharged as yet, but hoped to be soon.
“There are too many fellows applying for their discharges,” he explained. “I’ve leave for Christmas, though, as there’s no particular reason I should spend it in Georgia.”
So they were as merry as they could be, and the children, Gerry, and Miranda were merry among themselves when Mother and Father were not by, anticipating the splendid surprise they would have.
The surprise began the week before Christmas when Margaret and her family arrived. Gerry hitched up the buggy and drove to the station for them while Teddy and Amy kept Mother busy. They did their best, but had to relinquish the job to Miranda when Father came out of his study announcing his intention to drive into town, and they were forced to come up with an explanation of why the buggy was gone.
No one was quite sure how it happened that Mother chose to hang a wreath on the front door at the precise moment that they arrived, but she stepped outside to be immediately enveloped in Margaret’s arms.
“Margie!” exclaimed Mother.
“Merry Christmas, Mother dear! Are you surprised?” asked Margaret.
“Are you all here?” asked Mother in bewilderment.
“All of us—all four,” said Margaret gaily. “Come for Christmas, Mother. How do you like your present?”
Mother could not say how she liked her present, but not because she didn’t know, and everyone else could see that she liked it very much indeed. The minute she had recovered herself, she made them all come in, and called for Father and Miranda and the children. Father was just as amazed as Mother, but the children couldn’t pretend to be surprised and simply beamed.
“Oh, dear,” said Mother, suddenly remembering, “where are you to sleep? There’s your old room, Margaret, indeed, and we can put Amy’s old trundle bed in there for the little ones, but I don’t know how I am to get it ready before tonight.”
“All done, Mrs. Arnold,” said Miranda triumphantly. “Done two days ago, in fact. It was quite a job, I can tell, you, for I had to wash all the bed clothes when you wasn’t by an’ dry ‘em in the attic, and they came that near freezing, but the bed’s all made and the little trundle in there too.”
“Why then, did you know they were coming?” asked Mother in astonishment.
“Yes, Mrs. Arnold,” said Miranda. “I’ve known since November.”
“Goodness!” said Mother. “Have you really been planning this all that time, Margaret? I thought you came down on an impulse.”
Teddy and Amy telegraphed Margaret with their eyes to keep the secret a little longer, and so she only smiled and asked Mother what she might do to help her. Richard took the suitcases upstairs and the little ones went off with Gerry, who sent them into squeals of excitement by telling them of an unexpected meeting with Santa Claus in which the old fellow had told him in the strictest confidence that he intended to stop by the Arnolds’ house on Christmas Eve and was going to leave a spotted wooden horse and a dolly with blue eyes.
Charlotte was home for the Christmas holidays and spent much of the time practicing her elocution. She was very good, it was not to be denied, and Mother thought sometimes as she heard her ringing tones from the library where she liked to practice with an open volume of Browning before her that she really ought to have the opportunity of hearing Miss Grierson’s elocutionary talk, even if it meant missing Christmas with Margaret’s family. But on this last point she sighed.
Christmas Eve came and Charlotte was to leave after supper. She had intended to leave on the afternoon train, but Elliot and Susan were coming on that train and Charlotte had decided to wait and take the later one in order to spend a few hours with them.
Their coming was much less stormy than Margaret and her brood’s. Gerry brought them from the station and they came in quietly to find the family cosily settled in the sitting room, the early twilight brightened by a blazing fire. They all sat in comfortable attitudes, listening reflectively as Mother read aloud to the two littlest children. Susan came up behind Mother’s chair unnoticed and dropped her hand on her shoulder. Mother looked up, and Susan put her arms about her neck and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Mother.”
Mother made no exclamation, but her eyes shone in the firelight and a tear dropped into Susan’s hair.
“You and Elliot both?” was all she said.
“Yes, Mother,” said Elliot, coming round her chair and taking her hand. “Our Christmas present to you and Father. –and a belated birthday present.”
The rest of the family came to life then and ran to them, throwing their arms about them, thumping them on their backs, and all talking at once. Father wanted to know what it was all about and how both families had decided to come and how long they had been planning it, for, he said, he smelt conspiracy.
Then the secret came out and it was Susan who told it.
“It was Teddy and Amy’s doing, all of it,” she said. “They’ve been planning it since Mother’s birthday, you know. They saved up their money and wrote letters and schemed to bring us all home on Christmas.”
“It’s the only present we got you, Mother,” whispered Amy. “We hadn’t any money left.”
Mother said nothing and only kissed her.

The family had a lovely supper together and sat long around the table talking after it was over, till Teddy glanced at the clock and slipped out to hitch the mare to the buggy. Charlotte had left her suitcase in the entry and he picked it up and took it out with him. Charlotte appeared just as he was finishing the hitching and got onto the seat.
“Said your goodbyes?” asked Teddy.
“No,” said Charlotte, after remaining silent for a moment. “I didn’t want to interrupt everyone.”
“I’ll drive you, if you like,” said Teddy. “Father’s probably busy talking to Elliot and Susan.”
Charlotte said nothing, so Teddy climbed onto the seat beside her and took the reins. The mare trotted briskly down the lane leaving four dark tracks in the light dusting of snow that had fallen during the day. The moon shone brightly, picking out the road before and far ahead the lights of the village twinkled like low, yellow stars.
It was a very silent drive, for neither of them spoke a word the whole time. The train station when they reached it was deserted but the lights on the platform gleamed reassuringly. Teddy started to get down, but Charlotte jumped lightly to the platform and hurried across to the station house, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t get down; I can buy the ticket myself.”
“What about your suitcase?” called Teddy, but his sentence reached her only as she was closing the office door.
He sat in the buggy, watching his breath make steam in the glow of the station lights. Ten minutes transpired and he heard the train far off up the track. “She’d better hurry; the train doesn’t stop long here,” he thought to himself. Just then Charlotte came out again and, coming up to the buggy, got in.
“You can drive home, Teddy,” she said. “I’m not going after all.”
“What’s up?” asked Teddy.
“I sent Uncle Felix a telegram to explain. He’ll get it before he has to leave for the station, so it won’t cause him any inconvenience.”
“What about Miss Grierson?”
“Be quiet,” said Charlotte uncompanionably. “I did want to go, but I’ve changed my mind. It was Mother’s face when she saw Susan.”
This somewhat vague explanation satisfied Teddy. He said no more all the way home, but whistled Joy to the World through his teeth.

Amy awoke the next morning early with a thought that had been on her mind very often for the last several weeks. When she had been very small she had used to always put her hand under her pillow before going to sleep at night, to see if there was anything there. There was no reason why anything should have been there, yet for some reason she did not understand she always did it. At last, one night she had put her hand under her pillow and had actually found a chocolate bar. It had been left there by Gerry for no reason but a generous impulse, but Amy never knew that and it was because of this memory that she, at the age of ten, still believed in magic.
Perhaps it was the same impulse that had made her put her hand under her pillow long ago which now impelled her to creep down the hall to Terry’s bedroom and put her head in at the door. She knew quite well that there would be—could be nothing there. And again she had that bewildered sensation of magic, or of not being quite awake, when one finds what he has been hoping to find, though he knows quite well it can’t possibly be there. For she saw scattered about the room coat, putties, boots, cap—and in the middle of the bed, a dishevelled Lump.
Amy clapped her hand over her mouth. Her first impulse was to run forward and spring onto the bed, but with a great effort she controlled herself and went quietly up to a brown tousled head and whispered, “Terry!”
The head was raised and in a moment she was embraced (with a good deal of the sheets) while Terry called out, “Merry Christmas, Amy!”

The odd thing was that Terry’s arrival was as much a surprise and just as inexplicable to everyone else in the family when they had all been aroused and found that he was there. Amy needed no explanations—she preferred to believe it was magic—but everyone else wanted explanations, so Terry explained.
“Well, I was in a stew after getting Amy’s letter,” he said. “I was beating my brains out trying to think of a way to come home. They were sending transports of men back over, but it was taking a jolly long time and as I said, my company’s turn wasn’t for a good while yet. One of my friends, Andy Pritchard—his father’s a big nob over in Washington; you know those Pritchard for Congress signs we saw a couple of years ago? Well, that’s his father—Andy was getting leave and going across the Atlantic to spend Christmas at home with his parents. They were paying for him to come first-class all the way in a liner. Andy and I were chums from the beginning, and he wanted to give me something sort of as a good-bye present, so he asked me what I wanted. I was thinking of course of you all and how badly I wanted to get home, and I said ‘Third-class to Baltimore’. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise, but I was keen on getting here for Christmas, you see. Well, Andy’s a brick; he brought me home first-class all the way. Said he needed someone to share his stateroom anyway. It was jolly decent of him, but if he hadn’t brought me, I would have nabbed an airplane and flown the Atlantic to be here with you all.”
“Are you discharged, then?” asked Gerry.
“Not yet. Just on leave, same as you. I’ve got to report at some place or other in Washington next week, but it shouldn’t be too much longer before I’m out of khaki.”
“Why, then the whole family’s home after all,” said Teddy with rather a look of surprise but pronounced satisfaction as well.
“Oh, Teddy,” said Amy, throwing her arms about him, “we’ve done it! We’ve done it!”
“Funny that we really should have after all,” he said reflectively.
I might end the story here, but I want to tell you something that happened at dinner, as it initiated a new Arnold tradition.
“If I may have everyone’s attention,” said Father, who had been writing on a scrap of paper at intervals during the meal, “I should like to read a poem for the amusement of the company, composed expressly for the occasion not two minutes ago.”
Then he got to his feet, brushed the crumbs from his waistcoat, cleared his throat, and read aloud:

“At Christmas sing and make good cheer,
“Because each one of us is here;
“And some have travelled far to be
“Once more among the family;
“For every mother’s son of us
“Knows well that he is one of us
“And every happy heart belongs
“Among the blithe and happy songs
“That greet the pleasant Christmastide
“Around the shining fireside;
“And so we swear right solemnly
“To keep each Christmas heartily
“All together, if we may,
“But in our hearts which-ever way;
“And so we’ll make such merry cheer
“As will last all the rest of the year.
“And so I end with joyful wishes
“To every Mr. and his Mrs.

Post Scriptum:
“Mrs. doesn’t rhyme, I know
“But nothing else would go.”

The end of the poem met with a great shout of laughter from every member of the family, and Miranda besides, and so much racket was made that it is likely the neighbours wondered what was going on over at the Arnold place. But it was only the sound of a large and noisy family making merry together at Christmas.


The End