A BOY’S CHRISTMAS.
For Three Boys of Ten or Twelve Years.
Two sit whittling, one working on the edge of a small wooden box, the other at the edges of a piece of wood about one inch thick by a foot square. The third has an oblong box partly together and is sawing the other piece or whittling the edges as they talk.
Frank—
Christmas is coming—it’s awfully slow—
What do you think you will get? Say, Joe.
Joe—
I don’t know, Frank, and I don’t much care
If only I get some good skates—so there!
Tom—
That isn’t what bothers me most, you see,
I always get lots on the Christmas tree,
But what shall I give? That’s the hardest part.
Joe—
I’m making my little kid brother a cart.
(Holds it up.)
But somehow this wood won’t saw a bit straight,
And it splits where I nail it. That’s what I hate.
Frank—
Right you are there, Joe. See what I’ve made?
My knife’s pretty dull, so I broke the best blade.
Frank—
A box, at the start,
For sister’s best ribbons; but it would come apart
Till I put some big nails in. They broke it in two,
And I had to stick it together with glue;
And now it don’t look so awfully well.
(Looks at it dolefully.)
Joe—
Put pictures all over it, then you can’t tell
It ever was broken. That’s what I would do.
But say! How it bothers when one works with glue.
Now this! (Holds it up.) It has stuck everywhere that it could
Except where I wanted to make it real good.
Tom—
That’s just what’s the trouble. It’s this way with me.
I work hard, and make things as nice as can be,
But somehow, they never seem quite the right way
To give for a present on Christmas-tree day.
Joe (exclaims suddenly)—
I know!
Frank—
Well, what is it?
Tom—
Out with it, then, Joe.
Joe—
We like to make gifts like the others, you know,
(They nod in agreement.)
But something or other most always goes wrong.
Frank—
I know how it is.
Tom—
Yes, you’ve put it quite strong.
But Mother can understand things at first sight,
And she will say “thank you,” and call it all right.
I’ll give this to Mother. She’s just the right one!
She’ll like it and use it, because I’m her son.
Frank—
Say, Joe, you’re a trump to think up a nice way
For us to give presents on Christmas-tree day.
My box goes to Mother—she knows about glue,
And she’ll fix it up till for something ’twill do.
Tom—
This board I have whittled all smooth, and ’twill make
A board to cut on for bread or for cake.
I’ll give it to Mother, and she’s sure to say
“Thank you, Tom; you make nice gifts for Christmas-tree day.”