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Overview
MRS. BUDLONG'S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS
I
AT THE SIGN OF THE PIANO LAMP
The morning after Christmas Eve is the worst morning-after there is.
The very house suffers the headache that follows a prolonged spree.
Remorse stalks at large; remorse for the things one gave--and did not
give--and got.
Everybody must act a general glee which can be felt only
specifically, if at all. Everybody must exclaim about everything Oh!
and Ah! and How Sweet of You! and Isn't it Perfectly Dear! The very
THING I Wanted! and How DID you EVER Guess it?
Christmas morning in the town of Carthage is a day when most of the
people keep close at home, for Christmas is another passover. It is
Santa Claus that passes over.
People in Carthage are not rich; the shops are not grandiose, and
inter-family presents are apt to be trivial and futile--or worse yet,
utile.
The Carthaginian mother generally finds that Father has credited the
hat she got last fall, to this Christmas; the elder brothers receive
warm under-things and the young ones brass-toed boots, mitts and
mufflers. The girls may find something ornamental in their
stockings, and their stockings may be silk or nearly--but then girls
have to be foolishly diked up anyway, or they will never be married
out. Dressing up daughters comes under the head of window-display or
coupons, and is charged off to publicity.
Nearly everybody in Carthage--except Mrs. Ulysses S. G.
Budlong--celebrates Christmas behind closed doors. People find it
easier to rhapsodize when the collateral is not shown. It is amazing
how far a Carthaginian can go on the most meager donation. The
formula is usually: "We had Such a lovely Christmas at our house.
What did I get? Oh, so many things I can't reMember!"
But Mrs. Ulysses S. G. Budlong does not celebrate her Christmasses
behind closed doors--or rather she did not: a strange change came
over her this last Christmas. She used to open her doors
wide--metaphorically, that is; for there was a storm-door with a
spring on it to keep the cold draught out of the hall.
As regular as Christmas itself was the oh-quite-informal reception
Mrs. Budlong gave to mitigate the ineffable stupidity of Christmas
afternoon: that dolorous period when one meditates the ancient
platitude that anticipation is better than realization; and suddenly
understands why it is blesseder to give than to receive: because one
does not have to wear what one gives away.
On Christmas Mrs. U. S. G. Budlong took all the gifts she had
gleaned, and piled them on and around the baby grand piano in the
back parlor. There was a piano lamp there, one of those illuminated
umbrellas--about as large and as useful as a date-palm tree.
Along about that time in the afternoon when the Christmas dinner
becomes a matter of hopeless remorse, Mrs. Budlong's neighbors were
expected to drop in and view the loot under the lamp. It looked like
hospitality, but it felt like hostility. She passed her neighbors
under the yoke and gloated over her guests, while seeming to
overgloat her gifts.
But she got the gifts. There was no question of that. By hook or by
crook she saw to it that the bazaar under the piano lamp always
groaned.
One of the chief engines for keeping up the display was the display
itself. Everybody who knew Mrs. Budlong--and not to know Mrs.
Budlong was to argue oneself unknown--knew that he or she would be
invited to this Christmas triumph. And being invited rather implied
being represented in the tribute.
Hence ensued a curious rivalry in Carthage. People vied with each
other in giving Mrs. Budlong presents; not that they loved Mrs.
Budlong more, but that they loved comparisons less.
The rivalry had grown to ridiculous proportions. But of course Mrs.
Budlong did not care how ridiculous it grew; for it could hardly have
escaped her shrewd eyes how largely it advantaged her that people
should give her presents in order to show other people that some
people needn't think they could show off before other people without
having other people show that they could show off, too, as well as
other people could. The pyschology must be correct, for it is
incoherent.
Mrs. Budlong herself was never known to break any of the
commandments, but in her back parlor her neighbors made flitters of
the one against coveting thy neighbor's and-so-forth and so-on.
It was when Mr. and Mrs. County Road Supervisor Detwiller were
walking home from one of these occasions, that Mr. Detwiller was
saying: "Well, ain't Mizzes Budlong the niftiest little gift-getter
that ever held up a train? How on earth did We happen to get stung?"
I
AT THE SIGN OF THE PIANO LAMP
The morning after Christmas Eve is the worst morning-after there is.
The very house suffers the headache that follows a prolonged spree.
Remorse stalks at large; remorse for the things one gave--and did not
give--and got.
Everybody must act a general glee which can be felt only
specifically, if at all. Everybody must exclaim about everything Oh!
and Ah! and How Sweet of You! and Isn't it Perfectly Dear! The very
THING I Wanted! and How DID you EVER Guess it?
Christmas morning in the town of Carthage is a day when most of the
people keep close at home, for Christmas is another passover. It is
Santa Claus that passes over.
People in Carthage are not rich; the shops are not grandiose, and
inter-family presents are apt to be trivial and futile--or worse yet,
utile.
The Carthaginian mother generally finds that Father has credited the
hat she got last fall, to this Christmas; the elder brothers receive
warm under-things and the young ones brass-toed boots, mitts and
mufflers. The girls may find something ornamental in their
stockings, and their stockings may be silk or nearly--but then girls
have to be foolishly diked up anyway, or they will never be married
out. Dressing up daughters comes under the head of window-display or
coupons, and is charged off to publicity.
Nearly everybody in Carthage--except Mrs. Ulysses S. G.
Budlong--celebrates Christmas behind closed doors. People find it
easier to rhapsodize when the collateral is not shown. It is amazing
how far a Carthaginian can go on the most meager donation. The
formula is usually: "We had Such a lovely Christmas at our house.
What did I get? Oh, so many things I can't reMember!"
But Mrs. Ulysses S. G. Budlong does not celebrate her Christmasses
behind closed doors--or rather she did not: a strange change came
over her this last Christmas. She used to open her doors
wide--metaphorically, that is; for there was a storm-door with a
spring on it to keep the cold draught out of the hall.
As regular as Christmas itself was the oh-quite-informal reception
Mrs. Budlong gave to mitigate the ineffable stupidity of Christmas
afternoon: that dolorous period when one meditates the ancient
platitude that anticipation is better than realization; and suddenly
understands why it is blesseder to give than to receive: because one
does not have to wear what one gives away.
On Christmas Mrs. U. S. G. Budlong took all the gifts she had
gleaned, and piled them on and around the baby grand piano in the
back parlor. There was a piano lamp there, one of those illuminated
umbrellas--about as large and as useful as a date-palm tree.
Along about that time in the afternoon when the Christmas dinner
becomes a matter of hopeless remorse, Mrs. Budlong's neighbors were
expected to drop in and view the loot under the lamp. It looked like
hospitality, but it felt like hostility. She passed her neighbors
under the yoke and gloated over her guests, while seeming to
overgloat her gifts.
But she got the gifts. There was no question of that. By hook or by
crook she saw to it that the bazaar under the piano lamp always
groaned.
One of the chief engines for keeping up the display was the display
itself. Everybody who knew Mrs. Budlong--and not to know Mrs.
Budlong was to argue oneself unknown--knew that he or she would be
invited to this Christmas triumph. And being invited rather implied
being represented in the tribute.
Hence ensued a curious rivalry in Carthage. People vied with each
other in giving Mrs. Budlong presents; not that they loved Mrs.
Budlong more, but that they loved comparisons less.
The rivalry had grown to ridiculous proportions. But of course Mrs.
Budlong did not care how ridiculous it grew; for it could hardly have
escaped her shrewd eyes how largely it advantaged her that people
should give her presents in order to show other people that some
people needn't think they could show off before other people without
having other people show that they could show off, too, as well as
other people could. The pyschology must be correct, for it is
incoherent.
Mrs. Budlong herself was never known to break any of the
commandments, but in her back parlor her neighbors made flitters of
the one against coveting thy neighbor's and-so-forth and so-on.
It was when Mr. and Mrs. County Road Supervisor Detwiller were
walking home from one of these occasions, that Mr. Detwiller was
saying: "Well, ain't Mizzes Budlong the niftiest little gift-getter
that ever held up a train? How on earth did We happen to get stung?"
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013158030 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | SAP |
| Publication date: | 07/30/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 40 KB |
| Age Range: | 6 - 8 Years |
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