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A husband writes to his wife on Christmas Eve. . .
TO CAROL, for Christmas Carol, dear;
It’s Christmas Eve—and tomorrow we will see you, all six of us. But w*e won’t say any of the things I’m going to write in this letter. Perhaps we won’t even give you the letter, which contains all the things I’m thinking this first Christmas Eve yQu’re away.__
I 'was starting to dress the Christmas tree this afternoon when a loud cry of distress came down the stairs.
“Da-adee!”
I dropped the glittering rope I was winding on the tree and said, “What is it Joey—what’s the matter ?”
“I can’t make it work.”
“Can’t make what work?” r -
Silence. I had an awful thought. Suppose the baby—I took the stairs two at a time, pushed open our bedroom door, and there was Joey staring back at me from behind the new fire engine I’d hidden for Benjy’s Christmas. I was right. The box lay in shreds, paper was everywhere. The fire engine was liberally sprinkled with talcum powder. Our angel child said happily, “Look'what I found.”
It had been a difficult day and I was tired. I said, “Yes, dear, but you can’t play with it now,” and began picking up the paper and wrapping up the fire engine. I expected him to howl and he did; I
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