Christmas Every Day
The little girl came into her papa's
study, as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a
story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would
not let him. So he began:
"Well, once there was a little
pig--"
She put her hand over his mouth and
stopped him at the word. She said she had heard little pig-stories till she was
perfectly sick of them.
"Well, what kind of story shall I
tell, then?"
"About Christmas. It's getting
to be the season. It's past Thanksgiving already."
"It seems to me," her papa
argued, "that I've told as often about Christmas as I have about little
pigs."
"No difference! Christmas is
more interesting."
"Well!" Her papa roused
himself from his writing by a great effort. "Well, then, I'll tell you
about the little girl that wanted it Christmas every day in the year. How would
you like that?"
"First-rate!" said the
little girl; and she nestled into comfortable shape in his lap, ready for
listening.
"Very well, then, this little
pig--Oh, what are you pounding me for?"
"Because you said little pig
instead of little girl."
"I should like to know what's
the difference between a little pig and a little girl that wanted it Christmas
every day!"
"Papa," said the little
girl, warningly, "if you don't go on, I'll give it to
you!" And at this her papa darted off like lightning, and began to tell
the story as fast as he could.
Well, once there was a little girl
who liked Christmas so much that she wanted it to be Christmas every day in the
year; and as soon as Thanksgiving was over she began to send postal-cards to
the old Christmas Fairy to ask if she mightn't have it. But the old fairy never
answered any of the postals; and after a while the little girl found out that
the Fairy was pretty particular, and wouldn't notice anything but letters--not
even correspondence cards in envelopes; but real letters on sheets of paper,
and sealed outside with a monogram--or your initial, anyway. So, then, she
began to send her letters; and in about three weeks--or just the day before
Christmas, it was--she got a letter from the Fairy, saying she might have it
Christmas every day for a year, and then they would see about having it longer.
The little girl was a good deal
excited already, preparing for the old-fashioned, once-a-year Christmas that
was coming the next day, and perhaps the Fairy's promise didn't make such an
impression on her as it would have made at some other time. She just resolved
to keep it to herself, and surprise everybody with it as it kept coming true;
and then it slipped out of her mind altogether.
She had a splendid Christmas. She
went to bed early, so as to let Santa Claus have a chance at the stockings, and
in the morning she was up the first of anybody and went and felt them, and
found hers all lumpy with packages of candy, and oranges and grapes, and
pocket-books and rubber balls, and all kinds of small presents, and her big
brother's with nothing but the tongs in them, and her young lady sister's with
a new silk umbrella, and her papa's and mamma's with potatoes and pieces of
coal wrapped up in tissue-paper, just as they always had every Christmas. Then
she waited around till the rest of the family were up, and she was the first to
burst into the library, when the doors were opened, and look at the large
presents laid out on the library-table--books, and portfolios, and boxes of
stationery, and breastpins, and dolls, and little stoves, and dozens of
handkerchiefs, and ink-stands, and skates, and snow-shovels, and
photograph-frames, and little easels, and boxes of water-colors, and Turkish
paste, and nougat, and candied cherries, and dolls' houses, and
waterproofs--and the big Christmas-tree, lighted and standing in a waste-basket
in the middle.
She had a splendid Christmas all
day. She ate so much candy that she did not want any breakfast; and the whole
forenoon the presents kept pouring in that the expressman had not had time to
deliver the night before; and she went round giving the presents she had got
for other people, and came home and ate turkey and cranberry for dinner, and
plum-pudding and nuts and raisins and oranges and more candy, and then went out
and coasted, and came in with a stomach-ache, crying; and her papa said he
would see if his house was turned into that sort of fool's paradise another
year; and they had a light supper, and pretty early everybody went to bed
cross.
Here the little girl pounded her
papa in the back, again.
"Well, what now? Did I say
pigs?"
"You made them act like
pigs."
"Well, didn't they?"
"No matter; you oughtn't to put
it into a story."
"Very well, then, I'll take it
all out."
Her father went on:
The little girl slept very heavily,
and she slept very late, but she was wakened at last by the other children
dancing round her bed with their stockings full of presents in their hands. she
was dancing round her bad with their
stocking full of present in their hands.
"What is it?" said the
little girl, and she rubbed her eyes and tried to rise up in bed.
"Christmas! Christmas!
Christmas!" they all shouted, and waved their stockings.
"Nonsense! It was Christmas
yesterday."
Her brothers and sisters just
laughed. "We don't know about that. It's Christmas to-day, anyway. You
come into the library and see."
Then all at once it flashed on the
little girl that the Fairy was keeping her promise, and her year of Christmases
was beginning. She was dreadfully sleepy, but she sprang up like a lark--a lark
that had overeaten itself and gone to bed cross--and darted into the library.
There it was again! Books, and portfolios, and boxes of stationery, and
breastpins--
"You needn't go over it all,
papa; I guess I can remember just what was there," said the little girl.
Well, and there was the
Christmas-tree blazing away, and the family picking out their presents, but
looking pretty sleepy, and her father perfectly puzzled, and her mother ready
to cry. "I'm sure I don't see how I'm to dispose of all these
things," said her mother, and her father said it seemed to him they had
had something just like it the day before, but he supposed he must have dreamed
it. This struck the little girl as the best kind of a joke; and so she ate so
much candy she didn't want any breakfast, and went round carrying presents, and
had turkey and cranberry for dinner, and then went out and coasted, and came in
with a--
"Papa!"
"Well, what now?"
"What did you promise, you
forgetful thing?"
"Oh! oh yes!"
Well, the next day, it was just the
same thing over again, but everybody getting crosser; and at the end of a
week's time so many people had lost their tempers that you could pick up lost
tempers anywhere; they perfectly strewed the ground. Even when people tried to
recover their tempers they usually got somebody else's, and it made the most
dreadful mix.
The little girl began to get
frightened, keeping the secret all to herself; she wanted to tell her mother,
but she didn't dare to; and she was ashamed to ask the Fairy to take back her
gift, it seemed ungrateful and ill-bred, and she thought she would try to stand
it, but she hardly knew how she could, for a whole year. So it went on and on,
and it was Christmas on St. Valentine's Day and Washington's Birthday, just the
same as any day, and it didn't skip even the First of April, though everything
was counterfeit that day, and that was some little relief.
After a while coal and potatoes
began to be awfully scarce, so many had been wrapped up in tissue-paper to fool
papas and mammas with. Turkeys got to be about a thousand dollars apiece--
"Papa!"
"Well, what?"
"You're beginning to fib."
"Well, two thousand,
then."
And they got to passing off almost
anything for turkeys--half-grown humming-birds, and even rocs out of the Arabian
Nights--the real turkeys were so scarce. And cranberries--well, they asked
a diamond apiece for cranberries. All the woods and orchards were cut down for
Christmas-trees, and where the woods and orchards used to be it looked just
like a stubble-field, with the stumps. After a while they had to make
Christmas-trees out of rags, and stuff them with bran, like old-fashioned
dolls; but there were plenty of rags, because people got so poor, buying
presents for one another, that they couldn't get any new clothes, and they just
wore their old ones to tatters. They got so poor that everybody had to go to
the poor-house, except the confectioners, and the fancy-store keepers, and the
picture-book sellers, and the expressmen; and they all got so
rich and proud that they would hardly wait upon a person when he came to buy.
It was perfectly shameful!
Well, after it had gone on about
three or four months, the little girl, whenever she came into the room in the
morning and saw those great ugly, lumpy stockings dangling at the fire-place,
and the disgusting presents around everywhere, used to just sit down and burst
out crying. In six months she was perfectly exhausted; she couldn't even cry
any more; she just lay on the lounge and rolled her eyes and panted. About the
beginning of October she took to sitting down on dolls wherever she found
them--French dolls, or any kind--she hated the sight of them so; and by
Thanksgiving she was crazy, and just slammed her presents across the room.
By that time people didn't carry
presents around nicely any more. They flung them over the fence, or through the
window, or anything; and, instead of running their tongues out and taking great
pains to write "For dear Papa," or "Mamma," or
"Brother," or "Sister," or "Susie," or
"Sammie," or "Billie," or "Bobbie," or
"Jimmie," or "Jennie," or whoever it was, and troubling to
get the spelling right, and then signing their names, and "Xmas,
18--," they used to write in the gift-books, "Take it, you horrid old
thing!" and then go and bang it against the front door. Nearly everybody
had built barns to hold their presents, but pretty soon the barns overflowed,
and then they used to let them lie out in the rain, or anywhere. Sometimes the
police used to come and tell them to shovel their presents off the sidewalk, or
they would arrest them.
"I thought you said everybody
had gone to the poor-house," interrupted the little girl.
"They did go, at first,"
said her papa; "but after a while the poor-houses got so full that they
had to send the people back to their own houses. They tried to cry, when they
got back, but they couldn't make the least sound."
"Why couldn't they?"
"Because they had lost their
voices, saying 'Merry Christmas' so much. Did I tell you how it was on the
Fourth of July?"
"No; how was it?" And the
little girl nestled closer, in expectation of something uncommon.
Well, the night before, the boys
stayed up to celebrate, as they always do, and fell asleep before twelve
o'clock, as usual, expecting to be wakened by the bells and cannon. But it was
nearly eight o'clock before the first boy in the United States woke up, and
then he found out what the trouble was. As soon as he could get his clothes on
he ran out of the house and smashed a big cannon-torpedo down on the pavement;
but it didn't make any more noise than a damp wad of paper; and after he tried
about twenty or thirty more, he began to pick them up and look at them. Every
single torpedo was a big raisin! Then he just streaked it up-stairs, and
examined his fire-crackers and toy-pistol and two-dollar collection of
fireworks, and found that they were nothing but sugar and candy painted up to
look like fireworks! Before ten o'clock every boy in the United States found
out that his Fourth of July things had turned into Christmas things; and then
they just sat down and cried--they were so mad. There are about twenty million
boys in the United States, and so you can imagine what a noise they made. Some
men got together before night, with a little powder that hadn't turned into
purple sugar yet, and they said they would fire off one cannon,
anyway. But the cannon burst into a thousand pieces, for it was nothing but
rock-candy, and some of the men nearly got killed. The Fourth of July orations
all turned into Christmas carols, and when anybody tried to read the
Declaration, instead of saying, "When in the course of human events it
becomes necessary," he was sure to sing, "God rest you, merry
gentlemen." It was perfectly awful.
The little girl drew a deep sigh of
satisfaction.
"And how was it at
Thanksgiving?"
Her papa hesitated. "Well, I'm
almost afraid to tell you. I'm afraid you'll think it's wicked."
"Well, tell, anyway," said
the little girl.
Well, before it came Thanksgiving it
had leaked out who had caused all these Christmases. The little girl had
suffered so much that she had talked about it in her sleep; and after that
hardly anybody would play with her. People just perfectly despised her, because
if it had not been for her greediness it wouldn't have happened; and now, when
it came Thanksgiving, and she wanted them to go to church, and have squash-pie
and turkey, and show their gratitude, they said that all the turkeys had been
eaten up for her old Christmas dinners, and if she would stop the Christmases,
they would see about the gratitude. Wasn't it dreadful? And the very next day
the little girl began to send letters to the Christmas Fairy, and then
telegrams, to stop it. But it didn't do any good; and then she got to calling
at the Fairy's house, but the girl that came to the door always said, "Not
at home," or "Engaged," or "At dinner," or something
like that; and so it went on till it came to the old once-a-year Christmas Eve.
The little girl fell asleep, and when she woke up in the morning--
"She found it was all nothing
but a dream," suggested the little girl.
"No, indeed!" said her
papa. "It was all every bit true!"
"Well, what did she
find out, then?"
"Why, that it wasn't Christmas
at last, and wasn't ever going to be, any more. Now it's time for
breakfast."
The little girl held her papa fast
around the neck.
"You sha'n't go if you're going
to leave it so!"
"How do you want it left?"
"Christmas once a year."
"All right," said her
papa; and he went on again.
Well, there was the greatest
rejoicing all over the country, and it extended clear up into Canada. The
people met together everywhere, and kissed and cried for joy. The city carts
went around and gathered up all the candy and raisins and nuts, and dumped them
into the river; and it made the fish perfectly sick; and the whole United
States, as far out as Alaska, was one blaze of bonfires, where the children were
burning up their gift-books and presents of all kinds. They had the greatest time!
The little girl went to thank the
old Fairy because she had stopped its being Christmas, and she said she hoped
she would keep her promise and see that Christmas never, never came again. Then
the Fairy frowned, and asked her if she was sure she knew what she meant; and
the little girl asked her, Why not? and the old Fairy said that now she was
behaving just as greedily as ever, and she'd better look out. This made the little
girl think it all over carefully again, and she said she would be willing to
have it Christmas about once in a thousand years; and then she said a hundred,
and then she said ten, and at last she got down to one. Then the Fairy said
that was the good old way that had pleased people ever since Christmas began,
and she was agreed. Then the little girl said, "What're your shoes made
of?" And the Fairy said, "Leather." And the little girl said,
"Bargain's done forever," and skipped off, and hippity-hopped the
whole way home, she was so glad.
"How will that do?" asked
the papa.
"First-rate!" said the
little girl; but she hated to have the story stop, and was rather sober.
However, her mamma put her head in at the door, and asked her papa:
"Are you never coming to
breakfast? What have you been telling that child?"
"Oh, just a moral tale."
The little girl caught him around
the neck again.
"We know! Don't you tell what,
papa! Don't you tell what!"
http://americanliterature.com/author/william-dean-howells/short-story/christmas-every-day
Analysis:
Verb ing as a gerund : Object of
Verb
She
loves making homemade present for her family.
Verb ing as a adjective : In addition, more or most probably
be placed in front of the present participle to form the comparative and
superlative degree.
Christmas is more interesting.
Verb ing as a verb : As
a verb, present participle is placed after the auxiliary verb
Her year of Christmases was
beginning.
She was dancing round her bad with
their stocking full of present in their hands.
Name : Mitha Soviani Putri
Class : 4SA04
NPM : 18611708