even on a New England
Thanksgiving, or earth would forget itself and turn into heaven all at
once. Besides, who thinks of the scared gobblers, when he has a plump
turkey roasted brown as a berry, scenting the whole house with richness?
I for one could not bring myself to the foul contemplation--excuse the
wit--spontaneity is perhaps my fault.

Well, what Thanksgiving is to New England, Christmas-day is to New York.
Everybody goes to meeting in the morning, and everybody takes dinner
with everybody else after that. For days before it comes the streets are
full of covered wagons, and men and boys, loaded down with bundles,
crowd against each other on every doorstep. In fact, half New York just
throws itself away in presents on the other half, which pitches just as
many back. Thus every street and house is a hubbub of gifts and a blaze
of light, from Christmas Eve till after Christmas dinner.

Christmas Eve, dear sisters, belongs to the children. What there is of
'em in these parts, and the jubilation they have, rich and poor, black
and white, is enough to warm the heart in one's bosom. There is a
gorgeous old Dutch ghost that they think comes prowling over roofs and
down chimneys in the night, to bring them presents. This comical old
fellow sets up Christmas trees for the rich, and fills woollen stockings
for the poor, and makes himself a magnificent old humbug that every
child in the city worships and will believe in, though the little
misguided souls know at the bottom of their hearts that, somehow or
another, this Santa Claus and their own parents have a mysterious
understanding and private moneyed transactions, that mix things
terribly. Still, they really do believe in the old fellow, just as you
and I believe in dreams. It is the last thing a little girl gives up,
unless it is her dolls.

Speaking of dolls, I wish you could see the scrumptious little ladies
that have been sold here this week. You and I were awful proud if we
could get a rag-baby, with drops of ink for eyes, and its cheeks
reddened with a little pokeberry juice; but the dolls they sell here are
such beauties!--yellow hair, frizzed around the face like thistle-down;
rosy cheeks, and eyes that shut with such sweet laziness if you lay the
little things down. I declare, it's enough to make one long to be a
child again, to take one of these dainty creatures in your arms.

The Saturday before Christmas I went out with Cousin E. E. Dempster, to
buy pres