her) a silver watch, (from Mother) a paint-box, a dark blue and
gold prayer book with a thick squashy leather cover (from Aunt Amy).

He was in an ecstasy. How he had longed for a watch, just such a
turnip-shaped one, and a paint-box. What colours he could make! Even
Aunt Amy's prayer book was something, with its squashy cover and silk
marker (only why did Aunt Amy never give him anything sensible?). He
stood there, his face flushed, his eyes sparkling, the watch in one hand
and the paint-box in the other. Remarks were heard like: "You mustn't
poke it with, your finger, Jerry darling, or you'll break the hands
off"; and "I thought he'd, better have the square sort, and not the
tubes. They're so squashy"; and "You'll be able to learn your Collect so
easily with that big print, Jerry dear. Very kind of you, Amy."

Meanwhile he was aware that Uncle Samuel had given him nothing. There
was a little thick catch of disappointment in his throat, not because
he wanted a present, but because he liked Uncle Samuel. Suddenly, from
somewhere behind him his uncle said: "Shut your eyes, Jerry. Don't open
them until I tell you"--then rather crossly, "No, Amy, leave me alone. I
know what I'm about, thank you."

Jeremy shut his eyes tight. He closed them so that the eyelids seemed to
turn right inwards and red lights flashed. He stood there for at least
a century, all in darkness, no one saying anything save that once Mary
cried "Oh!" and clapped her hands, which same cry excited him to such
a pitch that he would have dug his nails into his hands had he not so
consistently in the past bitten them that there were no nails with which
to dig. He waited. He waited. He waited. He was not eight, he was eighty
when at last Uncle Samuel said, "Now you may look."

He opened his eyes and turned; for a moment the nursery, too, rocked in
the unfamiliar light. Then he saw. On the middle of the nursery carpet
was a village, a real village, six houses with red roofs, green windows
and white porches, a church with a tower and a tiny bell, an orchard
with flowers on the fruit trees, a green lawn, a street with a butcher's
shop, a post office, and a grocer's. Villager Noah, Mrs. Noah and the
little Noahs, a field with cows, horses, dogs, a farm with chickens and
even two pigs...

He stood, he stared, he drew a deep breath.

"It comes all the way from Germany," said Aunt Amy, who always made
things uninteresting if she possibly could.

There was muc