eldest sister, who was the more approachable. Mabel did not pretend even
to as much learning as Peggy had herself; she was happy-go-lucky and
sweet-tempered. Then her husband was a great jolly fellow, with whom it
was impossible to be shy, and the babies--there never were such cunning
babies, Peggy thought. Just here her niece gave her a particularly
vicious kick, and Peggy opposed to her train of admiring thoughts, "But
I'm so tired."

It did not seem to Peggy that she had been asleep at all when she was
waked with a vigorous pounding on her chest and a shrill little voice in
her ear:

"Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus! It's mornin'! It's Ch'is'mus!"

"Oh, no, it isn't, Minna!" pleaded Peggy, struggling with sleepiness.
"It's all dark still."

"Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus!" reiterated Minna continuing to pound.

"Hush, dear! You'll wake Aunt Arna, and she's tired after being all day
on the chou-chou cars."

"Merry Ch'is'mus, Aunty Arna!" shouted the irrepressible Minna.

"Oh, darling, be quiet! We'll play little pig goes to market. I'll tell
you a story, only be quiet a little while."

It took Peggy's utmost effort to keep the little wriggler still for the
hour from five to six. Then, however, her shrill, "Merry Ch'is'mus!"
roused the household. Protests were of no avail. Minna was the only
granddaughter. Dark as it was, people must get up.

Peggy must dress Minna and then hurry down to help get breakfast--not so
easy a task with Minna ever at one's heels. The quick-moving sprite
seemed to be everywhere--into the sugar-bowl, the cooky jar, the
steaming teakettle--before one could turn about. Urged on by the
impatient little girl, the grown-ups made short work of breakfast.

After the meal, according to time-honoured Brower custom, they formed in
procession, single file, Minna first, then Ben with Baby Robin. They
each held aloft a sprig of holly, and they all kept time as they sang,
"God rest you, merry gentlemen," in their march from the dining-room to
the office. And there they must form in circle about the tree, and dance
three-times round, singing "The Christmas-tree is an evergreen," before
they could touch a single present.

The presents are done up according to custom, packages of every shape
and size, but all in white paper and tied with red ribbon, and all
marked for somebody with somebody else's best love. They all fall to
opening, and the babies' shouts are not the only ones to be heard.

Pa