s were out of all proportion to the
supply, were often "tided over" what might have been a tearful time by
a promise of the good time coming. When Danny cried because the bottom
of his porridge plate was "always stickin' through," and later in the
same day came home in the same unmanned condition because he had
smelled chickens cooking down at the hotel when he and Jimmy went with
the milk, Mary rose to the occasion and told him in a wild flight of
unwarranted extravagance that they would have a turkey when Pearl came
home. 'N cranberry sauce. 'N brown gravy. No-ow!

The house had undergone some preparations for the joyous event.
Everything was scrubbed that could be scrubbed. An elaborately
scalloped newspaper drape ornamented the clock shelf; paper chains,
made of blue and yellow sale-bills, were festooned from the elbow of
the stove pipes to the window curtains; the wood box was freshly
papered with newspaper; red flannel was put in the lamps.

The children were scrubbed until they shone. Bugsey's sweater had a
hole in the "chist," but you would never know it the way he held his
hand. Tommy's stocking had a hole in the knee, but he had artfully
inserted a piece of black lining that by careful watching kept up
appearances.

Mrs. Watson, instigated by Danny, had looked at the turkeys in the
butcher shop that morning, asked the price and came away sorrowful.
Even Danny understood that a turkey was not to be thought of. They
compromised on a pot-roast because it makes so much gravy, and with
this and the prospect of potatoes and turnips and prune-pie, the family
had to be content.

On the day that Pearlie was expected home, Mrs. Watson and Mary were
busy preparing the evening meal, although it was still quite early in
the afternoon. Wee Danny stood on a syrup keg in front of the window,
determined to be the first to see Pearlie.

Mrs. Watson was peeling the potatoes and singing. Mrs. Watson sang
because her heart was glad, for was not Pearlie coming home. She never
allowed her singing to interfere with more urgent duties; the singing
could always wait, and she never forgot just where she had left it, but
would come back and pick up at the exact place she had discarded it.

"Sure ain't it great the way ma never drops a stitch in her singin',"
her eldest son Teddy had said admiringly one day. "She can lave a note
half turned up in the air, and go off and lave it, and ye'd think she'd
forgot where she left it, but ne