marry because he can't
propose! Ladies don't like written proposals, father says! Ladies----"

Young Derry Willard asked if he might smoke. He smoked cigarets. He took
them from a gold-looking case. They smelled very romantic. Everything
about him smelled very romantic. His hair was black. His eyes were
black. He looked as tho he could cut your throat without flinching if
you were faithless to him. It was beautiful.

I left the table as soon as I could. I went and got my best story-book.
I was perfectly right. He looked _exactly_ like the picture of the Fairy
Prince on the front page of the book. There were heaps of other
pictures, of course. But only one picture of a Fairy Prince. I looked in
the glass. I looked just exactly the way I did before dinner. It made me
feel queer. Rosalee didn't look at all the way she looked before dinner.
It made me feel _very_ queer.

When I got back to the dining-room everybody was looking at the little
spruce-tree--except young Derry Willard and Rosalee. Young Derry Willard
was still looking at Rosalee. Rosalee was looking at the toes of her
slippers. The fringe of her eyelashes seemed to be an inch long. Her
cheeks were so pink I thought she had a fever. No one else came to _bud_
the Christmas tree except Carol's tame coon and the tame crow. Carol is
very unselfish. He always _buds_ one wish for the coon. And one for the
crow. The tame coon looked rather jolly and gold-powdered in the
firelight. The crow never looked jolly. I have heard of white crows. But
Carol's crow was a very dark black. Wherever you put him he looked like
a sorrow. He sat on the arm of Rosalee's chair and nibbed at her pink
sleeve. Young Derry Willard pushed him away. Young Derry Willard and
Rosalee tried to whisper. I heard them.

"How old are you?" whispered Rosalee.

"I'm twenty-two," whispered young Derry Willard.

"O--h," said Rosalee.

"How young are you?" whispered Derry Willard.

"I'm seventeen," whispered Rosalee.

"O--h," said Derry Willard.

My mother started in very suddenly to explain about the Christmas tree.
There were lots of little pencils on the table. And blocks of paper. And
nice cold, shining sheets of tin-foil. There was violet-colored
tin-foil, and red-colored tin-foil--and green and blue and silver and
gold.

"Why, it's just a little family custom of ours, Mr. Willard," explained
my mother. "After the Thanksgiving dinner is over and we're all, I
trust, feeling reasonably plu