mp and contented, and there's nothing
special to do except just to dream and think--why, we just list out the
various things that we'd _like_ for Christmas and----"

"Most people end Thanksgiving, of course," explained my father, "by
trying to feel thankful for the things they've already had. But this
seems to be more like a scheme for expressing thanks for the things that
we'd _like_ to have!"

"The violet tin-foil is Rosalee's!" I explained. "The green is mine! The
red is mother's! The blue is father's! The silver is Carol's! Mother
takes each separate _wish_ just as soon as it's written, and twists it
all up in a bud of tin-foil! And takes wire! And wires the bud on the
tree! Gold buds! Silver buds! Red! Green! Everything! All bursty! And
shining! Like Spring! It looks as tho rainbows had rained on it! It
looks as tho sun and moon had warmed it at the same time! And then we
all go and get our little iron banks--all the Christmas money, I mean,
that we've been saving and saving for a whole year! And dump it all out
round the base of the tree! Nickels! Dimes! Quarters! Pennies!
_Everything!_ And----"

"Dump them all out--round the base of the tree?" puzzled young Derry
Willard.

Carol did something suddenly that I never saw him do before with a
stranger. He wrote a conversation on a sheet of paper and waved it at
young Derry Willard. It was a short conversation. But it was written
very tall.

"_Phertalizer!_" explained Carol.

My father made a little laugh. "In all my experience with horticulture,"
he said, "I know of no fertilizer for a Christmas tree that equals a
judicious application of nickels, dimes, and quarters--well stirred in."

"Our uncle Charlie was here once for Thanksgiving," I cried. "He stirred
in a twenty-dollar gold piece. Our Christmas tree bloomed _everything_
that year! It bloomed tinsel pompons on every branch! And gold-ribbon
bow-knots! It bloomed a blackboard for Carol! And an ice-cream freezer
for mother! And----"

"And then we take the tree," explained my mother, "and carry it into the
parlor. And shut the door."

"And _lock_ the door," said my father.

"And no one ever sees," puzzled young Derry Willard, "what was written
in the wishes?"

"_No one_," I said.

Rosalee laughed.

"Some one--must see," said Rosalee. "'Cause just about a week before
Christmas father and mother always go up to town and----"

"Oh, of course mother _has_ to see!" I admitted. "Mother is such friends