tame coon wasn't afraid of anything. He crawled in and out of all
the wrapping-papers, sniffing and sniffing. It made a lovely crackling
sound.

Everything smelt like fir balsam. It was more beautiful every minute.
Even after every last present was picked from the tree, the tree was
still so fat and fluffy with tinsel and glass balls that it didn't look
robbed at all.

We just sat back and stared at it.

Young Derry Willard stared only at the topmost branch.

Father looked suddenly at mother. Mother looked suddenly at Rosalee.
Rosalee looked suddenly at Carol. Carol looked suddenly at me. I looked
suddenly at the tame coon. The tame coon kept right on crackling through
the wrapping-papers.

Young Derry Willard made a funny little face. There seemed to be dust in
his throat. His voice was very dry. He laughed.

"My wish," said young Derry Willard, "seems to have been the only one
that--didn't bloom."

I almost died with shame. Carol almost died with shame. In all that
splendiferousness, in all that generosity, poor Derry Willard's
gold-budded wish was the only one that hadn't at least bloomed into
_something_!

Rosalee jumped up very suddenly and ran into the dining-room. She looked
as tho she was going to cry.

Young Derry Willard followed her. He didn't run. He walked very slowly.
He looked a little troubled.

Carol and I began at once to fold the wrapping-papers very usefully.

Young Derry Willard's father looked at my father. All of a sudden he
wasn't laughing at all. Or rubbing his hands.

"I'm sorry, Dick," he said. "I've always rather calculated somehow on
having my boy's wishes come true."

My father spoke a little sharply.

"You must have a lot of confidence," he said, "in your boy's wishes!"

"I have!" said young Derry Willard's father, quite simply. "He's a good
boy! Not only clever, I mean, but good! Never yet have I known him to
wish for anything that wasn't the _best_!"

"They're too young," said my father.

"Youth," said Derry Willard's father, "is the one defect I know of that
is incontestably remedial."

"How can they possibly know their own minds?" demanded my father.

"No person," said Derry Willard's father, "knows his own mind until he's
ready to die. But the sooner he knows his own heart the sooner he's
ready to begin to live."

My father stirred in his chair. He lit a cigar. It went out. He lit it
again. It went out again. He jerked his shoulders. He looked nervous. He
ta