s, if you and Mother would cook me up a lot of
goodies for Christmas, I'd like it better than anything you could do.
Send lots, so I can treat--a turkey and fixings."

This letter did more for Mrs. Morton's health than the doctor's tonic.
She tied on her apron and set to making fruit cake and cookies and every
delicious and indigestible compound she could think of that would stand
packing and a four-days' journey. Chicken Little and Sherm spent their
evenings making candy and picking out walnut meats to send. Dr. Morton
made the nine-mile trip to town on the coldest day of the season to
insure Ernest's getting the box on the very day before Christmas.

The family at the ranch had a quiet holiday week. The day after New
Year's, Jane was invited to come to town and stay over night to attend
an amateur performance of Fatinitza, a light opera the young people had
staged for the benefit of a struggling musical society. Chicken Little
was excitedly eager to go. Mrs. Morton deliberated for some time before
she gave her consent. Marian and Frank and Sherm all teased in her
behalf, before it was won.

Sherm drove her in, and Frank, having business in town the following day
with a cattle buyer from Kansas City, volunteered to bring her home.
Jane wore her Christmas present, a crimson cashmere with fine knife
plaitings of crimson satin for its adorning. Frank lent her his sealskin
cap and she felt very grand, and looked piquantly radiant, as she
revolved for her mother's inspection before slipping into her big coat.
Sherm, standing waiting, inspected her, too.

"Scrumptious, Lady Jane, you look like that red bird I've been trying to
catch out in the evergreen by the gate."

Mrs. Morton shook her head disapprovingly. "No compliments, Sherm, Jane
is just a little girl and she must remember that pretty is as pretty
does. Don't forget, dear, to thank Mrs. Webb for her hospitality when
you come away. Are you sure your ears are clean?"

"Oh, Mother, I'm not a baby!" Chicken Little protested indignantly. "You
talk as if I were about five years old."

"My dear daughter, your mother will speak to you as she sees fit. Have
you got the high overshoes? I think, perhaps, you'd better take Father's
muffler. Sherm, have you both buffalo robes?"

Chicken Little relieved her feelings by making a little moue at Sherm.
He winked discreetly in return.

"Why," she said disgustedly after they were started, "won't mothers ever
let you grow up?