l they would
laugh us to scorn instead of flattering us by calling our contributions
"perfectly lovely." Now, when a gift is spontaneous, its value is quite
irrespective of its use, but at the same time it is far more likely to
be both beautiful and useful. We read a book that moves us. How we wish
we could share it with one friend who particularly enjoys such a book!
We send it to her, and it is exactly the thing she wants. On the other
hand, Christmas is approaching. What shall we give our friend? She likes
books. Well, then, here is a prettily bound volume which is well spoken
of. We have no time to look farther, and we send it to her. She thanks
us in a pretty note, but is too busy in writing a hundred notes of
thanks to read the book then. It is laid by and perhaps forgotten.

We are making another friend an informal visit. We see that her
needle-book is getting shabby. We hasten to get bits of kid and silk and
flannel, and make her a new one with our daintiest stitches, and she is
delighted. She uses it every day, and likes to remember that we thought
of her comfort. But what shall we give her for Christmas? We think she
has everything. We have too many friends to remember now, for time for
such a dainty piece of sewing. Let us buy her some kind of an ornament.
It is true that the French clock and the vases and the match receivers
and two or three pictures on easels already crowd the mantel-piece, but
there is an odd little bronze image which would not be amiss among them.
It costs rather more than we can afford to pay, but we love her, and
wish to give her something, and are at our wits' end to know what. She
receives it graciously, and every time she dusts her ornaments she
remembers us affectionately. "I don't grudge dusting this," she says
sweetly to herself, "for my dear friend gave it to me, and I would do a
great deal more than this for her." Of course, in a family where a
servant dusts, the present is forgotten the moment it is placed on the
shelf.

I remember the dearest of little girls who once made me a Christmas
present of a purse of her own embroidering. The colors she chose were
brilliant, but hardly beautiful; the material rather flimsy, the sewing
was far beyond criticism, and if I had ever been rash enough to intrust
any money to such a purse, I should have returned home penniless. But I
was enchanted with the gift. I shall keep it as long as I live wrapped
in the crumpled tissue paper in which t