Something for Baby
This is nothing but a slight jar in the happy holiday music; a minor note struck by the finger of Fate, slipping upon the keys, as of and Christmas make the merry.
The Post man stood yesterday in one of the largest fancy and drygoods stores on Main Street, watching the of well-dressed buyers, mostly ladies, who were turning over the stock of Christmas notions and holiday goods.
Presently a little, slim, white-faced girl crept through the crowd to the counter. She was dressed in thin , and her shoes were patched and .
She looked about her with a manner half , half scared.
A saw her and came forward.
“Well, what is it?” he asked rather shortly.
“Please, sir,” she answered in a weak voice, “ gave me this dime to get something for baby.”
“Something for baby, for a dime? Want to buy baby a Christmas present, eh? Well now, don’t you think you had better run around to a toyshop? We don’t keep such things here. You want a tin horse, or a ball, or a jumping jack, now don’t you?”
“Please, sir, said I was to come here. Baby isn’t with us now. Mamma told me to get—ten—cents—worth—of—crape, sir, if you please.”