ute the offerings that will typify the gifts conveyed by the shepherds of Bethlehem to———”
“Aw, come off,” said the boy, squinting his small eyes. “I ain’t no kid. There ain’t any Santa Claus. It’s your folks that buys toys and sneaks ’em in when you’re asleep. And they make marks in the soot in the chimney with the tongs to look like Santa’s sleigh tracks.”
“That might be so,” argued Trinidad, “but Christmas trees ain’t no fairy tale. This one’s goin’ to look like the ten-cent store in Albuquerque, all strung up in a redwood. There’s tops and drums and Noah’s arks and———”
“Oh, rats!” said Bobby, wearily. “I cut them out long ago. I’d like to have a rifle—not a target one—a real one, to shoot wildcats with; but I guess you won’t have any of them on your old tree.”
“Well, I can’t say for sure,” said Trinidad diplomatically; “it might be. You go along with us and see.”
The hope thus held out, though faint, won the boy’s hesitating consent to go. With this solitary beneficiary for Cherokee’s holiday bounty, the canvassers spun along the homeward road.
In Yellowhammer the empty storeroom had been transformed into what might have passed as the bower of an Arizona fairy. The ladies had done their work well. A tall Christmas tree, covered to the topmost branch with candles, spangles, and toys sufficient for
