this is the story..i want you to give me an addition to the story..what will happen ten years later?
That fall, before it was discovered that the soles of both my shoes were worn clear through, i still went to Sunday school. And one time the Sunday-school superintendent made a speech to all the classes. He said that there were hard times, and that many poor children weren't getting enough to eat. It was the first time that i had heard about it. He asked everybody to bring some food for the poor children next Sunday. I felt very sorry for the poor children.
Also, little envelops were distributed to all of the classes. Each little boy and girl was to bring money for the poor, next Sunday. The pretty Sunday school teacher explained that we were to write our names, or have our parents write them, up in the left-hand corner of the little envelops.... I told my mother all about it when i came home. And my mother gave me, the next Sunday, a small bag of potatoes to carry to Sunday school. I supposed the poor children's mother would make potato soup out of them.... Potato soup was good. My father, who was quite a joker, would always say, as if he were surprised, "Ah! I see we have some nourishing potato soup today!" It was so good that we had it every day.
My father was at home all day long and every day, now; and I liked that, even if he was grumpy as he sat reading Grant's "Memoirs." I had my parents all to myself, too; the others were away. My oldest brother was with Quincy, and memory does not reveal where the others were; perhaps with relatives in the country
Taking my small bag of potatoes to Sunday school, i looked around for the poor children; I was disappointed not to see them. I heard about poor children stories. But i was told just to put my contributions with the others on the big table in the side room.
I had brought with me the little yellow envelop, with some money in it for the poor children. My mother had put the money in it and sealed it up. She wouldnt tell me how much money she had put in it, but it felt like several dimes. Only she wouldnt let me write name on the envelop. I had learned to write my name, and i was proud of being able to do it. But my mother said firmly, no, I must not write my name on the envelop; she didnt tell me why. On the way to Sunday school i had pressed the envelop against the coins until i could tell what they were, they werent dimes but pennies.
When i handed in my envelop, my Sunday-school teacher noticed that my name wasnt on it, and she gave me a pencil; I could write my own name, she said, so I did. But i was confused because my mother had said not to; and when i came home, i confessed what i had done. She looked distressed. "I told you not to!" she said. But she didnt explain why....
I didnt go back to school that fall. My mother said it was because i was sick. I did have a cold that week school opened; i had been playing in the gutters and had got my feet wet, because there were holes in my shoes. My father cut insoles out of a cardboard, and i wore those in my shoes. As long as i had to stay in the house anyway, they were all right.
I stayed cooped up in the house, without any companionship. We didnt take Sunday paper any more, but the Barry Adage came every week in the mails; and though i didnt read small print, i could see the Santa Clauses and holly wreath in the advertisements.
There were a calendar in the kitchen. The red days were Sundays and holidays; and that red 25 was Christmas. (It was on a Monday, and the two red figures would come together in 1893; but this represents research in the World Almanac, not memory.) I knew when Sunday was, because i could look out of the window and see the neighbour's children, all dressed up, going to Sunday school. I knew just when Christmas was going to be.
But there was something q***r! My father and mother didnt say a word about Christmas. And once, when i spoke of it, there was a strange, embarassed silence; so i didnt say anything about it. But i wondered, and was troubled. Why didnt they say anything about it? Was what i had said wanted (memory refuses to supply that detail) too expensive?
I wasnt arrogant and talkative now. I was silenced and frightened. What was the matter? Why didnt my father and mother say anything about Christmas? As the day approached, my chest grew tighter with anxiety.
Now it was the day before Christmas. I couldnt be mistaken. But not a word about it from my mother and father. I waited in painful bewilderment all day. I had supper with them, and was allowed to sit up for an hour. I was waiting for them to say something. "Its time for you to go to bed," my mother said gently. I had to say something.
"This is Christmas Eve, isnt it?" I asked, as if i didnt know.
My father and mother looked at one another. Then my mother looked away. Her face was pale and stony. My father cleared his throat, and his face took on a joking look. He pretended he hadnt known it was Christmas Ev
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