Mrs. Budlong's Christmas Presents Part 7

"I want to buy nearly everything in the shop. Get busy."

It was too late to select. Mr. and Mrs. Budlong with their lengthy list in hand sprinted up one aisle and down another, pointing, prodding, rarely pausing to say "How much?" but monotonously chanting: "Gimme this! Gimme that! Gimme two of these! Gimme six of them!

Gimme that! Gimme this! Gimme them!"

They bought glaring garden jars and ghastly vases, scarf pins that would disturb the peace, silly bisque figurines for mantels and what-nots, combs and brushes that would raise the hair on end instead of allaying it, oxidized silverized lead pencils, b.u.t.ton hooks, tooth brushes, nail files, cuticle knives, pin cus.h.i.+ons, ink stands, paper weights, picture frames, bits of lace and intimate white things with ribbons in them--Mr. Budlong turned away while she priced these.

Strouther and Streckfuss were in a panic of joy at the situation. They managed in the excitement to work off a number of old horrors that had been refused for years and years--ancient, dust-stained landmarks on the shelves. Mr. Strouther showed the things, Mr. Streckfuss wrote the list of purchases,--he made many mistakes in prices, but strangely never to his own damage; and the entire staff of a.s.sistants followed, taking down, and wrapping up, and rus.h.i.+ng parcels to the door, where they were bundled onto a wagon.

Mr. Budlong should have been a medieval general. He pillaged that store with the thoroughness of the Crusaders looting Constantinople.

The town clock was striking midnight as the Budlongs dragged themselves home. There was much yet to be done. Parcels must be opened, price tags removed, gifts done up in pink tissue paper and gold twine, cards must be inscribed and inserted and the parcels rewrapped and addressed.

The Strouther and Streckfuss driver had been hired at an exorbitant cost to sit up and deliver the gifts. The horses had not been consulted. They leaned on each other and slept, dreaming of oats.

The Budlong parlor was soon a hideous scene. The husband would open a bundle and sing out, "Who's this big immense pink and purple cuspidor for?"

"That's a jardineer," Mrs. Budlong would gasp. "It's a return for that horrible cat those hateful Disneys are going to inflict on me. Here's the card."

She handed him a holly-wreathed pasteboard on which she had written, "For Mr. and Mrs. Disney with most affectionate Yuletide greetings."

She indited cards as fast as she could think up phrases. She sought for variety, but the effort was maddening. She wrote, "Very merry Christmas," "The merriest of Xmases," "A merry merry Yuletide," "A Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year," "Christmas Greetings," "Xmas Greetings," "Yuletide Greetings," "Wis.h.i.+ng you a--" "With loving wishes for--" "Affectionate," and so on and so on and on and on. She scribbled and scrawled till slumber drugged her and her pen went crazy.

When she fell asleep she was writing "A Yuly Newmas and a Happy X-Year to Swally Sezey."

The delivery man pounded on the door and wild-eyed Budlong let him in from the night. The man whispered that he'd have to start at once if he was to make the rounds before his horses laid down on him.

Mr. Budlong called his wife, but she did not answer. He shook her and she threatened to roll off the chair on to a divan. Mr. Budlong straightened her out and gazed at her in hopeless pity. He stared at the chaos of bundles.

He seized the pack of cards from his wife's chubby fingers and ran here and there jabbing pasteboards into bundles, regardless.

That is how Myra Eppley acquired an ash tray lined with cigar bands, and why old Mr. Clute was amazed to receive a card offering him Mrs.

Budlong's "loving and affectionate greetings." He was more amazed when he opened the bundle. It had ribbons in it.

There were other amazements in town the next morning. In fact, it was the amazingest Christmas Carthage had ever had.

As fast as Mr. Budlong stuffed cards into bundles, he loaded bundles into the driver's arms as if they were sticks of wood. The driver stacked them up in his wagon. He made seven trips in all and some of the cards fell out and were stuck in still wronger bundles than before.

But both the driver and Mr. Budlong were too sleepy to care. The driver finally mounted his seat and called out from the dark:

"Say, Mr. Budlong, where do I leave these packages--on the porch, or do I ring the bell?"

"Chuck 'em through the windows! The more gla.s.s you break the better I'll like it."

"All right, sir. Get ap! Good night, sir, and wis.h.i.+ng you a Merry Christmas!"

"Merry ------" said Mr. Budlong, reaching for a rock. But even the stones were frozen to the ground and the driver escaped. As Mr.

Budlong closed his front door, a thread of crimson spun out along the East as if somebody were going to wrap the whole world up in a red string. He did not want it. He yawned at it.

An hour or so later, Ulie awoke and sat up with a start. To his intense confusion, he b.u.mped the top of his little skull on the bottom of his little bed.

He was calling for help when he realized that he had fallen asleep in his ambush. He peered forth to see if he had snared Santa Claus.

The figure-4 trap was erect and intact, but empty. He crawled out and ran to the row of stockings he had hung on the mantelpiece as a decoy.

The stockings were empty.

With a shriek of disappointed rage, Ulie dashed into his parents' room to protest.

Their bed was empty.

He ran through the house, stumbled down stairs and into the back parlor. His father was snoring on a mattress of Yuletide parcels. His mother was curled up on a divan under the smoking piano lamp. Her hands were clutching strands of gold cord and her hair was pillowed in pink tissue paper. She was burbling in her sleep.

Little Ulie bent down to hear what she was saying. He made out faintly;

"Mis.h.i.+ng you a Werry Muschris and a Nappy Hoosier."