On their way, they passed the postman, struggling under his load of Christmas packages. Not only was his leather sack packed to overflowing with mail, but a little cart which he dragged behind him on the walk also held its quota of letters and gifts. "Merry Christmas!" the boys called to him. He was a genial soul, not in the least like the evil-tempered crank who had held the route the year before. He smiled back at them, for he had just been given a seventh necktie which a family had decided was too hideous to be worn by the original recipient, and was in high spirits. "Any mail for us?" came the chorus of inquiry. He fingered the mail in his sack. "Here you are, young Fletcher! Catch!" "From my aunt," announced John proudly as he looked at the postmark. "She always sends me jim-dandy things for Christmas." He ripped the protecting envelope away and stared in amazement at the two white-crocheted squares in his hand. "Washrags, washrags!" jeered the boys. For once, Aunt Clara had followed the haphazard suggestion at the end of his letter and had sent something useful. [Illustration: _"Washrags, washrags."_] He jammed the offending gifts into his pocket, and sought to change the subject. "Come on, Silvey, let's see that big tree of yours." So they stamped up the Silvey front steps and into the house. "There," said Bill, pointing proudly at the family fir. John gave one disgusted glance. "That? Why that's set on a little table! Wouldn't come near the ceiling if it was on the floor. Come down to my house and I'll show you a _real_ tree." They left the Silvey house noisily. "Beat you down to John's," Perry shouted as they stood on the front walk. Away they went, puffing like little steam engines, in the cold air. A moment later, they stood admiringly in the Fletcher hall. "Now, isn't our tree bigger'n yours?" Silvey admitted that it was, thus adding the final restoring touches to John's complacency. Then they staged an impromptu Punch and Judy show and played with the other toys until Mrs. Fletcher, beaming in spite of perspiration, came into the room. "The turkey's most done, John, so the boys had better go home now. They can come back at five to see the tree lighted, if they wish." Would they care to? You just bet they would! The front door slammed behind them, and John went out to the kitchen to nibble at bits of celery, sample the cranberry sauce, and in other ways annoy his busy mother until she turned on him despairingly. "For heaven's sake, John, go into the parlor and read one of your new books until dinner's ready if you can't be quiet."