"Mis' Winslow," said Mis' Moran, sadly, "what's the use of saying anything? You know as well as I do that Christmas is abused all up and down the land, and made a day of expense and extravagance and folks overspending themselves. And we've stopped all that in Old Trail Town. And now you're trying to make us feel bad." "I ain't," said Mis' Winslow, "we felt bad about it already, and you know it. I'm glad we've stopped all that. But I wish't we had something to put in its place. I wish't we had." "What in time are them children doing?" said Mis' Moran, abruptly. The three women looked. On the side lawn, where a spreading balsam had been left untrimmed to the ground, stood little Emily Moran and Gussie and Bennet and Tab and Pep. And the four boys had their caps in their hands, and Gussie, having untied her own hood, turned to take off little Emily's. The wind, sweeping sharply round the corner of the house, blew their hair wildly and caught at muffler ends. Mis' Bates and Mis' Moran, with one impulse, ran to the side door, and Mis' Winslow followed. "Emily," said Mis' Moran, "put on your hood this minute." "Gussie," said Mis' Bates, "put on your cap this instant second. What you got it off for? And little Emily doing as you do--I'm su'prised at you." The children consulted briefly, then Pep turned to the two women, by now coming down the path, Mis' Bates with her apron over her head, Mis' Moran in her shawl. "Please," said Pep, "it's a funeral. An' we thought we'd ought to take our caps off till it gets under." "A funeral," said Mis' Bates. "Who you burying?" "It's just a rehearsal funeral," Pep explained; "the real one's going to be Christmas." By now the two women were restoring hood and stocking cap to the little girls, and it was Mis' Winslow, who had followed, who spoke to Pep. "Who's dead, Pep?" she asked. Between the belief of "Who's dead?" and the skepticism of "Who you burying?" the child was swift to distinguish. "Sandy Claus," he answered readily. Mis' Winslow stood looking down at him. Pep stepped nearer. "We're doing it for little Emily," he said confidentially. "She couldn't get it straight about where Sandy Claus would be this Christmas. The rest of us--knew. But Emily's little--so we thought we'd play bury him on her 'count." Mis' Bates, who had not heard, turned from Gussie. "Going to do _what_ on Christmas?" she exclaimed. "You ain't to do a thing on Christmas. Or ain't you grown up, after all?" "Well, we thought a Christmas funeral wouldn't hurt," interposed Bennet, defensively. "Can't we even have a funeral for fun on Christmas?" he ended, aggrieved. "It's Sandy Claus's funeral," observed little Emily putting a curl from her face. "We're goin' dress up a Sandy Claus, you know," Pep added, _sotto voce_. "It's going to be right after breakfast, Christmas." "Come on, come ahead, fellows," said Bennet; "I'll be corpse. Keep your lids on. I don't mind. Go ahead, sing."