"_Phertalizer!_" explained Carol. My father made a little laugh. "In all my experience with horticulture," he said, "I know of no fertilizer for a Christmas tree that equals a judicious application of nickels, dimes, and quarters--well stirred in." "Our uncle Charlie was here once for Thanksgiving," I cried. "He stirred in a twenty-dollar gold piece. Our Christmas tree bloomed _everything_ that year! It bloomed tinsel pompons on every branch! And gold-ribbon bow-knots! It bloomed a blackboard for Carol! And an ice-cream freezer for mother! And----" "And then we take the tree," explained my mother, "and carry it into the parlor. And shut the door." "And _lock_ the door," said my father. "And no one ever sees," puzzled young Derry Willard, "what was written in the wishes?" "_No one_," I said. Rosalee laughed. "Some one--must see," said Rosalee. "'Cause just about a week before Christmas father and mother always go up to town and----" "Oh, of course mother _has_ to see!" I admitted. "Mother is such friends with Christmas!" "And father," laughed Rosalee, "is such friends with mother!" "Usually," I said. "Eh?" said father. "And then," explained mother, "on Christmas morning we all go to the parlor!" "And there's a fire in the parlor!" I explained. "A great hollow Yule log all stuffed full of crackly pine-cones and sputtering sparkers and funny-colored blazes that father buys at a fireworks shop! And the candles are lighted! And--and----" "And all the tin-foil buds have bloomed into presents!" laughed Derry Willard. "Oh, no, of course--not _all_ of them," said mother. "No tree ever fulfills every bud," said my father. "There's Carol's camel, of course," laughed Rosalee. "Ever since Carol was big enough to wish, he's always wished for a camel!" "But mostly, of course," I insisted, "he wishes for kites! He got nine kites last Christmas." "Kites?" murmured young Derry Willard. "_Kites!_" I said. "I _have_ to talk a good deal. Once always for myself. And all over again for Carol." It seemed a good time to talk for Carol. Perhaps a person who came all the way from Cuba could tell us the thing we wanted to know. "Oh, Carol's very much interested in kites!" I confided. "And in relationships! In Christmas relationships especially! When he grows up he's going to be some sort of a jenny something--I think it's an ologist! Or else keep a kite-shop!" "Yes?" murmured young Derry Willard. There are two ways I've noticed to make one listen to you. One is to shout. The other is to whisper. I decided to whisper.