It was easy to see what Calliope had done, I thought: she had promised to spend Christmas Eve over there in the north corridor, reading aloud. "They was nine of 'em," she went on, "nice old grandma ladies, with hands that looked like they'd ought to 'a' been tyin' little aprons an' cuttin' out cookies an' squeezin' somebody else's hand. There they set, with the wall-paper doin' its cheerfulest, loud as an insult,--one of 'em with lots o' white hair, one of 'em singin' a little, some of 'em tryin' to sew or knit some. My land!" said Calliope, "when we think of 'em sittin' up an' down the world--with their arms all empty--an' Christmas comin' on--ain't it a wonder--Well, I stayed 'round an' talked to 'em," she went on, "while the navy-blue lady whisked her starched skirts some. She seemed too busy 'tendin' to 'em to give 'em much attention. An' they looked rill pleased when I talked to 'em about their patchwork an' knittin', an' did they get the sun all day, an' didn't the canary sort o' shave somethin' off'n the human ear-drum, on his tiptop notes? An' when I said that, Grandma Holly--her with lots o' white hair--says:-- "'I donno but it does,' she says, 'but I don't mind; I'm so thankful to see somethin' around that's _little an' young_.' "That sort o' landed in my heart. It's just what I'd been thinkin' about 'em. "'Little, young things,' s'I, sort o' careless, 'make a lot o' racket, you know.' "At that old Mis' Burney pipes up--her that brought up her daughter's children an' her son-in-law married again an' turned her out:-- "'I use' to think so,' she says quiet; 'the noise o' the children use' to bother me terrible. When they reely got to goin' I use' to think I couldn't stand it, my head hurt me so. But now,' s'she, 'I get to thinkin' sometimes I wouldn't mind a horse-fiddle if some of 'em played it.' "'They're lots o' company, the little things,' says old Mis' Norris--she'd kep' mislayin' her teeth an' the navy-blue lady had took 'em away from her that day for to teach her, so I couldn't hardly understand what she said. 'Mine was named Ellen an' Nancy,' I made out. "'Some o' you remember my Sam,'--Mis' Ailing speaks up then, an' she begun windin' up her yarn an' never noticed she was ravellin' out her mitten,--'he was an alderman,' she was goin' on, but old Mis' Winslow cuts in on her:-- "'It don't matter what he was when he was man-grown,' s'she. 'Man-grown can get along themselves. It's when they're little bits o' ones,' she says. "'Little!' says Grandma Holly. 'Is it little you mean? Well, my Amy's two little feet use' to be swallowed up in my hand--so,' she says, shuttin' her hand over to show us.