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 glass you break the better I'll like it." "All right, sir. Get ap! Good night, sir, and wishing 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 bumped 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; "Mishing you a Werry Muschris and a Nappy Hoosier." End of Project Gutenberg's Mrs. Budlong's Christmas Presents, by Rupert Hughes