When he said that I felt--well, it don’t make any difference to anybody how I felt; but what I done was to turn and make for the edge of the crowd just as fast as I could. And just then there come what Eppleby’s words was the signal for. And out on the little flagstaff balcony of the Town Hall Jerry Bemus stepped with his bugle, and he blew it shrill and clear, so that it sounded all over the town, once, twice, three times, a bugle-call to say it was Christmas. We couldn’t wait till twelve o’clock--we are all in bed long before that time in Friendship Village, holiday or not. But the bugle-call said it was Christmas just the same. Think of it ... the bugle that used to say it was war. And the same minute the big tree went out, all still and quiet, but to be lit again next year and to stay a living thing in between. When I stepped on to Daphne Street, who should I come face to face with but Mis’ Postmaster Sykes. I was feeling so glorified over, that I never thought of its being strange that she was there. But she spoke up, just the same as if I’d said: “Why, I thought you wasn’t coming near.” “The children was bound to come,” she says, “so I had to bring ’em.” “Yes,” I thought to myself, “the children know. They know.” And I even couldn’t feel bad when I passed the post-office store and see Silas sitting in there all sole alone--the only lit store in the street. I knew he’d be on the Market Square the next year. They went singing through all the streets that night, Ben Cory and his carolers. “Silent night, holy night” come from my front gate when I was ’most asleep. It was like the whole town was being sung to by something that didn’t show. And when the time comes that this something speaks clear all the time,--well, it ain’t a very far-off time, you know. EXIT CHARITY “Yes, sir,” said Silas Sykes, “we got to get some charity goin’ in this town.” “Charity,” I says over, meditative. “How do you mean, Silas?” “How do I mean?” says Silas, snappy. “Don’t you know your Bible, woman?” “I ain’t so sure I do as I use’ to be,” I told him. “I use’ to think charity was givin’ things away. Then I had a spell I use’ to think it was coverin’ up their faults. Now I dunno as I’m clear what it is.” Silas bridled some and snorted soft. “Charity,” says he, “charity, Calliope Marsh, is doin’ nice things for folks.” “Doin’ nice things for folks,” I says over--and I wanted to remember them words of Silas and I longed to feed ’em to him some time. But I just took up my pound of prunes and went out the post-office store, thoughtful. Outside on the walk, I come on Absalom. He stood kicking his heels on the hydrant and looking up and down the street like he was waiting, for something that there wasn’t any such thing, and he knew it. Absalom Ricker he was, that has work in the canning factory, when any. I’d been wantin’ to see him. “Evenin’, Ab,” says I. “How’s Gertie?” “She ain’t on her feet yet,” says he, rueful.