Under the bed was a shiny tin milk pan, and rolls of tissue paper, green and red. "Now I’m going to cover this pan with green paper," Peggy explained. "And there’ll be a pasteboard cover, with a big round hole in the middle, and there’s where we will put in our thumbs." "And cry what a big boy’m I," added Dorothy, hopping on one foot, which with her was an indication of fascinated interest. "The cover’ll be all fixed with red tissue paper, and, instead of plums, there’ll be little presents inside." "Is it going on the Christmas tree, Aunt Peggy?" Dorothy squatted beside her aunt, carried away by the enchantment of the plan. And as Peggy looked at the beaming little face the isolation of her previous preparations suddenly seemed selfish. "No, this isn’t for the tree. It’s going on the table for the Christmas dinner. The presents aren’t nice ones, you know. They’re funny little jokes. Here’s Dick’s present, a queer little make-believe alarm-clock, because he is so slow about getting up in the morning. "Dick’s a lazy boy to be my uncle," said Dorothy, giggling rapturously. "I guess he’ll be ’shamed when he pulls out his plum." "There’s a rhyme to go with it, Dorothy. That’s part of the fun. Do you want to hear it?" Dorothy promptly became a statuette of attention, her hands folded, and her grave face flatteringly expectant, while Peggy read aloud. "Dick, Dick, the sleepy-head, Dearly loves his little bed. Here’s a cure; ’twill work for sure, Wind it tight. Set it right, And then go ahead and Blow out the light. When morning comes, how the folks will stare, To go to breakfast and find Dick there." "That’s poetry," said Dorothy much impressed. "I learned poetry once, all about Tit, Tiny and Tittens. Did you write a poetry plum for me, too, Aunt Peggy?" "Yes, but I mustn’t read you yours. That’s a surprise, but you can hear grandpa’s. You see, I’m going to give him a pen because he hates to have anybody else use his pens, and Dick’s always doing it." Peggy cleared her throat. "This is grandpa’s poem. "Now, here’s a pen for the best of men, And I wish it were purest gold. It could not write, in a whole long night, Half the love my heart does hold. Not for Dick’s abuse, but for father’s use, Is the pen I here present. May it long keep bright and continue to write, As well as the maker meant." "I’m going to write some poetry, too, for my Christmas presents," said Dorothy, fired to emulation. "I’m going to say, "This is for Aunt Peggy Because she’s eggy." "But I wouldn’t be _eggy_, I hope," exclaimed Peggy, laughing with an abandon rare in the last ten days. "So your poetry wouldn’t fit." Dorothy’s face fell. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with perhaps a glimmering appreciation of the truth that art is long. "Oh! I didn’t know that poetry had to be true." She gave up her ambition for the time being. "What’s grandma’s poetry, Aunt Peggy?"