Maisie's merry Christmas

"I wish there wasn't going to be any Christmas at all this year."

Maisie made this startling assertion in a tone of conviction, but there was a quiver in her voice, nevertheless, and a suspicious moisture in her eyes. The remark caused quite a shock to the members of her family, who were all assembled in their private sitting-room at the Hotel de Nice. Mr. Barton looked up from his American newspaper, that had arrived by the last mail, Mrs. Barton paused in the letter she was writing home to Grandma, and Auntie Belle--who was playing on the piano--whirled around on her stool, and regarded her little niece with an expression of horrified amazement.

"Why, Maisie," she exclaimed indignantly; "how can you say such a dreadful thing? Think of the wonderful winter we are having! You must really be a very unappreciative child."

"I'm not an unappreciative child," declared Maisie, who did not like the long word, although she was not quite sure she knew what it meant, "and I'm not having a wonderful winter at all. It's been horrid ever since we went away from Morristown. First there was that dreadful ocean. You didn't mind that, because you weren't seasick, and didn't have to lie in bed and hate things to eat. Then there was London. I hated London, it was so foggy and rainy, and Françoise was always making me wash my face and hands because of the smoots. We had to go to stupid churches and galleries, and papa made me say history to him every day. I hate history even worse than geography and arithmetic. After that came Paris, and there were more churches and pictures, and everybody talked French. Now we've come here, and it's going to be Christmas next week, though I don't see how it really can be, with all the roses out just the way they are at home in June. I don't see any use in Christmas without any people to give presents, and I just wish there wasn't going to be any, so there!"

"But, Maisie darling," began Mrs. Barton, eagerly, "there will be presents. Grandpa and Grandma and all the aunties and uncles have sent money to spend for our Christmas, and we are planning a very merry day."

But Maisie's cross little face did not brighten.

"It won't be like Christmas at home, anyway," she persisted. "How can it be, without any party, and with nobody but you and papa and Auntie Belle and Françoise to buy presents for? Even if we had a tree, there wouldn't be any people to come to it."

Auntie Belle opened her lips as if she were going to say something, but at a glance from her brother she closed them again. Mrs. Barton looked really distressed, but Mr. Barton only smiled.

"Come here, Maisie," he said, laying down his newspaper, and lifting his little daughter on his knee. "So Europe is a failure in your estimation, and you would much rather have spent the winter in Morristown, New Jersey, than in France or Italy."

"Much rather," said Maisie, with decision; "I wish we hadn't come."

"That is really a very sad state of affairs, especially when mamma and Auntie Belle and I are all enjoying ourselves so much. But I thought we agreed that the pantomime and the Zoo in London were rather good fun, after all, and that the Bois in Paris was even nicer than Central Park. Then how about the ponies?"

Maisie was beginning to look a little ashamed of her outburst.

"London and Paris weren't so very bad," she admitted, reluctantly, "and I do like the ponies, but it's Christmas--oh, Papa, it's dreadful not to be at home on Christmas!" And Maisie took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"We are all sorry to be away from our dear ones on Christmas, of course," said Mr. Barton, "and we shall miss them very much; but you know people can't expect to have all the good things in the world at the same time. Now, I have an idea. You have always had very 'Merry Christmasses' at home, but you are afraid this one isn't going to be quite the same thing. How would it do to try to make this Christmas just as merry for some one else as your friends made yours for you last year?"

"I don't think that would be any fun," said Maisie, who did not look much impressed by her father's suggestion. "Besides, we don't know any people here."

"It is true that we don't know any one as yet, but Christmas is nearly a week off, and in the meantime we might be on the look out. Suppose you think the matter over for a day or two, and see how it strikes you."

Maisie did not look as if she considered her father's suggestion at all an interesting one, but at the moment her ear was caught by the sound of distant music, and glad of any opportunity to change a conversation which was threatening to become personal, she slipped down off her father's knee, with the remark.

"There are some more musicians; I want to see them." And promptly disappeared through the open French window on to the balcony, which overlooked the garden, where roses bloomed all winter long.

"Poor mite!" said Mrs. Barton, when Maisie had left the room, "we forget what a baby she really is. Of course she cannot be expected to enjoy the things that we do. I almost wish I had taken mother's advice, and left her at home, though it would have been very hard to part from her."

"I don't agree with you at all," said Mr. Barton smiling. "Has it ever occurred to you, Alice, that our small daughter is just a trifle selfish?"

"I don't consider her in the least selfish," Mrs. Barton declared indignantly. "She is the most generous little thing in the world. Why, only this morning I had to prevent her giving a whole franc to some of those ridiculous street musicians she is so fond of. She is always giving away her pocket-money, and one of her chief reasons for being unhappy just now is because she has so few people for whom to buy Christmas presents this year."

"All very true. Maisie loves to shop, and when her pocket-money is all gone she will come to us for more, but honestly now, Alice dear, has the child ever been obliged to give up anything she really wanted?"

Auntie Belle gave her brother a quick, comprehending glance, and with difficulty repressed a laugh. She was really very fond of her little niece, but there had been times lately when she had found Maisie just a little tiresome. But Mrs. Barton looked really unhappy. She was very conscientious, and honestly tried to bring up her little girl in the best way, but Maisie was such a funny, sweet-tempered little person, that it was hard to keep from spoiling her. She was an only child, and the joy of her mother's heart.

Before Mrs. Barton could reply, however, Maisie herself reappeared.

"It's a boy and a little girl this time," she announced, with the air of a person imparting most interesting news. "The little girl isn't much bigger than me. She sings and the boy plays the mandolin. Please give me some money for them, Papa. They look very poor; they haven't any shoes or stockings on."

"I have known boys who preferred going without shoes and stockings to wearing them," said Mr. Barton, laughing, but he handed Maisie some small coins, and the little girl once more disappeared from view.

"Hark!" exclaimed Auntie Belle, in a tone of sudden interest; "listen to that child's singing."

They were all silent for a moment, and through the open window came the sound of a child's voice, singing a little French ballad. It was a very sweet, clear little voice, though as yet quite untrained, and there was a strange pathos in it, which touched the hearers in a way that they could hardly have explained.

"Rather better than one usually hears," Mr. Barton said, when the ballad came to an end. "It is shameful, though, that a child of that age should be allowed to go about the streets singing. She ought to be at school or at home with her mother."

Just then there was a tap at the sitting-room door, and Françoise, Maisie's French maid, appeared, with the announcement that the ponies were at the door.

"I gave them the money, but I don't think they were very polite," remarked Maisie, coming from the balcony at Françoise's summons. "The boy took off his hat, but the little girl didn't even smile, and she never looked up once."

"Perhaps she has never been taught to be polite," said Mrs. Barton. "Now run along, my darling, and have a pleasant drive. Don't stay out late, and do be careful of those dreadful motor cars."

Ten minutes later, Maisie, seated by Françoise's side in the pony cart, was driving the pretty little pair of cobs down the boulevard in the direction of the sea. A small boy in livery occupied the seat behind, but beyond an occasional word to the ponies, he had nothing to do. Maisie had always lived in the country, and had ridden her first pony when she was five. Although only just ten, she could already both drive and ride better than many people twice her age. She had always cared more for animals than for toys, and the leaving her pony and other pets had been one of the hardest things about going abroad for the winter. It had been a great delight to her, when, on their arrival at Nice--where they expected to spend several weeks--her father had hired the little pair of cobs for her use, and the afternoon drives into the country, or along the esplanade by the sea, were by far the pleasantest hours of the day.

To-day she chose the esplanade. It was a glorious afternoon; the air was soft and balmy, and felt much more like April than December. The sea was very calm, but the little waves danced and sparkled in the sunshine. Françoise--who loved everything connected with her native land--was enchanted, and asked Maisie if she did not think it was "_magnifique_," but Maisie--who was still feeling rather aggrieved on the subject of Christmas--replied crossly that she thought Morristown was much prettier, and the maid was forced to fall back on the small groom for sympathy. Antoine had spent three winters in Nice, and was quite ready to talk about the attractions of the place, and he and Françoise became so enthusiastic, and repeated the words "_magnifique_" and "_charmante_" so many times that Maisie grew quite tired of hearing them.

"I wish you'd talk about something else," she said at last. Maisie had had French nurses all her life, and spoke that language quite as fluently as her own.

"You have no love for the beautiful," said Françoise, severely.

"I have, too, but I get tired hearing people always talking about the same thing. I'm not going to stay here any longer. I'm going to buy Christmas presents." And she resolutely turned the ponies' heads in a homeward direction.

"Your mamma does not wish you to shop in the afternoon," remonstrated Françoise; "she says you are to be out in the fresh air."

"I don't like the fresh air, and I've got twenty francs that papa gave me yesterday to buy Christmas presents with. Next Saturday will be Christmas, though I don't see how it can be with all the roses out, and last year I shopped every day for two whole weeks."

Françoise was still inclined to object, but Maisie was in one of her obstinate fits, and the argument was threatening to become a serious one, when the little girl's attention was attracted by something, which for the moment directed her thoughts into a new channel.