The alluring scent of
gaudily painted toys pervaded the Christmas atmosphere, quite
offsetting the hint of steam from more fortunate depths, and one could
sniff the odour of freshly buttered pop-corn. All these signs spoke of
children and the proximity of Kris Kringle, and yet there were no
little Bingles, nor had there ever been so much as one!
Mr. and Mrs. Bingle were childless. The tragedy of life for them lay
not in the loss of a first-born, but in the fact that no babe had ever
come to fill their hungry hearts with the food they most desired and
craved. Nor was there any promise of subsequent concessions in their
behalf. For fifteen years they had longed for the boon that was denied
them, and to the end of their simple, kindly days they probably would
go on longing. Poor as they were, neither would have complained if
fate had given them half-a-dozen healthy mouths to feed, as many
wriggling bodies to clothe, and all the splendid worries that go with
colic, croup, measles, mumps, broken arms and all the other ailments,
peculiar, not so much to childhood as they are paramount to
parenthood.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25