{"product_id":"2940149014767","title":"Mrs. Budlong's Christmas Presents","description":"The morning after Christmas Eve is the worst morning-after there is.\u003cbr\u003eThe very house suffers the headache that follows a prolonged spree.\u003cbr\u003eRemorse stalks at large; remorse for the things one gave—and did not\u003cbr\u003egive—and got.\u003cbr\u003eEverybody must act a general glee which can be felt only specifically, if at all. Everybody must exclaim about everything Oh! and Ah! and How Sweet of You! and Isn't it Perfectly Dear! The very THING I Wanted! and How DID you EVER Guess it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChristmas morning in the town of Carthage is a day when most of the people keep close at home, for Christmas is another passover. It is Santa Claus that passes over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople in Carthage are not rich; the shops are not grandiose, and inter-family presents are apt to be trivial and futile—or worse yet, utile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Carthaginian mother generally finds that Father has credited the hat she got last fall, to this Christmas; the elder brothers receive warm under-things and the young ones brass-toed boots, mitts and mufflers. The girls may find something ornamental in their stockings, and their stockings may be silk or nearly—but then girls have to be foolishly diked up anyway, or they will never be married out. Dressing up daughters comes under the head of window-display or coupons, and is charged off to publicity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNearly everybody in Carthage—except Mrs. Ulysses S. G. Budlong—celebrates Christmas behind closed doors. People find it easier to rhapsodize when the collateral is not shown. It is amazing how far a Carthaginian can go on the most meager donation. The formula is usually: \"We had Such a lovely Christmas at our house. What did I get? Oh, so many things I can't reMember!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Mrs. Ulysses S. G. Budlong does not celebrate her Christmasses behind closed doors—or rather she did not: a strange change came over her this last Christmas. She used to open her doors wide—metaphorically, that is; for there was a storm-door with a spring on it to keep the cold draught out of the hall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs regular as Christmas itself was the oh-quite-informal reception Mrs. Budlong gave to mitigate the ineffable stupidity of Christmas afternoon: that dolorous period when one meditates the ancient platitude that anticipation is better than realization; and suddenly understands why it is blesseder to give than to receive: because one does not have to wear what one gives away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn Christmas Mrs. U. S. G. Budlong took all the gifts she had gleaned, and piled them on and around the baby grand piano in the back parlor. There was a piano lamp there, one of those illuminated umbrellas—about as large and as useful as a date-palm tree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlong about that time in the afternoon when the Christmas dinner becomes a matter of hopeless remorse, Mrs. Budlong's neighbors were expected to drop in and view the loot under the lamp. It looked like hospitality, but it felt like hostility. She passed her neighbors under the yoke and gloated over her guests, while seeming to overgloat her gifts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut she got the gifts. There was no question of that. By hook or by crook she saw to it that the bazaar under the piano lamp always groaned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of the chief engines for keeping up the display was the display itself. Everybody who knew Mrs. Budlong—and not to know Mrs. Budlong was to argue oneself unknown—knew that he or she would be invited to this Christmas triumph. And being invited rather implied being represented in the tribute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHence ensued a curious rivalry in Carthage. People vied with each other in giving Mrs. Budlong presents; not that they loved Mrs. Budlong more, but that they loved comparisons less.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe rivalry had grown to ridiculous proportions. But of course Mrs. Budlong did not care how ridiculous it grew; for it could hardly have escaped her shrewd eyes how largely it advantaged her that people should give her presents in order to show other people that some people needn't think they could show off before other people without having other people show that they could show off, too, as well as other people could. The pyschology must be correct, for it is incoherent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Budlong herself was never known to break any of the commandments, but in her back parlor her neighbors made flitters of the one against coveting thy neighbor's and-so-forth and so-on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was when Mr. and Mrs. County Road Supervisor Detwiller were walking home from one of these occasions, that Mr. Detwiller was saying: \"Well, ain't Mizzes Budlong the niftiest little gift-getter that ever held up a train? How on earth did We happen to get stung?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I don't know, Roscoe. It's one of those things you can't get out of without getting out of town too. Here we've been and gone and skimped our own children to buy something that would show up good in Mrs. Budlong's back parlor,","brand":"Lost Leaf Publications","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47079611564272,"sku":"2940149014767","price":0.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940149014767_p0.jpg?v=1763710825","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940149014767","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}