The Washington herald., 1920-10-31
First Installneaf,

First Iastallnent.
THERE are no more Christmas
stories to write. Fiction is ex-
hauated; and newspaper items, the
EeNt best, are Manufactured by
clever young journalists who have
married early and have an engag-
lngly- pessimistic view of life
therefore, for seasonable diversion,
We are reduced to two very ques-
tionable sources-facts and philoso-
phy. We viii begin with-which-
ever you choose to scall II.
Children are pestilential little
animals with which we have to
cope under a bewildering variety
of conditions. Especially when
childish sorrows overwhelm' them
are we put to our wits end. We
exhaust our paltry store of conso-
lation; and then beat them, sob
bing, to sleep. Then we grovel in
the dust OF a million years, and
ask God why. Thus we call out of
the rat-trap. As for the children,
no one understands them except
old maids, hunchbacks, and shep-
herd dogs.
Now come the facts in the case
of Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion,
and the twenty-fifth of December.
On the tenth of that month the
Child of the Millionaire lost her
rag-doll. There were many SER
wants in the Millionaire's palace on
the Hudson, and these ransacked
the house and grounds, but with
out finding the lost treasure. The
child was a girl of 5, and one of
those perverse little beasts that
often would tht sensibilities Of
wealthy parents by fixing their af-
fections upon some vulgar, mex
pensiye toy instead of upon dia-
mond-studded automobiles and
pony phaetons.
The child grieyed sorely and
truly, a thing inexplicable to the
millionaire, to whom the rag-doll
market was about as interesting as
Bay State Gas; and to the lady, the
child's mother, who was all form
that is, nearly all, as you shall see.
Tho child cried inconsolably, and
grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed,
spindling, and corykilverty in
many other respects. The million
aire smiled and tapped his Golfers
confidently. The pick of the out
put of the French and German toy
makers was rushed by special de-
livery to the mansion; but Rachel
refused to be comforted. She was
weeping for her rag child, and was
for a high protective tarif against
all foreign foolishness. Then doc
tors with the finest bedside man
ners and stop-watches were called
in. One by one they chartered
futilely about peptomanganate Of
iron and sea voyages and hypo-
phosphites until their stop-watche.
showed that Bill Rendered was un-
der the wire for show or place.
Then, as men, they advised that
the rag-doll be found as soon as
possible and restored to its mourn
ing parent The child sniffed at
therapeutics, chewed a thumb, and
walled for her Betsy. And all this
time cablegrams were coming from
Santa Claus saying that he would
soon be here and enjoining us to
show a true Christian spirit and
let up on the poolreoms and ton
tine policies and platoon systems
long enough to give him a well
come. Everywhere the spirit of
Christmas was difusing itself. The
banks were refusing loans, the
pawnbrokers had doubled their
gang of helpers, people bumped
your shins on the streets with red
sfeds Thomas and jeremiah bub-
bled before you on the bars while
you waited on one foot, holly
wreaths OF hospitality were hung
in windows of the stores, they who
had EN- were getting out their
furs. You hardly knew which was
the best bet in balls-three. high,
moth. or snow. 1t was no time at
which to lose the rag-doll of your
heart.
If DR.. Watsons investigating
friend had been called in to solve
this mysterious he might have OBJ
served on the millionaire's wall
copy of The Vampire" That would
have quickly suggested, by induc-
of hair" Flip" a Scotch terrier,
heart, frisked through the halls.
The hank Of hair! Aha! X, the un-
found quantity, represented the
rag doll. But, the bone? Well,
when dogs find bones they Done!
it were an easy and a fruitful task
to examine Flip's forefeet. Look,
Watson! Earth-dried earth be-
tween the toes. OF course, the
dog-but Sherlock was not there.
Therefore it devolves. But topog
raphy and architecture must inter-
vene.
The milIionaire's palace occupied
a lordly space. In front of it was
a lawn close-mowed as a South
Ireland mans face two days after
a shave. At one side of 1t, and
fronting on another street was a
pleasaunce trimmed to a leaf. and
the garage and stables. The Scotch
pup had ravished the rag-doll from
the nursery, dragged 1t to a corner
of the lawn, dug a mole, and buried
it after the manner of careless un-
dertakers. There you have the
mystery solved, and no checks to
write for the hypodermical wizard
or fiy-pun notes to toss to the ser
geant. Then let's get down to the
heart of the thing, tiresome read
ers-the Christmas heart of the
thing.
Fuzzy was drunk-pot riotoysly
or helplessly or loqusciously, as
you or l might get, but decently,
appropriately, and inoffensively, as
becomes a gentleman down on his
luck.
Fuzzy was a soldier of mister
tune. The road, the haystask, the
park bench, the kitchen door. the
bitter round of eleemosynary beds
with-shower- bath Attachment, the
petty pickings and ignobly gar
nered largesse of great cities
these formed the chapters of his
history.
Fuzzy walked toward the river,
down the street that bounded one
SIDE of the miIlionaire's house and
grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy,
the Lost rag-dnll rrntrlhdInr- liz.