ABSTRACT
To begin with, Christmas packages are things of such excitement that they carry with them a peculiar aura of breathlessness, something akin to that tense moment as the curtain rises at the opening of a play, when the audience holds its collective breath and waits for the first burst of light upon the opening stage set. The characters, already placed upon the stage, stand motionless, and like puppets seem to await the first twitch of the invisible threads to give them life. Just so, these Christmas packages wait for the moment of exciting introduction to the world. For me the heap of carefully piled packages, each with its ribbon and bow, each with its sparkling wrapping, turn the base of a Christmas tree into a thing of sheer excitement. And for me those packages, more often than not, contained those still more exciting packages of pleasure which are books. I know of children in recent days who are so loved that their parents do real damage to them on Christmas by giving them too many packages to open, with a resulting confusion and frustration which is pitiable, despite its laughing excitement. My own days of Christmas were of a somewhat different sort.
