Betty Bonnet Finale December 1915

Welcome to the final episode of the Betty Bonnet serial story. During the past year, we have released one chapter on the Sheep Among Wolves blog each month, following the adventures of the Bonnet family, who were first created by Sheila Young as a paper doll series released in the Ladies’ Home Journal beginning 1915. To go to the first episode, click here.

I.

It was Christmas Eve.

Not the part of Christmas Eve where everything is hushed and candle-lit, vibrating with the peal of church bells and swelling with the voice of sacred carols.

Not the part of Christmas Eve where children turn in restless bliss upon downy pillows, too eager for morning to submit to sleep away the night.

Not, in short, the part of Christmas Eve that poets write of, and painters glorify, and Christmas card manufacturers depend upon for the staple content of their livelihood.

It wasn’t that half of Christmas Eve.

On the contrary, it was a quarter past nine, on Christmas Eve morning.

The cook was beginning to notice that the turkey ought to have arrived from the poulterers—and hadn’t. Mrs. Bonnet was beginning to wonder whether it had been a mistake to invite twenty-six people to a dining room that conveniently held twelve.

And upstairs, in her own little bedroom with the picture of the Good Shepherd, Betty was beginning to wrap her Christmas dolls.

II.

“You might help me, you know,” said Betty.

This was certainly true—but the word “might” is a very non-committal one.

I pointed this out to Betty.

“You ought to help me,” suggested Betty, hopefully.

This was possibly true—but the word “ought” carries an implication of authority which is sometimes very difficult to establish.

I pointed this out to Betty, as well.

“I wish you would help me,” pleaded Betty, with wistful eyes.

I gave in, and helped.

III.

You fancy that you have seen a good many dolls in your time. I dare say you have.

It was my own opinion that I had, long before I knew Betty Bonnet at all.

But it still remains my firm conviction that no one has truly seen what a veritable mountain of dolls may be, who was not in Betty Bonnet’s bedroom, on the morning before Christmas, assisting in the massive task of tying them up in red, white, and green tissue paper, and marking each one with the name of their future owner.

“You have got—rather a lot—of dolls,” I remarked, a little distractedly, as I rolled up a gorgeously-bedecked lady of nine inches, fastening her at head and feet with a crimson ribbon, so that the whole bore the semblance of a gigantic cracker, just ready to be pulled.

“I have got rather a lot of friends,” Betty informed me seriously. “Take care, Miss Burton—you’ve got the little one upside down!”

I glanced down at the miniature baby nestled in my palm, and perceived that what I had been shaking out as ruffled skirts was actually the brim of a much-flounced cap. I hastily rectified the mistake.

“This one isn’t—for your mother?” I inquired, doubtfully, consulting Betty’s hieroglyphic list.

“She likes babies,” protested Betty, a little defiantly.

It was no good arguing the point now. After all, the dolls were already purchased. And Betty, in the plenitude of her bounty, had secured them in addition to her usual Christmas offerings. Everyone had a present from Betty, already wrapped and waiting in the drawing room for Christmas morning. The dolls were simply a gratuitous token of love.

IV.

Sometime after luncheon, Betty and I finished our task.

We met Bob, on the stairs, on our way down with our arms full of multi-sized bundles.

“Crikey!” exclaimed Bob. “Are those all—”

“Hush!” I interrupted hastily. “And what if they are?”

“Nothing,” said Bob, meekly, but his eyes crinkled up suspiciously, and something choked rather suffocatingly in the bottom of his throat, so that he had to turn hastily into his own room, with his handkerchief pressed to his mouth.

“I wonder what’s the matter with Bob,” said Betty, looking after him thoughtfully.

A chortled gasp from the other side of the door was her only reply.

At the foot of the stairs we met Mr. Bonnet. He was just coming in with a bundle of holly in his arms, but his face looked grave—not the sort of grave that comes from the mere trifle of having a profusion of prickly green leaves trailing over your sleeves and working their way uncomfortably into the gap between your cuffs and your gloves, but really grave. The kind of grave that means something serious has happened.

V.

“Betty,” he said, without even seeming to see the mountain of slightly-disguised dolls beneath which both of us staggered. “What was the name of that shopkeeper you and Billy were so eager about, last winter?”

“Mr. Anderson?” said Betty, looking up and becoming suddenly concerned. “Mr. Anderson! Oh, Miss Burton! Papa! I forgot!” Betty’s distress was as real and heartfelt as if only the kindest sentiments had ever existed between them. “I forgot all about poor Mr. Anderson! I never remembered to buy him a Christmas present!!!”

“At this particular moment, I do not expect that the omission is at the forefront of his mind,” said Mr. Bonnet. “In fact, he has something more serious to think of.”

Betty blinked.

“Nothing very serious?” I interposed tentatively.

“It appears the construction of his new storefront was more elaborate than sound,” said Mr. Bonnet. “It collapsed, last night, in the face of that eastern storm—no, there was no loss of life, only considerable damage of merchandise. The entire doll counter—”

Mr. Bonnet stopped abruptly, recollecting, a little too late, the light in which these casualties would be likely to appear to Betty.

VI.

“The doll counter, Papa?” cried Betty, in horror, very nearly dropping the vast load of similar property with which she herself was weighed down. “The doll counter, Papa! Oh, were any of them hurt?”

From the expression on Mr. Bonnet’s face, anyone older than Betty would have already concluded that the destruction had been complete.

“I am afraid, my dear—it was a very bad storm, and the counter is directly behind the new window—”

“Oh, oh! Papa! They aren’t there—all broken—in the cold and the snow?” wailed Betty, dismally.

“No, no, darling,” said Mr. Bonnet, glad of something he could controvert. “They aren’t there now. All that’s been—taken away—and the store front boarded up. He thinks he can keep open, in spite of the losses. Christmas Eve, with the last great toy rush, and all that, though I can’t imagine how he’s to turn any profit, with half his stock carried off in this fashion.”

Whether or not Betty quite comprehended the fate that had actually attended the dolls which had been in Mr. Anderson’s shop the night before, it is certain that she grasped the result quite as thoroughly as any adult could have done.

“Papa!” she exclaimed suddenly. “He hasn’t got any dolls to sell for Christmas!”

VII.

“I am afraid not, Betty,” agreed her father, reluctantly.

“But people ‘most always want dolls, for Christmas presents,” persisted Betty, in shocked dismay.

“I—believe they do, often, my dear,” said Mr. Bonnet, glancing involuntarily at the load still balanced in Betty’s arms.

Betty glanced too.

A sudden dreamy, wistful look drifted across Betty’s eyes. She drew a long breath. Then she put her small, rosy face very close to the tissue-wrapped bundles.

“Would you like to?” she whispered, apparently to the dolls inside. “Are you quite sure? I thought you’d be. It isn’t very far, and you’re wrapped up well, from the cold. It won’t be quite so nice as belonging to my own people, for always, you know. But there are lots of other little children, who mayn’t get any Christmas dolls at all, if you don’t go. And Mamma and everybody will understand. Truly they will. Yes, I believe you’re right, darlings. It will be the best thing to do. And you know,” Betty’s voice dropped to the lowest of murmurs, “you know Who it was came, a little baby like you, to be our Present, the very first Christmas night.”

Betty looked up, with the joy of the ages shining in her deep brown eyes.

“Papa,” she said, holding out her tissue mountain with a gesture that almost threatened to upset the whole, “these are for Mr. Anderson. They’re Christmas dolls.”

VIII.

It was a strange thing. A very strange thing. But then, it was Christmas—and strange miracles of love do nestle, sometimes, in hearts that are alive to the Christ Child’s call.

For Betty’s dolls, unrolled from their festive wrappings, proved just exactly the right number to fill up Mr. Anderson’s hastily-erected makeshift shelves.

And Mr. Anderson, when he came around to the Bonnet’s house on Christmas morning, told Betty that before he had closed his shop the night before, every one of Betty’s Christmas dolls had found a home.

He did not add to her, as he did to the grown ups, later on, that the profit he turned in the process had just saved his business from going down in the wreck of the new storefront, too.

Betty would have been glad for him, had she known. But it would not have interested her half so much as the fate of the dolls themselves.

For as Betty observed—and as I suppose really is the truth—it isn’t the buying, or the selling, or even the giving, that makes Christmas the happiest day of all. It is simply the loving.

Which may be the reason that Betty, and her kindred, have always been so very fond of dolls.

THE END.

Thank you for joining us for all of Betty’s adventures. Stay tuned for more information about SAW Publishing releases coming up in the new year. We have some exciting stories lined up for 2024! In the meantime, if you missed last month’s episode of Betty Bonnet, you can click through to it right below:

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