Christmas Stories
hurt me. It is not the way Mother-Mouse said: it does not pinch me or choke me. I wonder what kind of a trap it is—a queer man with springs for a body. Well, I am safe for a while, but I wonder if he will ever let me get out again. I want to go home.” And poor Squeaky cried himself to sleep.
In the morning he heard shouts of “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” and it seemed as though the big tree trembled in all its branches, as the toys were taken down, one by one. Then such a noise was heard—drums beating, horns tooting, children shouting:
“Just see our new doll’s house!”
“Oh, see my new train, how fast it goes over these tracks!”
“Just see this beautiful dolly! She can open and shut her eyes, and she says
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