SR • December 2015
9
The badger dozed in his easy chair while a
knot of lightwood blazed in the fireplace. Great
flurries of snow swept across the countryside.
Every once in a while, when an icy current
whistled around the windowpanes, he rousted
from his slumber and peeped through the
window at the snow. Sometimes he would hear
the jingle of harness bells and snatches of
merry laughter as travelers shushed along in
pony carts.
Bah, Christmas Eve. Everybody hurrying
hither and yon, over hill and dale, off to one
party or another. Thinking of merry-making,
and nog-guzzling, and hall-decking gave the
old badger a stomachache. No sir, he would
never be caught at a Christmas Eve party, with
all of the noise and fuss, for he was Emmanuel
Grimsley, the grumpiest badger in the entire
countryside. He had a reputation to uphold.
Just as Mister Grimsley had closed his peepers
for a snooze, there came a sharp knock at the
door. Good Heavens above, who would come
knocking at this time of night? Feeling very
put out, he hauled himself up and muttered all
the way to the door. Whoever it was had to be
the brazenest creature imaginable to come
unannounced, a-ratta-tat-tattering upon his
door like some kind of crazy woodpecker.
The knock came again.
“Alright, alright,” muttered the badger.
As soon as he turned the knob, a wintry blast
flung the door wide open. There on the porch
stood a chipmunk grinning up at him.
“Merry Christmas, Mister Grimsley,” said the
chipmunk. His little wool jacket and cap were
dusted with snow and tiny icicles danced on
the ends of his whiskers while he braced
against the wind.
“What is it this time, Spunkmeyer,” grumbled
the badger. “Alms for the penniless again?”
The chipmunk removed his cap reverently and
explained, “Well Mister Grimsley, Sir, we’re on
our way home after cutting down a Christmas
tree and we got caught in the blizzard.”
Mister Grimsley glowered down at the little
creature and wanted very much to tell him
what a cotton-brained idea it had been to go
out on a night like this, but he just grunted in
an impatient sort of way instead.
The diffident little chap wished he could hide
from the badger’s imposing eyebrows, the way
they scrunched into a prickly frown. He began
to fidget with his cap and ventured in a quaver-
ing voice, “We were hoping to come in from the
cold until it lets up out here. The wife and kids
have just about frozen into popsicles, Mister
Grimsley, and — after all, it’s Christmas Eve.”
The badger looked from Spunkmeyer to the
chipmunk family shivering in the pony cart.
Then he heaved a great sigh of resignation and
said, “Well don’t just stand there lolly-gagging,
Spunkmeyer, stable the pony in the barn.
There’s food in the pantry and cider in the
keg.”
It wasn’t long before the Spunkmeyers settled
in. Amelia Spunkmeyer staggered under a
load of goodies from the pantry. Horace and
Quagmire, the two chipmunk scamps, occupied
themselves with a puzzle on the floor. And
Mister Grimsley sat with Spunkmeyer by the
fire, enduring stories about his work at the
Mapleton Creamery. Before long they were
interrupted by another knock at the door.
“I’ll get it!” shouted Spunkmeyer as he scam-
pered across the room. He stretched up and
turned the knob and a great gust blew open the
door.
“Well bless me!” exclaimed a jolly voice. “If it
isn’t Hezekiah Spunkmeyer!” A jovial mole
named Henry Buttercup grinned broadly on
the stoop. Beside him stood his wife Alice who
was trying very hard to keep her wig from fly-
ing away in the wind.
Mister Grimsley could see who it was from
across the room and before he could object,
Hezekiah had invited the Buttercups to stay.
It’s Christmas Whether You Like it or Not
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