Molly Brandeis's quick sympathy went out to
the little girl who was to lavish her mother-love on a
doll's head for a whole year. She saw the head, in ghastly
decapitation, staring stiffly out from the cushions of the
chill and funereal parlor sofa, and the small Minnie peering
in to feast her eyes upon its blond and waxen beauty.
"Here," she had said, "take this, and sew it on the head, so
Minnie'll have something she can hold, at least." And she
had wrapped a pink cambric, sawdust-stuffed body in with the
head.
It was a snowy and picturesque Christmas, and intensely
cold, with the hard, dry, cutting cold of Wisconsin. Near
the door the little store was freezing. Every time the door
opened it let in a blast. Near the big glowing stove it was
very hot.
The aisles were packed so that sometimes it was almost
impossible to wedge one's way through. The china plates,
stacked high, fairly melted away, as did the dolls piled on
the counters. Mrs. Brandeis imported her china and dolls,
and no store in Winnebago, not even Gerretson's big
department store, could touch them for value.
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