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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
78
Hoodoo
McFiggin
is
a
good
boy--a
religious
boy.
He
had
been
given
to
understand
that
Santa
Claus
would
bring
nothing
to
his
father
and
mother
because
grown-up
people
don't
get
presents
from
the
angels.
So
he
saved
up
all
his
pocket-money
and
bought
a
box
of
cigars
for
his
father
and
a
seventy-five-cent
diamond
brooch
for
his
mother.
His
own
fortunes
he
left
in
the
hands
of
the
angels.
But
he
prayed.
He
prayed
every
night
for
weeks
that
Santa
Claus
would
bring
him
a
pair
of
skates
and
a
puppy-dog
and
an
air-gun
and
a
bicycle
and
a
Noah's
ark
and
a
sleigh
and
a
drum--altogether
about
a
hundred
and
fifty
dollars'
worth
of
stuff.
I
went
into
Hoodoo's
room
quite
early
Christmas
morning.
I
had
an
idea
that
the
scene
would
be
interesting.
I
woke
him
up
and
he
sat
up
in
bed,
his
eyes
glistening
with
radiant
expectation,
and
began
hauling
things
out
of
his
stocking.
The
first
parcel
was
bulky;
it
was
done
up
quite
loosely
and
had
an
odd
look
generally.
"Ha!
ha!"
Hoodoo
cried
gleefully,
as
he
began
undoing
it.
"I'll
bet
it's
the
puppy-dog,
all
wrapped
up
in
paper!"
And
was
it
the
puppy-dog?
No,
by
no
means.
It
was
a
pair
of
nice,
strong,
number-four
boots,
laces
and
all,
labelled,
"Hoodoo,
from
Santa
Claus,"
and
underneath
Santa
Claus
had
written,
"95
net."
The
boy's
jaw
fell
with
delight.
"It's
boots,"
he
said,
and
plunged
in
his
hand
again.
He
began
hauling
away
at
another
parcel
with
renewed
hope
on
his
face.
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