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Updated: May 6, 2025
So we six filed into the dining room to serve whomever Calliope had found "to do for." I wonder that I had not guessed before. There stood Calliope at the foot of the table, with its lighted candles and its Cloth-o'-Gold rose, and the other six chairs were quite vacant. "Sit down!" Calliope cried to us, with tears and laughter in her voice. "Sit down, all six of you. Don't you see?
I could guess how the pleasant bustle in my kitchen would hurt them by its holiday air, and I carried them off to see my Cloth-o'-Gold rose which had opened in the night, to the very crimson heart of it. And I told them of the seven guests whom, after all, Calliope had actually contrived to marshal to her dinner.
And I found myself hurrying to look over certain long-disused linen and silver, and to see whether my Cloth-o'-Gold rose might be counted on to bloom by Thursday noon. "We'll set the table for seven folks," said Calliope, at my house on Thanksgiving morning. "Seven!" I echoed. "But where in the world did you ever find seven, Calliope?" "I found 'em," she answered.
My prettiest dishes and silver, the Cloth-o'-Gold rose, and my yellow-shaded candles made little auxiliary welcomes. Whoever Calliope's guests were, we would do them honour and give them the best we had. And in the midst of all came from the City the box with my gift of hothouse fruit and a rosebud for every plate. "Calliope!"
I've bought him," she explained, briefly. "You set him down and feed him with these crumbs he ain't human if he don't like cloth-o'-gold cake." But the child in the doorway, after gently releasing the great fellow, drew away quietly. The second look at her face convinced Aunt Olivia that the cure would never work. "You feed him, please, Aunt Olivia," Rebecca Mary said; "I couldn't.
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