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Updated: June 16, 2025
For this helpless old man and fair, frail child, whose wit and courage were equal to situations of which she had the right of childhood to be ignorant, the scene just witnessed had the familiarity of frequent repetition, but for him it was horribly new, and if the Damanarkist of whom Carmencita so often spoke should come in he would be glad to shake his hand. A noise at the door made him start.
The Damanarkist says there is a lot of rot in them, a lot of meanness and cheatingness, and nasty people who don't want other people to do well or to get in their way; but there's bound to be more niceness than nastiness, or the world couldn't go on. It couldn't without a lot of love. It takes a lot of love to stand life. I read that in a book.
The only pleasure she gets out of her presents is making fun of them and snapping at the people who send them. She's an awful snapper. The Damanarkist sent these cigars. They smell good. He don't believe in Christmas, but he sent Father and me both a present. I hope he'll like the picture-frame I made for his mother's picture. His mother's dead, but he believed in her.
If I'd prayed differently yesterday I wouldn't have been looking for for somebody all to-day, and be a jumping-jack to-night for fear I won't find him. Did did you ever have a sweetheart, Mr. Damanarkist?" Before answer could be made Mother McNeil's house was reached, and with steps that were leaps Carmencita was at the door, and a moment later inside.
It was pretty near a miracle that I asked for, though I said I wasn't asking for miracles or " "All people who pray ask for miracles. Since the days when men feared floods and famines and pestilence and evil spirits they have cried out for protection and propitiated what to them were gods." The Damanarkist spit upon the ground as if to spew contempt of pretense and cupidity.
I used to think it took a lot of sense to write a book, but the Damanarkist says it don't, and that anybody who is fool enough to waste time could write the truck people read nowadays. He don't read it, but I do, all I can get I like it." "I've never tried to write." Van Landing again glanced at the clock. Noodles was staying an interminably long time.
Heads ducked to keep out of their faces the fast-falling flakes, they trudged along in silence until within a few doors of Mother McNeil's house, and then Carmencita looked up. "Do do you ever pray, Mr. Leimberg pray hard, I mean?" "Pray!" The Damanarkist drew in his breath and laughed with smothered scorn. "Pray! Why should I pray? I cut out prayer when I was a kid. No, I don't pray."
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