"Perhaps you'd rather have me tell you a story instead of reading it," said I.
"What's to tell a story?" he asked, fixing his blue eyes gravely upon mine.
"Great Scott, kiddie!" said I, "didn't anybody ever tell you a story?"
"No, sir," he replied sleepily; "I get read to every afternoon by my governess, but nobody ever told me a story."
"Well, just you listen to this," said I, giving him a hearty squeeze. "Once upon a time there was a little boy," I began, "and he lived in a beautiful house not far from the Park, and his daddy—"
"What's a daddy?" asked the child, looking up into my face.
"Why, a daddy is a little boy's father," I explained. "You've got a daddy—"
"Oh, yes," he said. "If a daddy is a father, I've got one. I saw him yesterday," he added.
"Oh, did you?" said I. "And what did he say to you?"
"He said he was glad to see me and hoped I was a good boy," said the child. "He seemed very glad when I told him I hoped so, too, and he gave me all these things here—he and my mother."
"That was very nice of them," said I huskily.
"And they're both coming up some time to-day or to-morrow to see if I like them," said the lad.
"And what are you going to say?" I asked, with difficulty getting the words out over a most unaccountable lump that had arisen in my throat.
"I'm going to tell them," he began, as his eyes closed sleepily, "that I like them all very, very much."
"And which one of them all do you like the best?" said I.
He snuggled up closer in my arms, and, raising his little head a trifle higher, he kissed me on the tip end of my chin, and murmured softly as he dropped off to sleep,
"You!"
III
"Good night," said my spectral visitor as she left me, once more bending over my desk, whither I had been re-transported without my knowledge, for I must have fallen asleep, too, with that little boy in my arms. "You have done a good night's work."
"Have I?" said I, rubbing my eyes to see if I were really awake. "But tell me—who was that little kiddie anyhow?"
"He?" she answered with a smile. "Why, he is the Child Who Has Everything But—"
And then she vanished from my sight.
"Everything but what?" I cried, starting up and peering into the darkness into which she had disappeared.
But there was no response, and I was left alone to guess the answer to my question.
A Holiday Wish
When Santa Claus doth visit me
With richly laden pack of toys,
And tumbles down my chim-i-ney
To scatter 'round his Christmas joys,
I trust that he will bring the kind
That can be shared, for it is true
Past peradventure to my mind
That joy is sweeter shared by two.
I never cared for solitaire.
I do not pine for lonely things.
I love the pleasure I can share
Because of all the fun it brings.
A selfish pleasure loses zest
With none to share it with you by,
And shrinks the longer 'tis possest,
While joys divided multiply.
Santa Clause and Little Billee
I
He was only a little bit of a chap, and so, when for the first time in his life he came into close contact with the endless current of human things, it was as hard for him to "stay put" as for some wayward little atom of flotsam and jetsam to keep from tossing about in the surging tides of the sea.
His mother had left him there in the big toy-shop, with instructions not to move until she came back, while she went off to do some mysterious errand. She thought, no doubt, that with so many beautiful things on every side to delight his eye and hold his attention, strict obedience to her commands would not be hard. But, alas, the good lady reckoned not upon the magnetic power of attraction of all those lovely objects in detail. She saw them only as a mass of wonders which, in all probability, would so dazzle his vision as to leave him incapable of movement; but Little Billee was not so indifferent as all that.
When a phonograph at the other end of the shop began to rattle off melodious tunes and funny jokes, in spite of the instructions he had received, off he pattered as fast as his little legs would carry him to investigate. After that, forgetful of everything else, finding himself caught in the constantly moving stream of Christmas shoppers, he was borne along in the resistless current until he found himself at last out upon the street—alone, free, and independent.
It was great fun, at first. By and by, however, the afternoon waned; the sun, as if anxious to hurry along the dawn of Christmas Day, sank early to bed; and the electric lights along the darkening highway began to pop out here and there, like so many merry stars come down to earth to celebrate the gladdest time of all the year. Little Billee began to grow tired; and then he thought of his mama, and tried to find the shop where he had promised to remain quiet until her return. Up and down the street he wandered until his little legs grew weary; but there was no sign of the shop, nor of the beloved face he was seeking.
Once again, and yet once again after that, did the little fellow traverse that crowded highway, his tears getting harder and harder to keep back, and then—joy of joys—whom should he see walking slowly along the sidewalk but Santa Claus himself! The saint was strangely decorated with two queer-looking boards, with big red letters on them, hung over his back and chest; but there was still that same kindly, gray-bearded face, the red cloak with the fur trimmings, and the same dear old cap that the children's friend had always worn in the pictures of him that Little Billee had seen.
He thought it very strange that Santa Claus's hand should be so red and cold and rough. With a glad cry of happiness, Little Billee ran to meet the old fellow, and put his hand gently into that of the saint. He thought it very strange that Santa Claus's hand should be so red and cold and rough, and so chapped; but he was not in any mood to be critical. He had been face to face with a very disagreeable situation. Then, when things had seemed blackest to him, everything had come right again; and he was too glad to take more than passing notice of anything strange and odd.
Santa Claus, of course, would recognize him at once, and would know just how to take him back to his mama at home—wherever that might be. Little Billee had never thought to inquire just where home was. All he knew was that it was a big gray stone house on a long street somewhere, with a tall iron railing in front of it, not far from the park.
"Howdidoo, Mr. Santa Claus?" said Little Billee, as the other's hand unconsciously tightened over his own.
"Why, howdidoo, kiddie?" replied the old fellow, glancing down at his new-found