Part 19 (1/2)

”Yes, I guess you will stick tight--in the chimney, my little man.”

”I mean to your back,” half sobbed Rob.

Santa Claus can't bear to see little folks in trouble, so he took the boy into his arms, and asked where he wanted to go.

”To Tommy Turner's, and, oh, you know, that boy in the awful old jacket that likes popguns,” was the breathless reply.

Of course he knew him, for he knows every boy and girl in Christendom; so a popgun was added to the medley of toys. Santa Claus then strapped Rob and the basket on his back. He next crept through an open window to a ladder he had placed there, down which he ran as nimbly as a squirrel. The reindeer before the sledge were in a hurry to be off, and tinkled their silver bells right merrily. An instant more and they were snugly tucked up in the white robes; an instant more and they were flying like the wind over the snow.

Ah! Tommy's home. Santa Claus sprang out, placed the light ladder against the house, and before Rob could wink a good fair wink they were on the roof, making for the chimney. Whether it swallowed him, or he swallowed it, is still a puzzle to Robby.

Tommy lay sleeping in his little bed and dreaming of a merry Christmas. His rosy mouth was puckered into something between a whistle and a smile. Rob longed to give him a friendly punch, but Santa Claus shook his head. They filled his stocking and hurried away, for empty little stockings the world over were waiting for that generous hand.

On they sped again, never stopping until they came to a wretched little hovel. A black pipe instead of a chimney was sticking through the roof.

Rob thought, ”Now I guess he'll have to give it up.” But no, he softly pushed the door open and stepped in.

On a ragged cot lay the urchin to whom Robby had given the cookies.

One of them, half eaten, was still clutched in his hand. Santa Claus gently opened the other little fist and put the popgun into it.

”Give him my drum,” whispered Rob, and Santa Claus, without a word, placed it near the rumpled head.

How swiftly they flew under the bright stars! How sweetly rang the bells!

When Santa Claus reined up at Robby's door he found his little comrade fast asleep. He laid him tenderly in his crib, and drew off a stocking, which he filled with the smaller toys. The rocking-horse he placed close to the crib, that Rob might mount him on Christmas morning.

A kiss, and he was gone.

P.S.--Rob's mother says it was all a dream, but he declares that ”It's true as Fourth of July!” I prefer to take his word for it.

A CHILD'S THOUGHTS ABOUT SANTA CLAUS

What do you think my grandmother said, Telling Christmas stories to me To-night, when I went and coaxed and coaxed With my head and arms upon her knee?

She thinks--she really told me so-- That good Mr. Santa Claus, long ago, Was as old and grey as he is to-day, Going around with his loaded sleigh.

She thinks he's driven through frost and snow For a hundred, yes, a thousand times or so, With jingling bells and a bag of toys-- Ho, ho! for good girls and boys, With a carol gay, Crying, ”Clear the way, For a rollicking, merry Christmas day!”

Grandmother knows almost everything-- All that I ask her she can tell; Rivers and towns in geography, And the hardest words she can always spell.

But the wisest ones, sometimes, they say, Mistake--and even grandmother may.

If Santa Claus never had been a boy How would he always know so well What all the boys are longing for On Christmas day? Can grandmother tell?

Why does he take the s.h.i.+ny rings, The baby houses, the dolls with curls, The little lockets and other such things Never to boys, but always to girls?

Why does he take the skates and all The bats and b.a.l.l.s, and arrows and bows, And trumpets and drums, and guns--hurrah!