position on the other side of the room, and initiated him into the mystery of miggles as well as I could, considering that all his marbles were real agates.
"You don't happen to have a china-alley anywhere, do you?" I asked.
"No, sir," he answered. "We only have china plates—"
"Never mind," I interrupted. "We can get along very nicely with these."
And then for half an hour, despite the rich quality of our paraphernalia, that little boy and I indulged in a glorious game of real plebeian miggs, and it was a joy to see how quickly his stiff little fingers relaxed and adapted themselves to the uses of his eye, which was as accurate as it was deeply blue. So expert did he become that in a short while he had completely cleaned me out, giving joyous little cries of delight with every hit, and then we turned our attention to the soldiers.
"I want some playing now," he said gleefully, as I informed him that he had beaten me out of my boots at one of my best games. "Show me what you were doing with those soldiers when I came in."
"All right," said I, obeying with alacrity. "First, we'll have a parade."
I started a great talking-machine standing in one corner of the room off on a spirited military march, and inside of ten minutes, with his assistance, I had all the troops out and to all intents and purposes bravely swinging by to the martial music of Sousa.
"How's that?" said I, when we had got the whole corps arranged to our satisfaction.
"Fine!" he cried, jumping up and down upon the floor and clapping his hands with glee. "I've got lots more of these stored away in my toy-closet," he went on, "but I never knew that you could do such things as this with them."
"But what did you think they were for?" I asked.
"Why—just to—to keep," he said hesitatingly.
"Wait a minute," said I, wheeling a couple of cannon off to a distance of a yard from the passing troops. "I'll show you something else you can do with them."
I loaded both cannon to the muzzle with dried pease, and showed him how to shoot.
"Now," said I, "fire!"
He snapped the spring, and the dried pease flew out like death-dealing shells in war. In a moment the platinum commander of the forces, and about thirty-seven solid silver warriors, lay flat on their backs. It needed only a little red ink on the carpet to reproduce in miniature a scene of great carnage, but I shall never forget the expression of mingled joy and regret on his countenance as those creatures went down.
"Don't you like it, son?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said, with an anxious glance at the prostrate warriors. "They aren't deaded, are they?"
"Of course not," said I, restoring the presumably defunct troopers to life by setting them up again. "The only thing that'll dead a soldier like these is to step on him. Try the other gun."
Thus reassured, he did as I bade him, and again the proud paraders went down, this time amid shouts of glee. And so we passed an all too fleeting two hours, that little boy and I. Through the whole list of his famous toys we went, and as well as I could I taught him the delicious uses of each and all of them, until finally he seemed to grow weary, and so, drawing up a big arm-chair before the fire and taking his tired little body into my lap, with his tousled head cuddled up close over the spot where my heart is alleged to be, I started to read a story to him out of one of the many beautiful books that had been provided for him by his generous parents. But I had not gone far when I saw that his attention was wandering.
"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
