Little Billee's mama read this to him that Christmas morning, a stray little tear ran down her cheek and fell upon Little Billee's hand.
"Why, what are you crying for, mama?" he asked.
"With happiness, my dear little son," his mother answered. "I was afraid yesterday that I might have lost my little boy forever, but now—"
"You have an extra one thrown in for Christmas, haven't you?" said Little Billee, taking his new playmate by the hand. The visitor smiled back at him with a smile so sweet that anybody might have guessed that he was the son of Santa Claus.
As for the latter, Little Billee has not seen him again; but down at his father's bank there is a new messenger, named John, who has a voice so like Santa Claus's voice that whenever Little Billee goes down there in the motor to ride home at night with his papa, he runs into the bank and has a long talk with him, just for the pleasure of pretending that it is Santa Claus he is talking to. Indeed, the voice is so like that once a sudden and strange idea flashed across Little Billee's mind.
"Have you ever been on Twenty-Third Street, John?" he asked.
"Twenty-Third Street?" replied the messenger, scratching his head as if very much puzzled. "What's that?"
"Why, it's a street," said Little Billee rather vaguely.
"Well, to tell you the truth, Billee," said John, "I've heard tell of Twenty-Third Street, and they say it is a very beautiful and interesting spot. But, you know, I don't get much chance to travel. I've been too busy all my life to go abroad."
"Abroad!" roared Little Billee, grinning at John's utterly absurd mistake. "Why, Twenty-Third Street ain't abroad! It's up-town—near—oh, near—Twenty-Second Street."
"Really?" returned John, evidently tremendously surprised. "Well, well, well! Who'd have thought that? Well, if that's the case, some time when I get a week off I'll have to go and spend my vacation there!"
From which Little Billee concluded that his suspicion that John might be Santa Claus in disguise was entirely without foundation in fact.
Christmas Eve
Slyly twinkling in the skies,
Peeping from the Heaven's blue,
Are a million starry eyes
Smiling, Sweetheart, down on you;
Peeping through the misty gauze
From their little homes above
While we wait for Santa Claus
With his gifts of Cheer and Love.
Hush-a-by, my Baby O!
Santa Claus is on the way,
And his sledges overflow
With the sweets of Christmas Day.
Lull-a-by!
Hush-a-by, my Baby O.
Santa Claus is coming by
With his pack of pretty toys.
Fast his speedy rein-deer fly
With their load of Christmas joys.
Now they flit across the moon,
Now they flicker o'er the gold—
We shall hear their patter soon
On the roof-tops crisp and cold.
Hush-a-by, my Baby O!
Soon will sound the merry horn
That will usher in the glow
Of the golden Christmas morn.
Lull-a-by!
Hush-a-by, my Baby O.
Meet him half-way, Baby dear—
Join the jolly pranksome band
Of the Elf-men with their cheer
Waiting there in Slumberland.
Santa Claus must come along
Through the dreamy vales of Sleep.
There with all the Fairy throng
Let us too our vigil keep.
Hush-a-by, my Baby O.
Haste to Slumberland away,
Where the Fairy children go
On the Eve of Christmas Day.
Lull-a-by!
Hush-a-by, my Baby O.
The House of the Seven Santas
For once the weather bureau had scored a good, clean hit. The bull's-eye was pierced squarely in the middle, and the promised blizzard falling upon the city at noon held the metropolis completely in its grip. Everything in the line of public transportation in and out of the town was tied up so tightly that it did not seem possible that it would ever be unraveled again. The snow was piling waist high upon the streets, and the cutting winds played their fantastic pranks with a chill and cruel persistence.
It was with great difficulty that Dobbleigh made his way into the Grand Central Railway Station. Like other suburban commuters at Christmas time, he was heavily laden with bundles of one kind and another. He fairly oozed packages. They stuck out of the pockets of his heavy ulster. A half dozen fastened together with a heavy cord he carried in his right hand, and some were slung about his shoulders, and held there by means of a leathern strap. The real truth was that Dobbleigh had been either too busy, or had forgotten the wise resolutions of the autumn, and had failed to do his Christmas shopping early, with the result that now, on Christmas Eve, he was returning to the little Dobbleighs with a veritable Santa Claus' pack, whose contents were designed to delight their eyes in the early hours of the coming morning.
It was with a great sense of relief that he entered the vast waiting room of the station, and shook the accumulated snow from his coat, and removed the infant icicles from his eyes, but his joy was short-lived. Making his way to the door, he paused to wish the venerable doorman a Merry Christmas.
"Fierce night, Hawkins," he said, as he readjusted his packages. "I shall be glad enough to get home."
The old man shook his head dubiously.
"I'm afraid you won't enjoy that luxury to-night, Mr. Dobbleigh," he said. "We haven't been able to get a train out of here since one o'clock, and the way things look now there won't be any business at this
