her to help him mend the leg of his clay frog, and it’s his own Christmas present to her!"
The children could not for the life of them play birds, or butterflies, or carpenter, or scissors-grinder, for they wanted to shout the livelong day—
"Christmas bells are ringing sweet,
We too the happy day must greet;"
or—
"Under the holly, now,
Sing and be jolly, now,
Christmas has come and the children are glad;"
or—
"Hurrah for Santa Claus!
Long may he live at his castle in Somewhere-land!"
There was much whispering and discussion about evergreens and garlands and wreaths that were soon to come, and much serious planning with regard to something to be made for mother, father, sister, brother, and the baby; something, too, now and then, for a grandpapa in Sweden, a grandmamma in Scotland, a Norwegian uncle, an Irish aunt, and an Italian cousin; but there was never by chance any cogitation as to what the little workers themselves might get. In the happier homes among them, there was doubtless the usual legiti-
