e children
of a poor bookbinder, of the name of Lemmerhirt, who was a skilful,
industrious man, had long worked for him, and whose three children he
was well acquainted with.

The bookbinder, Lemmerhirt, lived in the top floor of a narrow house in
the Kalbecher-street; and as the winter storm howled and raged, and the
rain and snow fell with mingled violence, it may be easily imagined
that Peregrine did not get to his object without great difficulty. From
the window twinkled down a couple of miserable tapers; with no little
toil he clambered up the steep stairs, knocked at the door, and called
out, "Open! Open! Christmas sends his presents to all good children."

The bookbinder opened the door in alarm, and it was not till after some
consideration that he recognised Peregrine, who was quite covered with
snow.

"Worshipful Mr. Tyss!" he exclaimed, full of wonder--"How in the name
of Heaven do I come to such an honour on Christmas Eve?"

Worshipful Mr. Tyss, however, would not let him finish, but calling
out, "Children! Children! Alert! Christmas sends his presents"--he
took possession of the flap-table in the middle of the room, and
immediately began to pull out his presents from the basket; the great
Christmas-tree, indeed, which was dripping wet, he had been forced to
leave outside the door. Still the bookbinder could not comprehend what
it all meant; the wife, however, knew better, for she smiled at
Peregrine, with silent tears, while the children stood at a distance,
devouring with their eyes each gift as it came out of the cover, and
often unable to refrain from a loud cry of joy and wonder. At last he
had dexterously divided, and ordered the presents according to each
child's age, lighted all the tapers, and cried, "Come, come, children!
this is what Christmas sends you." They, who could yet hardly believe
that all belonged to them, now shouted aloud, and leaped, and rejoiced;
while their parents prepared to thank their benefactor. But it was
precisely this thanksgiving that Peregrine always sought to avoid, and
he therefore wished, as usual, to take himself off quietly. With this
view he had got to the door, when it suddenly opened, and in the bright
shine of the Christmas lights stood before him a young female,
splendidly attired.

It seldom turns out well, when an author undertakes to describe
narrowly to the reader the appearance of this or that beautiful
personage of his tale,--showing the shape, the gro