ry
table. And here, also, we crouched on dark and cloudy days when the
tins were in eclipse, and found a dreadful joy when the wind scratched
upon the roof.

In the basement, also, there was a central hall that disappeared
forever under an accumulation of porch chairs and lumber. Here was no
light except what came around two turns from the laundry. Even Annie
the cook, a bold venturesome person, had never quite penetrated to a
full discovery of this hallway. A proper approach into the darkness
was on hands and knees, and yet there were barrels and boxes to
overcome. Therefore, as we were bred to these broader discoveries, a
mere chimney in the sitting-room, which arose safely from the fenders,
was but a mild and pleasant tunnel to the roof.

And if a child believes in Santa Claus and chimneys, and that his
presents are stored in a glittering kingdom across the wintry hills,
he will miss the finer pleasure of knowing that they are hidden
somewhere in his own house. For myself, I would not willingly forego
certain dizzy ascents to the topmost shelves of the storeroom, where,
with my head close under the ceiling and my foot braced against the
wall, I have examined suspicious packages that came into the house by
stealth. As likely as not, at the ringing of the door-bell, we had
been whisked into a back room. Presently there was a foot sounding on
the stairs and across the ceiling. Then we were released. But
something had arrived.

Thereafter we found excitement in rummaging in unlikely places--a wary
lifting of summer garments laid away, for a peek beneath--a journey on
one's stomach under the spare-room bed--a pilgrimage around the cellar
with a flaring candle--furtive explorations of the storeroom. And when
we came to a door that was locked--Aha! Here was a puzzle and a
problem! We tried every key in the house, right side up and upside
down. Bluebeard's wife, poor creature,--if I read the tale
aright,--was merely seeking her Christmas presents around the house
before the proper day.

The children of a friend of mine, however, have been brought up to a
belief in Santa Claus, and on Christmas Eve they have the pretty
custom of filling their shoes with crackers and scraps of bread by way
of fodder for the reindeer. When the shoes are found empty in the
morning, but with crumbs about--as though the hungry reindeer spilled
them in their haste--it fixes the deception.

But if one must have a Christmas tree, I recommend t