e, knitted
stocking cap further over his ears. He scampered along the petrified
lawns on the paper route until the last news sheet was delivered, then
blew lustily on his black mittens to warm his numbed fingers as he
started for home. There, under the cheerful influence of the glowing
parlor grate, he waited lazily until the last trace of tingling had left
his hands, and spread a copy of the evening paper out on the carpet
before him.

[Illustration: _Christmas dreams._]

First he looked at the cartoon on the front page, and then at the
grotesque drawings on the back sheet comic section. Those finished, he
returned to the first page, where an account of a ghastly train wreck
held him spellbound. Searching on an inner page for the rest of the
narrative, he came across a department store's advertisement which
banished all thoughts of mangled victims and splintered cars from his
mind.

"Beginning tomorrow, Santa Claus will be in his little house in our
greatly enlarged fifth-floor Toyland to greet each and all of his
friends. See the animated bunnies and the blacksmith shop in the Brownie
Village, and the wonderful display of toys of every description which
Santa has gathered for the delight of the children." There followed
enticing cuts of toys with even more alluring descriptions and, alas!
oftentimes prohibitive prices.

Thanks to the paper business, the holiday season had crept up almost
unnoticed. Santa was an exploded myth, these years, but the stereotyped
cut of the jovial, fat-cheeked saint at the top of the page brought John
a thrill of anticipation, nevertheless. Christmas was coming. What did
he want?

After supper, he rummaged in the library until he found his mother's box
of best stationery. He drew a few sheets and several envelopes from the
neat container, and sat down at his father's big writing desk to begin
his series of Christmas letters to certain responsive relatives. These
favored ones heard from him regularly four times a year--before his
birthday, before Christmas, and as soon after each of these feast days
as his mother could force letters of acknowledgment from him. John
dipped the pen too deeply into the inkwell, and wiped his finger tips
dry on his trousers. Then he began,

"Dear Aunt Clara: I hope you are well. The weather is fine but getting
cold. Christmas is coming so I thought I would write you. I want--"

He paused for reflection. Bill Silvey had been given a toy electric
motor,