ttle tyke!"

Something white creeps back and crawls into bed. A heart thumps
violently under the covers, and two big, round eyes stare up at the dark
ceiling. Somebody has eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and
the gates of Eden have shut behind him forever.

He does not sense that now; he is glad in the exulting consciousness
that he is "a little kid" no longer. Pretty soon he'll be a man, and
then.... and then.... Oh, what grand things are to happen then!

The mutual gifts are brought out with many a shamefaced: "It looks awful
little, but 't was the best I could do for the money. You see I spent
more on the children than I lotted to," and many a cheerful fib of:
"Why, that's exactly what I've been wishing for." Some poor fools, that
have never learned and never will learn that the truest word ever spoken
is: "It is more blessed to give than to receive," make their husbands a
present of a parlor lamp or a pair of lace curtains, and their wives
a present of a sack of flour, or enough muslin to make half a dozen
shirts. And there are deeper depths. There are such words as: "What
possessed you to buy me that old thing? Well, I won't have it! Now!" The
stove-door is slammed open and the gift crammed in upon the coals, and
two people sit there with lips puffed out, chests heaving and hearts
burning with hate.

It is the truth, but cover it up. Cover it up. Turn away the head. On
this Holy Night of Illusion let us forget the truth for once. There
are three hundred and sixty-four other nights in which to consider the
eternal verities. On this one, let us be as little children. "Let us now
go even to Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass."

The mystic hour draws nigh. The lights go out, one by one. The watchman
at the flax mills rings the bell, and they that are waking count the
strokes that tremble in the frosty air. Eleven o'clock. Father and
mother sit silent by the fire. The tree in the corner of the room
flashes its tinselry in the dying light. A cinder tinkles on the hearth.
Their thoughts are one. "He would be nine years old, if he had lived,"
murmurs the mother. Their hands grope for each other, meet and clasp.
Something aches in their throats. The red coals swell and blur into a
formless mass.

The mystic hour is come. The town sleeps. The moon rides high in the
clear heavens. The wind sighs in the fir trees. Faint and far-off across
the centuries sounds the chant of angels.

The hour i