thing of the pleasure of feeling a box go
rumbling down your inside, and fetching up water from the depths of the
earth.

"There go the Christmas bells! Many a time I've heard them before and
seen Santa Klaus hurrying along to visit every house in the court. He
never goes near them now, and no wonder, for he can't care to associate
with such low people. When he does come, he looks soberer, and not so
jolly as he used to; nor does he bring so many and such fine things. I
am in fact the only respectable thing in the neighborhood. But bless my
boxes! what a shock that was! somebody must have struck my handle;
served him right; he ought to turn out. I've been here the longest."

It was the sleepy alderman who was hastening by. "Confound that
pump-handle!" said he. "That's the second time to-day I've stumbled
against it. I'll have the pump taken up and carted off to-morrow. It's a
nuisance; nobody wants it here."

It was difficult to make out what the Pump said to this; it was so
choked with rage at the indignity, that only a confused gurgling could
be distinguished in its throat. But that was the end of its soliloquy.

The Pump was partly right. Santa Klaus did not visit the court as often
as he used, nor did he bring such fine presents with him. But it was not
because he disliked the society that he did not come, it was because
they did not hang stockings up. The stocking must be hung or he will
not go--that is the rule. He is wonderfully keen in scent; he will go
straight to a stocking even if it be hidden in the darkest corner. He
cares nothing about time or place either. He can be where he chooses at
any moment. So, just as the twelfth stroke of Trinity sounded, Santa
Klaus was in Fountain Court. The Indian was scurrying down the place
with his cigars in his hand, and taking his stand before Morgridge and
Mit, put on his face its fiercest expression as the sound of the stroke
died away. At the same moment Santa Klaus was in the house, in the loft
where little Peter Mit had hung his stocking. Whether he entered by the
chimney or not, it is impossible to say, but I suspect he did, for the
door was locked and there was no other entrance.

At any rate there he was, and standing on tip-toe by Peter's stocking.
He began to fill it and emptied one of his pockets. "Really," said he,
"this is a very capacious stocking." It was not full yet, and he emptied
into it another pocketful. "This is remarkable!" said he, stopping in