a fine thing
to run down the High Street and see what was going on. After dinner
his mother put on his fur cap and bright scarf, and filled his pockets
with biscuits. She told him to be very polite to Santa Claus if he
should happen to meet him.

Off he trotted, merry as a cricket, with now a skip, and now a slide.
At every corner he held his breath, half expecting to run into Santa
himself. Nothing of the sort happened, however, and he soon found
himself before the gay windows of a toyshop.

There he saw a spring hobbyhorse, as large as a Shetland pony, all
saddled and bridled, too--lacking nothing but a rider. Rob pressed his
nose against the glass, and tried to imagine the feelings of a boy in
that saddle. He might have stood there all day, had not a ragged
little fellow pulled his coat. "Wouldn't you like that popgun?" he
piped.

"Catch me looking at popguns!" said Rob shortly. But when he saw how
tattered the boy's jacket was, he said more softly, "P'r'aps you'd
like a biscuit?"

"Only try me!" said the shrill little voice.

There was a queer lump in Rob's throat as he emptied one pocket of its
biscuits and thrust them into the dirty, eager hands. Then he marched
down the street without so much as glancing at that glorious steed
again.

Brighter and brighter grew the windows, more and more full of toys. At
last our boy stood, with open eyes and mouth, before a great shop
lighted from top to bottom, for it was growing dark. Rob came near
taking off his cap and saying, "How do you do, sir?"

To whom? you ask. Why, to an image of Santa Claus, the size of life,
holding a Christmas tree hung with wonderful fruit.

Soon a happy thought struck Rob. "Surely this must be Santa Claus's
own store, where he comes to fill his basket with toys! What if I were
to hide there and wait for him?"

As I said, he was a brave little chap, and he walked straight into the
shop with the stream of big people. Everybody was busy. No one had
time to look at our mite of a Rob. He tried in vain to find a quiet
corner, till he caught sight of some winding stairs that led up to the
next storey. He crept up, scarcely daring to breathe.

What a fairyland! Toys everywhere! Oceans of toys! Nothing but toys!
Excepting one happy little boy! Think of fifty great rocking-horses in
a pile; of whole flocks of woolly sheep and curly dogs, with the real
bark in them; stacks of drums; regiments of soldiers armed to the
teeth; companies of firem