mas sighed and gazed into the fire.

"All the same," he said at last, "it's different, even with your Aunt
Emily."

"Tell me all about it. To begin with, why didn't you come down the
chimney?"

"The reindeer." He threw up his hands in despair. "Gone!"

"How?"

"Filleted."

I looked at him in surprise.

"Or do I mean 'billeted'?" he said. "Anyway, the War Office did it."

"Requisitioned, perhaps."

"That's it. They requisitioned 'em. What you and I would call taking
'em."

"I see. So you have to walk. But you could still come down the chimney."

"Well, I _could_; but it would mean climbing up there first. And that
wouldn't seem so natural. It would make it more like a practical joke,
and I haven't the heart for practical jokes this year, when nobody
really wants me at all."

"Not want you?" I protested. "What rubbish!"

Father Christmas dipped his hand into his sack and brought out a card of
greeting. Carefully adjusting a pair of horn spectacles to his nose he
prepared to read.

"Listen to this," he said. "It's from Alfred to Eliza." He looked at me
over his glasses. "I don't know if you know them at all?"

"I don't think so."

"An ordinary printed card with robins and snow and so forth on it. And
it says"--his voice trembled with indignation--"it says, 'Wishing you a
very happy ----' Censored, Sir! Censored, at _my_ time of life. There's
your War Office again."

"I think that's a joke of the publisher's," I said soothingly.

"Oh, if it's humour, I don't mind. Nobody is more partial to mirth and
jollity than I am." He began to chuckle to himself. "There's my joke
about the 'rain, dear'; I don't know if you know that?"

I said I didn't; he wanted cheering up. But though he was happy while he
was telling it to me he soon became depressed again.

"Look here," I said sternly, "this is absurd of you. Christmas is
chiefly a children's festival. Grown-ups won't give each other so many
presents this year, but we shall still remember the children, and we
shall give you plenty to do seeing after _them_. Why," I went on
boastfully, "you've got four of my presents in there at this moment. The
book for Margery, and the box of soldiers, and the Jumping Tiger
and----"

Father Christmas held up his hand and stopped me.

"It's no good," he said, "you can't deceive _me_. After a good many
years at the business I'm rather sensitive to impressions." He wagged a
finger at me. "Now then, uncle. Was your whole he