“A Merry Christmas!”

A sleepy father stirs in bed; then, rolls over, intending to have another “forty winks.” Next moment he is wide awake, he has heard the strains of “Queen, Queen Caroline,” and suddenly remembered this is Christmas Day.

“Dear me,” he thinks, “here is Christmas again, how the time does fly, it does not seem like twelve months gone by so soon.”

His train of thought is sharply broken—a sudden flurry across the room—a cuddling form hurtles alongside him—a pair of softly clinging arms are around his neck—he is peremptorily kissed—a tiny voice lisps “A Merwy Krismiss, see w'at Farver Santy has gived me?”

Eyes, still dusked with sleep, beam into his from beneath a mop of rumply, curly hair—a pair of rosy, dewy lips smile in deep content while dimpled arms and hands hold up “Muver's” biggest stocking—it had demanded careful selection too—filled to the brim by “Darling Santa Claus.”

How many sleep-laden eyes had striven to keep open so as to catch “Santy” in the act—how many sharp ears had listened in vain for his arrival last night? The “Dustman's knock” had prevailed—“Santy” had come and gone un-caught again.

There is the “Christmas Tree,” resplendent in every variety of toys. Mother spent hours decorating it correctly—watched by brilliantly expectant eyes whose owners thought intricate thoughts and built those grand “castles in the air” that are the absolute prerogative of childhood. Nothing that it is possible to obtain has been overlooked—“holly” brought down from Darjiling or Simla—“mistletoe” from Mussoorie or Naini Tal—apples that were grown in Afghanistan. All that can be has been done to make it as like to Christmas at “Home” as is possible.