Then his mamma kissed him right on the tip of his little nose, and she said: 

“But you must go to bed sometime.”

“Please, mamma dear,” he said, pushing his curly head almost under her arm, “just one little story.”

[Illustration:  A SCENE IN THE STORY THAT WOULDN’T BE TOLD.]

“Just one!  You can choose it, but mind, a little one!”

“You know what one I want.  Of course about the giant Tancankeroareous, and how he stole the slipper of the princess for a snuff-box, and how the Prince Limberlocks climbed up a cherry-tree into the giant’s room.  That is the story I like!”

“And it must be the ‘amen story’ to-night.  Well:  Once upon a time the Princess Thistleblossom stood on one foot, while—­”

“No, no,” interrupted The Story, “you need not tell me!  Tell some other story.  I am tired of being said over and over.  Every night, as soon as your bed-time comes, and you are so sleepy that you don’t want to go to bed, you ask for me, and I have to be told.  I am sick of it, and I want to rest.”

“But I want you,” said the boy.  “I like you best of all my stories.  I like that part where the giant comes in and calls out ‘PORTER!’ in such a loud voice that the gate shakes all the bolts loose.”

“I suppose you do like it,” said The Story; “anybody would.  I am a very good story, and very fit to be told last, although I cannot see why that is any reason for calling me the ‘amen story.’  That is foolish, I think!  But at any rate, that is no reason for telling me every night.  Let your mamma tell you Cock Robin, or Jack the Giant-Killer.  They are plenty good enough.”

“I don’t want them,” said the little boy, beginning to cry; “I want you! I wont go to sleep all night if mamma don’t tell you.”

“I don’t care!” replied The Story; “you needn’t cry for me.  I’ve made up my mind.  You wont hear me to-night.  That as as sure as your name is Paul.”

And it was just as The Story said.  There was no use in the boy’s crying, for off went The Story, and it was not told that night; but it is my private opinion that the boy did go to sleep after all.

POLLY:  A BEFORE-CHRISTMAS STORY.

BY HOPE LEDYARD.

[Illustration]

“Santa Claus!” exclaimed Ned, half mockingly.

“Yes,” insisted Mamie, “what’s he going to bring you, Ned?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care much,” he answered, “for there isn’t any Santa Claus.”

“Why, Ned!” cried Mamie, in astonishment.  “Even my big brother Harry believes in Santa Claus.  He’s coming home from school to-night, and we’re going to hang up our stockings.”

“Pshaw!” said Ned, “I must go home.  Good-bye.”

Merry little Mamie stood in amazement, and then ran in-doors to her mother with her perplexity.

“Why, mother!” she cried, “Ned Huntley said there wasn’t any Santa Claus—­and he was real cross about it, too.”