But thinking on ye gentil Lord
      That died upon ye tree,
    Let troublings cease and deeds of peace
      Abound in Chrystantie;
    For on this morn ye Chryst is born
      That saveth you and me.

THE MOUSE AND THE MOONBEAM

Whilst you were sleeping, little Dear-my-Soul, strange things happened; but that I saw and heard them, I should never have believed them.  The clock stood, of course, in the corner, a moonbeam floated idly on the floor, and a little mauve mouse came from the hole in the chimney corner and frisked and scampered in the light of the moonbeam upon the floor.  The little mauve mouse was particularly merry; sometimes she danced upon two legs and sometimes upon four legs, but always very daintily and always very merrily.

“Ah, me!” sighed the old clock, “how different mice are nowadays from the mice we used to have in the good old times!  Now there was your grandma, Mistress Velvetpaw, and there was your grandpa, Master Sniffwhisker,—­how grave and dignified they were!  Many a night have I seen them dancing upon the carpet below me, but always the stately minuet and never that crazy frisking which you are executing now, to my surprise—­yes, and to my horror, too.”

“But why shouldn’t I be merry?” asked the little mauve mouse.  “To-morrow is Christmas, and this is Christmas eve.”

“So it is,” said the old clock.  “I had really forgotten all about it.  But tell me, what is Christmas to you, little Miss Mauve Mouse?”

“A great deal to me!” cried the little mauve mouse.  “I have been very good a very long time:  I have not used any bad words, nor have I gnawed any holes, nor have I stolen any canary seed, nor have I worried my mother by running behind the flour-barrel where that horrid trap is set.  In fact, I have been so good that I’m very sure Santa Claus will bring me something very pretty.”

This seemed to amuse the old clock mightily; in fact, the old clock fell to laughing so heartily that in an unguarded moment she struck twelve instead of ten, which was exceedingly careless and therefore to be reprehended.

“Why, you silly little mauve mouse,” said the old clock, “you don’t believe in Santa Claus, do you?”

“Of course I do,” answered the little mauve mouse.  “Believe in Santa Claus?  Why shouldn’t I?  Didn’t Santa Claus bring me a beautiful butter-cracker last Christmas, and a lovely gingersnap, and a delicious rind of cheese, and—­and—­lots of things?  I should be very ungrateful if I did not believe in Santa Claus, and I certainly shall not disbelieve in him at the very moment when I am expecting him to arrive with a bundle of goodies for me.

[Illustration:  “But why shouldn’t I be merry?” asked the little mauve mouse.  “To-morrow is Christmas, and this is Christmas eve.”]