“Be that as it may,” said the little mauve mouse, “it is a matter of history, and therefore beyond dispute, that from that very moment the cat pined for Squeaknibble’s life; it seemed as if that one little two-inch taste of Squeaknibble’s tail had filled the cat with a consuming passion, or appetite, for the rest of Squeaknibble.  So the cat waited and watched and hunted and schemed and devised and did everything possible for a cat—­a cruel cat—­to do in order to gain her murderous ends.  One night—­one fatal Christmas eve—­our mother had undressed the children for bed, and was urging upon them to go to sleep earlier than usual, since she fully expected that Santa Claus would bring each of them something very palatable and nice before morning.  Thereupon the little dears whisked their cunning tails, pricked up their beautiful ears, and began telling one another what they hoped Santa Claus would bring.  One asked for a slice of Roquefort, another for Neufchatel, another for Sap Sago, and a fourth for Edam; one expressed a preference for de Brie, while another hoped to get Parmesan; one clamored for imperial blue Stilton, and another craved the fragrant boon of Caprera.  There were fourteen little ones then, and consequently there were diverse opinions as to the kind of gift which Santa Claus should best bring; still, there was, as you can readily understand, an enthusiastic unanimity upon this point, namely, that the gift should be cheese of some brand or other.

“‘My dears,’ said our mother, ’what matters it whether the boon which Santa Claus brings be royal English cheddar or fromage de Bricquebec, Vermont sage, or Herkimer County skim-milk?  We should be content with whatsoever Santa Claus bestows, so long as it be cheese, disjoined from all traps whatsoever, unmixed with Paris green, and free from glass, strychnine, and other harmful ingredients.  As for myself, I shall be satisfied with a cut of nice, fresh Western reserve; for truly I recognize in no other viand or edible half the fragrance or half the gustfulness to be met with in one of these pale but aromatic domestic products.  So run away to your dreams now, that Santa Claus may find you sleeping.’

“The children obeyed,—­all but Squeaknibble.  ’Let the others think what they please,’ said she, ’but I don’t believe in Santa Claus.  I’m not going to bed, either.  I’m going to creep out of this dark hole and have a quiet romp, all by myself, in the moonlight.’  Oh, what a vain, foolish, wicked little mouse was Squeaknibble!  But I will not reproach the dead; her punishment came all too swiftly.  Now listen:  who do you suppose overheard her talking so disrespectfully of Santa Claus?”

“Why, Santa Claus himself,” said the old clock.