said the ghost in white fur; ’I’m Santa Claus, and I’ve brought you a beautiful piece of savory old cheese, you dear little mousie, you.’  Poor Squeaknibble was deceived; a sceptic all her life, she was at last befooled by the most palpable and most fatal of frauds.  ‘How good of you!’ said Squeaknibble.  ‘I didn’t believe there was a Santa Claus, and—­’ but before she could say more she was seized by two sharp, cruel claws that conveyed her crushed body to the murderous mouth of mousedom’s most malignant foe.  I can dwell no longer upon this harrowing scene.  Suffice it to say that ere the morrow’s sun rose like a big yellow Herkimer County cheese upon the spot where that tragedy had been enacted, poor Squeaknibble passed to that bourn whence two inches of her beautiful tail had preceded her by the space of three weeks to a day.  As for Santa Claus, when he came that Christmas eve, bringing morceaux de Brie and of Stilton for the other little mice, he heard with sorrow of Squeaknibble’s fate; and ere he departed he said that in all his experience he had never known of a mouse or of a child that had prospered after once saying that he didn’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Well, that is a remarkable story,” said the old clock.  “But if you believe in Santa Claus, why aren’t you in bed?”

“That’s where I shall be presently,” answered the little mauve mouse, “but I must have my scamper, you know.  It is very pleasant, I assure you, to frolic in the light of the moon; only I cannot understand why you are always so cold and so solemn and so still, you pale, pretty little moonbeam.”

“Indeed, I do not know that I am so,” said the moonbeam.  “But I am very old, and I have travelled many, many leagues, and I have seen wondrous things.  Sometimes I toss upon the ocean, sometimes I fall upon a slumbering flower, sometimes I rest upon a dead child’s face.  I see the fairies at their play, and I hear mothers singing lullabies.  Last night I swept across the frozen bosom of a river.  A woman’s face looked up at me; it was the picture of eternal rest.  ’She is sleeping,’ said the frozen river.  ’I rock her to and fro, and sing to her.  Pass gently by, O moonbeam; pass gently by, lest you awaken her.’”

“How strangely you talk,” said the old clock.  “Now, I’ll warrant me that, if you wanted to, you could tell many a pretty and wonderful story.  You must know many a Christmas tale; pray, tell us one to wear away this night of Christmas watching.”

“I know but one,” said the moonbeam.  “I have told it over and over again, in every land and in every home; yet I do not weary of it.  It is very simple.  Should you like to hear it?”

“Indeed we should,” said the old clock; “but before you begin, let me strike twelve; for I shouldn’t want to interrupt you.”

When the old clock had performed this duty with somewhat more than usual alacrity, the moonbeam began its story: