But, oh!  Babouscka had forgotten to ask the three old men the road to Bethlehem, and they had traveled so far through the night that she could not overtake them.  Up and down the roads she hurried, through woods and fields and towns, saying to whomsoever she met:  “I go to find the Christ Child.  Where does he lie?  I bring some pretty toys for His sake.”

But no one could tell her the way to go, and they all said:  “Farther on, Babouscka, farther on.”  So she traveled on, and on, and on for years and years—­but she never found the little Christ Child.

They say that old Babouscka is traveling still, looking for Him.  When it comes Christmas eve, and the children are lying fast asleep, Babouscka comes softly through the snowy fields and towns, wrapped in her long cloak and carrying her basket on her arm.  With her staff she raps gently at the doors and goes inside and holds her candle close to the little children’s faces.

“Is He here?” she asks.  “Is the little Christ Child here?” And then she turns sorrowfully away again, crying:  “Farther on, farther on.”  But before she leaves she takes a toy from her basket and lays it beside the pillow for a Christmas gift.  “For His sake,” she says softly and then hurries on through the years and forever in search of the little Christ Child.

[*] From “For the Children’s Hour,” by Bailey and Lewis.  Used by permission of the authors and also the publishers—­Milton Bradley Company.

THE BOY WITH THE BOX

By Mary Griggs Van Voorhis

It was an ideal Christmas day.  The sun shone brightly but the air was crisp and cold, and snow and ice lay sparkling everywhere.  A light wind, the night before, had swept the blue, icebound river clean of scattering snow; and, by two o’clock in the afternoon, the broad bend near Creighton’s mill was fairly alive with skaters.  The girls in gay caps and scarfs, the boys in sweaters and mackinaws of every conceivable hue, with here and there a plump, matronly figure in a plush coat or a tiny fellow in scarlet, made a picture of life and brilliancy worthy of an artist’s finest skill.

Tom Reynolds moved in and out among the happy throng, with swift, easy strokes, his cap on the back of his curly head, and his brown eyes shining with excitement.  Now and again, he glanced down with pardonable pride, at the brand new skates that twinkled beneath his feet.  “Jolly Ramblers,” sure enough “Jolly Ramblers” they were!  Ever since Ralph Evans had remarked, with a tantalizing toss of his handsome head, that “no game fellow would try to skate on anything but ‘Jolly Ramblers,’” Tom had yearned, with an inexpressible longing, for a pair of these wonderful skates.  And now they were his and the ice was fine and the Christmas sun was shining!

Tom was rounding the big bend for the fiftieth time, when he saw, skimming gracefully toward him through the merry crowd, a tall boy in a fur-trimmed coat, his handsome head proudly erect.