of generosity.  Delightful custom!  Hard is the lot of childhood that knows nothing of the visits of Kriss Kringle, or the stockings hung by the chimney at night; and cheerless is any age that is not brightened by some Christmas gift, however humble.  What a mystery of preparation there is in the preceding days, what planning and plottings of surprises!  Polly and I keep up the custom in our simple way, and great is the perplexity to express the greatest amount of affection with a limited outlay.  For the excellence of a gift lies in its appropriateness rather than in its value.  As we stood by the window that night, we wondered what we should receive this year, and indulged in I know not what little hypocrisies and deceptions.

I wish, said Polly, “that my uncle in India would send me a camel’s-hair shawl, or a string of pearls, each as big as the end of my thumb.”

“Or a white cow, which would give golden milk, that would make butter worth seventy-five cents a pound,” I added, as we drew the curtains, and turned to our chairs before the open fire.

It is our custom on every Christmas eve—­as I believe I have somewhere said, or if I have not, I say it again, as the member from Erin might remark—­to read one of Dickens’s Christmas stories.  And this night, after punching the fire until it sent showers of sparks up the chimney, I read the opening chapter of “Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings,” in my best manner, and handed the book to Polly to continue; for I do not so much relish reading aloud the succeeding stories of Mr. Dickens’s annual budget, since he wrote them, as men go to war in these days, by substitute.  And Polly read on, in her melodious voice, which is almost as pleasant to me as the Wasser-fluth of Schubert, which she often plays at twilight; and I looked into the fire, unconsciously constructing stories of my own out of the embers.  And her voice still went on, in a sort of running accompaniment to my airy or fiery fancies.

“Sleep?” said Polly, stopping, with what seemed to me a sort of crash, in which all the castles tumbled into ashes.

“Not in the least,” I answered brightly, “never heard anything more agreeable.”  And the reading flowed on and on and on, and I looked steadily into the fire, the fire, fire, fi....

Suddenly the door opened, and into our cozy parlor walked the most venerable personage I ever laid eyes on, who saluted me with great dignity.  Summer seemed to have burst into the room, and I was conscious of a puff of Oriental airs, and a delightful, languid tranquillity.  I was not surprised that the figure before me was clad in full turban, baggy drawers, and a long loose robe, girt about the middle with a rich shawl.  Followed him a swart attendant, who hastened to spread a rug upon which my visitor sat down, with great gravity, as I am informed they do in farthest Ind.  The slave then filled the bowl of a long-stemmed chibouk, and, handing it to his master, retired behind him and began to fan him with the most prodigious palm-leaf I ever saw.  Soon the fumes of the delicate tobacco of Persia pervaded the room, like some costly aroma which you cannot buy, now the entertainment of the Arabian Nights is discontinued.