I have imposed on them the pleasant fiction of
Kriss Kringle, without suffering very severe pangs of conscience.
Dear little creatures! how fully they believed, at first, the story;
how soberly and confidingly they hung their stockings in the chimney
corner; with what faith and joy did they receive their many gifts on
the never-to-be-forgotten Christmas morning!

Yes, it is a pleasant fiction; and if there be in it a leaven of
wrong, it is indeed a small portion.

"But why won't you tell me, mamma?" persisted my little
interrogator. "Don't you know Kriss Kringle?"

"I never saw him, dear," said I.

"Has papa seen him?"

"Ask him when he comes home."

"I wish Krissy would bring me, Oh, such an elegant carriage and four
horses, with a driver that could get down and go up again."

"If I see him, I'll tell him to bring you just such a nice
carriage."

"And will he do it, mamma?" The dear child clapped his hands
together with delight.

"I guess so."

"I wish I could see him," he said, more soberly and thoughtfully.
And then, as if some new impression had crossed his mind, he
hastened down from the chair, and went gliding from the room.

Half an hour afterwards, as I came into the nursery, I saw my three
"olive branches," clustered together in a corner, holding grave
counsel on some subject of importance; at least to themselves. They
became silent at my presence; but soon began to talk aloud. I
listened to a few words, but perceived nothing of particular
concern; then turned my thoughts away.

"Who is Kriss Kringle, papa?" I heard my cherry-lipped boy asking of
Mr. Smith, soon after he came home in the evening.

The answer I did not hear. Enough that the enquirer did not appear
satisfied therewith.

At tea-time, the children were not in very good appetite, though in
fine spirits.

As soon as the evening meal was over, Mr. Smith went out to buy
presents for our little ones, while I took upon myself the task of
getting them off early to bed.

A Christmas tree had been obtained during the day, and it stood in
one of the parlors, on a table. Into this parlor the good genius was
to descend during the night, and hang on the branches of the tree,
or leave upon the table, his gifts for the children. This was our
arrangement. The little ones expressed some doubts as to whether
Kriss Kringle would come to this particular room; and little "cherry
lips" couldn't just see how the genius was going to get down the
c