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 recognise 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.

"Oh, no," answered the little mauve mouse. "It was that wicked,
murderous cat! Just as Satan lurks and lies in wait for bad
children, so does the cruel cat lie in wait for naughty little
mice. And you can depend upon it that, when that awful cat heard
Squeaknibble speak so disrespectfully of Santa Claus, her wicked
eyes glowed with joy, her sharp teeth watered, and her bristling
fur emitted electric sparks as big as marrowfat peas. Then what
did that blood-thirsty monster do but scuttle as fast as she
could into Dear-my-Soul's room, leap up into Dear-my-Soul's
crib, and walk off with the pretty little white muff which
Dear-my-Soul used to wear when she went for a visit to the
little girl in the next block! What upon earth did the horrid
old cat want with Dear-my-Soul's pretty little white muff? Ah,
the duplicity, the diabolical ingenuity of that cat! Listen