a sleigh-ride. Girls, get on your fur; wrap yourselves up warmly
in the old bear-skin; hunt up the old guitar; the sleigh is at the
door, the moon is beaming. The bells tinkle and away we go!

An old English legend was transplanted many years ago on the shores of
America, that took root and flourished with wonderful luxuriance,
considering it was not indigenous to the country. Probably it was
taken over to New York by one of the primitive Knickerbockers, or it
might have clung to some of the drowsy burgomasters who had forsaken
the pictorial tiles of dear old Amsterdam about the time of Peter de
Laar, or Il Bombaccia, as the Italians call him, got into disgrace in
Rome. However this may be, certain it is that Santa Claus, or St.
Nicholas, the kind Patron-saint of the Juveniles, makes his annual
appearance on Christmas Eve, for the purpose of dispensing gifts to
all good children. This festive elf is supposed to be a queer little
creature that descends the chimney, viewlessly, in the deep hours of
night, laden with gifts and presents, which he bestows with no sparing
hand, reserving to himself a supernatural discrimination that he seems
to exercise with every satisfaction. Before going to bed the children
hang their newest stockings near the chimney, or pin them to the
curtains of the bed. Midnight finds a world of hosiery waiting for
favours; and the only wonder is that a single Santa Claus can get
around among them all. The story goes that he never misses one,
provided it belongs to a deserving youngster, and morning is sure to
bring no reproach that the Christmas Wizard has not nobly performed
his wondrous duties. We need scarcely enlighten the reader as to who
the real Santa Claus is. Every indulgent parent contributes to the
pleasing deception, though the juveniles are strong in their faith of
their generous holiday patron. The following favourite lines
graphically describe a visit of St. Nicholas, and, being in great
vogue with the young people of America, are fondly reproduced from
year to year:--

"'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danced through their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long win