had never known of a mouse or of a child that
had prospered after once saying that he didn't believe in Santa
Claus."

"Well, that is a remarkable story," said the old clock. "But if you
believe in Santa Claus, why aren't you in bed?"

"That's where I shall be presently," answered the little mauve mouse,
"but I must have my scamper, you know. It is very pleasant, I assure
you, to frolic in the light of the moon; only I cannot understand why
you are always so cold and so solemn and so still, you pale, pretty
little moonbeam."

"Indeed, I do not know that I am so," said the moonbeam. "But I am
very old, and I have travelled many, many leagues, and I have seen
wondrous things. Sometimes I toss upon the ocean, sometimes I fall
upon a slumbering flower, sometimes I rest upon a dead child's face. I
see the fairies at their play, and I hear mothers singing lullabies.
Last night I swept across the frozen bosom of a river. A woman's face
looked up at me; it was the picture of eternal rest. 'She is
sleeping,' said the frozen river. 'I rock her to and fro, and sing to
her. Pass gently by, O moonbeam; pass gently by, lest you awaken
her.'"

"How strangely you talk," said the old clock. "Now, I'll warrant me
that, if you wanted to, you could tell many a pretty and wonderful
story. You must know many a Christmas tale; pray, tell us one to wear
away this night of Christmas watching."

"I know but one," said the moonbeam. "I have told it over and over
again, in every land and in every home; yet I do not weary of it. It
is very simple. Should you like to hear it?"

"Indeed we should," said the old clock; "but before you begin, let me
strike twelve; for I shouldn't want to interrupt you."

When the old clock had performed this duty with somewhat more than
usual alacrity, the moonbeam began its story:

"Upon a time--so long ago that I can't tell how long ago it was--I
fell upon a hill-side. It was in a far distant country; this I know,
because, although it was the Christmas time, it was not in that
country as it is wont to be in countries to the north. Hither the
snow-king never came; flowers bloomed all the year, and at all times
the lambs found pleasant pasturage on the hill-sides. The night wind
was balmy, and there was a fragrance of cedar in its breath. There
were violets on the hill-side, and I fell amongst them and lay there.
I kissed them, and they awakened. 'Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?'
they said, and they nestled