out; steamships; books; pictures--everything to delight the soul of
childhood and gratify the affection of age.

There Kris Kringle, Santa Claus's other self, with snowy beard, and fur
coat hoary with the frost of Arctic travel from the land of unfailing
snow and unfailing toys, stood beside his tree glittering with crystal
and shining with the fruits of every industry and every clime.

These were but a part of the dazzling display that was ever repeated
over and over and filled the windows for squares and squares. Science
and Art appeared to have combined to pay tribute to childhood. The very
street seemed to have blossomed with Christmas.

But Livingstone saw nothing of it. He was filled with anger that his way
should be blocked. The crowds were gay and cheery. Strangers in sheer
good-will clapped each other on the shoulder and exchanged views,
confidences and good wishes. The truck-drivers, usually so surly, drew
out of each others' way and shouted words of cheer after their smiling
fellows.

The soul of Christmas was abroad on the air.

Livingstone did not even recall what day it was. All he saw was a crowd
of fools that impeded his progress. He tried the middle of the street;
but the carriages and delivery-wagons were so thick, that he turned off,
growling, and took a less frequented thoroughfare, a back street of mean
houses and small shops where a poorer class of people dwelt and dealt.

Here, however, he was perhaps even more incommoded than he had been
before. This street was, if anything, more crowded than the other and
with a more noisy and hilarious throng. Here, instead of fine shops,
there were small ones; but their windows were every bit as attractive to
the crowds on the street as those Livingstone had left. People of a much
poorer class surged in and out of the doors; small gamins, some in
ragged overcoats, more in none, gabbled with and shouldered each other
boisterously at the windows and pressed their red noses to the frosty
panes, to see through the blurred patches made by their warm breath the
wondrous marvels within. The little pastry-shops and corner-groceries
vied with the toy-shops and confectionaries, and were packed with a
population that hummed like bees, the busy murmur broken every now and
then by jests and calls and laughter, as the customers squeezed in
empty-handed, or slipped out with carefully-wrapped parcels hugged close
to their cheery bosoms or carried in their arms with caref