e Earth be peace'"--

But Solomon Mit has sung without finishing his last hymn.

What more Mr. Morgridge might have seen, we shall never know, for at
this point Kleiner Traum and his kaleidoscope vanished, and did not come
back that night at any rate.

V.

Morgridge Klaus.

[Illustration]

When does Christmas Day begin? It can never be determined, but most
people think it begins when they wake, though all do not wake at once;
the children generally have the longest Christmas Day. Now, in Fountain
Court, almost before daylight, there was some one astir. He came out of
the door of Morgridge & Mit, dealers in tobacco, and toddled up the
court at an astonishing gait. Where did he go to? he certainly passed
the pump and turned the corner, and in a quarter of an hour more was
trotting down the court with a parcel in his hand. The door of Morgridge
& Mit closes behind him, but not before we have seen his face. Verily,
it is Mr. Morgridge, but so extraordinarily like Santa Klaus is he, that
we are puzzled to know which of the two it is; the form and shoulders
are those of Mr. Morgridge, but the face at least is borrowed from Santa
Klaus; Mr. Morgridge never in his life looked so jolly. Not to confound
this person with the sour-faced man who sat glumpy, upon the bench
taking snuff, the night before, let us call him Morgridge Klaus.

Morgridge Klaus stole slily up stairs to Peter Mit's loft. He went up
stairs because there was so much of the Morgridge about him; if there
had been more of the Klaus he would undoubtedly have come down the
chimney. At the top of the stairs, where it was still quite dark, he
could see Peter curled up in bed. But it was not he that he had come to
see. He began groping about on the floor in search of something. "Ah!
here it is!" he said with a chuckle, bringing to light a stocking most
woefully riddled with holes. Morgridge Klaus stuffed a paper parcel into
the stocking, and laying it carefully on the floor, stumbled down
stairs, chuckling to himself and taking snuff immoderately.

Mr. Morgridge's Christmas Day had in fact commenced, but it was an hour
yet before Peter Mit began his Christmas Day. The little fellow rubbed
his eyes and drew his knees nearer his chin when he awoke. Then he
remembered the day and looked eagerly toward the chimney. There hung his
stocking, as small, as full of holes, and as empty as when he hung it.
"So it was a dream only after all," he said sorrowfully.