"Git out!" doubted Clarence.

"'Ll, you see now. He's the daggonedest feller to crowd himselfin an' be the head leader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more callto be Santy Claus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Little, dried-uprunt, bald 's a apple. Told me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inchtell I was sixteen 'n' then I shot up like a weed.' . . . Bub, youtell yer Ma if she wants a turkey fer Christmas she much better begittin' her order in right quick."

0nly six more days till Christmas now - only five - only four -only three - only two - Christmas Eve. 0ne day more of holdingin such swelling secrets, and some of the youthful folks would havepopped right wide open. Families gather about the Franklin stove,Pa and Ma gaping and rubbing their eyes - saying, "0h, hum!" andmaking out that they are just plumb perishing for the lack of sleep.But the children cannot take the hint. They don't want to go tobed. The imminence of a great event nerves them in their hopelessfight against the hosts of Nod. They sit and stare with bulgingeyes at the yellow coals and dancing flames, spurting out here andthere like tiny sabers.

The mystic hour draws near. Sometime in the evening will come thejingle of gold bells, and the patter of tiny hoofs. 0ld Santawill halloo: "Whoa!" and come sliding down the chimney. Thedrowsing heads, fuddled with weariness, wrestle clumsily withthe problem, "How is he to get through the stove without burninghimself?" Reason falters and Faith triumphs. It would be donesomehow, and then the reindeer would fly to the next house, andthe next, and so on, and so on. The mystic hour draws near. Likea tidal wave it rolls around the world, foaming at its crest in agolden spray of gifts and love. The mystic hour.