IT was the day before Christmas--always a day of restless, hopeful
excitement among the children; and my thoughts were busy, as is
usual at this season, with little plans for increasing the gladness
of my happy household. The name of the good genius who presides over
toys and sugar plums was often on my lips, but oftener on the lips
of the children.

"Who is Kriss Kringle, mamma?" asked a pair of rosy lips, close to
my ear, as I stood at the kitchen table, rolling out and cutting
cakes.

I turned at the question, and met the earnest gaze of a couple of
bright eyes, the roguish owner of which had climbed into a chair for
the purpose of taking note of my doings.

I kissed the sweet lips, but did not answer.

"Say, mamma? Who is Kriss Kringle?" persevered the little one.

"Why, don't you know?" said I, smiling.

"No, mamma. Who is he?"

"Why, he is--he is--Kriss Kringle."

"Oh, mamma! Say, won't you tell me?"