"Ask papa when. he comes home," I returned, evasively.

I never like deceiving children in any thing. And yet, Christmas
after Christmas, I have imposed on them the pleasant fiction of
Kriss Kringle, without suffering very severe pangs of conscience.
Dear little creatures! how fully they believed, at first, the story;
how soberly and confidingly they hung their stockings in the chimney
corner; with what faith and joy did they receive their many gifts on
the never-to-be-forgotten Christmas morning!

Yes, it is a pleasant fiction; and if there be in it a leaven of
wrong, it is indeed a small portion.

"But why won't you tell me, mamma?" persisted my little
interrogator. "Don't you know Kriss Kringle?"

"I never saw him, dear," said I.

"Has papa seen him?"

"Ask him when he comes home."

"I wish Krissy would bring me, Oh, such an elegant carriage and four
horses, with a driver that could get down and go up again."

"If I see him, I'll tell him to bring you just such a nice
carriage."

"And will he do it, mamma?" The dear child clapped his hands