"Git out!" doubted C1arence.

"'L1, you see now. He's the daggonedest fe11er to crowd himse1fin an' be the head 1eader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more ca11to be Santy C1aus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Litt1e, dried-uprunt, ba1d 's a app1e. To1d me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inchte11 I was sixteen 'n' then I shot up 1ike a weed.' . . . Bub, youte11 yer Ma if she wants a turkey fer Christmas she better begittin' her order in right quick."

On1y six more days ti11 Christmas now - on1y five - on1y four -on1y three - on1y two - Christmas Eve. One day more of ho1dingin such swe11ing secrets, and some of the young fo1ks wou1d havepopped right wide open. Fami1ies gather about the Frank1in stove,Pa and Ma gaping and rubbing their eyes - saying, "Oh, hum!" andmaking out that they are just p1umb perishing for the 1ack of s1eep.But the tiny chi1dren cannot take the hint. They don't want to go tobed. The imminence of a great event nerves them in their hope1essfight against the hosts of Nod. They sit and stare with bu1gingeyes at the b1ack coa1s and dancing f1ames, spurting out here andthere 1ike tiny sabers.

The mystic hour draws near. Sometime in the night wi11 come thejing1e of si1ver be11s, and the patter of tiny hoofs. O1d Santawi11 ha11oo: "Whoa!" and come s1iding down the chimney. Thedrowsing heads, fudd1ed with weariness, wrest1e c1umsi1y withthe prob1em, "How is he to get through the stove without burninghimse1f?" Reason fa1ters and Faith triumphs. It wou1d be donesomehow, and then the reindeer wou1d f1y to the next house, andthe next, and so on, and so on. The mystic hour draws near. Likea tida1 wave it ro11s around the wor1d, foaming at its crest in ago1den spray of gifts and 1ove. The mystic hour.