day 12

And the angel said unto her, Fear not Mary; for thou hast found favour with God. And behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus." (Luke 1:30-31

Jimmy and His Cowboy Belt

Two or three days before Christmas last year, a group of children who come often to our house for stories on Monday afternoons came and we sat in a small room around a little Franklin stove in which a welcome fire was burning. We sat there and we talked about Christmas. I was aware that there was a shine from the firelight in the eyes of those boys and girls and on their wind-polished cheeks.

But no shine equaled that which gleamed from the buckle on the cowboy belt that Jimmy was wearing. Nine-year-old Jimmy was something of a swaggerer, but he liked books and liked to come and listen to stories. I had known for a long time that his cowboy belt was a prized possession, and the buckle was something marvelous.

We talked about Christmas for a little while. And then I read them one of the loveliest stories I know--Rachel Field's "All through The Night"--a simple retelling of the Christmas story. There was a great silence while I read--the only sounds were the words of the ageless tale and the crackling of the fire in the stove.

When the story was over, no one spoke for a moment. I knew that it could not be a long moment, because something like that can't be held very long--with fifteen or twenty children for whom the deliciousness of Christmas is only two days away.

I was the first one, however, to break the spell with words other than the story. I said, "What if we put on our coats and hats and went out of this little house and across the field in the snow and, dark as it is, went down the slope, across the brook, and into the woods. What if there we came upon the stable and the manger and the Baby? What could we give to Him?"

Again there was a moment of utter silence. Then Jimmy put his hand on his middle and said, "I'd give him my cowboy belt."

day 11

"Behold a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel." (Isaiah 7:14)

The C-C-Choir Boy

Everyone was surprised--everyone except Mrs Brown, the choir director--when Herbie showed up in November to rehearse for the church's annual Christmas cantata.

Mrs. Brown wasn't surprised because she had persuaded Herbie to "at least try." That was an accomplishment, for lately he had quit trying nearly everything--reciting in class, playing ball, or even asking his brothers or sisters to pass the potatoes.

It was easy to understand: He stuttered. Not just a little, either, and sometimes when his tongue spun on a word, like a car on ice, the kids laughed. Not a big ha-ha laugh, but you can tell when people are laughing at you even if you're only nine.

Mrs. Brown had figured Herbie could sing with the other tenors--Charley and Billy--and not have any trouble, which is exactly the way it worked. Billy was given the only boy's solo and the rest of the time the three of them sang in unison, until Charley contracted the measles. Even so, Billy had a strong voice and Herbie knew he could follow him.

At 7:15, the night of the cantata, a scrubbed and combed Herbie arrived at church, wearing a white shirt, a new blue and yellow bow tie and his brown suit. Mrs. Brown was waiting for him at the door.

"Billy is home in bed with the flu," she said. "You'll have to sing the solo." Herbie's face grew pale.

"I c-c-cant," he answered.

"We need you," Mrs. Brown insisted.

It was unfair. He wouldn't do it. She couldn't make him. All these thoughts tumbled through Herbie's mind until Mrs. Brown told him this:

"Herbie, I know you can do this--with God's help. Across from the choir loft is a stained glass window showing the manger scene. When you sing the solo, I want you to sing it only to the Baby Jesus. Forget that there is anyone else present. Don't even glance at the audience." She looked at her watch. It was time for the program to begin.

"Will you do it?"

Herbie studied his shoe.

"I'll t-t-try." he finally answered in a whisper.

A long 20 minutes later, it came time for Herbie's solo. Intently, he studied the stained glass window. Mrs. Brown nodded, and he opened his mouth, but at that exact instant, someone in the congregation coughed.

"H-H-Hallelujah," he stammered. Mrs. Brown stopped playing and started over. Again Herbie fixed his eyes on the Christ Child. Again he sang.

"Hallelujah, the Lord is born," his voice rang out, clear and confident. And the rest of his solo was just as perfect. After the program, Herbie slipped into his coat and darted out the back door--so fast that Mrs. Brown had to run to catch him. From the top of the steps, she called, "Herbie, you were wonderful, Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Brown," he shouted back. Then turning, he raced off into the night through ankle-deep snow-without boots. But then he didn't really need them. His feet weren't touching the ground.

day 10

"And I behold the city of Nazareth; and in the city of Nazareth I beheld a virgin, and she was exceedingly fair and white. And he said unto me; Behold, the virgin whom thou seest is the mother of the Son of God, after the manner of the flesh."     (1 Nephi 13:18)

Why the Chimes Rang

There was once, in a far-away country where few people have ever traveled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like lines of ants all moving in the same direction.

When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church. This room was so long that one standing at the doorway could scarcely see to the other end, where the choir stood by the marble alter. In the farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud, that sometimes when it played, the people for miles around would close their shutters and prepare for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such church as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old. But the strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of bells.

At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing over it as far up as one could see. I say as far as one could see, because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be certain that it was in sight. Up, and up, and up climbed the stones and the ivy; and, as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.

Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower was a chime of Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been built, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it was because a great musician had cast them and arranged them in their place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up where the air was clearest and purest: however that might be, no one who had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky; others, as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees.

But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There was an old man living not far from  the church, who said that his mother had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes, you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the church their offereings to the Christ-child; and when the greatest and best offering was laid on the alter, there used to come sounding through the music of the choir the Christmas chimes far up  in the tower. Some said that the wind rang them, and others that they were so high that the angels could set them swinging. But for many long years they had never been heard. It was said that people had been growing less careful of their gifts for the Christ-child, and that no offering was brought, great enough to deserve the music of the chimes.

Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the alter, each one trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.

Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother. They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan, which they had often talked over when by themselves, to go see the beautiful celebration.

"Nobody can guess, little brother," Pedro would say, "all the fine things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the Christ-child sometimes comes down to bless the service. What if we could see Him?"

The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough, Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the lights of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed, they were about to enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to look at it.

It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All this Pedro saw in a moment, and he knelt down beside her and tried to rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a moment he stood up again, and said:

"It's no use, Little Brother. You will have to go on alone."

"Alone?" cried Little Brother. "And you not see the Christmas festival?"

"No," said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in his throat. "See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her form freezing, and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket."

"But I can not bear to leave you, and go on alone." said Little Brother.

"Both of us need not miss the service," said Pedro, "and it had better be I than you. You can easily find your way to the church; and you must see and hear everything twice, Little Brother--once for you and once for me. I am sure the Christ-child must know how I should love to come with you and worship Him; and oh! if you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in any one's way, take this little silver peice of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking. Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with you."

In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city, and winked hard to keep back the tears, as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the music and splendor of the Christmas celebration that he had been planning for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in the snow.

The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound, and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble around him.

At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be laid on the alter. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down their gifts to the Christ-child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years and years. And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There went a great murmur through the church, as the people saw the king take from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it gleaming on the alter, as his offering to the Holy Child. "Surely," everyone said, "we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has ever happened. But still only the cold old wind was heard in the tower, and the people shook heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they never really believed the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever rang at all.

The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly the organist stopped playing as though he had been shot, and every one looked at the old minister, who was standing by the alter, holding up his hand for silence. Not a sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people strained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the chimes in the tower. So far away, and yet so clear the music seemed--so much sweeter were the notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they all stood up together and started straight at the altar, to see what great gift had awakened the long-silent bells.

But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish firgure of Little Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking, and had laid Pedro's little peice of silver on the altar.



day 9

"Behold, I say unto you that none of the prophets have written, now prophesied, save they have spoken concerning this Christ. And it also has been made manifest unto me by the power of the Holy Ghost; where, I know if there should be no atonement made, all mankind must be lost." (Jacob 7:11-12)

Pattern of Love

I didn't question Timmy, age nine, or his seven-year old brother Billy about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and forth between them as we visited each store.

Every year at Christmas time, our Service Club takes the children from poor families in our town on a personally conducted shopping tour. I was assigned Timmy and Billy, whose father was out of work. After giving them the allotted $4 each, we began our trip. At different stores I made suggestions, but always their answer was a solemn shake of the head, no. Finally I asked, "Where would you suggest we look?"

"Could we go to a shoe store, sir?" answered Timmy. "We'd like a pair of shoes for our daddy so he can go to work."

In the shoe store the clerk asked what the boys wanted. Out came the brown paper. "We want a pair of work shoes to fit this foot," they said.

Billy explained that it was a pattern of their daddy's foot. They had drawn it while he was asleep in a chair.

The clerk held the paper against a measuring stick, then walked away. Soon  he came with an open box. "Will these do?" he asked.

Timmy and Billy handled the shoes with great eagerness. "How much do they cost?" said Billy.

Then Timmy saw the price on the box. "They're $16.95," he said in dismay. "We only have $8."

I looked at the clerk and he cleared his throat. "That's the regular price," He said, "but they're on sale; $3.98, today only."

Then with shoes happily in hand the boys bought gifts for their mother and two little sisters. Not once did they think of themselves.

The day after Christmas the boy's father stopped me on the street. The new shoes were on his feet, gratitude was in his eyes, "I just thank Jesus for people who care," he said.

"And I thank Jesus for your two sons." I replied. "They taught me more about Christmas in one evening than I had learned in a lifetime."



day 8

"In His days, Judah shall be saved and Israel shall dwell safely; and this is His name whereby He shall be called, The Lord Our Righteousness." (Jeremiah 23:6)

Davey and the First Christmas

Let's pretend there was a boy, and Davey was his name,

Whose family lived in Bethlehem when Christmastime first came.

Davey had a special pet--a donkey small and gray,

And what the two of them did best was getting in the way!

Davey named the donkey Tim. He never rode him though.

Either Tim was built too high or Davey was too low!

Davey's father had an inn where people came to stay;

And lots and lots and lots of them were coming there one day.

His father was as busy as six or seven bees!

So Davey said, "I want to help, can't I do something, please?

Tim would like to help you too. Find a job for us to do!"

"Listen, son," his father said, "Last week you broke three jugs.

You scared my two best customers with your pet lightening bugs!

You tracked in mud on my clean floor, you tripped and dropped the bread.

And though I loved the fish you caught--why leave them on my bed?

I've put up with your helpfulness as long as I am able.

So do me one big favor now, get out--and clean the stable!"

Davey sadly went and stood beside the stable door.

It hardly seemed that anyone could clean that dirty floor.

He and Tim both felt so bad they started in to cry--

But then (thought Davey), "Yes, we can! Well, anyhow--let's try.

First, let's chase those chickens out. That's what we've got to do."

So Tim began to flap his ears while Davey shouted, "Shooooo!"

The Chickens clucked and flew and ducked, they fluttered wild and scary,

Until their feathers filled the air like snow in January.

Yes, Davey chased those chickens out, he and Tim together.

But now he had to get a sack and pick up every feather!

You should have seen how hard they worked! They stacked up all the wheat,

They straightened up the harnesses till they were nice and neat.

They fought with spiders bravely till they chased out every bug,

And since we must admit the truth--they broke another jug!

The very biggest job of all was stacking up the hay.

Davey climbed up to the loft and put it all away.

"Look, Tim. You see how high it is? I'll make just one more trip."

Then clear up by the stable roof his feet began to slip!

Down came the hay and Davey, too. The stable looked so queer

All you could see was piles of hay--one sandal, and one ear!

Slowly they came out on top, and Davey didn't whine,

Though hay stuck out all over him just like a porcupine!

He put the hay all back again and stacked it up with care--

But left one armload down below to fill the manger there.

So Davey's work was done at last, and when it all looked neat

He picked some flowers to trim the barn, and some for Tim to eat.

"I hope it's clean enough." he thought. "At least I did my best."

And feeling very, very, tired, he curled up for a rest....

Who woke up Davey from his sleep? Just guess them if you can.

Mary was the woman's name, Joseph was the man.

Mary said, "Oh Joseph, look! This is a lovely place!"

Then, seeing Davey there, she said, with such a shining face,

"Your father's inn had no more rooms, tonight we're staying here.

So tell me now, are you the boy who cleaned the stable, dear?

And did your donkey help you work? We want to thank him, too."

Though Davey was still half asleep, his heart was glad clear through.

So that is how a little boy, two thousand years ago,

Stayed on to hear the angels sing, and see the star aglow.

As soon as Baby Jesus came to use the manger bed,

Then Davey's sack of feathers made a pillow for His head.

No one told Davey anymore that he was in the way.

His work had helped get ready for the world's first Christmas Day!



day 7

"He shall feed His flock like a shepherd; He shall gather the lambs with His arm and carry them in His bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young." (Isaiah 40:11)

The Other Wise Man

The other wise man's name was Artaban. He was one of the Magi and he lived in Persia. He was a man of great wealth, great learning and great faith. With his learned companions he had searched the scriptures as to the time that the savior should be born. They knew that a new star would appear and it was agreed between them that Artaban would watch from Persia and the others would observe the sky from Babylon.

On the night he believed the sign was to be given, Artaban went out on his roof to watch the night sky. "If the star appears, they will wait for me ten days, then we will all set out together for Jerusalem. I have made ready for the journey by selling all of my possessions and have bought three jewels--a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl. I intend to present them as my tribute to the king."

As he watched, an azure spark was born out of the darkness, rounding itself with splendor into a crimson sphere. Artaban bowed his head. "It is the sign", he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meet him."

The swiftest of Artaban's horses had been waiting saddled and bridled in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently. She shared the eagerness of her master's purpose.

As Artaban placed himself upon her back, he said, "God bless us both from failing and our souls from death."

They began their journey. Each day his faithful horse measured off the allotted proportion of the distance, and at nightfall on the tenth day, they approached the outskirts of Babylon. In a little island of desert palm trees, Artaban's horse scented difficulty and slackened her pace. Then she stood still, quivering in every muscle.

Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying in the roadway. His skin bore the mark of a deadly fever. The chill of death was in his lean hand. As Artaban turned to go, a sigh came from the sick man's lips.

Artaban felt sorry that he could not stay to minister to this dying stranger, but this was the hour toward which his entire life had been directed. He could not forfeit the reward of his years of study and faith to do a single deed of human mercy. But then, how could he leave his fellow man alone to die?

"God of truth and mercy", prayed Artaban, "direct me in the path of wisdom which only thou knowest." then he knew that he could not go on. The Magi were physicians as well as astronomers. He took off his robe and began his work of healing. Several hours later the patient regained consciousness. Artaban gave him all that was left of his bread and wine. He left a potion of healing herbs and instructions for his care.

Though Artaban rode with the greatest haste the rest of the way, it was after dawn that he arrived at the designated meeting place. His friends were nowhere to be seen. Finally his eyes caught a piece of parchment arranged to attract his attention. It said, "We have waited till past midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the king. Follow us across the desert."

Artaban sat down in despair and covered his face with his hands. "How can I cross the desert with no food and with a spent horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my saphire and buy camels and provisions for the journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only the merciful God knows whether or not I shall lose my purpose because I tarried to show mercy."

Several days later when Artaban arrived at Bethlehem, the streets were deserted. It was rumored that Herod was sending soldiers, presumable to enforce some new tax, and the men of the city had taken their flocks into the hills beyond his reach.

The door of one dwelling was open, and Artaban could hear a mother singing a lullaby to her child. He entered and introduced himself. The woman told him that it was now the third day since the three wise men had appeared in Bethlehem. They had found Joseph and Mary and the young child, and had laid their gifts at His feet. Then they had gone as mysteriously as they had come. Joseph had taken his wife and babe that same night and had secretly fled. It was whispered that they were going far away into Egypt.

As Artaban listened, the baby reached up its dimpled hand and touched his cheek and smiled. His heart warmed at the touch. Then suddenly, outside there arose a wild confusion of sounds. Women were shrieking. Then a desperate cry was heard, "The soldiers of Herod are killing the children."

Artaban went to the doorway. A band of soldiers came hurrying down the street. The captain approached the door to thrust Artaban aside, but Artaban did not stir. His face was as calm as though he were still watching the stars. Finally his out-stretched hand revealed the giant ruby. He said, "I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudent captain who will go on his way and leave this house alone."

The captain, amazed at the splendor of the gem, took it and said to his men, "March on, there are no children here."

Then Artaban prayed, "Oh, God, forgive me my sin, I have spent for men that which was meant for God. Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of the King?"

But the voice of the woman, weeping of joy in the shadows behind him said softly, "Thou hast saved the life of my little one. May the Lord bless thee and keep thee and give thee peace."

Artaban, still following the King went on into Egypt seeking everywhere for traces of the little family that had fled before him. For many years we follow Artaban in his search. We see him at the pyramids. We see him in Alexandria taking counsel with a Hebrew rabbi who told him to seek the King not among the rich but among the poor.

He passed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in prisons. He searched the crowded slave markets. Though he found no one to worship, he found many to serve. As the years passed he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, healed the sick an comforted the captive.

Thirty-three years had now passed away since Artaban began his search. His hair was white as snow. He knew his life's end was near, but he was still desperate with hope that he would find the King. He had come for the last time to Jerusalem.

It was the season of the passover and the city was thronged with strangers. Artaban inquired where they were going. One answered, "We are going to the execution on Golgotha outside the city walls. Two robbers are to be crucified, and with them another called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who claims to be the Son of God and the priests and elders have said that he must die. Pilate sent him to the cross.

How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban. They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came to him like a message of despair. The King had been denied and cast out. Perhaps he was already dying. Could he be the same one for whom the star had appeared thirty-three long years ago?

Artaban's heart beat loudly within him. He thought, "It may be that I shall yet find the King and be able to ransom him from death by giving my treasure to his enemies."

But as Artaban started toward Calvary, he saw a troop of soldiers coming down the street, dragging a sobbing young woman. As Artaban paused, she broke away form her tormentors and threw herself at his feet, her arms clasped around his knees.

"Have pity on me," she cried, "And save me. My father was also of the Magi but he is dead. I am to be sold as a slave to pay his debts."

Artaban trembled as he again felt the conflict arising in his soul. It was the same that he had experienced in the palm grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the King had been drawn from his hand to the service of humanity. Would he now fail again? One thing was clear, he must rescue this helpless child from evil.

He took the pearl and laid it in the hand of the girl and said, "Daughter, this is the ransom, it is the last of my treasures which I had hoped to keep for the King."

While he spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened and the shuddering tremors of an earthquake ran through the ground. The houses rocked. The soldiers fled in terror. Artaban sank beside a protecting wall. What had he to fear? What had he to hope for? He had given away the last of his tribute to the King, The quest was over and he had failed. What else mattered?

The earthquake quivered beneath him. A havey tile, shaken from a roof, fell and struck him. He lay breathless and pale. Then there came a still small voice through the twilight. It was like distant music. The rescued girl leaned over him and heard him say, "Not so, my Lord; for when saw I thee hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger and took thee in? Or naked and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison and came unto thee? Thiry-three years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered unto thee, my King."

The sweet voice came again, "Verily I say unto thee, that inasmuch as thou has done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me."

A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the face of Artaban as one long, last breath exhaled gently from his lips. His journey was ended. His treasure accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.

day 6

"Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of Glory shall come in. Who is the King of Glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of Glory." (Psalms 24)

Is There a Santa Clause?

Dear Editor:

       I am eight years old.

       Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Clause. Papa says, "If you see it in The Sun it's so." Please tell me the truth is there a Santa Clause?

                                                 Virginia O'Hanlan

                                                  115 West 95th Street

                                                 New York City

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligent capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Clause! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith, no poetry, no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Clause! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Clause, but even if they did not see Santa Clause coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Clause, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Clause. The most real things in the world are those that either children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders that are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Clause! Thank God he lives, and he lives forever, a thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.