On the night of the twenty-fifth of December there comes forth from the cave of eternity an old man of dignity and awe, whose hair the turns of time have whitened and whose back the burden of the ages has bent. He is girded in a red mantle whose warp is of years and whose weft is of generations. He walks with a smile on his lips that cannot be effaced, and in his eyes a gleam

that does not go out. He goes along slowly, leaning with one hand on his staff and carrying in the other a laden bag which he has thrown over his shoulder. He makes his way among the huts and the palaces, bestowing on their sleeping children and young ones what his load affords.

He is a venerable old man who has grown used to what no other human being is accustomed

to: he is used to giving and not taking. He is the one we all know by the name of Santa Claus. As for this name of his, it is nothing but the English corruption of the two Dutch words San Nicolas, that is, Saint Nicholas. The Dutch colonists brought this name to America, and the

Americans passed it on and altered its pronunciation until it settled as "Santa Claus." This