_Mr. St. N_.: I am the new, up-to-the-times Santa Claus. My proper
name is Mr. St. Nicholas. I am on my rounds to take the names of
all the young people who deserve a remembrance at Christmas time.
I haven't a moment to lose. My telephones are overburdened with
messages, my men are distracted with the work to be done between now
and daylight. _(Pulls out a book and pencil and prepares to write
while he addresses Tom and speaks rapidly without waiting for a
reply_.) Your name, young man? Your age, birthplace, parents' names?
Residence? Attendant at what school? What specific tastes? List of
last year's presents. Make haste, time is money.

_Katie_: But Santa--I mean Mr. St. Nicholas--here are our stockings.

_Mr. St. N_.: Christmas stockings! trash and nonsense. They belong to
the dark ages.

_Harry_: Pray, how do you bestow your gifts?

_Mr. St. N_.: By district messenger service, of course! Next boy
_(to Charlie_), give me your name, age, birthplace, parents' names,
residence, school, specific tastes, last year's presents.

_Charlie_: How did you come here, Mr. St. Nicholas? I heard no
sleigh-bells at the door.

_Mr. St. N. (scornfully)_: More nonsense to explain. I came down from
the north pole in an air-ship of the latest pattern. Come, now, here
are these girls waiting to be classified. _(To Dora.)_ Name, age--