The flames crackled on, the neighbors still played their cribbage. Still
was the day bright, but the shrinking wedge of sun had gone entirely from
the window-sill. Half-past Full had drawn from his pocket a mouthorgan,
breathing half-tunes upon it; in the middle of "Suwanee River" the man
who sat in the corner laid the letter he was beginning upon the heap on
his knees and read no more. The great genial logs lay glowing, burning;
from the fresher one the flames flowed and forked; along the embered
surface of the others ran red and blue shivers of iridescence. With legs
and arms crooked and sprawled, the buccaroos brooded, staring into the
glow with seldom-winking eyes, while deep inside the clay the spirit
spoke quietly. Christmas Day was passing, but the sun shone still two
good hours high. Outside, over the snow and pines, it was only in the
deeper folds of the hills that the blue shadows had come; the rest of the
world was gold and silver; and from far across that silence into this
silence by the fire came a tinkling stir of sound. Sleighbells it was,
steadily coming, too early for Bolles to be back from his school
festival.

The toy-thrill of the jingling grew clear and sweet, a spirit of
enchantment that did not wake the stillness, but cast it into a deeper
dream. The bells came near the door and stopped, and then Drake opened
it.

"Hello, Uncle Pasco!" said he. "Thought you were Santa Claus."

"Santa Claus! H'm. Yes. That's what. Told you maybe I'd come."

"So you did. Turkey is due in--let's see--ninety minutes. Here, boys!
some of you take Uncle Pasco's horse."