knew she wanted and would read often, so it was as well to take
precautions. He wished that Newton wanted a book, or even two or three,
or magazines with gaily coloured pictures, or anything that older or
younger boys would have liked a little. But Newton was at that age which
comes sooner or later to every healthy boy, and the sight of a book
which he was meant to read and ought to read was infinitely worse than
the ugliest old toad that ever flops out of a hollow tree at dusk,
spitting poison and blinking his devilish little eyes at you when you
come too near him.

Overholt had been brought up by people who lived in peace and good-will
towards men, in a city where the spirit of Christmas still dwells, and
sleeps most of the time, but wakens every year, like a giant of good
courage and good cheer, at the sound of the merry bells across the snow,
and to the sweet carol under the windows in the frosty night. The
Germans say that bad men have no songs; and we and all good fellows may
say that bad people have no Christmas, and though they copy the letter
they know not the spirit; and I say that a copied Christmas is no
Christmas at all, because Christmas is a feast of hearts and not of poor
bits of cut-down trees stuck up in sawdust and covered with lights and
tinsel, even if they are hung with the most expensive gewgaws and
gimcracks that ever are bought for gifts by people who are expected to
give, whether they like or not. But when the heart for Christmas is
there and is beating, then a very little tree will do, if there be none
better to the hand.

Overholt thought so, while the train rumbled, creaked, and clattered and
jerked itself along, as only local trains can, probably because they are
old and rheumatic and stiff and weak in the joints, like superannuated
crocodiles, though they may have once been young express trains, sleek