needed exercise. He had been working rather too hard of late. However,
he was worth--yes, all that!--Out in the snow the sum was before him in
cold facsimile.

He had not gone far before he wished he had ridden. The street was
thronged with people: some streaming along; others stopping in front of
the big shop-windows, blocking the way and forcing such as were in a
hurry to get off the sidewalk. The shop-windows were all brilliantly
dressed and lighted. Every conception of fertile brains was there to
arrest the attention and delight the imagination. And the interest of
the throngs outside and in testified the shopkeepers' success.

Here Santa Claus, the last survivor of the old benefactors, who has
outlasted whole hierarchies of outworn myths and, yet firm in the
devotion of the heart of childhood, snaps his fingers alike at arid
science and blighting stupidity, was driving his reindeer, his teeming
sleigh filled with wonders from every region: dolls that walked and
talked and sang, fit for princesses; sleds fine enough for princes;
drums and trumpets and swords for young heroes; horses that looked as
though they were alive and would spring next moment from their rockers;
bats and balls that almost started of themselves from their places;
little uniforms, and frocks; skates; tennis-racquets; baby caps and
rattles; tiny engines and coaches; railway trains; animals that ran
about; steamships; books; pictures--everything to delight the soul of
childhood and gratify the affection of age.

There Kris Kringle, Santa Claus's other self, with snowy beard, and fur
coat hoary with the frost of Arctic travel from the land of unfailing
snow and unfailing toys, stood beside his tree glittering with crystal
and shining with the fruits of every industry and every clime.