wondrous marvels within. The little pastry-shops and corner-groceries
vied with the toy-shops and confectionaries, and were packed with a
population that hummed like bees, the busy murmur broken every now and
then by jests and calls and laughter, as the customers squeezed in
empty-handed, or slipped out with carefully-wrapped parcels hugged close
to their cheery bosoms or carried in their arms with careful pride.

Livingstone finally was compelled to get off the sidewalk again and take
to the street. Here, at least, there were no fine carriages to block his
way.

As he began to approach a hill, he was aware of yells of warning ahead
of him, and, with shouts of merriment, a swarm of sleds began to shoot
by him, some with dark objects lying flat on their little stomachs,
kicking their heels high in the air; others with small single or double
or triple headed monsters seated upright and all screaming at the top of
their merry voices. All were unmindful of the falling snow and nipping
air, their blood hot with the ineffable fire of youth that flames in the
warm heart of childhood, glows in that of youth, and cools only with the
cooling brain and chilling pulse.

Before Livingstone could press back into the almost solid mass on the
sidewalk he had come near being run down a score of times. He felt that
it was an outrage. He fairly flamed with indignation. He, a large
taxpayer, a generous contributor to asylums and police funds, a
supporter of hospitals,--that he should be almost killed!

He looked around for a policeman--

"Whoop! Look out! Get out the way!" Swish! Swish! Swish! they shot by.