and admitted a creature as strange looking as it was unexpected. It
moved straight toward Nick, and perched itself upon a three-legged
stool close beside him. This mysterious thing could not be pronounced
supernatural, and yet it was as unlike anything human as is possible
to imagine. It was more like some fantastic figure seen in a
dream--the creation of a disordered brain. It may be that it was a
goblin--Nick thought it one. It was only about two feet high; a mass
of dark-brown hair streamed down its back, partially concealing a
great hump, and thence flowed down to its heels. Its head was round as
a ball and topped out by a velvet cap of curious shape and
workmanship, with a broad projecting front which shaded a pair of
lustrous red eyes, set far back beneath the forehead--almost lost
there. Its breast was sunken, and the head settled down between the
shoulders, created an impression of weakness, as if, for example, it
should speak, that a small piping voice would come struggling up from
below. Baba looked up with alarm, but the goblin greeted him with a
smile, and said, "Merry Christmas, Nick," in a deep, strong and not
unmusical voice, which came boldly up and out from its parted lips.

"How do you know my name?" inquired the cobbler, "and why do you mock
me by such a greeting?"

"Baba, my friend," replied the Goblin, "I was just thinking that if
all the acts of your life had been as good and as humane as your
mechanical skill is perfect, you would not now be floundering in the
meshes of vice and dissipation. You are making a good pair of shoes
there."

The shoemaker worked away without raising his head, but responded
spitefully, "Where is the use of making them good?--I get no pay for