stilled breath and heart beating so loudly you thought it would awaken
everyone in the house, You softly opened the door - poked your arm
through - felt around where the stocking ought to be, but with a great
sinking in your heart when you didn't find it the first time - and
finally your chubby fist clutched the misshapen, lumpy, bulging fabric
that proclaimed a generous Santa Claus.

Yes, it was there!

That was enough for the moment. A hurried climb back into the warm bed -
and then interminable years of waiting until your attuned ear caught the
first sounds of grandmother's dressing in her nearby bedroom, and the
first gleam of winter daylight permitted you to see the wondrous
stocking and the array of packages on the sofa. It was beyond human
strength to refrain from just one look. But alas! The sight of a
dapple-grey rocking-horse with silken mane and flowing tail was too
much, and the next moment you were in the room with your arms around his
arched neck, while peals of unrestrained joy brought the whole family to
the scene. Then it was that mother gathered you into her lap, and
wrapped her skirt about your bare legs, and held your trembling form
tight in her arms until you promised to get dressed if they would open
just one package - the big one on the end of the sofa. After that there
was always "just one more, please!" and by that time the base burner was
warming up and you were on the floor in the middle of the discarded
wrapping-paper, uncovering each wonderous package down to the very last -
the very, very last - in the very toe of the stocking - the big round
one that you were sure was a real league ball but proved to be nothing
but an orange! . . .

No Santa Claus? Huh! . . .