mousie, you.' Poor Squeaknibble was deceived; a sceptic all her life, she
was at last befooled by the most palpable and most fatal of frauds. 'How
good of you!' said Squeaknibble. 'I didn't believe there was a Santa
Claus, and--' but before she could say more she was seized by two sharp,
cruel claws that conveyed her crushed body to the murderous mouth of
mousedom's most malignant foe. I can dwell no longer upon this harrowing
scene. Suffice it to say that ere the morrow's sun rose like a big yellow
Herkimer County cheese upon the spot where that tragedy had been enacted,
poor Squeaknibble passed to that bourn whence two inches of her beautiful
tail had preceded her by the space of three weeks to a day. As for Santa
Claus, when he came that Christmas eve, bringing morceaux de Brie and of
Stilton for the other little mice, he heard with sorrow of Squeaknibble's
fate; and ere he departed he said that in all his experience he had never
known of a mouse or of a child that had prospered after once saying that
he didn't believe in Santa Claus."

"Well, that is a remarkable story," said the old clock. "But if you
believe in Santa Glaus, why aren't you in bed?"

"That's where I shall be presently," answered the little mauve mouse, "but
I must have my scamper, you know. It is very pleasant, I assure you, to
frolic in the light of the moon; only I cannot understand why you are
always so cold and so solemn and so still, you pale, pretty little
moonbeam."

"Indeed, I do not know that I am so," said the moonbeam. "But I am very
old, and I have travelled many, many leagues, and I have seen wondrous
things. Sometimes I toss upon the ocean, sometimes I fall upon a
slumbering flower, sometimes I rest upon a dead child's face. I see the
fairies at their play, and I hear mothers singing lullabies. Last night I