collar; into this he quickly plunges, and sets a visorless sealskin cap daintily on his head. All these movements are swift and sure, but noiseless; you would scarcely hear his step if you were in the counting-room; he opens the door of the anteroom, and shuts it without any clatter; he is as spry and as sly and as silent as a humming-bird. Little? Well, I should say so! About five feet three in his high-heeled boots; plump figure; ruddy face with no suspicion of beard; bright gray eyes; curling chestnut hair; nose like a Seckel pear, and pursy little bud of a mouth, ready on the shortest notice to blossom into a smile. How old? I give it up. If I should say that he is twenty, you would believe it; and if I should put him down at forty, you would not dispute it. He is one of those plump, fresh, cheery people who never grow old. He has donned his overcoat, and stands pulling on his fur gloves and looking out of the window at the softly-falling snow before any of the clerks have discovered his movements. Then Finch, the paying-teller, looks up quickly and says with a smile: "Hello, Ben! Off for the night?" about twelve years old; the company gave him a position as train newsboy and kept a kindly watch over him; he was steady and frugal, saved his money and took a term or two at a commercial college; then he took a place as bookkeeper in a bank down street, and has now been there ten years. He is a first-class bookkeeper and one of the best known and best loved men in the city. I don't know why he is so popular. He is very quiet, one of the properest little men you ever saw; never says or does an undignified thing; never takes a prominent part in public affairs; never blows his trumpet on the streets when he bestows his alms, so nobody knows what charitable deeds he may do, though there is a general impression that he is a very generous giver. Whatever good he does, he manages to keep well hidden. I don't think I have another man in my church whose influence is, on the whole, more salutary and helpful, than that of little Ben Benjamin." Meantime the little man, whose ears might have burned if they had not been tingling with the keen Christmas frost, has turned into a broad avenue, and is hurrying homeward. The snow falls faster "Yes, and for the morrow, too," answers the and faster; the sleighing, which was somewhat little man in a chirping tone. "Of course. A good holiday to you, old chap! You 've earned it, if anybody has." worn, will be thoroughly repaired. Through the gate that opens before a pretty cottage the little man passes, and lets himself in "Thank you, sir. Your saying so will help to with a latch-key, at the front door. A kindlymake it merry." 66 'Good-night, Ben!" "Merry Christmas, Ben!" Such are the hearty words that follow him as he hurries away. It is evident that he is a favorite among his fellows. As he walks up the busy street, dodging the porters rushing out of the stores with boxes and bundles, and the shoppers hurrying home with their hands full of parcels, and their eyes still turning to the bright show-windows, he gets ever and anon a bow and a friendly word from the persons whom he meets- greetings which he returns with a sprightly courtesy. Two clerical-looking gentlemen pause and shake hands with him, the one introducing him to the other. It is Doctor Adams of the Third Presbyterian Church who knows the little man, and who tells his companion, after they have parted with him, something of his history. Let us listen: "Benoni Benaiah Benjamin, that is his name," the Doctor laughing. says "My, what a name!" answers the other. "Is he a Hebrew, pray?" Oh, no; he is the son of a Puritan Yankee who settled in Western Pennsylvania years ago. He only child, and his father and mother were killed in a railway accident when he was was an VOL. XIII.-7. faced old lady comes forward to meet him, takes from his hands his scarf and his cap, and leads him into the little drawing-room, where a bright fire is glowing in the grate. Good Mrs. Snowden has had Ben Benjamin as her sole boarder for ten years, and the business interest of the landlady and the stately courtesy of the hostess are by this time wholly swallowed up in the motherly affection with which she has learned to regard him. He has taken in her heart the place that belonged to her own son, who died just before Ben came to live with her. The rocking-chair that he likes is drawn up by the fire and the evening paper lies within reach on a stand at his elbow. But the little man shows no interest in the news of the day; his mind is evidently preoccupied. He sits with his feet upon the fender, looking into the blazing coals, and musing while the fire burns. "It is snowing fast, Mr. Benjamin," the landlady ventures. "Very fast; fast enough to make a lovely Christmas counterpane in an hour. An inch or two must have fallen already." "Will you drive to-night, as usual?" "Certainly; the ponies need the exercise, and I don't mind the snow." "When Thomas came in, after feeding the ponies," Mrs. Snowden continues, "he said that an expressman had just brought a barrel addressed to you, to be left at the stable. Christmas gifts for the ponies, I dare say." "Likely enough!" laughed Ben. Santa Claus would n't forget them." "Of course The maid now announces supper. After it is finished, Ben dons his overcoat and his warm Arctic overshoes, and is ready for his customary evening drive. 66 "Don't sit up for me," he says carelessly to Mrs. Snowden. "I shall take a long drive tonight, and it may be late before I return." The landlady lifts her eye-brows slightly; this is unwonted behavior; but her confidence in her protégé allows no questioning. So Ben sallies forth, bidding her good-night, and leaving her to speculate on his mysterious performance. It must, by this time, be as evident to my readers as it was to Mrs. Snowden that there is something unusual on the mind of our hero; and it is impossible any longer to hide the secret which he has so carefully concealed. The truth is that this quiet, kindly, proper little man has determined that to-night, for once in his life, he will go off on a regular lark. He has been cherishing this purpose for three or four weeks. Perhaps the first suggestion of it came into his mind on the afternoon when the first snow fell. He was driving along Elm avenue in his cute little cutter, drawn by the prancing brown ponies that are now so well known in Smokopolis, when he heard, through the resonant air that often accompanies a snowstorm, a little girl standing on a corner say to her companion: "My! would n't he make a lovely Santa Claus!" and lying sheltered and secure from the noises of the world in a lovely valley, the abode of peace. The houses on either side the long street were well separated; and there was not enough movement on the street to interfere with such a shadowy visitation as Ben was contemplating. So the plan had gradually shaped itself in his mind. He would collect, one by one, a large number of gifts, of all sorts, suitable for old and young; on Christmas eve, after dark, he would steal away to Springdale, watch his chances, and make his distribution in ways that might then be opened to him. The barrel which had been delivered, that afternoon, at the stable, contained the store which was thus to be dispensed. He had purchased these gifts in many places; and had kept them in a private closet of his own in the basement of the bank building; the expressman had brought the barrel to the stable by his order. This is the secret that is hidden in the breast of Benoni Benaiah Benjamin, as he bids Mrs. Snowden good-night, and trots briskly down the garden-walk in the direction of the stable where the brown ponies, Dunder and Blixen, who know their master's step, are whinnying to give him greeting. These ponies are almost the only luxury little Ben allows himself; they have been in his possession now for four years; and every day, after banking hours, Ben is whirling along some country road behind them, filling his lungs with the sweet air of the hills and his heart with the pure delight of motion. Ben opens the stable door and is greeted by an audible horse-giggle from the ponies, as they take from his fingers the accustomed lump of sugar with great gusto, and rub their brown cheeks against "Would n't he, though!" exclaimed the other. his red cheeks in a very loving fashion. "He's just the right size." Ben now lights his lantern, casts off his over"And what a jolly little face, too! Only Santa coat, seizes a hatchet and quickly unheads the Claus has whiskers, I think." mysterious barrel; then he transfers its contents to Ben laughed softly, when he heard it, and then his sleigh, carefully placing them so that he may kept thinking it over. Would n't it be fun to be a veritable Santa Claus, and go about giving gifts?—not to take anybody into the secret, of course; to surprise everybody with presents that nobody could account for; or, perhaps, to let them have a glimpse of the messenger, hurriedly depositing his favors and swiftly departing, unheralded and unexplained. The more he thought of it, the more he was fascinated by the notion. But it would not do to attempt it here in Smokopolis; he would almost certainly be discovered. It could only be done in some secluded country place where there were no throngs and no gas-lamps on the streets. Springdale that was the very place! It was a village thirteen miles north of the city; one long street running east and west, crossed at its western extremity by the Gridiron Railway, easily lay his hands on them,- dolls in one pile, games in another, books by themselves, toys for the little folk in a separate heap; two or three warm little shawls for the shoulders of old ladies (shawls such as Ben had given to his landlady last winter and found her often rejoicing in), and a variety of miscellaneous articles, of which he hopes to make some fitting disposal. From the bottom of the barrel he pulls out a white cap, made of the fur of the Arctic fox, and a flowing white wig and beard. Arrayed in these disguises, he glances at his face as revealed in the bit of looking-glass that Thomas keeps for his stable toilet, and breaks into a gleeful laugh. Suddenly he checks himself, covers his mouth with his hands, and goes dancing across the stable floor. Such a jolly little Santa Claus as he is, with his keen eyes, his little dump ling of a nose, and his red cheeks blooming out of this shock of white hair! His fur coat will complete the costume. "Hey, Dunder! Ho, Blixen !" he softly cries, as he confronts the ponies. "Did you ever see Santa Claus ? " The ponies answer with a snort, starting back in their stalls, but Ben's voice re-assures them. Quickly now he flings on the harness, from which he removes the bells; and, tucking his gray fur lap-robe carefully around his treasures, he puts his lighted lantern between his feet, underneath the robe, and drives away. Out through the alley, across the street, and down another unfrequented lane he slips swiftly along, and soon is beyond the street-lamps, out in the open country. Dunder and Blixen are in their gayest mood; they fill their nostrils with the winter wind, and spin away right merrily. It is now about seven o'clock, and there are thirteen miles to cover; but Ben does not wish to reach Springdale too early; the ponies will easily make it by half-past eight. Dearborn Woods, a stretch of forest three miles long, lies just ahead of him; and Dunder and Blixen plunge into its somber arches at a brisk pace. It is a familiar road to them, and they are wont to quicken their gait when they enter its shadows. Now the long-pentup mirth of the little man can safely effervesce, and his cheery laugh rings through the woods in clear, melodious laughter. "Oho! ho! ho!" he cries; "is n't this a jolly lark, indeed? Who would ever have suspected you, Benoni Benjamin, of cutting this kind of a caper r? What would Doctor Adams and the church folk say if they caught you in this ridiculous rig? But they wont catch you, eh? No; they wont. Ho! ho! ho! The Doctor said one day, in the Bible class, that Ben in Hebrew words means son of something or other, Benoni Benaiah Benjamin, what are you the son of, to-night? I have it. The College boys sing it: 'I'm the son of a son of a Son of a son of a Son of a gambolier.' That 's what I am? Hey! Oho! ho!" The little man trolls this merry stave - it happens to be all he knows of the song. - over and over again, and laughs and shouts till Dunder and Blixen catch the infection, and, shaking their heads and snorting vociferously, they break into a gallop. If there had been any elves or goblins in Dearborn Woods that night, they would surely have come forth from their hiding-places at the sound of Ben Benjamin's laughter; but neither they nor any of human kind responded to his mer riment, and when he emerged from the woods and the lights of the farm-houses began to re-appear by the roadside, his jubilation was subdued to a merry little laugh, and the ponies sped over the snow with scarcely a sound. The soft falling snow slowly increases in depth as they go northward, and the driver compels his eager coursers to take a more leisurely pace. At this rate, six or eight inches of snow will be added during the night to the well-worn sleighing more than enough for Christmas uses. Thus far, Ben has neither met nor overtaken a single wayfarer; but, as he reaches the top of a long hill, he sees a light approaching from the direction of Springdale. It is Doctor Horton, the physician of that village, going out on some professional errand and carrying his lantern in his buggy. "Here's a go!" says Ben to himself, "How shall we dodge that lantern? It's some old covey that will want to talk, I'll venture. Look alive there, Blixen; you and Dunder must get me out of this." The light draws near, and as the horses meet, the Doctor turns the light of the lantern full upon Ben's face. His own eyes are as big as dollars. "Je-ru-sha!" he exclaims (it is the only expression of the sort he allows himself), "What's this anyhow?" The passage is somewhat narrow, and Ben is giving strict attention to his ponies. His only an swer is a little gurgling laugh. "Who are you? What's your name? Where on earth did you come from?" cries Doctor Horton hurriedly, his voice quivering a little. "Oho! ho! ho!" laughed Ben, with a tone as musical and as gay as the horns of Elfland. "Good-natured laugh! says the Doctor; "nothing impish in that, I'll guarantee.” I have met in my travels. None of the Smokopolis boys are likely to be off on this lonely road at this time of night, and you don't belong in Springdale, that I know. You're a conundrum, and I give you up. But I don't believe that you are bent on mischief. Too gay a laugh, and too merry an eye for that." And turning his horse's head southward, the Doctor jogs on. After this Ben meets no travelers until he turns the corner, near the blacksmith shop, at the eastern extremity of Springdale street. Here a belated farmer, upon an empty wood-rack, scans the small establishment inquisitively, but it is dark, and Ben has flung the corner of his lap-robe over his head, so that the gaze of the curious rustic is scantily rewarded. Now he is driving down the village street, and the shafts of light are shot athwart the way, through the falling snow, from the windows of the houses on either side. In default of street lamps, all the villagers open their shutters and draw their curtains, in the winter evenings, that the light of the fireside may guide and cheer the traveler. It is now nine o'clock, for the deepening snow has somewhat retarded our amateur Santa Claus. But it is a very good time for him to make a reconnoissance of the village. Through these open windows he can gain many hints as to the best disposition of his bounty. He will drive carefully and slowly down on one side of the wide street and back on the other, keeping his eyes open and noting the houses; then he will go round again, a little later, and make his distribution. "Steady, Dunder! Slowly, Blixen!" he says softly: "let's look a minute!" They are stopping before a low, broad cottage, with sloping roof; a white-haired woman is sitting by the evening lamp. "That gray shoulder-shawl will fit you beautifully!" says Ben. A little girl about eight years old is sitting by the side of the old lady-grandmother and granddaughter beyond a doubt: the maiden is working away for dear life on some bit of worsted, and glancing stealthily over her shoulder, now and then, at her father who sits reading on the other side of the table. "Good!" chuckles Ben, who takes in the situation, at a glance; "you shall have one of the work-boxes, little Busy-fingers!" So while the ponies stand, he writes by the light of his lantern, under the lap-robe, on two cards, "For the old Lady," and, "For the fairhaired Girl,"-pins the one on the shawl, and shuts the other into the work-box; makes a bundle of them, and lays them together in a corner of the sleigh. So he goes from house to house, picking out the presents, slipping them into big paper bags that he has provided; one bag for each house, and piling the bags in regular order in his sleigh. Some of the houses refuse to give him any clew to the age and quality of their occupants; but before he has made the circuit of the street he has found places for all his small wares, and he feels well assured that the greater number of them will be fittingly bestowed. A good half-hour has been taken in this reconnoissance; when it is finished he scuds back toward the eastern end of the street to begin the distribution. Very few pedestrians have appeared on the sidewalks, and these he has managed to dodge by skillfully tarrying in the dark places between the houses until they were past. But now, a boy of ten, carrying a bundle, and whistling blithely, plunges out from the walk and cries: "Let me ride?" Ben is too good-natured to refuse, and the boy fastens himself to the side of the sleigh, clinging to his bundle. "Slick little team you have there," he says. "Well, I reckon!" answers Ben in his tuneful falsetto. "Can they go?" asks the boy. "Yes, pretty well for little fellows." Ben wishes to answer no more questions, so he quickly reverses the order of the colloquy and becomes inquisitor himself. "What's your name, boy?" 66 66 'Jack Kilbourne." Any relation to Jack the Giant-Killer?" "Oh, yes; I'm his great-grandfather's second cousin," answers Jack, promptly. "Oho! ho!" laughs Ben. "You're an old one, you are! Any younger ones at your house?" 'Yes, sir! We've a new boy baby there not four weeks old. And then there 's Sis; she 's been up to Grandma's now for a month, and she 's comin' down to-night on the 'commodation. There's the whistle, now!" "Is she coming alone?" "Yes; Uncle Tom's put her on the train, and Papa will meet her at the depot." "What's her name?" "Lil." "How old is she?" ""'Bout five or six, I guess." "Where do you live?" "Right up there; big white house; left hand side." All the while, Jack's eyes have been on the ponies; he has not once raised them to the driver's face, and he could have seen but little if he had, for they have been passing a space vacant of houses, where all was dark. But now, just as they are drawing near to Jack's home, the ruling passion of the boy seizes its last chance to utter itself: "Let's see 'em go!" Nothing loth, Ben whistles to the ponies, and they spring at once into a rattling pace Jack is delighted, but his delight is only momentary; they are opposite his house in ten seconds, and the ponies are reined in to let him dismount. He lifts his eye to the face of the charioteer just as the light from the window strikes it, and the look of amazement that overspreads his countenance tickles Ben to the very end of his toes. "Oho! ho! ho!" laughs the little man; while the boy suddenly relaxes his hold upon the sleigh and tumbles backward into the snow. Quick as a "S-s-a-anta Claus!" 66 'Santa Claus? Where was he? How do you know?" asks the mother, her anxious look relaxing into an expression of curiosity and amusement. "Right out here in the street. I rode up with him from down there by Billy Townsend's house." "Rode with him?" "Y-y-es 'm! I caught on his sleigh an' rode with him. He had the cutest little ponies!" "What did he say to you?" queries Mrs. Kilbourne, beginning to laugh. "D-don't know what he did say," stammers Jack; "it scared everything out o' my head when HO!' LAUGHS THE LITTLE MAN, AS THE BOY TUMBLES BACKWARD INTO THE SNOW." flash he picks himself up and peers through the storm at the flying apparition. "Je-mi-ma Cripps!" gasps Jack; "if that is n't the old fellow himself, then I hope I may never see him!" The boy rushes into the house, while the little man speeds away to the upper end of the street to set forth on his benignant errand. "W-w-what d' ye think I saw just now?" cries Jack, bursting into his mother's room, his teeth fairly chattering. "Sh-h! my son, you'll wake the baby. But what was it?" asks the pale lady hurriedly, perceiving the boy's excitement. I saw him. Never looked up at all to see who it was till we were right opposite our house, 'n' then the light shone right into his face. My! what a cunning little chap. I don't believe he 's more 'n that high," and Jack measures with his hand a stature less than his own,-"and his face and his eyes look as if he were about five years old, and his hair and whiskers look as if he were about five hundred; and he had a little fur cap and a fur coat, I think; and he laughed,- you ought to have heard him laugh!" "What made him laugh?" "To see how s'prised I was, I guess. He asked me 'f I was any relation to Jack the Giant-Killer, |