That was the messagethat came to mefrom an editor last December[4]just as I wasgoing on a journey.Why he sent it to meI don't know. Perhapsit was because, when Iwas a little chap, myhome was way up towardthat white northwhere even the littleboys ride in sleds behindreindeer, as they arethe only horses theyhave. Perhaps it wasbecause when I was ayoung lad I knew HansChristian Andersen,who surely ought toknow, and spoke histongue. Perhaps it was[5]both. I will ask theeditor when I see him.Meanwhile, here washis letter, with Christmasright at the door,and, as I said, I wasgoing on a journey.

I buttoned it up inmy great coat along witha lot of other letters Ididn't have time to read,and I thought as I wentto the depot what a pityit was that my littlefriend's papa shouldhave forgotten aboutSanta Claus. We bigpeople do forget thestrangest way, and then[6]we haven't got a bit ofa good time any more.