Clearly that pointed the way to the little house and the fulfillment of the gift promise. John worked himself cautiously along the line in spite of cries of, "Cheater, look at him!" from boys with maternal impediments to prevent like maneuvers. When the white, asbestos snow-covered house came in view, John halted discreetly, for, with the goal so near, he could not risk being thrown out of the line for cutting ahead of others. Slowly the people moved forward until the interior of the room was visible through the little side window. At the far end of a wooden counter, a fat, red-coated Santa Claus passed trinket after trinket into eager juvenile hands, pausing now and then, as childish lips lisped requests for dolls, sleds, or other toys. On the very threshold, a stocky store employee interposed a hand in front of John. "Where's your folks?" he demanded. The boy gasped. That condition of the distribution had been completely forgotten. "Well?" pressed the inquisitor, a smile about his lips. He gazed about desperately. Just leaving the room was a buxom German woman in black, with a hat covered with bobbing, blue-green plumes. "There she is," he pointed. "That's my mother. I got separated from her." The man removed his arm and chuckled. At least three other urchins had claimed relationship with that self-same lady. Up to the old saint at last. His ruddy-cheeked mask was softened by perspiration, and there was a droop about his red-clad shoulders which expressed a wish that this, the last day of his sojourn in the city, were already over. John grabbed the cheap pencil box which was handed him. The guardian at the exit was crying, "Keep moving, keep moving," and the lethargic line in obedience carried John beyond the confines of the house to new wonders. If the Brownie Village forced staid adults to pause and smile appreciatively at the whimsicalities of gnome life, the juveniles halted and dragged and impeded the progress of the procession as each new wonder confronted them. White-furred little bunnies moved solemnly along at intervals over concealed runways, stopping now and then to bow to the amused audience. Winking, gray-bearded elves bobbed up from behind canvas rocks to wave diminutive hands before popping back to their shelters. One sun-bonneted fellow in patched overalls bent spasmodically over a little wooden wash tub on a hill. Further on, a perpetual clatter drew attention to the rustic forge where a brown-clad smith hammered lustily at a miniature horse shoe. At the end, stood a second brazen-lunged sentry, who like the other, implored the crowd to "Keep moving. Please keep moving." Out by the toy counters, John found a dirty-faced street gamin in patched knee trousers confronting him. They eyed each other for a moment. "Going 'round again?" asked John. The boy nodded. "What'd he give you?" John displayed his pencil box; the boy, a discordant reed whistle.