I never saw a redder nose, or more shaggy eye-browed eyes, or a gayer twinkle in them. And the pack that he carried was simply enormous. It could barely be squeezed through the door. As he made his way to the center of the room he looked quizzically about, groaning and squeaking in his funny voice, and wanting to know if the man in the monocle were really Barfleur, and whether the fat lady in the corner were really a nurse, or merely an interloper, and if the four children that had been reported to him as present were surely there. Having satisfied himself on various counts, and evoked a great deal of innocent laughter, to say nothing of awe as to his next probable comment, he finally untied the enormous bag and began to consult the labels. “Here’s a package marked ‘Charles Gerard Barfleur.’ It’s rather large. It’s been very heavy to carry all this distance. Can anybody tell me whether he’s been a reasonably good child? It’s very hard to go to all this trouble, if children aren’t really deserving.” Then, as he came forward, he added, “He has a very impish look in his eye, but I suppose I ought to let him have it.” And so the gift was handed over. One by one the presents came forth, commented on in this fashion, only the comments varied with the age and the personality of the recipient. There was no lack of humor or intimacy of application, for this Santa Claus apparently knew whereof he spoke. “Is there a writer in the room by the name of Theodore Dreiser?” he remarked at one time sardonically. “I’ve heard of him faintly and he isn’t a very good writer, but I suppose he’s entitled to a slight remembrance. I hope you reform, Mr. Dreiser,” he remarked very wisely, as he drew near me. “It’s very plain to me that a little improvement could be effected.” I acknowledged the wisdom of the comment.