Jimmy O’Neil, our favorite usher and a typical son of Erin, said: “I could tell you lots about Saint Patrick, but mighty little about Sindy Klaws. I think, however, he and I must look alike, for Mammy always says when I make her a present, ‘Go away, Jimmy, you’re as big a fool as Sindy Klaws, always giving people things.’” We shook our heads. “No, no, Jimmy; you are thin as a rail, have black, scraggly hair, a long, sharp nose and no beard, and everybody knows Sancta Claus to be fat, squatty, with a red face, long white beard and wearing a baggy coat crammed with toys and goodies.” Vivart, the French cook, whose toothsome sweets invested him with great importance in our hungry eyes and whom we waylaid on his morning visit to my mother, said: “I no acquaint with Monsieur Sancta Claus; he no live in Paris. In my beautiful France across the blue sea _les petits enfans_ never ask questions, speak only when spoken to, then with modest curtsies and downcast eyes.” “Ah, ha!” chuckled Mammy, “Mr. Vivart gives you a lesson in manners.” Hans, the German gardener, whose stories about Rhine castles and Black Forest witches and fairies were even more relished than the fruit and flowers he brought upstairs every morning, said: “I’m sure Kris Kringle will come; he might forget some children, but not White House ones, though I think it strange he does not hang his pretty things on a green tree instead of stuffing them in ugly stockings. How I wish you could see the beautiful trees which the boys and girls in Germany trim and light on Christmas Eve, and where they gather to sing songs, play games and exchange presents. Heaven seems very near at those times.” [Illustration: Mrs. Andrew Jackson] “Your German trees may be lovely, Hans,” said Carita, a Mexican embroideress occasionally employed by my mother, “but they can’t compare with the fancy lamps which the Rio Grande _ninitos_ hang on poles and bushes near their homes on Christmas Eve, and beneath which they find the next morning the beautiful gifts left for them by the Infant Jesus on His way from heaven to the Virgin’s arms.” She often told us stories descriptive of Mexican customs, and had just commenced one about the Alcalde’s daughter when Mammy called us to put on our wraps to go riding with the President, who wished us to meet him at the front door. Something like the “Divinity that doth hedge a king” invested him in our eyes, and always granting, often anticipating, his wishes, we never dared oppose or disobey his orders. While waiting, George, the coachman, told us of some bad children who found in their Christmas stockings a bundle of peach tree switches wrapped in paper labeled: “To be applied when spanking has proved insufficient,” and said he hoped we would fare better. Now we had on several occasions come in close contact with peach tree switches, but we did not thank George for reminding us of the stinging experiences.