We begged to be allowed to sit up to see Sancta Claus come down the chimney and pass through the fire without scorching his bundles, declaring we were not sleepy and promising never to be naughty again; then when Mammy hustled us off _nolens volens_ to bed, we vowed we’d lie awake all night, and, still protesting, sank into tired childhood’s dreamless slumber. About daybreak Mammy’s shrill voice calling “Christmas gift, you sleepy heads!” awoke us, and amazed, indignant, to find we had slept soundly after all, we sprang from bed and darted in our bare feet, unheeding her cries, “Wait till you’re dressed, you’ll catch your death of cold,” across the hall to Uncle’s room and asked, “Did Sancta Claus come?” “See for yourselves,” said he, opening his door. He was up and dressed, had a bright fire, and watched us tenderly, as rushing in we seized our stockings, each one, his included, being well filled, and beneath them the presents we specially desired--for him a cob-pipe, pair of warm slippers and tobacco bag; for brother Jackson, then eight years old and very mannish, talking grandly about shooting on the fly and jumping the hurdle, a small gun, saddle and bridle; for John a hobby horse and drum, for me and cousin Rachel a doll and tea-set each, and for the babies toy rattles. Delighted we voted Sancta Claus to be the nicest old fellow in the world. [Illustration: Mrs. Emily Donelson] Had we known our real benefactor we would have felt some disappointment, dearly as we loved him, for the occult has indescribable fascination for children, who, though grasping, loving to hoard and accumulate, find in the mystery surrounding Sancta Claus a charm surpassing even his bounty. See a child spring from bed early Christmas morning, grasp and examine its stocking, finding in it long-coveted, unlooked-for treasures, meanwhile imagining the fat, white-bearded old man crossing, like “Puss in Boots,” hill and dale, sea and lake, to bring it presents, bending perchance over its sleeping form to imprint a kiss, then slipping away without waiting to be thanked. Can human fancy picture a more entrancing scene? When in after years does any moment yield more unalloyed bliss? Mammy, often provoking with her strict notions of nursery discipline, outdid herself that morning, for though we implored her to let us empty our stockings just to see if that lump in the toe was a dime or quarter, she barbarously put them away, and rubbing, scrubbing, combing, curling, as if for dear life’s sake, dressed us for breakfast. Below stairs the halls, dining and sitting rooms decorated with cedar and holly, the vases filled with flowers on tables and mantels, and huge logs blazing on the hearths, made a cheery, comforting scene. [Illustration: Rachel Donelson]