It is no secret whither Kleiner Traum vanished. The moment he had left little Peter Mit, he was sitting on David Morgridge's breast, kaleidoscope in hand. One shake of the kaleidoscope. Really, Mr. Morgridge sees strange things. He sees a little boy no bigger than Peter Mit, in a snug little room, hanging up on the door a red and white plaid stocking. The strangest thing is that he remembers the place and surroundings perfectly. He knows the cozy room, the white dimity curtains, the little cot bed, the sixteen-paned window looking out on the church-spire and the meadow; it was as if he had skipped sixty years of his life backward, for the little boy was a diminutive David Morgridge. But the kaleidoscope makes quick shifts. Here is another turn, and Mr. Morgridge, as if he were a picture on the wall, is looking at a room which he knows well enough. It is the tobacco shop. There are two men in it; one sits on the bench and takes snuff, and does up little paper pellets; the other is just discoverable under a cloud of tobacco smoke, perched upon the top of a small observatory. This, too, is Christmas Eve, for so the little man on the watch-tower announces, as if he kept the calendar of the seasons, and piped an "All's Well" to his comrade below. "David," he says, "David Morgridge! This is Christmas Eve. 'On earth peace, good will toward men.' That's what the Bible says, and that's what Trinity chimes say. How many Christmases have we kept together? eighteen, David; then that's eighteen turkeys for the poor folk, though bless us we're not much richer." This is a long speech for Solomon Mit, yet the man snuffing on the bench says nothing, but scowls. Then does Solomon Mit clamber down from his watch-tower, and with his cheery, piping voice sing a Christmas hymn, and though David Morgridge never lends his voice, the little man is no whit disheartened, but ends with laying his hand on David's shoulder and heartily wishing--"God bless you, David Morgridge, old friend--God bless us all!" and climbs once more to the top of his tower. Quickly turns the kaleidoscope again, and now Mr. Morgridge, like a shadow in the dark that can see but not be seen, is in the room where he is now sleeping. But he is not on the bed, he is standing by the side of it, and the old cheery voice, though weaker now, of Solomon Mit comes from the pillow. The little man has come down from his tower for the last time, and has puffed his last pipeful of tobacco smoke. This, too, is Christmas Eve, and Solomon Mit has not forgotten it. Listen, he is speaking now.