“Speak for yourself,” said Snythergen. “Tell Santa Claus what you can do.” “Yes, Sancho, what work can you do?” asked Santa Claus. “Oh, I’m a good watch bird,” said Sancho Wing. “I can get up close to people and hear all they say, and see all they do without being seen myself. If necessary there is always some little place for me to hide. I can dodge into a man’s coat pocket—or”—(with a sly look at Santa Claus)—“creep into his beard!” “I can testify to that,” said Santa Claus emphatically. “And Squeaky here, what can he do?” asked Santa Claus. “I will say this for him,” said Snythergen, “he’s good about visiting. Usually he sleeps while I work so as to be bright and lively when I want to rest. He entertains me and makes me forget my troubles.” “Your troubles!” said Santa Claus in surprise—“I didn’t think you had any.” “Oh, yes, plenty of them! The little ones, such as”—(with a look at Squeaky)—“pigs nibbling my toes, woodpeckers stabbing my trunk, bears biting my roots, bothersome nest-builders”—(here Snythergen winked at Sancho Wing)—“tickling my branches; woodchoppers plotting against my life—these are bad enough. But my big trouble—” His face grew long and a great tear trembled on his cheek and splashed down on Squeaky’s head, making him jump. “What is the big trouble?” asked Santa Claus kindly, while Sancho Wing and Squeaky looked up in surprise. “I never told anybody,” said Snythergen. “Maybe you would rather not say anything about it now,” said Santa Claus sympathetically. “Oh, I must tell you. I have a father and a mother and I love them very much and they love me. I ran away because they do not make school houses large enough for boys like me. I told my mother I would come back some day. Now I think of it I am afraid I cannot come to live with you—it’s too far away from home.” “Why, Snythergen, you never told us you had any parents,” said Squeaky. “I supposed you knew I had. Every boy has to have them. I used to steal away at night in my tree suit and go home when you and Sancho Wing were fast asleep. I would brush my branches on the second story windows until father and mother looked out. I did not dare tell them it was I for fear they would want to send me back to school, and I feared father might spank me.” “It would take rather a tall man to bend you over his knee,” said Santa Claus. “Oh, it wasn’t his size, but his voice I was afraid of,” said Snythergen. “Then your father is a little man?” asked Santa Claus. “Yes, he and mother are midgets. I guess they adopted me because they admire big things.” “What does your father do?” asked Santa Claus. “He is a philosopher,” said Snythergen. “He thinks and plans while mother knits.” “I wonder how midgets would like it here?” asked Santa Claus, thoughtfully.