O vain pomp and grandeur of death! When you are dead, you are _dead_. A confused hurry and tramp of many feet was succeeded by a pause, and some one said,—“Ready.” The procession reached the open avenue and moved slowly down the street to the sound of a funeral march. Solemnly, with measured tread, they advanced, and the people flocked to the doors on every side. There was a cry of surprise and alarm. “What is it?” “Who is it?” ran from lip to lip. The crowd gathered. The procession, with its sable plumes and ribbons of _crepe_, still continued on its way. There was the sound of lamentation, and at every moment the throng and confusion increased, the multitude thickened, and men, women and children were held off by the guard. Do they go to the great cemetery? No, they turned eastward, and at the Rosenthal halted. There the wondering spectators saw, in its center, a pure white tomb. Before it the catafalque was brought to a stand, and the coffin solemnly lowered. Immediately a broken shout ran through the crowd, that was taken up and repeated until it grew into a laugh, and men and women, catching up the children, cried,— “It is Kriss Kringle! Ha! ha! See, child, it is Kriss Kringle! He is dead. Kriss Kringle is dead!” It was a great relief to the people, so suddenly alarmed, and they good humoredly held up the little ones, saying,— “See! Kriss Kringle is dead. He will never come any more. He is dead!” There was a silence; and many little faces, awe-stricken, looked sorrowfully down, and many little arms were stretched out, and many little voices, quivering, sobbed,— “No, no, no! He will come back. He brought us pretty things. He will come back to us.” O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Is your strength still greater than this? There was a stir under the heavy pall, and a voice—hark! a voice!— “Yes, children, I will come back to you. I have come back to you!” And from beneath the sable funeral drapery, Kriss Kringle sprang, all jingling with silver bells, and flashing with a thousand toys. Then again there was great confusion, but this time no sound of lamentation; and the solemn funeral march swept into a strain of joyful music. And the children! Oh, the children, in wild delight, played in circles about the queer, grotesque being, who set to work destroying the snow-tomb. He threw it at them in small crystal showers that called up, each time as they fell, a burst of gleeful laughter. He detached the bright toys from his girdle, from his cap, from his elbows, from his knees, and rained them down upon the little ones who raced round him in their mad frolic. Then he took off the false face and threw it far away, and the people, in surprise, cried, “It is the Professor!” and drew back awe-struck, to think they had taken such liberties with so renowned a scholar. But the children never paused in their romp; and he said, while they scrambled about him in merry laughter,—