IT is a most charming thing to compose fairy-tales at Christmas-time. But there are difficulties to contend with, take my word for it, dear reader. I am an honest sort of fellow, who never makes a murderer’s den of his heart, as the proverb says. So I will confess that I have a strong aversion to telling any particularly preposterous lies to the good people who may chance to read this, by relating wonderful, supernatural tales, and calling forth an impression as if I had elves to black my boots every day of my life. Ah no! sooner than do that I will give up the whole secret as to how the following story came to me, and at best I cannot swear that it is a pretty one. I said to myself, “Good friend, you must cultivate a certain mood; conjure up the breath of the woodlands about you, and all the rest will follow.” This was not so very difficult. I bought a little fir-tree, and set it up among the folios of the oaken table in my study. It was a nice little tree, and I pictured to myself the spot in the forest where it came from: a snow-covered opening, enclosed by tall dark pines, the edges thickly set with various young evergreens which must needs be thinned out. I smelled of the tree until my nose burned under its prickly needles. Ah, how sweetly aromatic! Like shades out of the lap of eternity, the Christmas-eves of long ago rose up before me, with many sweet memories interesting only to myself, with hosts of fairy-tales which Grimm and Ludwig Bechstein have long since put into charming books. But soon I perceived that the breath of the fir-tree would not suffice for my purpose, and that my mood required to be worked upon by means of other aids. I thereupon pulled down the blinds, although it was noon, and lit my large lamp, thinking of a well-known Vienna novelist, who is in the habit of putting himself into the bloodthirsty and terrible train of thought which serves his purpose by means of a piece of black cloth and four burning tapers, upon which he gazes in the pauses between his work. My large lamp sings, moreover, which is a quality that cannot be prized too highly, for oil-lamps do not as a general thing feel called upon to yield sweet music. As the lamp burned and hummed, I took great pains to start up a rousing fire. It roared and sputtered with a will, for the wood was somewhat damp. But this was all the better, for a good, noisy fire plays a great part in literary difficulties. Hereupon I made myself some tea in my little tea-urn, which puffs and spits like a furious cat, and lit my cigar. The scene now comprised-- A fragrant fir-tree. A burning and singing lamp. A roaring and sputtering fire. A puffing and spitting tea-urn. A glowing and smoking cigar. A meditating poet. I will not deny the fact that at this point I addressed some words of stern exhortation to myself.