He had millions of children, too—millions alive and millions dead. All the people in the world were his children. If there were a baby Hottentot born, it was his; and if there were a little Greenlander born, that was his, too. Even the greatest man that ever lived, whom we all love, whether we think or not that he was just a man, like others, was his child, and knew it; for this is what he meant when he said, “The hour is come.” Now you may be very sure that this kind, strange old man loved his children or he would not have worked so very long and hard for them. So every twelve months he gave each of them a wonderful present; not one kind of present for one and another for another, but just the same thing for everybody. The little beggar-boy, standing on his frost-nipped feet by the king’s road, got just the same as the king who rattled past in his chariot and never gave him even a copper; the poor Indian squaw, with nothing to wear but an old wolf skin, got just the same as the beautiful lady who had wonderful silken dresses and diamond necklaces and shoes with golden buckles. Yet everybody got just what he wanted, and would not even think of trading off his present for anything else in the world. There never has been and never will be anything worth so much as a single one of these presents. If a boy, or a girl, or a man either, had all the silver mines of Mexico, and all the gold mines of the Yukon, and all the diamond fields of South Africa, they would not be worth as much as just one of these presents, for the presents could be used in any way and for anything. Yet all that this kind old man asked of people was, please to use the gifts the best they knew how. If they did so, they were all happier, but if they did not, they became very miserable, and even the gifts themselves were a sorrow to them. Now there was a man and his wife who had a son they loved greatly; and they had made good use of their presents and were happy. But one day the boy said, “I want to take my presents now and go to college.” The mother was glad, but the father said, “The way to use them is the way I tell you. Then I’ll put mine with yours, and we will use them both together.” “I cannot, father,” the boy said. “Mine were not meant to be used that way.” Then the boy left home so that he could use his presents; and his mother died: and his father was angry towards him. The boy used as well as he knew how the presents he received, but he did not know well at first how to use them (though he learned after awhile), and he was very unhappy and his life was almost ruined. And his father continued angry with him, and misused all his presents after that, and was very miserable until he died; for he saw that what his son had done was right, yet he would not forgive when he was asked, and all the gifts he had received only made him feel the sadder.