"But a great writer, I do not doubt," said the old man,
with a humble courtesy that he had learned, it well may
be, centuries ago in the yule-tide season of his northern
home. "The world owes much to its great books. I carry
some of the greatest with me always. I have them here--"
He began fumbling among the limp and tattered packages
that he carried. "Look! _The House that Jack Built_--a
marvellous, deep thing, sir--and this, _The Babes in the
Wood_. Will you take it, sir? A poor present, but a
present still--not so long ago I gave them in thousands
every Christmas-time. None seem to want them now."
He looked appealingly towards Father Time, as the weak
may look towards the strong, for help and guidance.
"None want them now," he repeated, and I could see the
tears start in his eyes. "Why is it so? Has the world
forgotten its sympathy with the lost children wandering
in the wood?"
"All the world," I heard Time murmur with a sigh, "is
wandering in the wood." But out loud he spoke to Father
Christmas in cheery admonition, "Tut, tut, good Christmas,"
he said, "you must cheer up. Here, sit in this chair the
biggest one; so--beside the fire. Let us stir it to a
blaze; more wood, that's better.
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