"They all are! Lord bless me! The number that I have
seen, and each and every one--and quite right too--the
sweetest child in all the world. And how old, do you say?
Two and a half all but two months except a week? The very
sweetest age of all, I'll bet you say, eh, what? They
all do!"
And the old man broke again into such a jolly chuckling
of laughter that his snow-white locks shook upon his
head.
"But stop a bit," he added. "This horse is broken. Tut,
tut, a hind leg nearly off. This won't do!"
He had the toy in his lap in a moment, mending it. It
was wonderful to see, for all his age, how deft his
fingers were.
"Time," he said, and it was amusing to note that his
voice had assumed almost an authoritative tone, "reach
me that piece of string. That's right. Here, hold your
finger across the knot. There! Now, then, a bit of beeswax.
What? No beeswax? Tut, tut, how ill-supplied your houses
are to-day. How can you mend toys, sir, without beeswax?
Still, it will stand up now."
I tried to murmur by best thanks.
But Father Christmas waved my gratitude aside.
"Nonsense," he said, "that's nothing. That's my life.
Perhaps the little boy would like a book too. I have them
here in the packet.
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