And I know all about mine, says FATHER. It is soft and squashy, so of course it's a sponge. Now why do you suppose Santa Claus brought me a sponge? for my old one is quite good enough.
But it isn't a sponge at all, cries JACK, who has been peeking into the little bundle.
Not a sponge? says FATHER. But what is it, then? He opens the paper. A pair of warm gloves, I declare—just what I need. Well, Santa Claus is a great old fellow, and no mistake.
Mother has been turning her head toward the window, as though she were listening to something, and now she says:
Hush! Is that singing that I hear, far away?
They all listen, and sure enough from some distance can be heard the sound of singing voices. The children, nodding their heads, show that they hear it.
What can it be? says MOTHER. Why, I know; it's the Christmas Waits, of course, singing carols from house to house.
Oh, I wish they would sing in our street, cries POLLY, and runs to the window. Then she exclaims, There they are: they are coming around the corner.
The others all go toward the window, and JACK says delightedly. One of them has a fiddle. Oh, I do hope they will stop here.
Then outside the window the Christmas Waits can be seen, all in warm caps and mittens and mufflers. They stop just in front of the window, hold up their music before them, and begin to sing the dear old carol, called: