“Why, what makes you think so?” cried the Man Mite.
“ ‘Cause dad’s always away on Christmas and we’ve cleared everything out of the house to the last ginger-snap to put in folks’ stockings and it’s the middle of the night and everybody’s tired, just like I am now, and wants to go to bed.”
“Middle of the night? What do you mean?”
“Middle of the north-pole night. If it wasn’t for Christmas we could go to bed about half-past October and sleep until a quarter of May, but ma thinks we ought to help pa and then wait up till he comes home. My, but I’m sleepy! Ain’t you?”
“Yes,” owned the Man Mite, “a little.”
“Well, come on and sleep with me. Your mother won’t mind. You can get up about a quarter past April and get home early.”
While they were speaking, Santy, Jr., was leading the way into the house and to his room. The two boys lay down together on a bed of bearskins, and the Man Mite said, sleepily: “Say, will you please tell me something?”
“What makes your hair white?”
“What makes a polar bear’s hair white? What makes an arctic fox’s hair white? What makes an arctic hare’s hair white? Why, hello! there’s dad coming back!”