I say all this is strange—for nobody knows much about it; and how can they? When a little girl once went down Broadway with her muff and her doll, the hand outside the muff told the hand within that he had no idea what a cold day it was. And the hand inside said that for his part he never wished it to be warmer.
But with all this Santa Claus never troubled his head—he was too full of business, and wrapped up in buffalo skins besides; and though he sometimes thought of little Carl, as a good-natured little fellow who talked as much about _him_ as if Santa Claus had given him half the world—yet it ended with a thought, for his hands were indeed well occupied. It was no trifle to fill half a million of _rich_ little stockings; and then—how many poor children had any to fill? or if one chanced to be found, it might have holes in it; and if the sugar-plums came rolling down upon such a floor——!
To be sure the children wouldn’t mind that, but Santa Claus would.
Nevertheless, little Carl always hung up his stocking, and generally had it filled—though not from any sleigh-load of wonderful things; and he often amused himself Christmas eve with dreaming that he had made himself sick eating candy, and that they had a stack of mince-pies as high as the house. So altogether, what with dreams and realities, Carl enjoyed that time of year very much, and thought it was a great pity Christmas did not come every day. He was always contented, too, with what he found in his stocking; while some of his rich little neighbours had theirs filled only to their heart’s _dis_content, and fretted because they had what they did, or because they hadn’t what they didn’t have. It was a woful thing if a top was painted the wrong colour, or if the mane of a rocking-horse was too short, or if his bridle was black leather instead of red.
But when Carl once found in his stocking a little board nailed upon four spools for wheels, and with no better tongue than a long piece of twine, _his_ little tongue ran as fast as the spools, and he had brought his mother a very small load of chips in less than five minutes. And a small cake of maple-sugar, which somehow once found its way to the same depending toe, was a treasure quite too great to be weighed: though it measured only an inch and a half across, and though the maple-trees had grown about a foot since it was made.