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Santy's coming!" sang Phronsie, as the bright afternoon sunlight went down over the fresh, crisp snow, "for it's night now." "Yes, Santa is coming!" sang Polly; and "Santa Claus is coming," rang back and forth through the old kitchen, till it seemed as if the three little old stockings would hop down and join in the dance going on so merrily.
"Will he be black like Joey?" asked Phronsie, pointing to his grimy face. "No," said Polly; "he don't ever get black." "Why?" they all asked; and then, over and over, they wanted the delightful mystery explained. "We never'll get through this day," said Polly in despair, as the last one arrived. "I wish 'twas to-night, for we're all ready." "Santy's coming!
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