"
Christmas was approaching; not a green Christmas, but an icy, snowy,
frozen one, with holly wreaths on his shoulders and a plum-pudding in
his hands.
The monastery was full of guests, relatives of Morpheus. These guests
were all poor--in one way--but they had a wealth of their own which made
them delightful to Leo. They were poets and painters and scribblers, and
as merry as larks; and as they all admired each others productions,
there was no end of cheerful nonsense. The children, however, were the
brightest of all. Each child was as merry as it was lovely, and the
painters were almost frantic in their efforts to make Christmas cards of
them, while the poets cudgelled their brains for rhymes.
To prevent too much industry in that way, Leo had induced them all to
put on their skates on Christmas-eve, and glide over the frozen ponds,
while he made ready the tree which stood in the great hall.
It was an immense spruce, all powdered with silvery fringe, and Leo had
only to tie on the little gilt tags numbered to correspond with the
packages of gifts, which were heaped on surrounding tables, and fasten
on the candles of red and blue wax. When this was done he put on his own
skates, for it was yet too early to light the tree, and away he went
skimming after the shouting, laughing crowd of friends and relatives.
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