Voices from the Outside World. 159

“Oh, no I don’t—not even a stick,” protested Job.

“My dear Job, the magic pole is cheerfulness, which helps
mortals to jump over trials and sorrows, forgetting their own
selfish pleasure. This you already own.”

Job was puzzled beyond measure. The chained hands closed
the ice door of the cascade, and the wall of the kitchen was in
its proper place.

“Bless me! The children will not get their dream-thread
in time,” said Puff, bustling about.

“A merry Christmas to you, Job,” piped all the little
voices.

The Summer Fairies mingled with winter’s frosty elves ;
Puff and the Laurel Sprites rose in a brilliant cloud. It made
Job giddy to watch them—red and green and pink in circles
like a dissolving rainbow—until he shut his eyes tight to es-
cape the dazzling radiance. Hark! Who called?

Job was sitting in Grandfather’s chair, which was drawn up
to the hearth, where the log still flickered; and the friendly sun
was not only peeping in the window, but streaming across his
face. Evidently it was day
and Queen Puff? Gone.

The Angora cat stood at Job’s feet, staring at him with all

 

Christmas-day. Where were Nip

her eyes; the shell lay on the shelf, the clock ticked in its
corner.

Job roused himself, and went to the window. Snow had
ceased to fall; the sky was blue and clear. He raised the sash.
Outside a white field stretched almost unbroken by line of
fence or bush; the flakes had fallen all night.

“ Holloa!” came the sound again, echoed by all the hills.