“When icicles hang by the wall,
   And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
   And Tom bears logs into the hall,
   And milk comes frozen home in pail,
   When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
   Then nightly sings the staring owl,
   Tu whit,
   Tu whu, a merry note
   While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.”

Mhor began to look forward to Christmas whenever the days began to shorten and the delights of summer to fade; and the moment the Hallowe’en “dooking” for apples was over he and Jock were deep in preparations.

As is the way with most things, the looking forward and preparing were the best of it.  It meant weeks of present-making, weeks of wrestling with delicious things like paints and pasteboard and glue.  Then came a week or two of walking on tiptoe into the little spare room where the presents were stored, just to peep, and make sure that they really were there and had not been spirited away, for at Christmas-time you never knew what knavish sprites were wandering about.  The spare room became the most interesting place in the house.  It was all so thrilling:  the pulling out of the drawer, the breathless moment until you made sure that the presents were safe, the smell that came out of the drawer to meet you, an indescribable smell of lavender and well-washed linen, of furniture polish and cedar-wood.  The dressing-table had a row of three little drawers on either side, and in these Jean kept the small eatables that were to go into the stockings—­things made of chocolate, packets of almonds and raisins, big sugar “bools.”  To Mhor a great mystery hung over the dressing-table.  No mortal hand had placed those things there; they were fairy things, and might vanish any moment.  On Christmas morning he ate his chocolate frog with a sort of reverence, and sucked the sugar “bools” with awe.

A caller at The Rigs had once exclaimed in astonishment that an intelligent child like the Mhor still believed in Santa Claus, and Jean had replied with sudden and startling ferocity, “If he didn’t believe I would beat him till he did.”  Happily there was no need for such extreme measures:  Mhor believed implicitly.

Jock had now grown beyond such beliefs, but he did nothing to undermine Mhor’s trust.  He knew that the longer you can believe in such things the nicer the world is.

The Jardines always felt about Christmas Day that the best of it was over in the morning—­the stockings and the presents and the postman, leaving long, over-eaten, irritable hours to be got through before bedtime and oblivion.

This year Jock had drawn out a time-table to ensure that the day held no longueurs.

7.30 Stockings. 8.30 Breakfast. 9 Postman. 10-12 Deliver small presents to various friends. 1 Luncheon at the Jowetts’. 4 Tea at home and present-giving. 5-9 Devoted to supper and variety entertainment.

This programme was strictly adhered to except by the Mhor in the matter of his stocking, which was grabbed from the bed-post and cuddled into bed beside him at least two hours before the scheduled time; and by the postman, who did not make his appearance till midday, thereby greatly disarranging things.