“About four years ago at this time,” began the Doctor, “I attended a course of lectures in a certain city.  One of the professors, who was a sociable, kindly man,—­though somewhat practical and hard-headed,—­invited me to his house on Christmas night.  I was very glad to go, as I was anxious to see one of his sons, who, though only twelve years old, was said to be very clever.  I dare not tell you how many Latin verses this little fellow could recite, or how many English ones he had composed.  In the first place, you’d want me to repeat them; secondly, I’m not a judge of poetry, Latin or English.  But there were judges who said they were wonderful for a boy, and everybody predicted a splendid future for him.  Everybody but his father.  He shook his head doubtingly, whenever it was mentioned, for, as I have told you, he was a practical, matter-of-fact man.

“There was a pleasant party at the Professor’s that night.  All the children of the neighborhood were there, and among them the Professor’s clever son, Rupert, as they called him,—­a thin little chap, about as tall as Bobby there, and as fair and delicate as Flora by my side.  His health was feeble, his father said; he seldom ran about and played with other boys, preferring to stay at home and brood over his books, and compose what he called his verses.

“Well, we had a Christmas-tree just like this, and we had been laughing and talking, calling off the names of the children who had presents on the tree, and everybody was very happy and joyous, when one of the children suddenly uttered a cry of mingled surprise and hilarity, and said, ‘Here’s something for Rupert; and what do you think it is?’

“We all guessed.  ‘A desk’; ‘A copy of Milton’; ‘A gold pen’; ’A rhyming dictionary?  ‘No? what then?’

“‘A drum!’

“‘A what?’ asked everybody.

“‘A drum! with Rupert’s name on it?’

“Sure enough there it was.  A good-sized, bright, new, brass-bound drum, with a slip of paper on it, with the inscription, ‘for Rupert.’

“Of course we all laughed, and thought it a good joke.  ’You see you’re to make a noise in the world, Rupert!’ said one.  ’Here’s parchment for the poet,’ said another.  ‘Rupert’s last work in sheepskin covers,’ said a third.  ‘Give us a classical tune, Rupert,’ said a fourth; and so on.  But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak; he changed color, bit his lips, and finally burst into a passionate fit of crying, and left the room.  Then those who had joked him felt ashamed, and everybody began to ask who had put the drum there.  But no one knew, or if they did, the unexpected sympathy awakened for the sensitive boy kept them silent.  Even the servants were called up and questioned, but no one could give any idea where it came from.  And, what was still more singular, everybody declared that up to the moment it was produced, no one had seen it hanging on the tree.  What do I think?  Well, I have my own opinion.  But no questions!  Enough for you to know that Rupert did not come down stairs again that night, and the party soon after broke up.