Christmas was approaching, and the next day, Christmas-eve, the tree was to be lighted.  On the twenty-third of December, a little while before the hour for story-telling, Hermy came home, and exhibited to his brothers the trifling presents, which he had chosen:  an eraser for his father, a lead-pencil for his mother, a bag of nuts for his grandmother, and similar trifles which, though insignificant in themselves, had nevertheless exhausted his little store of savings.  His elder brothers, to whom he had exhibited with great pride these purchases, expressed none of the admiration which he had expected, but began to tease him by calling the things “trash,” as indeed they were, and poking fun at the “wonderful presents” of their small brother; they would have been less cruel, perhaps, had he been one of their sisters.

Karl wanted to know what their father, who never was known to make a drawing, would do with an eraser, and Kurt added that he did not see the use of giving their grandmother nuts, when she had more in her own garden than all of them put together would receive on ten Christmas-eves.

Bright tears gathered in the eyes of the little one, and he cast a troubled look at his despised treasures, in which he had rejoiced so heartily only a short time before.

He began to sob quietly, and saying dejectedly:  “But I hadn’t any more money!” he stuffed his gifts, shorn of their glamour into his pockets.

The colonel had watched the scene in silence; now, however, he drew his favourite to him, kissed him, and caressed his fair curls.  Then he invited him gaily to sit right close to him on the footstool, and bade the other children to sit down, too, and told Karl and Kurt to keep their ears wide open.

My wife and I entered at this moment—­we heard later of what had happened—­and begged the colonel to allow us to listen also.  The permission was willingly granted; after the lamp was brought, for it was later than usual, and we had settled ourselves on the sofa, the colonel stroked his moustache for some time, and began, after he had gazed quietly before him for a moment:  “To-day my story shall be called, ’The Nuts.’  Does that please you, Hermy?”

The little one smiled at him expectantly and nodded his head.  The colonel continued: 

“You believe, no doubt, children, that no one ever came back from the dead, and that therefore no mortal knows what Heaven looks like, nor Hell.  But I—­look at me well—­I can tell you something about it.”

Here he made a short pause while my wife handed him his pipe and a match.  The children looked at one another in doubt and suspicion, for this was the first story of the colonel which had not begun with, “Here I am,” or, “Once upon a time,” and they were consequently uncertain whether it was a true story or one that he had made up.  Wolfgang, who is thirteen and my oldest boy, and who already calls his younger brothers, “the young ones,”—­and promises to be a true child of the times, inclined to believe it the latter, but even he sat up straighter and looked puzzled as the colonel continued: