Mr. Kris Kringle a Christmas tale by Mitchell, S. Weir. Published 1898
S Weir Mitchell
language
(Republished by Internal Arts Media, Aug. 27, 2016)
It was Christmas Eve. The snow had clad the rolling hills in white, as if in preparation for the sacred morrow. The winds, boisterous • all day long, at fall of night ceased to roar amidst the naked forest, and now, the silent industry of the falling flakes made of pine and spruce tall white tents. At last, as the darkness grew, a deepening stillness came on hill and val- ley, and all nature seemed to wait expectant of the coming of the Christmas time MR. KRIS KRINGLE. Above the broad river a long, gray stone house lay quiet ; its vine and roof heavy with the softly-falling snow, and showing no sign of light or life except in a feeble,, red glow through the Venetian blinds of the many windows of one large room. Within, a huge fire of mighty logs lit up with distinctness only the middle space, and fell with variable illumination on a silent group about the hearth.