One bright morning about six weeks before Christmas Day the spirit of diligence in well-doing descended like a dove and took complete possession of the brain and soul of Mr. S. S. McClure, the benevolent founder of the thriving literary village of Syndicate, which stands on the banks of the Hackensack River, an enduring monument to his far-seeing philanthropy.

From that moment he seemed to lose interest in the great loom-room, where busy hands made the shuttles fly to and fro as they wove their reminiscences of Abraham Lincoln. At midnight, when[Pg 352] the foreman opened the furnace door and the fierce flames lit up the grimy but intellectual faces of the workmen who stood watching the History of Our War with Spain, as it was run into the moulds, Mr. McClure was not present. His face was seen no more in the noisy blacksmith-shop, where strong arms forged the hitherto unpublished portraits of American statesmen. Even when a careless workman in the packing-room dropped a railroad story and shivered that fragile bit of literary bric-à-brac into a thousand pieces, the great Master forgot to reprimand him, so busy was he with his own thoughts.

But the literary workmen did not take advantage of the preoccupation of the great Master Mechanic of all modern letters and slight the tasks that had been intrusted to them. On the contrary, they plunged into their tasks with redoubled energy, for well they knew that it was some plan for their happiness that filled[Pg 353] the busy mind of the Master, some scheme for the fitting celebration of Christmas Eve, which, next to McClure’s Birthday, is the chief holiday in the literary calendar. And so, into the web and woof of many a Recollection of Daniel Webster and Later Life of Lincoln were woven bright anticipations of the merry Christmas which S. S. McClure was preparing for his trusty employees.

Each year Mr. McClure devises a new form of holiday celebration, and this year his bounty took the shape of a huge Christmas tree, from whose branches hung the packages that contained presents for his guests.

Christmas Eve is always a half-holiday at the McClure works; and at precisely noon on Saturday the factory whistle blew, the great wheels began to slow up, the dynamos, which furnish light, heat, and ideas for the entire factory, ceased to throb, and the cheerful workers put aside[Pg 354] their uncompleted tasks and set about the welcome labor of making ready for their Christmas celebration. In less time than it takes to tell it, the huge store-room, in which the winter supply of literature had already begun to accumulate, was swept clean, garnished with boughs of evergreen, and brightened with sprigs of holly. Scarcely had this work been completed when a shout told of the arrival of the Christmas tree, drawn by four oxen, on the huge extension-wagon used in transporting Scotch serial stories from the foundry to the steamboat landing. In the twinkling of an eye, a score of able-bodied bards seized the great evergreen and placed it upright in the curtained recess at one end of the room, and then every one withdrew, leaving Mr. McClure himself, with four trustworthy aids, to deck the tree and hang the presents on its limbs.

During the afternoon the happy littérateurs, released from their daily toil, threw[Pg 355] themselves heartily into the enjoyment of all kinds of winter sport. Some put on skates and sped up and down the frozen surface of the Hackensack, while others coasted downhill, threw snowballs at one another, and even made little sliding-places on the sidewalk, where they enjoyed themselves to their hearts’ content. When twilight fell upon the settlement they all entered their homes, to emerge half an hour later clothed in Sunday attire, with their faces and hands as clean as soap and water could make them, ready to sit down to the great Christmas banquet provided for them by their employer.

It is doubtful if there has ever been as large a number of literary men seated at any banquet-table as gathered on this evening as the guests of Master Mechanic McClure. The host sat at the upper end of the great horseshoe table, and beside him were invited guests representing the literary profession in its many phases. The[Pg 356] guests were deftly and quickly served by a corps of one-rhyme-to-the-quatrain poets who had formerly been contributors to Mr. Spencer’s organ of thought, the Illustrated American, and were thoroughly accustomed to waiting.

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