Wherever Santa Claus lives, and in whatever spot of the universe he harnesses his reindeer and loads up his sleigh, one thing is certain-he never yet put anything in that sleigh for little Carl Krinken. Indeed it may be noted as a fact, that the Christmas of poor children has but little of his care. Now and then a cast-off frock or an extra mince pie slips into the load, as it were accidentally; but in general Santa Claus strikes at higher game,-gilt books, and sugar-plums, and fur tippets, and new hoods, and crying babies, and rocking-horses, and guns, and drums, and trumpets;-and what have poor children to do with these? Not but they might have something to do with them. It is a singular fact that poor children cut their teeth quite as early as the rich,-even that sweet tooth, which is destined to be an unsatisfied tooth all the days of its life, unless its owner should perchance grow up to be a sugar-refiner. It is also remarkable, that though poor children can bear a great deal of cold, they can also enjoy being warm-whether by means of a new dress or a load of firing; and the glow of a bright blaze looks just as comfortable upon little cheeks that are generally blue, as upon little cheeks that are generally red; while not even dirt will hinder the kindly heat of a bed of coals from rejoicing little shivering fingers that are held over it.