My parents kept a little shop, and adjoining it was our small . The shop contained lots of different things, such as candles, soap, brushes, and many other articles, all of which I regarded with profound respect. Each time that Christmas came round my father used to receive a large wooden chest, of which the opening and was my greatest joy. Sometimes my father would show no hurry about this to me so sacred a ceremony, and then I used to remind him of it. At last, however, he declared that he was going to open the chest, and after that I got so excited that I hardly knew what to do. I asked whether I might be permitted to help. But my father said that I was a bother and in his way. Fearing that he might dismiss me altogether, I managed to sit still for two minutes; but then I could bear it no longer. I went to fetch a pair of pinchers and a huge hammer, and stood in readiness, long before the chest was opened, with the tools in my hands. Then I watched my father with breathless as he forced a in between the chest and the lid, and very often burst the lid. My heart beat fast for a moment when the white, soft shavings became visible, and the sight of the small, brown cardboard-boxes, which my father lifted carefully out of the chest, made me tremble with delight. But the most moment came when I was asked to get a pair of scissors to cut the string which tied the cardboard-boxes. I walked on tip-toe and softly. Then the unpacking of the brown boxes began, and with loving eyes I looked at the figures made out of chocolate or sugar. There were riders with faces so bold that I hardly dared to think of eating them; angels with limbs so dainty and wings so that I thought them to be real; and many other beautiful things. Broken pieces were found sometimes, and my father gave them to me. Although I longed to eat them I did not do so at once, but fetched a , or anything that might resemble a Christmas-tree, and fastened the rider, who, with his helmet cut off, looked less fierce now, the colour-bearer who had lost his flag, or the angel with but one arm, upon it. After I had watched them about for a while I took them off again, and there can be but little doubt as to their final fate. My brother joined me in all these things, especially in eating. I remember a Christmas Eve, when I was five years old and my brother four. Father Christmas had presented me with a small wooden doll that pleased me enormously. It had no hair, nor could it move its limbs much, but I hardly noticed that. I sat on the freshly washed floor and played happily. My brother got a knife with but one blade, the kind that is used in our country to cut the grapes with. The next day, when my mother was about to wash us—an operation which was performed on the table—my brother told me that he did not consider my doll to be beautiful,whereupon I answered that I did not think his knife was a real knife. "Shall I," he asked, when my mother had left us to fetch something out of the kitchen, "shall I try it on your leg?" I don't believe I liked the idea; but too proud to go back on what I had stated, I allowed it at once. After that I felt a quick pain, and a few drops of blood showed on the white cloth whereon we sat. When I saw the blood, however, I began to cry, and my mother returned to the room. My brother was frightened too, but he laughed nevertheless, and asked me whether I did believe now that his knife was a real knife. After my mother had bandaged up my leg, she gave my brother a sound whipping with a birch that Father Christmas had left on the previous day for naughty children.