“I thought somebody had kidnapped you,” said Snythergen when Sancho Wing returned. “Why were you gone so long?”

“I was visiting Santa Claus. He invited us all to dinner, and the door-man will now let us in. Follow me,” said Sancho.

“Is it the three wise men?” bellowed the flunky through the keyhole when they knocked.

“It is,” said Sancho Wing.

The large door swung open and the flunky prepared to make his best bow. But he could hardly welcome three such different beings with one salute, so he greeted each one separately. To Snythergen he leaned back, pointed his face toward the ceiling, and bobbed down and up by bending and straightening his knees. Sancho Wing, like most little people, wished to appear important, and when it came his turn to bow he raised himself on tip claws and stretched up to make his body as tall as he could; then leaning forward stiffly he flapped his left wing. Puzzled to know just how to respond to this, the door-man got down on his knees, and turning his head sideways wiggled his left ear. Squeaky had a habit of tossing his head when he bowed, and the flunky merely gave him a toss of the head in return.

In the hall the housekeeper welcomed them very kindly, offering to show them about while Santa Claus dressed for dinner. When she learned that they were the “three wise men” she treated them with great respect. Inside, the house seemed even larger than it had from without, and Snythergen was thankful for ceilings so high that he could stand up comfortably. So enormous were the rooms each one might have been used as a public hall. There was little furniture—mostly vast spaces with a background of oriental carpets and cathedral windows.

“What is this?” asked Snythergen, as they came into an odd little room in the basement with circular wall and a spotless aluminum floor. To cross it they walked on a bridge, raised several feet above the floor.

“This is the pie room,” said the housekeeper. “The crust is rolled out on the pie pan floor and the work of putting in the filling is managed from the bridge. When it is ready, we light the gas under the floor and the pie is cooked.”

“But who could ever eat such a big one?” asked Sancho Wing.

“Oh, the bear eats most of it,” said the housekeeper.

“The bear!” cried they in great alarm. “Is there a bear?”

“Yes,” said the housekeeper.

Snythergen turned pale and looked for the door. Squeaky had already started to run and Sancho Wing flew up to the ceiling.

“Stay right here—there’s nothing to fear,” said the housekeeper, calling them back.

“The bear arrived about a week ago,” she continued when they were able to listen. “We did not want to let him in but Santa Claus telephoned the keeper at the zoological gardens and asked if bears were safe.”

“‘They are,’ said he, ‘if you feed them olives and custard pie.’

“We tried it and it worked, and now there is not a quieter member of our family than the bear after he is fed. When he is hungry is the only time he is quarrelsome. But at such times we keep food between ourselves and him.”

“We had a bear too,” said Snythergen, “but he always stole away as soon as he had eaten, and never came near except when he was hungry.”

“That’s just like our bear,” said the housekeeper, “forever trying to hide when he is not at his best. But Santa Claus has him sit around and visit after dinner, though he makes a very sorry figure.”

“Why, what does he do?” asked Squeaky.

“As soon as he is fed his spirit is gone,” replied the housekeeper. “He becomes as timid as a mouse, and trembles if you look at him; jumps if you speak to him; blushes if you pay him any attention.”

“How does a bear blush?” asked Snythergen.

“He does it with his lips. They change color back and forth very rapidly from pink to red. But Santa Claus is coming and it is time for dinner.” As she spoke they entered a dining room so large, the huge table and ancestral chairs seemed like dolls’ furniture in its vast interior.

And now Santa Claus entered smiling blandly. He was attired in gorgeous evening clothes—a flaming swallowtail coat lined with crimson, deep purple vest with large white buttons; a ruby glowing like a burning eye adorned his shirt. Cream silk stockings and pale blue knickerbockers he wore, and his boots were red with black trimmings.

Scarcely had Santa Claus entered the room when the bear came lumbering after him. Eying the “three wise men” with a swift look of recognition he licked his chops.

“Why, it’s our bear!” said Snythergen in a sickly whisper. “How did he follow us?”

The three edged around until the table stood between them and the beast, and they were eying the nearest exit when Santa Claus requested them to be seated at table. The bear was served first, though “served” is hardly the word for the way they rushed food to him. Cramming his mouth full he uttered a few growls.

“Bears should not talk when their mouths are full of food,” said Santa Claus kindly.

But the bear answered only with an impudent growl which so frightened Squeaky that he tumbled from his chair, upsetting a bowl of soup as he fell. In spite of Sancho Wing’s assurance, the table conversation was exceedingly restrained. Though for politeness’ sake Snythergen did try a few comments, which came out in faltering tones. Squeaky was so nervous he could not speak without breaking into little hysterical peals of laughter which sounded like the squeals of a badly frightened pig. He had had one of these fits in the middle of the blessing and Santa Claus eyed him curiously.

Sancho Wing attempted to calm the troubled scene by keeping his head and saving them from awkward pauses. He was not so much afraid as the others because he knew that, no matter what the bear did, he could escape by flying a few strokes into the air. But the nervous way he kept waving his wings about to be sure they were ready for use, showed how far his little heart was from peace and a feeling of security.

At first the bear was very noisy about his eating but grew quieter as his hunger was appeased. And as the meal progressed his eyes became dull, his manner modest—almost demure. The others saw this and were encouraged. Squeaky found his speaking voice and talked wisely on the advantages and disadvantages of pig life. The table talk Sancho Wing had promised Santa Claus now began to flow, and the host was delighted. He asked many questions and nearly every one led along some trail of adventure, relating incidents peculiar to their lives. By this time the bear was painfully ill at ease, for he had not learned man-talk and the loud firm voices around him gave him strange fears. Were they plotting against him? He sat stiffly upright with forepaws crossed upon his chest, and ears cocked suspiciously. When they arose from the table Sancho Wing hopped over to the bear for a little private conversation.

“I want to say a few words to you,” he said, “and luckily for you you will not understand them.”

The bear shuddered and his lips turned a paler pink.

Thoroughly angry Sancho Wing began: “You great big overgrown nuisance of a brute! You cowardly thieving bully!”

If he did not comprehend the words certainly the bear understood Sancho’s gestures. And as he talked the little bird’s body shook with passion. He bobbed his head, flapped his wings, raised one leg threateningly with claws advanced.

The bear looked sheepish. His startled eyes were pleading now. He hung his head as he backed away. Sancho Wing followed closely scolding ever more abusively. The tiny finch seemed to tower with rage as he bullied the frightened beast, who stood six feet six in his bare hind paws while the finch was but a few inches high. When they reached the hall the big fellow dropped to all fours and ran. Returning to the big table Sancho Wing saw a hurt look in Santa Claus’ face and readily guessed the cause.

“Forgive me for making a scene,” pleaded the little bird.

“The bear is very sensitive,” said Santa Claus seriously. “And on the whole I think he is rather well behaved for a bear.”

“I am sure I would like the bear much better if I did not know him so well,” said Sancho Wing.

“What? Do you know him?” asked Santa Claus.

There was an awkward pause. Sancho did not want to tell on the bear, for like himself he was Santa Claus’ guest.

“I know him distantly,” said Sancho—“just a growling acquaintance. He may have changed since I saw him last. Maybe I shall like him better now.”

“I am sure you will,” said Santa Claus kindly, as they drew their chairs up to the fire and prepared to spend a cozy evening.