As I’ve written before, my dad has read Mr. Dog’s Christmas to me every Christmas Eve since I was two years old. I don’t remember those very early readings, of course. In fact, I don’t have recollections of Christmas until my sixth—a Christmas that’s immortalized in my family for an incident that ended with me being sent to my room. It’s also the Christmas that marked my transition from believer to playing-along-er. One of many magical Christmases past. “My parents heartily encouraged believing. They went all out to make Christmas a truly magical experience. Among the many weird and wonderful rituals they established was the burning of the wish list.” By my sixth year I was beginning to explore the...

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As channeled to Henry and Betsy Cordes by Albert Bigelow Paine One night, in the House of Many Windows, when the Little Ladies were all snug in their beds, their mother came into the drawing room to sit by the fire with the Storyteller. “I wonder,” she mused aloud, “whether the folks at the Hollow Tree Inn ever have a little night cap?” “Well,” said the Storyteller, “I’m fairly certain they must. Have I ever told you the story about Mr. Dog introducing them to the fine art of cocktail mixology?” “Why no,” she chuckled, “I don’t believe you have. It sounds delightful. Why don’t I pour us both a sip of brandy and we can sit here together for...

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