Santa rode the red line home from work last night.

He is the Santa Claus of State and Washington Streets who spends his mornings with the hurried crunch of Christmas shoppers and the jingle of his Salvation Army bell.

He needs no pillow to pad his belly, no rouge to redden his cheeks. And even in the heated subway, a morning's worth of icicles make his department-store beard seem real to the touch.

The red coat is heavy, the white whiskers hot. But, "no child should see Santa without his whiskers," this idealistic Mr. Claus says.

For children still believe in Santa Claus, no matter how many street-corner St. Nicks they've seen.

At Santa's world in Jordan Marsh, huge red Christmas balls form a gate to Santa's Workshop, where teddy bears make toys, ride sleighs, light fires and sing carols, and a large red mailbox guards the path to Santa's lap.

A little girl with blond hair and white lace tights climbs into the fat, red lap and pulls from her pocket a crumpled note--a list--which she tentatively holds towards him.

"Mommy," she shrieks with delight. "He says, if I put it in the mailbox, it will get there."

A woman holding a small pink coat and white fluffy mittens shares in her laughter.

The note finds the mailbox, and the child prances back past Santa Claus, coloring book in hand.

Looking up at the man in the red suit, she says in a small voice, "You live in the North Pole sometimes, don't you?"

"Yes," he answers.

"I knew that," she announces, as she smiles at her mother proudly.

The red line Santa is not the only Mr. Claus to carry a Salvation Army bell. In snowless downtown Boston, there are thin Santas and fat Santas and bell-ringers in blue jeans and sweats.

The pennies that stay locked in pockets through all the summer months find their way into red-swinging pots and small tin cups and upturned palms. The wreaths and red ribbons and lights strung through the sky turn a street-corner blind man's blues into a Christmas carol.