SE111-WEEKLY
iilarly; but it’s a pretty custom to give them.
V ere likely to grow so despicably selfish if
t here was no Christmas to remind us that we
•ould make somebody else glad. And when
ou come right down to solid facts, the dear,
;rotesqu . old myth, Santa Claus, has done
nore toward expanding the human heart and
keeping it tender toward the children and the
•oor than all the sermons. What would we
lo without this good genius of Baby land wh©
¡ill-» the stockings while their owners are
iway in the beautiful Land of Nod?’
1 he simple unquestioning faith they
aave in him is worth more than the
crown of kings. There is no danger of the
arth being made too good by a gush
of generosity. We still have all the old
s -ourges and a few new ones. The Russian
•xiles still toil in agony in tho Siberian mines,
lhe gaunt wolf of famine still prowls
through the streets of great cities and on
lonely country roads. The forked tongue of
the hydra-headed devil of slander strjkeshere
and there doing its blasting work. The
north wind stings through the beggar’s rags.
The hot breath of disease still leaves its olden
track of sorrow in the houses of the rich and
the hovels cf the poor, and the old, old mar
plot, Death, is as formidable as ever. Oh,
no, there is no danger of the grim old world
getting too good even for a day, but through
the leaden sky there gleam such stars of
promise that one can almost forget that
Chris mas trees are sawed off at the base and
have sticks for roots.
“Speaking of Christmas trees,” said the
cynic, “I saw the most miserable caricature
of one to-day that could be imagined. It was
a cast off limb from some Dives’ umbrageous
one. A small Lazarus had dragged it home,
set it up near the front window in the pater
nal shanty and strung it full of his miserable
possessions. There wasn’t an article worth a
penny in the lot. The collection was the
most depressing one ever on exhibition. Small
chunks of nothing wrapped in greasy paper,
clusters of old buttons found on the sidewalk
from time to time, bits of leather, nails, whit
tled sticks, pieces of colored glass, and a small
china doll with both arms and legs broken
off, comprised the assortment. Being a
cynic, I’m not much given to emotional
ecstasy, but I could have wept over this
serious burlesque of Christmas cheer. And
that’s about what Christmas means to half
the people. The bluster and pleasure of the
well-to-do only emphasizes the distress of the
poverty stricken. The Christmas angels are
not impartial. They fly swiftly over the
roofs of the wretched and linger long by the
hearthstones of the rich.”
The optimist smiled and sighed as he
musingly answered: “Yes, the millenium is
a long way off, but there is some good will
among us, some generosity, -some unselfish
ness, some almost perfect love, and some
hope for the future of the race. We can’t
all have full Christmas trees any more than
we can all have continual joy and riches and
contentment. It isn’t in the plan; but it’s
something for a few to have pleasure. It has
been said that if you make children happy
while they are children, you make them
happy twenty years later by the memory of
it. The rain of sorrow will fall upon them
soon enough. Care and grief, old age and
death are waiting for them down the road.”
“Well, I wish the false would be rung out
and the true rung in as soon as possible,” said
the cynic, as he walked away.
G. G.
In midnight hour and with adorers few
He doth inaugurate Ilis earthly reign.
Who comes the ancient promise to pursue,
And man's lost heritance restore again.
THE LEGEND OF CHRIST CHURCH.
Near the southern coast of England,
Rising dark from hills of green.
An ancient church with Norman towers
By the s tilor’s eye is seen.
Seym centuries have written
Strangest stories <»n each stone,
Making thus a vast palimpsest
With rank ivy overgrown.
Of the legends, rarest, sweetest.
Is the story of its birth,
When the ¡nighty frame was lifted
Skyward from its native earth.
In the time of William Rufus,
Norman monks both brave and good,
Laid with zeal its strong foundations,—
For its timbers liewed the wood.
Day by day there labored with them
One who from the forest came;
No one knew his home or nation.
No one ever asked his name.
As wild violets on the hillside
Bloom when southern winds have blown.
By the deft blows of his chisel
Flowers sprang from solid stone.
And the woods felt all the magic
Of his gentle artist hand—
Yielded shapes that filled with wonder
All the skillful Norman band.
When at eventide the master
Paid the wages of the day,
Heeding not, the wondrous stranger
Wended to the bills his way.
Then the puzzled workmen queried:
“Who is this, who asks no hire,
Yet whose perfect skill leaves nothing
Truest art could e’er desire?"
None gave answer to their question.
But as whirling mountain snows
Heap great drifts among the gorges,
Steadily the church arose.
Till the hour came for placing
The great beam which spans the nave;
For its length the oak tree, bowing,
AU his mighty fiber gave.
No oak on the hills of England
Towered so far above his kin
As this monarch,'strong, sound hearted.
Fit church walls to enter in.
Ah! we all fall short in something,
Measured by the law’s demand,
And the oak beam fail'd in inches
By the distance of a hand.
HOW IT CAME TO THE GUESTS OF a CHRIST
MAS PARTY.
Then despair possessed the workmen;
When that toilsome day was done,
Mournfully they plodded homeward;
Lingered there the Silent One.
How he labored in the starlight.
While cool night winds round him stirred,
While the world in silence slumbered,
Their is no recorded word.
But the first faint flush of sunrise
Showed the beam set in its place,
While th j st ¡ anger met the workmen
With a smile upon his face.
Speaking low. in accents gentle.
Like some distant anthem's strain:
“Unless the Lord doth aid in building,
All the work of man is vain."
As the mists drift from a landscape.
Swept the dimness from their sight;
Knew they then 'twas Christ, the Master,
Who had labored through the night.
I
B. W.
CHRISTMAS AND THE CYNIC.
A
Pessimist
and Optimist
Over.
Talk
it
“There is more brotherly love and uplifting
of spirit in a good fat turkey than in all the
Christmas stories that ever were penned,”
said the cynic. “Holiday literature is not to
my taste. It is usually of forced growth.
H ritten to fit the day, it has a flavor of un
naturalness. The hero of the Christmas
story is either translated on that day. or he
has a streak of perfectly phenomenal luck.
It s never so in real life. In fact, pleasure is
more evasive on Christmas than at any other
time, notwithstanding all the extravagant
sentiment set afloat about the good will busi
ness.”
To which the optimist replied: “But isn’t it
a good thing to have even the stories come
'■ut right? It's pleasant to know that niake-
Iw-lieve |x«oplo finfj <ine day in the year joy-
ous- There are so many wet blankets flung
around on the other .W.”
“I would rather have my slice of good will
nit up and given to me every now and then
than to have a big chunk of it on Christmas,”
continued the cynic. “All this bluster isn’t
sincere. Plenty of people give presents be-
•au*e it's expect'd of them, not because they
have a feeling of tenderness toward their fel
low mortah. And how is humanity benefited
by a spurt of generosity?”
“It Isn’t ¡»erfection. this world isn't,” said
the optimist, musingly, “but there’s lots of
goodness m the human animal after all. No-
bvdy but the babies cares for presents partic-
Honor, aged 20, and her Aunt Margaret,
aged 38 and unmarried,«maintained them
selves by keeping a morning school for young
ladies in Paradise row, one of the back
streets of Camden Town, London, which
consists of ten moan little houses. Aunt Mar
garet was the daughter of the l ector of Bray-
leigh, and Honor was her sister’s child. The
sister had married an artist, and she and her
husband both died when Honor was a mere
baby. Her aunt and grandfather had edu
cated her. Soon after the rector’s death the
two ladies were impoverished by the failure
of the bank which contained their little store
of wealth. So the school was opened, and
they got on fairly well, enjoying their inde
pendence,.although not in receipt of a s ery
promising income.
Honor had an uncle—her father’s brother
the rich Mr. Bryson, who, although he gave
them no financial aid, always invited his
niece and her aunt to spend the holidays at
his house. As the Christmas of 1872 drew
near the two impoverished gentlewomen be
gan to fix over their bits of finery in the ex
pectation of the usual visit to Uncle Bryson’s.
Instead of the anticipated invitation they re
ceived a very polite note from Uncle B. say
ing that “the coming so far must have always
been a tax upon them,” and therefore he
“would not again press the invitation.” He
softened the blow with a check for £20, his
best wishes and the compliments of the sea-
■on.
There was a reason for this beyond what
the two disappointed ladies could dream of.
The Brysons had a marriageable daughter,
and there was a certain Sir Edward Dusart
who, they thought, was about to propose to
her, and Aunt Bryson had discovered that
Honor was much too handsome and attractive
to have around when such an important pos
sibility was pending; and Sir Edward was to
he a ’Christinas guest. Aunt Margaret had
fondly dreamed that Sir Edward cared for
Honor, whom he had met more than once at
Wncle Bryson’s. But when she heard that he
was about to propose to Uncle Bryson's
daughter Amelia she hoped that Honor did
not care for him.
The first impulse of Aunt Margaret and
Honor on receiving Uncle Bryson’s check wa«
to send it back. Second thought persuaded
Hiem to keep it and use every penny of it in
giving a Christmas party themselves—not a
party for the rich and prosperous, nor even
for their financial equals; but a party for the
good and kind among their neighbors, the in
habitants of ParadLe Row, humble souls, to
whom all pleasures were rare.
They took Mr. Redmond, the incumbent of
the new church in their district, into their
«onfiden. e, and he was greatly interested in
she plan, and promise«! to help them all be
could. He was the only friend the two ladies
had made since they went to Paradise row
to whom they could say anything about their
jiast lives, lie often looked in upon them
alter their day’s work was done, and it seemed
plain to Aunt Margaret that he took great in
terest in Honor. Sometimes Aunt Margaret
said to herself that the match would not be
so undesirable, although be was a widower,
with a grown-up (laughter, and a little too
old for Honor.
They had a busy time preparing for the
feast. They felt in duty bound to spend every
penny of the money. In addition to the sup
per, every guest was to have a present, and
several sick ones were to have presents sent
them. They called in “Old Nannie” to help
the maid of all work get the feast ready, and,
in her language, the house soon “smelt as
good as a cook shop.” Old Nannie was to be
one of the guests of the Christinas party. She
had been in charge of the guardians of the
poor; tut had managed to have her“’low-
ances” sent to her lowly lodgings, and never
got into the dreaded “house,” where the poor
are taken in the last extremity.
Among the other important guests were
the “little tailor and his wife,” “Sally's grand
mother,” “Johnny and his mother.” and the
“poor lodger.” Sally's grandmother was in
the receipt of parish relief. The “poor
lodger,” as the neighbors called him, wras a
young man about w hom no one knew any
more than that he did not appear to have a
friend in the world, and th nt he had L#w>n in
desperate need, naving just struggled txirougu
a long illness in an attic of a house where
lodged Johnny and his mother. The latter,
a sailor’s widow, only just contrived to keep
body and soul together by working for the
city warehouses; and the little tailor and his
wife got their living by patching and botch
ing for people as poor as themselves.
Although every one else jested about the
little tailor and his wife clinging to the belief
that they would again see their son, who had
gone abroad to seek his fortune, and bad not
been heard of for years, Honor did not. The
belief helped them to bear their privations
better than they might otherwise have done,
she thought.
And there was Grace Fairlie, the national
school mistress, a gentlewoman, who had been
quite alone in the world since her mother’s
death; and poor little Annie, the drunken
cobbler s daughter, and the good natured old
soldier, with the bullet in his leg, who helped
everybody. The ladies were almost afraid
they would be obliged to send a separate in
vitation to the bullet, it was such an impor
tant factor in the old man’s life.
Then, there was Mrs. Parnell, who was
“genteel.” They were uncertain whether she
would come, for, although she had now the
recommendation of being poor and lonely,
she prided herself upon having “once moved
in a different sphere.” She talked of her
father having been an agent for something or
somebody, and alluded to her late husband’s
“avocations” in a way which, if slightly in
definite, had its effect in Paradise row. She
thought a great deal about keeping up the
“distinction of classes,” and the proper ob
servances of etiquette; and she told Aunt
Margaret that she had serious doubts as to
whether she could call upon her and Honor,
until she heard they had a piano and taught
French.
Nobody refused, and by 5 o’clock on Christ
inas afternoon they had everything prepared.
It was cold Christmas weather, so the cur
tains were drawn, a bright fire was burning
in every room, chairs and couches, hired for
the occasion from the broker round the
corner, were plentiful, and Honor’s piano
forte at the further end of the sitting room
opened ready for use. There was a certain
fitness ev.en in the hired furniture. The
small settee for the little tailor and his wife;
tho faded, crimson easy chair—so fitting a
throne for gentility—for Mrs. Parnell; the
big, high shouldered one, so admirably
adapted for the poor lodger, who, rumor said,
did not like to 1x3 looked at; the pretty little
lounge full of dimples, with a stool at its
feet, for Johnnie and his mother; the old
fashioned one with the cushions for Nannie;
and the straight backed one with the arms
for the old soldier; they all seemed to have
been specially designed to suit the different
idiosyncracies of the guests.
MRS PARNELL IX THE EAST CHAIR.
Mrs. Parnell was the first to arrive.
8he entered the room with a very grand
air, and in full dress, as it had been in vogue
some thirty years previously, wearing an elab
orate turban head dress an Adelaide colored
satin gown, white gloves and a gold spangled
fan, all a little faded and worn and soiled,
but showing that Mrs. Parnell considered
that she had come to an orthodox evening
party and understood what was expected on
such occasions.
Honor hurriedly conducted her to the seat
of honor, explaining that she felt it so kind
of her to come and help them entertain their
guests, who were for the most part people in
humble life.
Mrs. Parnell looked rattier disagreeably rar
prised and drew herself up a little haughtily
for a moment. But she hail only time to aay
that, although she had not been accustomed
to mix with her inferiors, she had no objec
tion to do so for once, and under the circum
stance of being invited to assist in entertain
ing the good people, when, after a little scuf
fling. in the passage, the door opened, and,
assisted by a friendly push rrom Sally, old
Nannie entered the room.
To figure as one of the guests for whom she
had helped to prepare was just at first too
much for old Nannie’s philosophy. There was
certainly a great contrast between Mrs. Par
nell in her faded grandeur and Nannie in her
short, scant, well worn merino gown, her
plain muslin, cap, her sleeves too short to
cover her bony w rists and her hands bearing
witness to a life of toil. Her only prepara
tions for company seemed to have been that
oi turning down her cuffs, which were usually
turned up, putting on an old fashioned collar
with a frill reaching to her thin shoulders,
and pinned on awry, with a brooch of Cam
den Town emeralds and diamonds purchased
for her bj Sally in honor of the occas; m.
So far all was going on propitiously; and
no sooner was Nannie inducted into her com
fortable chair by the fire in the back room,
where she sat with a hand planted upon each
knee, and her eyes turned complacently to
ward the well spread table, than the little
tailor and his wife—neither of them much
more than five feet high—were ushered in.
The pretty, fair-haired school mistress, in
deep mourning, was welcomed, and after her
came Johnny and his mother. No one seemed
to think of calling her anything but “Johnny’s
mother.”
With them came the “poor
lodger,” who had not been easily induced to
accept the invitation, and who was looking
very doubtful and reserved, and on the de
fensive, so to speak, as though their motive
was as yet not quite clear to him.
But Honor’s diplomatic little aside, which
had answered so well with the others, seemed
to succeed with him also; at any rate, so far
os disarming his suspicions went.. In reply he
bowed low, with a few words about his esti
mation of the privilege of being allowed to
ussist Miss Bryson in any way. But it was
enough to show that he wa3 a gentleman, had
he not, evidently weak as he was, and appre
ciative of the comfortable chair assigned to
him, so courteously endeavored to decline it
in favor of others. The threadbare clothes
which hung so loosely about his tall, gaunt
frame contrasted piteously with his dis
tinguished bearing. At the same time there
was no trace in his countenance, which was
that of a refined thinker, of any vice which
might have brought him 60 low in the social
scale as to desire to conceal himself in the
miserable attic of one of the meanest houses
in the street, where the most poverty
stricken gave him the name of the “poor
lodger.”
The little tailor’s aside to his wife: “Them
was swell clothes once, mother, and nothing
will get the gentleman out of them any more
than it will out of him,” showed that others
thought as I did.
Then came the old soldier, brisk and neat
and upright as a soldier with a bullet in his
leg could be expected to be. Everything
about him, from his clear, keen gray eyes to
his carefully brushed and mended clothes and
well polished boots, bearing witness to a life
of discipline. By the hand he led Annie, the
little motherless girl, whoso father, the
drunken cobbler, lived in tho same house
with him. He had done what he could for
her in the way of adornment, brushing the
beautiful golden hair and tying it up with a
piece of string into a funny little knob at the
top of her head, brightly polishing her poor,
shabby boots, and presenting her with a gay
pictured pocket handkerchief to carry in her
hand; and he had paid respect to the season
by pinning a few holly berries in the front of
her thin, worn frock.
As they entered the room she hung back,
dinging nervously to him, and looking as
scared as though she expected she was going
to be beaten. Honor had some difficulty in
inducing her to loose her protector’s hand and
take the stool provided for her in a warm
corner near the fire. When she at length sat
down she shrank timidly against the wall, as
though only desirous to escape notice.
All felt that little Annie needed sympathy
and. kindness more than did any guest there,
if the soul was to be kept much longer in the
great mournful eyes. Most pitiful of all was
the old look in the pinched, white face. She
seemed to regard us with a kind of calm in
dulgence, as grown-up children playing at
life, which she had long seen the sad real
ity of.
All went well, and with music and chatting
the time was sjient very happily until 9
o’clock. Then, before the queer company
was seated around the table, Honor proposed
that each one relate the history of the hap
piest moment of his life.
The happiest moment! There was a puz
zled, half doubtful expression in some of the
faces as thought traveled back into the past;
but it presently disappeared, and there was a
smile more or less expansive upon everyone’s
face. Even the poor lodger hail a reticent
smile upon his lips, as he turned his eyes med
itatively toward the fire.
Johnnie led off. He admitted without
shame that the happiest moment of his life
was when he had been invited to the party,
and Sally had assured him that there would
be all the turkey, mince pie and pudding that
he could cat. His mother blushed over his
very materialistic idea of happiness. Her
own story was this: “I think the very hap
piest moment I have ever had was when the
manager at the warehouse promised to give
me a shilling a dozen extra for making the
shirts, for,” she added, looking round with a
deprecatory little smile, as though to apolo
gize for the homeliness of the cause of her
happy moment, “growing boys are a’most
always hungry.”
Mrs. Parnell, when called upon to relate
her story, coughed meditatively behind her
fan for a moment or two, and then gracious
ly said that the happiest moment of her life
was when she danced with Lord Langland at
the tenantry ball, when she was just 18.
Grat e Fairlie and Honor hail some difficulty
in keeping their countenances as they ex
changed glances. Even the “poor lodger”
was evincing some signs of having once known
how to laugh. But the others appeared suffi
ciently impressed to satisfy Mrs. Parnell, had
she had any misgivings upon the point. She
was gazing complacently into the fire. She
had simply related a fact, and was too much
absorbed in the pleasant recollections it had
called up to notice any one’s face.
Old Nannie thought the greatest amount
of bliss she ever experienced was when she
outwitted the poor guardians and got her
“ ’lowsn^e out stead of going into the house.”
The old soldier described how a feeling
that his mother was near him pulling him
away from a trench during a battle, gave
him his happiest moment, because just as he
was fairly out a shell burst in the trench and
he knew that he hail l*en saved from certain
death by the watchful spirit of his dead
mother.
“But why didn’t you have another dream
to tell you to put your les out of the way
when the bullet was coming?” as :e<l Johnnie.
“I chose to take it into the way, my lad,”
somewhat absently replied James Brooks;
“besides, that did me no hurt.”
“No hurt to be shot?”
“Well, my boy, there’s different ways of
being hurt, as perhaps you'll find out as you
get older. I'd had my lesson, you set', and
didn’t need to be taught over again.”
“But ain't you going to tell us how you got
the bullet in your leg?” persisted Johnnie.
“You didn’t have that through the dream?”
“Well, I got shot while I was fetchingout
a young”— He paused, raffling up his
scanty hair. “But I am no hand at telling
them sort of things. It isn’t for me to say
why I’m a bit proud of the bullet I carry
about with me, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps
it will be enough if I say that it brought me
this,” touching the cross upon his breast, and
rather shyly adding: “It was a French offi
cer that was saved, an only son”—here
he gazed afar off dreamily and cut short his
story.
The “poor lodger,” when asked to tell his
story, begged to be excused fora little longer,
and gave way to Sally, who, after some
stammering, .said, in high delight, glancing
shyly round:
“It was last night, then. He met me fetch
ing the supper beer, and he said he'd got
enough saved for a tidy bit of furniture, and
a little put by for a rainy day, as well as reg
ular work, so there was no call to wait.”
Everybody congratulated Sally, and Aunt
Margaret said that he ought to have been
invited, at which, amidst a merry I;ugh from
all, Sally, with a very red face, said: “He
isn’t so fur off as he couldn’t be found by
supper time, if you please, ma’am. He said
something about being somewhere handj , to
see if he could be of any use in bringing up
the trays and such like.
moment nail ebnie; rnat her story, too, had
told itself, for only one thing could have
brought Sir Edward Dusart to her from
Uncle Bryson's on that Christmas night. And
wasn’t it curious U*at the scheming of the
I Brysons to keep him from again meeting
Honor had brought about the very thing
they had tried to provent? And isn’t it al
ways so i Behind Sir Edward came Mr. Red
mond, who, after greeting everybody, said
something to Aunt Margaret which seemed
to make her face radiant and caused her to
tell t^ie story of her happiest moment with
her eyes only. She it was, not Honor, who
had been the cause of his visits there, and in
the fewest words possible on that Christmas,
night he made this plain to her; and later,
when addressing a few words of good will
and goc.l wishes to all before the curiouE
company rose from the table, he said this was
one of tue happiest moments of his life.
But just after he and Sir Edward had be
come one of the company, Mr. Williams, the
poor lodger, was seen making his way toward
the door holding his handkerchief up to his
face. 1! o was telling Sally to excuse him to
her mis' ress, as a sudden attack of neuralgia
obliged aim to leave rather abruptly, when
Sir Edward Dusart caught sight of him, and
called cut? “Elston 1 Is it? Why, Elston,
oil fellow, where on earth have you sprung
from?” l he poor lodger moved on toward the
door, making no answer. Sir Edward sprang
after hi a, and with his arm around his neck,
school boy fashion, went with him into the
hall. When they both returned Sir Edward
introdu cd the poor lodger as the best friend
he ever bad, and one of the best scholars of
his own university. The little company was
greatly astonished to learn that he wasn’t
Mr. W iliams at all, but Mr. Elston; but
they were still more astonished some weeks
later when they learned that he and Grace
Fairlie were married—they became engaged
that very night, and were married as soon as
he was established as a lawyer. Bo his story,
also, was not told, but told itself.
'*
The little tailor and his wife are as happy«
as they could desire. Mrs. Parnell is better
off now, and with T^ady Dusart for her
friend, more “genteel” and exclusive than
ever. When any one refers to that memor
able Ch; istnias night she says there is an
advantage to be derived from an occasional
mixture of classes. James Brooks, the old
soldier, is in receipt of a pension, which finds
its way to him, lie imagines, from France,
and is a frequent visitor at the hall, where
Sir Edward and Lady Dusart are always
glad to welcome him, and to the Rectory, a
mile away, where Mr. Redmond and Aunt
Margaret are host and hostess. There is u
pretty cottage in the village, of which
Johnnie’s mother is the mistress. There old,
Nannie’s last days were spent in comfort.
Johnnie became u sailor lad; but after some
THE LONG ABSENT SON AT HIS MOTHER'S years of seafaring, came home and “settled
down” in the village with his mother. Poor
FEET.
The little tailor, Mr. Peebles, was then little Annie. Not all the love and care of her
called upon to tell bis story. “Well, if I kind friends could keep her long with them.
must, I must,” he said; “but I’m aflaid it Tho tired little spirit fled early from a world
will make the missus a bit vain when I tell which it found too cruel to linger in.
M. N ewman .
the company that my happiest moment was
that night wh u we was ‘scrouging’ to see the
‘laminations,’ and she said she’d sooner a
deal have me to take care of her than Steve
Jackson; for Steve was well to do in the
world—set up for himself, with a horse and
cart and all complete, in the green grocery
line, a master man. He was a better figure
of a man to look at, too, for it’s no use nr
trying to make believe as I was ever so han<
some as she thought me.”
“Oh, where did the
Mrs. Peebles was next asked to speak.
beautiful star go —
Just then Sally beckoned Honor out of the
The beautiful star in
room, and when she re-entered, which she
the east ?
did before Mrs. Peebles began to talk, there
Did it set forever that
was a look on her face telling that something
Christmas morn
unusual had happened. She put her hand on
When its wonderful
mission
ceased ?
tho back of a chair, as if to steady herself, and
said: “Mrs. Peebles,‘I think there is somebody
‘Or was it a planet
like the rest?
here who can tell your story for you.
W ith earth and water
and sky,
Which the dear Christ in ITis downward flight
Smiled on as He passed it by ?
Uu.
“Qui k when it caught the wonderful gleam,
8o 1 right tliut it pierced all space,
It could not ch(x>se but light the whole world
And point to the glorified face."
My li ttle girl’8eyes were full of thought
As she asked me this question grave ;
An<l 1, like one in the presence of kings,
Was an awed and silenced slave.
She wolghed rnv wisdom an<i found it void,
Ah’ yes ; it was very plain
From • hat day forth I must abdicate.
And be oracle ne'er again.
So I sc id, “My darling, I cannot tel’-
Perhaps it was as you say.
The in autiful star caught its wondrous light
As tiie Christ sped on His way.
The little tailor rose, with his eyes shooting
from his head and his face as white as the
dead. Mrs. Peebltw gasped, but could not
speak, for lo! following Honor into the room
was a tall, go<xl looking young man with
frank blue eyes, brown lieard and bronzed
face—their own Tom, the long hoped for,
long absent son, who had returned on Christ
mas night, exactly as absent sons frequently
do in books, but very rarely in real life. He
fell on his knees befoisj Mrs. Peebles, sobbing
in her lap, while the little tailor was wildly
shaking hands w ith everybody. The happi
est moment had come for all three of the
Peebles family. Their story had told itself.
Grace Fairlie, tho little schoolmistress,
said: “I am obliged to acknowledge that I
owe the happi* st moments I have ever expe
rienced to t lie receipt of a letter that came
tome one day when 1 w ; ls terribly in need
of the help it brought.” Over the poor
lodger’s face stole an expression of almost
angelic joy, but only Aunt Margaret noticed
it.
Then they all turned to little Annie—feeble,
prematm•»•!;/ « Id, > id fa'-ed little Annie—who
sat gazing reflect vely into the fire and then
said: “I ’memlM*r owe father said he would
give mo a worse hiding than ever when he
came home, ’ciu-*» T waited for him outside
the public and wh-n he come he fell asleep
and forgot to give it me. If that will do,
miss?”
Little Annie! Poor little Annie’ How
could she know that this story which she told
so simply in *■<> few worda was the most pa
thetic that bad ever been written?
Then it was Honor’s turn to talk. She had
just begun her story—a fairy story—when,
glancing up, her face expressed astonishment,
confusion and happiness, all in an Instant.
There, standing in th • door, unannoun<>e<l,
wax Sir Eduard Dusart. Anyone who un
derstood th ■ iunguage of faces would know at
once bjr a gla!.<jt at Honor's that.her happiest
“But if it is so or not, I think
It hi ■; never sunk quite out of sight,"
And scried out, quick in her joyous way,
“Oh let us go find It to night 1”
Ah ! li tie one, we are not shepherds, or wise.
But may we not see as they did ?
Not with our eyes, but down in our souls,
The «tar not quite veiled or hid.
But shining clear, with a living light,
Wit!- a fight that’ll never dim,
Till if i -r < s e'en through the outer night,
Auu leads us straight to Him.
Ar »ci! E. Ivica.
Intercepted Letter.
To ML sr Millie O. Naire, Bank ville, Cash
County.
D eaj <::| t M illie : Though it may Seem
Strange* to your father, it win notappear Sin
gular to you that I Should love you for your-
Sclf alone. Yet it would pain me to have
any on think that my motive could be double
rather than Single. What am I to do? You
are an UeireSS. I am not I cannot even
claim to be an heir, much 1<*SS a million heir.
Let uS lie frank. I love you. You love me,
do you not, for mySelf alone? Then we are
equalS- Leave vour father and tru|t to me.
I will elk riSh you to the laSt. With me your
heart a.i I your dollars will be Secure. Bring
all the money you can with you, but never
mind the odd change. Relentleffly, for
Sweetness, or Sorrow, yourS,
A ugu S t t'S P enny , Coachman.
-Life.
11« Didn't Match.
Mrs Mushroom—Ye«, it rented my heart
springs t> have to discharge poor Thoma*.
Ilo wan a perfect para.lox of a coachman,
and hex lieen in tho family for degeneration*.
Mrs. Doodle—Why were you compelled to
part wit'i himl
Mr*. Mushroom—It wa« Impossible to keep
him since I have pot on mourning for dear
Horatio. Thoma» to a blonde, «o I let him
go, «nd now w« have a lovely nigger coach
man as black a« my crape veil.—Chicago
Rambler.
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