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lewis m. grist, proprietor. J <|n Jndejpdont ofanulg |taj)a|)(r: Jbr the promotion of to ?oltoal, JSorial, ^(jritullurat and <|ommcriiat Jntcrcsis of to j?outh. |TERMS?$2.00 A YEAR IN ADVANCE Jf * * Q- NTORTCVTBTjE. S. C.. WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1889. NO. 52. v w JU. uw. Christmas f octrg. A TIMELY GREETING. MERRY CHRISTMAS! CHRISTMAS CAROLS. fGive thanks in glad For on this happy A star from heaven To blazon out the To where our Lord And change earth's twilight, cold and To spiritual morn. Rejoice, my soul, and know That Christ Is born anew, His grace new mercies daily show. His works our work imbue; And to the world his words outgo In endless love and true. Wn.mil E. S. Fains. "Merry Christmas 1"?ring it out All ye happy festal bells, Through the sweet magnolia groves. Frozen moors, or snow heaped fells. Carols rise, and yule fires glow, Sprays of silver mistletoe Shine from out the dark green pine. Yule tide, peace and joy be thine I "Blessed Christinasring it out, All ye tuneful festal bells, Unto cheerless hearts, wherein Neither hope nor gladness dwells. Heavens smile, and stars shine out All our yule decked homes about; Angels stand within the doorChristmas tide is come once morel ?Helen Chase. Ho for the yuletide merry, The yuletide merry and gay; , When every face Good will doth grace, And beautiful Peace, away From every soul, In her hood and stole, Drives care, for the livelong day. Here's to the mistletoe hoary, And the holly with berries red. On rafter and beam That glisten and gleam, As they did in the days that are dead; Love grows not old. Nor do hearts grow cold With the yule branch above them spread. Hero's to the Christmas greeting, Sweet as the music of heaven To the friendless and lone, To whom kindness' unknown, Or to whom tls but seldom given; Let us not forget Sorrow's eyes, tear wet, Lest our hearts with like grief be riven. Ho for the yule log, burning In the wide old chimney place; Pile it hisrher. hieher. The Christinas fire, Fill the house with warmth and cheer; Then gather them In Fro it the haunts of sin. To the Christ child, they still are dear. Though the sunshine of their childhood They have turned to blackest night, Starless .and cold Is the Hicmfll world, And again, some would find the light. The dear Christ's care Let me lovingly share, To guide the wanderers aright. Let the "Gloria in Excels is," With its music, flood our souls On this blessed dayMay it swell alway. Till its tide o'er the broad earth rolls, For Christ child's known From zone to zone. And his love her millions controls. -Sarah Louise Morris in Chicago Inter-Ocean. '& Christmas J'tovn. (SO u W " A CHRISTMAS DINNER. "You have inserted Joshua Prouty in the classification, Miss Rogers? son of Gideon Prouty, born 1802; married" "Yes, Mr. Prouty." "Thank you. And you have entered the testimony of Leonard Prouty, of Chicago, ooncerning the desitrn of the coat-of-arms?" "Yes." "Thank you, Miss Rogers. If you are at leisure 1 have my introduction ready for copying: 'The Prouty family in America was founded by Christopher Prouty, who, sailing from England in 1634, with his wife Priscilla, settled at Dorchester'" "It is quite legible, Mr. Prouty." The secretary spread the manuscript before her, unscrewed the cover of an ornamental inkstand, pushed a wisp of her fluffy blonde hair out of her blue eyes, and went demurely to work. Mr Prnnfr wonf Kor?lr in M hia efn/lo which adjoined the room which his secretary occupied. As he sauk into his deep, softpadded easy chair, ho bent forward, half unconsciously, and turned the brass framed mirror on his table in such a position as to reflect that corner of the next room in which sat his secretary. Ho found it pleasant, when, looking up from the letters he was methodically reading and labeling, his glance fell upon the mirror, to note therein the dim, almost spiritual, vision of a fair head, bent downward, the glint of a silver hairpin half lost in a soft cod, and the outline of a soft tinted cheek and a round chin pressed Into a pretty semblance of two by a rim of white collar; and Mr. Prouty respectfully and innocently eujoyod that pleasure. From a like guileless motive he was wont, in his mental references to her, to call his secretary by her first name, which was Polly. He thought Polly a very pretty name. He had begun to be faintly suspicious that the acquirement of a secretary was the one redeeming point in the compilation of a family history. He had undertaken it merely as a recreation; at 45?but, with his muscular form, inclining to stoutni=6s, and his genial, fresh complexioned face, 1 *> looked ten years younger; he was retired fi an inherited mercantile business with a>> ample bank account and nothing to do. He intended the acceptance of no pecuniary remuneration; he expected to present a copy, gilt leaved and in gilt lettered bindings, to every existing Prouty. It had gradually dawned upon him that the task was an onerous one. The Prouty family was alarmingly large and widely scattered. Mr. Prouty, during the past seven months, bad traveled over a large portion of the United States; pored over deeds and wills and marriage records in court houses innumera ble; deciphered inscriptions in scores of cemeteries, and written 1,072 letters and received 1,072 in return, upon all of which Mr. Prouty had paid the postage. And as yet the history was, so to speak, in a stage of red and pulpy infancy. The comparative feebleness and vanity of the effort, also, had now and then forced itself upon his consciousness. It had occurred to him that whether Jabez Prouty had been born in 1720 or 1721, and when Melancthon Prouty had married Nancy Higginson; and whether the tail of the lion which stood on his rear legs in the center of the coat of arms should properly curl and wave to the left, as was urged by Renwick Prouty, of New Orleans, or bend to the right, uncurled, as was insisted upon by Leonard Prouty, of Chicago ?were not, perhaps, the most profound and pressing problems of the day. It wanted three days till Christmas. Mr. Prouty, looking through his window into the street beneath?Twenty-eighth streetcaught a vibration of the coming festival in the flux of shoppers from the houses opposite, the profusion of messenger boys and expressmen, and the rattling rush of dry goods ?e livery wagons. At the present moment Mr. Prouty, glancing in either direction, discovered two highly dissimilar figures approaching: from the west, a tall young man in a peculiar garb of long black overcoat and wide felt hat; from the east, a short young man in a short, pale tinted overcoat and a silk hat When the bell rang, therefore, twice in quick succession, Mr. Prouty evinced no surprise. The callers were his nephews, Selkirk Prouty, the son of his deceased brother, and Benjamin Todd, commonly known as Bub Todd, his departed sister's son. For some years Mr. Prouty had contributed, unmurmuringly, the vastly greater share of their support. The light step of one of the maids of his well ordered bachelor household sounded; and his nephews were shown in. Selkirk Prouty sat down on a sofa with decorous dignity; Bub Todd threw himself into a chair with haste and violence. Neither naa greeted air. rruuvv; iu nu a ivnuau^ which they commonly omitted. "Beastly cold weather," said Bub, depositing his bat on a table?his last call had been for the purpose of extracting the $10 necessary for its purchase?and flipping the shade on the chandelier with his silver headed stick. "Where did you get that!" He strode turbulently across the room to stare at an etching on the wall. "Oh, come now, you didn't think you were girting a good thing when you got that! It's execrable. Bah I" "I took a fancjMto it," said Mr. Prouty, "^^astly, beastly !^ Bub tapped his light uppered shoe sharply, took an impatient turn about the room, and bolted off towards the secretary's desk. Bub was generally understood to bean artist. He bad a high priced studio uptown, patronized the best models, and enriched the art material store at which he dealt. But? the fact was inexplicable to Mr. Prouty, who met his weighty bills?with the exception of n^-iu which Mr. Prouty had bought and presented to friends, he had never as yet sold a picture. Had Mr. Prouty been aware that the nine paintings stood faced to the wall in nine respective back garrets, save only on days when he was expected to dinner, his bewilderment might have been less. As it was, he listened to his nephew's copious explanations?heard gallery committees called cadi and private collectors roosters?in puzzled sympathy. Selkirk Prouty loosened the red silk handkerchief which incased his somewhat lengthy neck, cleared his throat, and picked up a volume from the table. " 'G. Lambert Robinson,' " he read, with sternness. "Is it ctossible that you admire that imbecile's boshf" "I think it?harmless 1" Mr. Prouty faltered. "He is a fellow of tenth-rate ability," said Selkirk, severely. "His pi-oductions are trash?doggerel." He dropped the book in a weariness of disgust, stroked his chin with a languid hand, and strolled in the direction of the secretary. Selkirk was literary ;.the fact, by reason of the peculiarities of his apparel and the length of his hair, was easily discernible. He had bachelor apartments on Washington square, including an expensively fitted study and a large library; and Selkirk employed his time in writing poetry. What became of it was dubious. He had published a volume at his own expense?or at Mr. Prouty's; but the first edition, with the exception ol press copies, still lay untouched on the publishers' shelves. Mr. Prouty, while surprised at the result, was a firm believer, through the iterations of his nephew, in the depraved idiocy of reviewers and the crassitude of the reading public. Mr. Prouty looked through the door to where his secretary sat, well hemmed in by his nephews. He was aware that their visits hod tripled in frequency and length during the past seven months, and that the carpet on either side of his secretary's desk bad begun to look positively dingy and worn; he was aware, in short, that his nephews were jointly and severally in love with Polly Rogers. Mr. Prouty had told himself that this state of affairs was highly gratifying. He had become attached to his pretty secretary; he was fully conscious of it. What, then, could he so much desire for her as an eventual comfortable settlement) He was aware that, were his showering hand withdrawn, a settlement with Bub Todd or Selkirk Prouty would not be comfortable; but he had no intention of withdrawing it. Apparently, as the situation promised, he should be able by proxy to provide for Polly all the rest of her life; and the thought was a pleasing one. But whether he should provide for Mrs. Bub Todd or Mrs. Selkirk Prouty was a mystery which, though Mr. Prouty had made some few delicate and hesitant attempts to lighten it, was as yet unsolved. His bronze clock struck twelve; Bub and Selkirk detached themselves slowly from the secretary's desk. "How shall you spend Christmas?" Mr. Prouty inquired, accompanying his nephews to the door, with his usual cheerful cordiality, and quietly inserting an indorsed check into the band of ea?h, an attention which Selkirk received with a bow in which there was on element of condescension, and Boh with a nonchalant waive of the hand. "I shall join friends at Old Point Comfort," Selkirk rejoined, adjusting his red silk handkerchief. "Geoff Smith's going to have some of us fellows up the river somewhere," said Bub, putting his hat on a corner of his head. "Where will you be?" he added, incidently, with his head in the halL "I shall dine at home," Mr. Prouty replied. "I have invited your Aunt and Uncle Tibbals to dinner and Miss Rogers. Her boarding house dinner would not be a cheerful one, you know." "No?" cried Bub, shortly. "Indeed!" said Selkirk, with ironical emphasis, closing the door with a snap. Mr. Prouty, abashed and bewildered, turned back. Polly was standing in the doorway with his manuscript in her hand, her slender form and peachy face and soft, light hair charmingly outlined against the half drawn portiere. Mr. Paouty forgot his perplexity in th? sight "I 'am so sorry I have not been able to finish it," she was saying. "I will take it home with me if I may." Polly's hours ended at twelve: in the afternoon she conied in a downtown office. "No, no; I will not allow it, Miss Rogers," her employer responded, quite warmly. "It is through no fault of your own; you were interrupted," he added, with pleasant jocularity. Polly smiled in return. "They are agreeable fellows?my nephews," Mr. Prouty pursued; "rather attractive." "They seem pleasant," Polly responded. "They are unlike, to be sure," said Mr. Prouty, musingly. "Selkirk has dignity and repose of manner; Benjamin, with equal stability of character, I am sure, is more impulsive?more effervescent. Which style do you consider the most engaging, Miss Rogers?" "I have not thought of it," said Polly, meeting his eyes serenely, and with some gentle surprise. "They are estimable young men, both, Miss Rogers," said Mr. Prouty, desperately. "1 believe them to be of deep intrinsic worth, with possibilities of warm affection and pre tecting strength, should?should there be occasion for it." "I do not doubt it, Mr. Prouty," said Polly, sweetly. "They would make good husbands?thej would make a good husband, Miss Rogers,' said Mr. Prouty, speaking hoarsely in th< difficult embarrassment of his effort. "1 am sure you are right," said Polly. She raised her blue eyes in faint alarm, and spoke soothingly. Her jaunty checked jacket and her high feathered hat hung on a hook near. She pul the latter on, and smiled up timidly at Mr. Prouty from under a scrap of veil which stopped at the tip of her straight little nose. \f ? UA1 T-V/W-1 KAM Infrn VlAW -Innlrn4- /l Oil, AiUUIfJ UV1 AUkV UOl JOV&UV, QUVJ restored her fallen handkerchief, and stood looking at her with the admiring thrills and the gentle comfort which the sight of her always gave him, while sho polled on her yellow gloves and buttoned them with an extracted hair pin, and tucked her hands intc her monkey skin muff and tripped away. He evei crossed to his window, inthralled by her softening influence, and watched her flitting out of sight, followed by'the admiringly retroverted eyes of Ave successive men whom she met It occurred to Mr. Prouty that theprac tice of turning on the6treet to gaze backward was an offensive one. B?,put his papers in order absently, and went tloWn to lunch. Perhaps it was the unending procession ol feet which passed the tLininf room windowfeet imbued with a holiday spirit?that gave Mr. Prouty a highly agr eeable idea. He weni upstairs and put on his hat and overcoat, witl a brisk step and a beaming face. He knev nothing about buying Christmas presents having had small experience; but it hac struck him that it would be a very pleasan thing to buy a present for Polly. It woulc be?what he surely owed her?a token of hi esteem and of his appreciation of her services It was 5 o'clock when he got back. He hat walked down Broadway looking into win dows, in helpless indecision, at velvet bon nets, and satin candy boxes, and photograph of actresses and royal personages, and Ion; gloves, and Japanese brio-a-brao and shee music. He bad been drawn into the crowt surging westward along Fourteenth street ancTbeen borne up Sixth avenue like a straw in the rapids, yelled at by the proprietors of booths on either hand, and gazing confusedly over the sea of surrounding heads at five cent Christmas cards, five cent cornucopias, five cent jumping jacks, five cent green tin alligators, five cent pincushions on clamshells and five cent plush monkeys on strings. He had been carried round the corner and into Twenty-third street, and been squeezed, mussed and fatigued through a shadowy succession of stores in which hundreds of pretty girls had shown him millions of articles; and in which cashboys had rushed and floorwalkers had perspired, and sealskinned shoppers had chattered deafeningly; and in which he had grown more and more hopelessly lost. He had even drifted, dazedly, into a toyshop and looked at rubber dolls and wooden soldiers and tin horses and flannel dogs on wheels. And he had come home wearied, rumpled and empty handed. He sat down with bis chin in his hands, thoughtfully. He reflected that his impulse had been a foolish one and that the abortiveness of his effort was not to be regretted. Undoubtedlyheshould be able?possibly soon ?to indulge the fatherly warmth of his desire in the presentation of a handsome wedding gift Mr. Prouty informed himself that he was exceedingly happy in the contemplation of this prospect; he smiled broadly and * rubbed his hands. He was obliged to keep his mind faithfully mwn th9 smile and the attrition of his hanin in order to continue them, but hMirf0?med them with mechanI >111| ilMijpjniff A*' <"i At 12 o'clock on Christmas day Mr. Prouty, > his fine form clothed in holiday attire and his handsome face flushed with eager anticipation, awaitod his three expected guests in his Btudy. Below, the parlors were thrown open, a long vista of comfortable elegance, with flowers in fancy baskets and leaping grate Ores; and the darkened dining room shone with the bright array of silver and the sprinkling of tinted fairy lights and the scin> tillations of the laden sideboard; and the odor of the little pig patiently roasting in tho range mingled with the aroma of the plum pudding steaming above it, and gently floated in. The bell rang, and Mr. Prouty, pacing his i study floor with an irregularity of pleasurable emotion, hurried downward. Selkirk Prouty was removing his outer garments before the hall mirror. He wore a turndown collar of some width, covered in the rear by his falling locks, and joined in front by a blue silk scarf; and he carried a package. He greeted Mr. Prouty, standing 1 in speechless astonishment, with a gracious smilei "I altered my arrangements," he explained, with benignity, "and resolved to join you at 1 your Christmas dinner. Ah; rather cozy," ' he admitted, rubbing his bands before the > grate, with an unbending of complacent benevolence. "Miss Rogers has not arrived? I have a slight token to present to her." He unwrapped a volume of his poems and placed it at a conspicuous point on the mantel. 1 Mr. Pronty opened his lips forcibly, with a 1 gasp, and strove to speak. He assured himself, strenuously, that nothing more gratifying could possibly have occurred. It would be an excellent opportunity for the further1 ance of his hopes regarding Polly; possibly the occasion would bring about a happy cul; mination. He reproached himself for having omitted Selkirk from his primal arrangement. 1 "I wish to see Miss Rogers privately, by > the way,"Selkirk continued. "Ihnveamatter to discuss with her which has been for > some time upon my mind, and it occurred to me to embrace this opportunity." ' "Certainly?certainly," Mrt Prouty murmured. He looked at his nephew hopefully. 1 His well poised dignity, his self centered manliness, had never appeared to greater ad van* ?? T* 4.V. 1 L>f, 5UTC1/. XL tucrc wwc a uuuiud l/octtctoia his nephews as regarded their fitness for Polly, 1 Mr. Prouty believed that Selkirk was that 1 choice. "If some little management proves necessary for my seeing Miss Rogers privately," 1 Selkirk added, spreading his blue scarf, "I may depend on your assistance!" 1 "Assuredly, assuredly," Mr. Prouty re1 sponded, with hurried warmth. "Ah, thauks!" Selkirk sank into a choir in a languor of self recollection. The bell pealed; Mr. Prouty hastened into the hall with a beating heart?and stopped in amazement. It was Bub Todd and a messenger boy carrying a large and very carefully enveloped burden. "Didn't look for me, ehi" said Bub, removing his pale gloves. ""Well, changed my plans and concluded I'd drop in. Just put on another plate, Molly," he remarked to the retreating girl "Two, Mary," Mr. Prouty faltered. Bub glanced into the parlor; frowned at 1 the disclosure of his cousin, and lowered his voice. "She ain't here yet? Brought her a little 1 present; little thing I've been doing." He removed its wrappings and placed it in an advantageous light against the hat rack. 1 "How's that!" He ruDDea tils dangling glass 1 with his scented handkerchief and seized Mr. 1 Prouty's lapeL "See here, I want to see her when she conies; want to have a confab about a little matter. Keep the gang off and give me a chance, will you?eh?" Mr. Prouty hesitated, bewilderedly. Bub's > impulsiveness, his offhanded spontaneity struck him with fresh force, and favorably. Perhaps Polly's clinging sweetness ? Mr. Prouty was certain that Polly's nature was one of clinging sweetness?would crave more warmth, more demonstrative ardor than Selkirk would be likely to lavish upon her; perhaps?yes, surely?Bub would make her happier. "Eh7" Bub repeated, sharply. "Why, yes; to be sure, my boy," said Mr. Prouty, with dazed cordiality, and Bub sauntered into the parlor, yawning, i The bell jingled again, this time with a gentle timidity. Mr. Prouty felt a thrill, half of poignant pleasure and half of painful apprehension, tingle through him. He ??ent forward at an unsteady pace. Yes?it was Polly. She met Mr. Prouty with a pleasant smile, and a pretty flush, and 1 laid her gloved hand in his, with her blue eyes swiftly raised to him; and covered his agitated silence by chatting brightly of the > day. and the weather, as she laid aside her jacket, and rolled up her gloves and put them in her muff, aud pinned her veil > to her hat, and pressed her dextrous hands 1 to the shining blondo aureole above her charming face, aud went with her host into the warm, fire lighted, flower scented parlor. She started back in shy alarm at the sight of the two masculine figures within. Selkirk ptse hastily from the chair in which he was half dozing. Bub bounded from the sofa upon which he was unconventionally reclining. They hurried forward simultaneously, and Polly bowed to them each, with a sweetly impartial smile. Bub looked at Sel' kirk frowningly; Selkirk returned the look 1 with haughty coldness. "It is a delightfully beautiful day, Miss Rogers," he remarked, drawing a chair near to her. "It is very pleasant," said Polly. 1 "The glad Christmas-tide?who does not 1 welcome it?" Selkirk demanded. He looked i suggestively and severely at Mr. Prouty, and Mr. Prouty, with a sudden startled remembrance, turned hastily to Bub. "I?I have some engravings 1 think you ' have not seen, Benjamin," he said. "They are in the back parlor." Bub had slapped down a chair at Polly's vacant side. ' "Jolly day, Miss Rogers?" he observed. "They are from recent French paintings, ' Benjamin," said Mr. Prouty, anxiously. 1 "You will be interested in examining them." "I'm awfully glad you're on hand, Miss 1 Rogers," said Bub, turning upon Mr. Prouty ' with an amazed and threatening glare. 4lTf. io a Hnir of hiHcrhfc associations and ' blessed hopes," Selkirk proceeded. "I have not shown you my new edition of ' 'Carlyle,' Selkirk," Mr. Prouty faltered, ' struck by a wave of confused recollection. ' "If you will come upstairs for a moment to the library" "It is a season of peace aud love," said Selkirk with a stern gaze of wrathful consterna' tion at Mr. Prouty. "You're looking tip-top, Miss Rogers," Bub put in. > "They include some Bonheurs and Meissoniers, Benjamin," said Mr. Prouty, dazedly. ' "If you will come into the back parlor" Bub rose to his limited height with a vio' lent jerk. Mr. Prouty wiped the perspira1 tion from his forehead. "There is a portrait and biography, Selkirk," he gasped, with Bub's fierce eyes upon him. "Shall we go up to the library?" "What do you mean by not going, sir?" 1 Bub demanded, eyeing his tall cousin fero1 ciously. 1 "To whom are you speaking, sir?" Selkirk ' rejoined, rising with stern dignity. ' "Miss Rogers, may I request you to accom' pany me to the further end of the room? I * desire to speak to you privately; without in3 terference." * "Will you go into the hall with me, Miss * Rogers?" Bub demanded, glowing with wrath. Polly, standing with fluttering breath and 3 clasped hands, was timidly, shrinkingly sl[ lent. Bub glared at Selkirk. * "You're,a cad, sirl" he remarked, with * savage force. "You're a puppy," BeuKira responaea, witn equal ire. Mr. Prouty mopped the anguished beads from his brow and gazed at Polly. Polly's eyes were lifted to his. Her lips were parted tremulously; her color came and went swiftly; her soft eyes looked into his own with timorous fright and sweet appeal and yearning trustfulness?and Mr. Prouty stared at her in breathless wonder, in wide eyed bewilderment, in dazed incredulity and delirious joy. A great light burst over him. He felt his face paling and his limbs trembling and his strength forsaking him; but he opened his arms wide. And his little secretary, bursting into a soft shower of tears, tripped into them and threw her own snugly about his neck, and buried hor tenderly tearful, smiling face upon his breast Thero was a pause of some duration. The rattle of a confectioner's wagon outside and tho thud of au ice cream pail ou the pavement resounded with a startling distinctness. The roast-pig-and-plum-pudding odor wandered up and mingled with the fragrance of the flowers. The brass dog on the mantel looked down in impassivo calm. Bub Todd emitted a long, low pitched whistle, strolled up and down the room for a space, with his hands in his pockets; sauntered into the hall and placed his painting with its face towards the baseboard and sauntered back. Selkirk Prouty cleared his throat, mechanically rearranged a displaced lock, went to the mantel and deposited his volume of poems behind a "large vt~cr attl-sat down reflGStiveiyr "T&6 bell rang a loud and cheerful peal, and the maid came up to admit the two remaining guests and to announce the readiness of the Christmas dinner. Mr. Prouty's secretary became Mrs. Prouty six weeks later, and sailed with her late employer on a European wedding tour. The numerous Proutys resident in America have not as yet received a gilt edged copy of their family history for the reason that it has never been completed.?Emma A. Opper in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper. Christmas Proverbs and Predictions. A green Christmas makes a full graveyard. A white Christmas, a lean graveyard. Other sayings connect Christmas with Easter: A green Christmas indicates a white Easter. A worm Christmas, a cold Easter. Easter in snow, Christmas in mud. Christmas in snow, Easter in mud. F Its influence on the crops during the ensuing year is set forth in other proverbs: If windy on Christmas day, trees will bring F forth much fruit. If it snows on Christmas night, we expect ^ a good hop crop next year. Christmas wet gives empty granary and J barrel. IT# riiriofmna nl'orht. " CHV? n. fJortTlftn proverb, "the wine ferments heavily in the T barrels, a good wine year is to follow." Somewhat uncertain is the prediction that follows: i If at Christmas ice hangs on the willow, Tl clover may be cut at Easter. The proverb that follows is somowhat ob- A 6cure: ,. If Christmas finds a bridge, he'll break it: if he finds none, he'll make one. Nor is this one very clearly expressed: a Wet causes more damage than frost before than after Christmas. ^ An English proverb tells us: If ice will & bear a man before Christmas it will not bear a mouse afterwards. X A German saying declares that: The shep- O herd would rather Bee his wife enter the stable on Christmas day than the sun.?Exchange. I CbrUtmuft Trees. A To Germany the civilized world is indebted for one of the most enjoyable of all Christ- 1 mas delights, the Christmas tree, says an old B issue of The New York Post This custom b was little known iu England before the marriage of Q.ieen Victoria, and was, we believe, T introduced by the late prince consort We call it a gift from Germany, and yet behind the quaint figure of Kris Kringle, coming from the snowy woods, with $he tree rising M high above his genial shoulders, laden with gifts and glittering with lanterns, as he sud- H denly invades the lowly German cottage on kindly errand bent, we see the yet more ? ancient toy pine tree, hung with oscilla, which boys and girls in ancient Rome looked for on the sixth and seventh days of the Saturnalia But we who are not antiquaries are content to accept these pretty customs, come whence they may, and to improve on them if wo can. A wide gulf is fixed ? between the puritanic days, when Christmas was frowned upon as a remnant of evil superstition, and today, when nothing is too rare " or good for the making of our homes bright and our sanctuaries beautiful in honor of the Author of the Christian feast. Wherever civilized man is found there in one form or another we find the tokens of adoration and gratitude. Another newspaper says: The most popular tree for a Christmas celebration is the balsam. This tree attains perfection at the age of 20 years. After this it begins to wither at the top and gradually dies. The large balsam trees are cut in great numbers for churches and Sunday schools. The branches are strong and thickly covered with bluish green leaves. They are cut as young as 6 years. They are merely bushes then, however, and are used mainly by private families. / Next to the balsam in popularity comes the spruce. This tree, although it attains a greater height than the balsam, has a scroggy appearance. It is cut when it is about ten years old. The color is not so good, being a yellowish green, which withers very soon. The cedar trees are only by special order, as the demand for them is very limited. But they are the most fragrant smelling tree of A the lot White pine trees are ased by the 1 grocery and butcher shops to decorate with. They have a deep green color and last longer 86 than any of the othera a aj The Christmas Holly. | 01 1X1 In connection with the holly, which figures [c so conspicuously in all our Christmas decora- ^ tions, we find a quaint old conceit chronicled, that every holly bough and lump of berries w with which you adorn your house is an act y, of natural piety as well as beauty, and will, in summer, enable you to relish that green 0j world of which you show yourself not unworthy. In Germany and Scandinavia the n holly, or holly tree, is called "Christ's thorn," from its use in church decorations and be- tt cause it bears its berries at Christmastide. The loving sentiment imprisoned in the holly jD bough and translatable into every language 0] will never be more happily expressed than in i Charles Mockay's verses, "Under the Holly Bough:" C( Ye who have scorned each other, p| Or injured friend or brother, In this fast fading year; Yo who by word or deed *z( Have made a kind heart bleed, Come, gather here! H Let sinned against and sinning , tL Forget their strife's beginning, se atu! join in friendship now; Bo links no longer broken, Be sweet forgiveness spoken. Under the holly bough. -Exchange. ftl ol The Yule I.og. 63 In the noblest English houses of today they a observe the old peasant superstition of lighting the yule log, "the ponderous ashen fagot from the yard," and great ill luck is foretold u. if its flame dies out in twelve days. Frumenty (boiled porridgo with milk, sugar, * wine, spices and raisins) is served, also mince pies and plum puddings. The Christmas pie a of Ynrlfshirfl ta a uhrn,crru-iCA nlo" ^3 Herrick, In one of his delightful verses, thus j? defends: ? Come, guard this night the Christmas pie, j*. That the thief, though ne'er so she? With his flesh hooks, don't come nigh f<" To catch It w le From him whom all alone sits there. Having his eyes still in his care, And a deal of nightly feare, To watch it dl This was one of the famous songs of the tc waits, or singing boys, who go about London ki still, singing their Chrismas carols.?Frank *e Leslie's. The Drumstick. , , hi Behold my rotund wealth of meat c, With all its juices, rich and sweetl ; , How firm, how solid, Are my parts, And how I go straight to the hearts . Of children, with distended jaws, In wait to hide me in their maws " n< Ah! how I love to lie in state hi Upon the table, while you wait tr With eager eyes and teeth that burn, Until It comes to be your turn. L How crisp my skin, and, oh! how brown, P1 And howl tickle going do wn; ct And, then, my bone, oh I what delight, lj To pick it till It's clean and white. tt tfc Howwould you like, on Christmas Day, To tramp till noon and then, we'll say, To come back home, well almost starved, w And find me waiting, nicely carved f Between your finger and your thumb ol You hold me up, thus (yum, yum, yum 0 a I tickle every nerve, I thrill oi Your stomachs, and I All the bill, rc And with all men I nothing lack? ?< In fact, I have the inside track I Tom Mabbon. d( w "A merry Christmas!" far and wide sf Rings out this wish on every hand, si A greeting glad this Christmastide, bi Re-echoing through all the land. Ill ROM BETHLEHEM TO NAZARETH. THE WISE HEN OF THE EAST, rom out the golden doors of dawn The wise men came, of wondrous thought, Tio knew the stars. From far upon The shoreless east they kneeling brought heir costly gifts of inwrought gems and gold, . 'hile, cloudlike, incense from their presence rolled heir sweets of flower fields, their sweet Distlllmeuts of most sacred leaves, hey laid, low bending at his feet, As reapers bend above their sheaves? s strong armed reapers bending, clamorous, o give their gathered full sheaves kneeling thua nd, kneeling so, they spake of when God walked his garden's fragrant sod, or yet had hid his face from men. Nor yet had man forgotten God. hey spake. But Mary kept her thought apart nd, silent, "pondered all things in her heart" hey spake. In whispers long, they laid Their shaggy heads together, drew jme stained scrolls breathless forth, then mado Such speech as only wise men knew? heir high red camels on the huge hill set UlOUUiVUiih! IlfcW OWIUO ut^uv-wvnx W..UVMV.?V. MORN AT NAZARETH, think 1 see Him now at morn Before the burst of sudden day. bove the silver fields of corn Where He has gone apart to pray; think I see Him looking thoughtful down eyond the corn, beyond the waking town. eyond the silver'd mists that rise From all nigbt toiling in the corn, be mists have duties up the skies, The skies'have duties down the morn, TiLle all the world is full of earnest care o make the fair world still more wondrous fairore lordly fair; the stately morn Moves down her walks of golden wheat, er guards of honor gild the corn In golden pathway for God's feet; er purpled hills she crowns in crowns of gold nd majesty before the Lord is rolled. ?Joaquin Miller in Independent. j THE MERRITT MATTER. I OW HELEN BLAKE BROUGHT ABOUT A CHRISTMAS RECONCILIATION. Copyright, 1889, by American Press Association.] WONDER what you'll be Plike at my age," said Willlam Merritt angrily to his son Albert, one day memor^ able in the lives of both. William Merritt was what the people called "a hard man to get along with." Ho was hard, just, sincere and ivere. He began mature life as a flatboat lptain, and finished his training as sheriff of [i Indiana county. A born ruler, at 50 years f age he knew absolutely nothing of any lethods save stern command and force ready >r instant application. To this he added a abit of perpetual fault finding. He had been going over the hoary harangue, itk which some old people have insulted oung ones since the days of Homer, about le good boys and the industrious young men ! his early life and the degenerate sons of leso days, when Albert's satirical humor )SO. "You're mighty little account now," said 10 father. "What'll you be at my age?" "I suppose," said Albert, unconsciously nitating his father's sneer, "I'll do like other d men?sit and tell lies about the big things did when I was a boy." It was one of those insults which some men insider "the first blow," and the second fell romptly. Raising his broad, right hand, id foaming with rage, the father brought it jwn flat across the sou's mouth. The blood aw from Albert's nose as he staggered back. J e rallied, gazed an instant on the father, 1 ten turned away with clinched teeth and t purpose. i Ho sought his confidant, Sam McCorkle, i le drunken shoemaker's boy near by. who ! as of tho same ago as Albert, but knew Ety times as much of the tricks and devices ! the oppressed. At 10 years Sam was an cpert in evasive tricks; at lb ho was simply j prodigy. These two had met and conferred often? j te sad, cynical skeptic, whose father was j nong the well-to-do farmers of the comrauity, and the finished trickster, whose father : as the outcast; they often laid out wonderil plans of life in distant regions; but soon j fair young face rose before Albert Merritt's j res, and he could not make up his mind to i >. It was the face of Helen Blake, only a iw years before his schoolmate. But now lbert was resolved. If Helen thought of im as often as he did of her, she would wait ir him to return, and if she were worth tho inning she would respect him more for j aving the discomforts of his present life, j hus he reasoned. Late that night two lads with small bun- j les might have been seen, but took care not : > be, on the river road, and it was soon : sown to all tho community that thej' had j ft the place. Of farewells tho boys had said none. Albert had indeed written a brief note to j is mother, in which lie had bidden her a ' xnl-by full of clumsily worded tenderness, | id another to Helen, which he had formally jgun "Miss Helen Blake," and in which he j -J ? ornroccofl +.Via Vinru* t.hflf.. 1U US lUlumuj ?.v^ ?., ioagh absent perhaps for years, he would ; Dt be forgotten. These epistles ho took with : m in his flight, and a day or two later en- i usted them to Sam McCorkle to post, but j tat individual, fearful that the route of de- i irture would be guessed by the postmark, dxnly destroyed them, although he solemn- i declared to Albert that ho had deposited i lem in the postoffice of a considerable town trough which they journeyed. And so the ro boys were quite cut off from the old orld of semi-servitude. That a father should be sorry for tho flight a son i$ but natural; that he should, while spark of pride or anger remains, tell any le of his sorrow would be contrary to all scorded precedents in such cases. William !erritt was not the man to violate precejnts of discipline. He held himself stiffly, aved away tho subject complacently, and tid when ho spoke at all: "Oh, he'll soon get ck of his flirt?he'll be glad enough to come iclc." But late summer yielded to autumn, 1 jpp . and autumn gave place to winter, and a sad Christmas day had come, for Albert Merritt bad made no sign. When Helen Blake was told that Albert Merritt was a "runaway boy" she merely said, "Ah, indeed," and bent very low over her work; but she knew why he had gone? knew it, indeed, about as well as he did. Ere long she and Mrs. Merritt seemed to have a good deal to say to each other. They Beldom if ever mentioned Albert, but it always seemed that the mother was much cheered after a visit from Helen. In her own desponding heart the mother said: "He will never come back, he is too much like his father," a favorite delusion with mothers, by the way. And so, on this sad Christmas day, the two sorrowful women exchanged deep sympathies without exchanging a word on the subject nearest their hearts, and the mother felt that night as if volumes had been spoken on the subject, when in fact it had not been mentioned. And thereafter Helen came oftener and oftener, and somehow after each visit the mother felt an as surance that all would be right, and felt it just the samo whether Albert's name was mentioned or not Now, after the first shock was passed, Helen Blake never felt a doubt in her bosom that she would in good time receive some word from Albert Merritt, and she would have risked much on her conviction that she would hear before either of his parents, though she could not have told you why, and probably would not if she could, for the best farm in Jackson township. Yet she knew it all the same, and visited the Merritts often, and at each visit it somehow fell out that 1 something rather singular happened. On one occasion she grew quite hilarious in ! reminiscences of a certain school exhibition, and told how the teacher had photographs of i the whole class taken, a set for all, and how childish the pictures looked now, and how ! everybody had changed, though it was but six years ago, and then she brought out the photographs?cheap, tawdry things they were, but among them was one of a tall, fair j boy. with all the glow of class leadership in his eye, and light hair curling around a bold forehead, and under it, in round boyish script, was the autograph, "Albert Merritt." A pang shot through the father's heart, and he longed for her to talk of his boy; but she rattled on about Tom and Jennie and Mattie, and soon hastened home. But the mother noticed that Helen "had forgotten her pictures," and so they lay on the lookinc class stand for manv a dav. where the father often saw the presentiment of his boy, but he never touched it, and they lay there till Helen came again. This time she brought a "story paper" for Mrs. Merritt, saying that the main story in it had interested her very much; and after she was gone William Merritt picked it up and pished and pshawed and ridiculed the pictures, but he read the story. It was a commonplace novelette of a son, who had fled from a harsh father and enlisted in the Federal army, and who wu3 sick almost unto death in a southern hospital, and how in delirium he babbled of home, aud how a Sister of Charity wrote to the father, who came and patiently nursed his boy back to life and love and forgiveness. A commonplace story ?one of ten thousand war stories of the time ?but the father's hand trembled as ho read, and he rushed to the field and drove his work with unusual energy and shouted louder than ever at his team, and at night was stern and silent and solemn to a degree that surprised even his long suffering wife. The other children would occasionally venture a reference to Albert, and now when Helen came the father would blame the runaway; but she only listened quietly and asked if they had ever heard of him, and turned the talk to their school days. And so two J 1 J-t- - ih.'-J years passea away auu me uuu vunstiuiu came. In celebration of the day the Merritts were to be the guests of the Blakes, and when they gathered ir. the big room of the great farm house it happened that all the young people present were of that last day class at the head of which Albert Merritt had stood. Of course Helen Blake never thought of alluding to such a fact?"it just happened so," her parents thought?but there were plenty in a class of eight young people who could talk as fast as they could think, and usually did it, too. And so the conversation rattled on about that glorious day, and the father, whose heart was literally pounding against his ribs, and whose, internal struggles were such that he could not tell whether he was eating turkey or oak chips, talked loudly and aggressively to those at his end of the table, and quite overbore Mr. Blake on politics, and finally offered to bet "the pick of his horses agin' a yearlin' calf" that his candidate for the presidency would have 500,000 majority over any man the other side could put up next year. JUMPED TO THE GROUND. Now Helen was quite satisfied in her own mind that the little surprise had done its work, but that evening her brother brought home the weekly mail, and in it, after all her weary waiting, a little surprise for her. It was a copy of The Tekeewah (Kan.) Bugle, and great was the wonder in the family as to the why and wherefore of its coming; but Helen knew. There wasn't a mark of any kind on the printed sheet, so she set herself resolutely to read every line. Never had far western publisher in the most heated campaign a more devoted reader, and at last, In a leaded arttcle in the page headed "Local Intelligence," she found a list of members of a new Are company, and among the names was "Albert Merritt." A writer in the "County Correspondence" of the next issue of The County Democrat told of "our fair ladies who charmed the audience with their music" at a certain Christmas eve church festival, and, by request conveyed in a note Inclosing the stamps, the publisher directed a copy to "A. Merritt, Esq., Tekeewah, Kan." And this sort of thing went on for eight months more, and the golden autumn set in and the country was most mightily stirred over the presidential election, and the Blakes and the Merritts began to look forward withr strangely mingled feelings to another Christmas. William Merritt was the same and yet not the same. His hair, which was just streaked with gray when his son Albert had left him, was now whitening visibly. His broad, burly shoulders had begun to stoop. His hard eyes had lost somewhat of their steadiness, and occasionally there were lines denoting mental pain visible in his austere countenance. His voice, too, sometimes quavered in a way that astonished no one more than himself. And one day just after the sorrel colt?a wild, vicious beast, he was breaking to the saddle?hail almost thrown him on the way to town, he had caught himself audibly wishing that All>ert, who must be a full grown, strong man by this time, were there to help subjugate the animal. "CAN'T WE GET ALBERT BACK?" And so when Helen next, paid the Merritt homestead a visit she found the fortress of the old man's WBRTMSfiTPEo yield. She had the day before received a copy of The Tekeewah Bugle, in which she found the following paragraph half way down a crudely written account of a fire in that enterprising town: "We should utterly fail in our duty to our readers if we omitted to take more than passing note of the heroic conduct of one of our young townsmen, a prominent and efficient member of Avalanche Engine company No. 1. Of course we refer to Mr. Albert Merritt, than whom a braver man n wer drew breath. No sooner had it become known that a child was in the burning building than, at the risk of his own life, Mr. Merritt rushed into the smoke and flames, dashed up the stairs almost at a bound, and, groping about in the stifling heat, found the infant, fought his way through the fire to the window, for by this time the stairway was burning, and jumped to the ground with his precious burden safe on his arms. He was greeted with such a cheer as only Tekeewah throats can give. We regret to be obliged to add that Mr. Merritt suffered a painful, though not necessarily dangerous, injury in the breaking of an arm, which was struck by a falling timber. He was also rather severely burned. It is hoped, however, that he will soon be himself again." This paper Helen brought with her but carefully hidden. She had determined, if need be, to show it to the stern father, but she proposed to hold it for the last resort. But her manner (for, though ordinarily calm, she was now much excited) betrayed her, and as soon as William Merritt looked into her face he knew that she knew something of Albert; and ber unwonted agitation, as he gazed fixedly at hftr, convinced him that something was amiss with his son. Mrs. Merritt was about to speak when her husband interrupted her in strained, quivering tones: "Helen Blake," he said, "is Albert dead? Tell me the truth 1" There was a world of paternal love in the old man's voice now. But for a moment Helen said nothing, for she felt that were she to speak she would instantly and completely loso her self control. So with a deprecatory gesture and a white face she walked to the window to compose herself, while the father and mother waited in suspense. After a little she turned again to them, and, with a reassuring look toward Mrs. Blake, who sat with clasped hands and parted lips, she took the paper from her pocket. "I would like to read to you an article from The Tekeewah (Kansas) Bugle," she said, in as steady a voice as she could command. And then she read the account of the fire, from headlines to dash, without a break, and without looking up. When she had done she raised her eyes. Mrs. Blake was crying quietly and the old man was quite broken aown. "Helen," he said, reaching out both hands to the girl, "it's no use. I can't be a hardened old fool no longer. Cant we get Albert back here with us? Hadn't I better go out to Kansas and get turn? roor Uu>, inujr oe ne's hurt worse than it says." And then the old man let the tears flow unconcealed. That night a letter was mailed to Tekeewah, Kan. It was written by Helen, though unsigned, and here is a copy: Mr. Albert Merritt: The account of the recent fire in Tekeewah and the bravery displayed by yourself on that occasion has worked a great change of opinion in certain quarters, a change which would have come soon, however, in the natural course of things. Your father is very much broken and anxious to see you. A Friend. When Albert Merritt received this letter he was convalescent, lying on the bed of the best room in the Tekeewah tavern, while Sara McCorkle was standing in the center of the floor telling some admiring friends for the thousandth time bow "my pard here saved that gal baby." "I tell you," he said, "it takes the boys from old Indianny to do things. Now, I mind me one time before I came west of how little Jimmy Jones fell into the river, ( 'n' I jumped right in without stopping to , peel a bit" And then he reeled off a wholly imaginary yarn of his own bravery, ^ while Albert smiled and the rest listened open mouthed. When Albert had read his letter | he said, quietly: "Sam, I'm going home for Christmas. I | shall start as soon as I can do it safely." ( Sara was astounded, but he did not remonstrate, and finally concluded to go, too, "just , to take care of Al," he explained to the boys. , But secretly he was glad of the excuse. ( Tho next issue of The Tekeewah Bugle contained this paragraph: "Our well known townsman, Mr. Albert Merritt, is about to visit his old home in Indiana, where he will probably spend the holidays. He is very nearly well of the injuries sustained at the recent fire. He will be accompanied by his fast friend, Mr. Sam McCorkle, the well known lightning rod agent." The stage was duo to pass William Merritt's house at 4:30 o'clock on Christmas eve, but the roads were bad and it was quite dark when, with a sweeping curve, it swerved to the side of the pike and stopped in front of the house, in the open front doorway of which, in strong silhouette against the flood of light within, stood the burly form of William Merritt, his hands outstretched with trembling hopefulness. "Come along, Sam," said one of the young men who dismounted from the back seat of tho high stage, "I need you yet." There was a cry, in which recognition, welcome and forgiveness were all blended from the figure in the doorway, and an answer from the taller of the travelers, who still carried one arm in a sling. And a moment later la/1 fVaic rma l'nM Vile hnilCA "Mother," he said, "our boy has come back," In the ecstatic joy of meeting his mother, Albert had forgotten Sam McCorkle, and , when he looked for him that individual had disappeared. As ho afterward explained, he I "didn't feel like he was any use when folks j 1 was all a-cryin' and a-weepin' and fallin' on | each other's necks, so ho just sloped." < But Albert did not look for Sara very long. Ho had much to tell of his new life in the west, where he had been fairly successful, and , his father and mother and brothers and sis- ' tors had quite as much to tell him. THERE WAS A CRY. The next day there was such a Christmas gathering at William Merritt's house as had never been there before. Such roast turkey with cranberry sauce, and such juicy mince pies, and such mealy potatoes, and such fine, white homo made bread, and such good things to eat generally as they who sat down at the dinner table partook of have never been excelled. All! the Blakes were there, and so were all tiio members or tnat class or eignt, whose photographs were the first weapon Helen had employed in storming "William Merritt's flinty old heart. And Sam McCorkle, too, the drunken shoemaker's son, full of far western dash and his- : torian of the time "A1 rescued the baby." was "Mr. McCorkle," an honored guest, I and no one received greater respect man De. t But he did not rise to tho height of his glory 11 till evening, for at the dinner table Albert * would not suffer his own praise* to be sung in too high a key. But when Albert, seem- r ing to have something particular to say to 8 Helen, whose great, brown eyes sparkled unwontedly and whose cheeks persisted in blushing furiously, led her away with him into a quiet corner and left the field to Sam, that individual chanted his hero's deeds to I his heart's content and everybody else's delight, though he did not let slip the opportunities to tell of some things he had himself accomplished in the west 1 The close of this veracious history may bo clipped from The Tekeewab Bugle of March 15, 1869: "Mr. Samuel McCorkle, the gentlemanly and enterprising agent for Flash & Hittem's justly celebrated lightning rods, has returned from Indiana healthy and happy. His friend 1 and our former townsman, Mr. Albert Mer- ' ritt, has concluded to remain east, where he < will settle down upon his father's extensive f farms A little bird has whispered that the j blind god had something to do with Mr. j Merritt's decision to forego a share in the j golden future sure to come to Tekeewah. Those who are curious in this matter are directed to tfie notice in the marriage column ' on another page headed 'Merritt-Blake.'" 1 ELe.vby Dawson. ' A HUMBLE CHRISTMAS DINNER. i There wm not ve.rv much on the table?in fact, it wasn't very much of a table, being made of a dry goods box stood on its side. The room belonged to the grocer, but he had told them they could have the use of it for Christmas night. In the corner there was a little, cracked stove, which was so hot that it shone like a big lump of Christmas cheer in the semi-darkness. Pretty soon "Swipesy" came in out of the roar of the city street. He had a few unsold papers under one arm and a small?a very small?bundle under the other. With him was his sister Suze. They were orphans trying to make their own way. She had had good luck and had sold all her papers. She took what was left of Swipesy's stock and spread a nice clean paper over the dry goods box. Then he unrolled his bundle. "Oh, Swipesy I" said the girL There was a can of cooked corn beef and a little box of figs. Pretty soon the others began to come in. There was "Mickey" with a little packet of coffee, some sugar, and (what luck I) some cabbage that the apple woman on the corner had cooked and given him with big tears in her honest, Irish eyes when he told her about the dinner. "It aint much, Mickey," she said, "but may the good saints make it taste as relishin' as if 'twas as big as a barn and cooked in a gowld skillet." There were five charter members of the dinner party, so to speak. "Rocks" (so named from his manner of defending himself in his frequent "scraps") came into the room next. He too had a little bundle which was undone with due ceremony. When "Piper" came in he stopped a minute just inside the threshold, aqd held the door open while he beckoned to some one on the outside. "C'mon in," said he. "The fellers '11 be glad ter see yer." Then there entered a little fellow not more than 6 years old. He was very much em barrassed, and held bis nnger to bis bps. Piper, by way of introduction, said: ' "Fellers?and Suze?this 'ere little cove" j (Piper himself was a big cove, having seen j thirteen years, and being the oldest member , of the dinner party) "is comin' to our Crie- . muss. He's just gone into the paper Bellin' biz, an' he ain't got no boodle. I'm a takin' 1 care o'him till he gits started. See?" ' For a minute an embarrassed silence hung I over the little group. Then the little people 1 opened their hearts to the newcomer (and ] they were big hearts for such very small j bodies), and he was one of the dinner party. ( Piper explained to him: "You see," said Piper, "we fellers and ' Suze had heard a lot 'bout Crismuss. We 1 don' know 'gzac'ly what it is, but we do know ? that everybody, wot is anybody, has a Cris- 1 muss dinner. So we jes' chipped in, and? ; and" (waving his hand around the room) 1 "here y' are." j "But I ain't chipped in," said the new- j comer. , "Well, wot if y' ain't Y can nex' time." So that was settled. Suze in the meantime had produced a pail 1 from somewhere, and an old stew pan from 1 somewhere else, and some broken crockery l from still another place. i "Youz'll make the coffee and warrm the i cabbage and meat, darlint," said Mickey. , "Yez are the only woman here." , So Suze went at it. It wasn't long before everything was ready, and they gathered around the box. The savory odor from the coffee pot and 1 stew pan had tickled the twelve little nostrils, and the six mouths were as eager to taste the poor little dinner as ever yours was to pick your succulent Christmas turkey bones. t They fell to at once. ; "I'm 'fraid the coffee ain't very good," said ( Suze. But she smiled the satisfied smile that every housewife smiles while decrying her ? own dainties, and was as pleased as you ever ^ were, my uue iany} in suiium uiruuiubumces, ~ when Rocks exclaimed in answer: C "Finer'n Delmonico's, I'll bet." f Before very long the dinner had been 1 eaten. They sat around and talked for awhile, and the little 6-year-old fell asleep c with his head on Suze's knees, and her fingers passed lovingly over the little fellow's dirty forehead, and by-and-by she leaned over and kissed him. * The tallow candle burned low in its green bottle candlestick, and when Piper rose c queried: "Well, fellers?and Suze?has wo had a ( nerry Crismuss?" A fervent "You bet!" r went from the mouths of every one but the 1-year-old, and he smiled in his sleep. The dinner party was over. D. E. M. 1 CHRISTMAS THEN AND NOW. J Wo used to hang; up our stockings When I was a child, dear me; Nor ever thought for a moment Of having an Xmas tree. 1 You see, we were old fashioned children, ( Not wise little women and men; j St. Nicholas came down the chimney? We had wide-open fireplaces then. We went to bed in the twilight, c To waken ere yet it was dawn, And empty with trembling fingers ( The stockings on Xmas morn. Dnf nnw tlia trna wltK (fa tunora """ wv" ??t~-Is lit on the eve Instead, 1 And bugging their Xmas presents c The little ones go to bed. ? But then, pray where Is the stocking Could hold all the wonderful things? The triumphs of human invention ? The modern St. Nicholas brings? Now steam takes the place of his reindeer. Those fleet, fairy coursers of yore; And since we have closed up the chimneys | He needs must come In at the door. -Mrs. M. P. Handy J If He Could Only Fill It. t Little Mary is a good little girl nearly 6 5 years old, but possessed of a poetical ( genius which runs rather too strongly toward paraphrasing. She has done a 1 good deal of composing during her brief existence, but mainly in the way of ' words substituted for others, which left her open to the charge of plagiarism. She is also possessed of a fund of humor which would not be expected in one so jroung. Mary's father the other day, by way of breaking the child of her fault as i poet and testing her capacity at original composition, offered her as a Christmas s present the largest and best picture book a that could be found in Chicago if she 1 would make up a piece of poetry which i would not resemble any other that she had ever heard. She was given two lays to complete the task, and yesterday aiorning sang the following as her origilal composition: Hang up papa's stocking, j Bo sure you don't forget; If Santa Clous can fill it. We'll all be wealthy yet. e It is needless to say that Mary lost the v crize, her father pronouncing the pome- 0 et a parody, and one which showed eckless disregard for the truth on the )art of the child.?Chicago Herald. Christmas Sonnet. Deep shadows fold the dark earth In. ( a auiy bijcuco everjrnuwo Tell* of that night when, thro' earth's iln, t The cry of angels cleft the air. "Glory to God, to men good will!" c Hear It thou, who do peaceful rest With pale hands folded; may it thrill Thy heart, thou friend; I love thee best; Peace and good will to all I love. Yea, friend or foe. Tho' there may be Ko stars, His light shines clear above. Who died for us on Calvary; A star, which, risen in that far east, Now crowns with love our Christmas feast ?By Tricotrin. c A Lucky Birth. "Whatever are you doing, hanging up toth your stockingsP' asked a mother of her Ittle girl. "One Is enough; besides, you y houldn't be so greedy, my dear." "I ain't greedy," was the philosophical eply. "You must remember, ma, that I'm . , twin."?Judge. A MINER'S CHRISTMAS. HOW THE YULE TIDE IS CELEBRATED UP IN THE ROCKIES. "Stag" Dances?In the Lonely Cabins Where Two "Pards" Are Sbat In for Months by the Snow?Flowers from Loving Letters?"Home, Sweet Home." Imagine a point in midair about two niles above New York city, and you have the elevation at which over 1,000 miners in Colorado spend the holiday season. They are 6hut in by snow and ice, and for months to come they will know as little about what is going on in the busy world as though they were sailirs on some vessel frozen up for the winter amid the icebergs of the Arctic regions. Early in the fall, before the snow flies, they are housed in on 6ome the lofty peaks of the Rocky mountains, and not until May or June will they igain mingle with their fellow men. It is often the case that some one of the hoys is a good fiddler, and Christmas aight he will rosin the bow, tune up the aid fiddle, and with alternate "pards" for girls the boys will dance and make merry. But there are those who are not as formate as the miners who are shut up in die big mine for the winter. There are the lonely cabins, far up on the mountain side, many miles distant from human habitation. Here three or four men are snowbound together for the winter. Dften there are just two "pards," and 'pard" in the mining camps means almost the same as "comrade" does in the irmy. Their Christmas meal is a frugal jne, and with eager longings their hearts will reach out from that deep gorge jr lofty peak to eastern homes, and wonder what the loved ones there are loing. It is at these holiday times that ;he prospector and wanderer longs for the old associations of home and the lear faces he has not seen for years. For months they have undergone many lardahips and privations, been through lairbreadth escapes and thrilling adventures, and yet in the Christmas time all the tenderness and love that comes with thoughts of home is in their hearts. In the mining camps of the Rocky mountains I have heard little groups sing 'Home Sweet Home" on Christmas eve. Bow each felt it! It was not sung so much, as it was the melody each felt in leart as he thought of home. It was mng in that dreamy kind of way, showing that the thoughts of all were far lway, and each one was thinking as ivell as singing, and that if a tear did steal down some grim visaged face, there was nothing unmanly in it, was there? I was writing about the lonely cabin, rhe scene there is not always one of nerry making at Christmas. Of those ;wo who dwell there alone, far away Tom all contact with the world?gold lunter ascetics?one may be 6ick. If rou could force your way through that wilderness of snow, lift the latch gently, tor it is never bolted, you will find one lursing and keeping faithful watch by lis sick "pard." It may be a son watchng by the cot of a father. Why is that >ld man braving ail these hardships? Aye, there is the nn ^ie pastern lome. If they find the precious veinby ~" spring, next Christmas will find that old some free from debt Mr. Banker,'could pou witness such scenes as these, as I lave done, you would tell the old man ;hat you would be a little easy about the nterest on "that ar mortgige," that has xoubled him so long. One Christmas I spent up on the mountain side with two or three others, ind there we had our holiday dinner, md it was a wholesome meal, but wantng in those delicacies that a mother or wife can best prepare. A snow storm was raging along the mountains, but ;vith our cheerful fire and warm cabin, ,ve cared nothinc for it. "If we had some flowers for the wish able," said one of the boys We all wished the same. "Get out your old letters," said one. We all knew what that meant, for nany a flower from the old house finds ts way in letters to the boys out west. 3ne found a rosebud, another a violet, mother a daisy, and then another rose vas found in a mother's letter. Withered . md faded were these tokens from the >ld homes, but never did men value lowers more than we did that withered >ouquet "Can't some one say grace," said one >f the boys. No one volunteered. "The closing lines in my mother's leter," said a boyish fellow, "might do." "Read them," was the response that :ame from all. Heads were bowed around that frugal Christmas board, and the young man ead: "God bless you," my son, and God bless is all." I then looked up and saw tears on the :heeks of weather beaten faces.?Denver 2or. St Louis Globe-Democrat Christmas Trees. It may seem surprising, but it is nevertheess true, that the cutting of evergreens for Christmas trees is doing serious damage to he forests in some sections. This wholesale lestruction of valuable young trees is becomng painfully apparent in the gradual wiping >ut of woodland in some of the most pictursque portions of the Catskill and Adiroulack mountains, and many of the trout treamsare drying up. Even small forests lelp to serve as reservoirs to water, for unler the trees the ground is apt to be less ipongy, thereby retaining for a time water rom rainfalls, and later on allowing it to es:ape in tiny rivulets as feeders to brooks, big u:d small. ? A False Pretense. "Well, my son," asked Jimmy Tuff joy's mother, "are you satisfied with rour Christmas?" "Yes, ma'am," replied Jimmy, "only ;he skates ain't nickel plated, and dad taid he'd buy me a double ripper, an' I lidn't see it." "But I am sure you have been happy ill day, James." "I wasn't going to let the fellers know iow bad I felt."?Exchange. Too Near the First of the Month. "One thing I've got against Christmas." "What's that?" "It comes too late in the month." "How does that affect it?" "Why, when a man's wife gives him a plendid present the bill is sent to him in ibout a week. It would be better if he lad about three weeks to get ready for t."?Christmas. An Old English Custom. Among customs now disused, a cerenony existed at the court of England as ate as the reign of Charles II of bringng a branch of the Glastonbury thorn, rhich usually blossoms on Christmas ve, in procession, and presenting it, eith great pomp, to the king and queen n Christmas morning.?New York Poet. Received Some Himself. "Have a cigar, Charley?" "Don't care if I do." "Some that my wife gave me for a Christmas present." "Er, come to think of it, Tom, I guess don't feel like smoking today."?Exhange. Not Entirely Without Remembrance. First Soldier?Get any Christmas? Second Soldier?Yep; present. First Soldier?No? Second Soldier?You bet. First Soldier?What? Second Soldier?Present arms!?Exhange. What the Shop Keepers Dread. "It is time for Santa Claus," said the oung wife. "Yes," said the spouse, who kept a relil store, "Santa Claus is welcome, but do not want to e^e the rain dear."? Ixchange, A wv. J&B