Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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i (Fljrtsimuii, IS30. Mcar, A1 MTA. /A jJlS cruel—yos, I say it w is—to send a boy to bed When be feels like turning som- ' - ’ ersets or stand ing: on his head. 1 never was so wide awake in all my life before, And mother thinks I'm going to sleep a dozen hours or more. I want to sit up to-night to get a little peep At Santa Claus. Why does he come when boys are all asleep? 1 want to see the reindeer, and I'd really like to know How they can ever stand it to have so far to go. And then I’d like to ask him—for 1 can’t make It out at ail— How he scrambles down the chimneys, when they are all so small. With his great big bag of picture books and sugar plums and toys, When he comes to fill the stockings up for little girls and boys. 1 wonder if he’ll bring me Just what I want —a sled— A lightning patent coaster: and 1 want it painted red. How does he know what boys want? He al ways guesses right. How can he get to everyone in just a single night? Well, I am getting tired here, it will be fine To lie awake all night. There! It’s strik ing nine! Yes, mother will be sorry in the morning, I should think. When 1 tell her how I haven’t slept a single blessed wink. I shall listen every minute, and when I hear him creep Very softly down the chimney, when he thinks we’re all asleep, I'll watch, and then I’ll see the fun without a speck of noise. Ho! IIo! The jolly fellow cannot always dodge the boys! Hello! I hear a jingle. Have the reindeer come at last? I must got up and see them, for they prance away so fast. I was just getting sleepy—hey! Time to dress, you say? And the breakfast bell is ringing? Hurrah! ’tis Christmas day! —Sidney Dayre, in Golden Days. (j-t* pj E\y GLAND / F any one man was •better known than another for miles around the Nillage of CoTiway it was Deacon Harding, the pil lar of the Methodist church and the strictest selectman the New Hampshire village had ever known. He had never married, and some folks said he was too mean, and that all he thought about was putting up a goodly share of this world’s goods to hiseredit in order that he might make better provision for the commodities of the next. Hut, then, people will talk. It was, therefore, a matter of consid erable sjieculation among his neighbors when the deaeon was seergto stop oc casionally# at the Widow Martin’s cot tage, and many and varied were the con jectures about the outcome. The widow was plump, rosy cheeked, and good na- 1ured,and her dear departed having left her more than two years before she was, as she believed herself, fully quali fied to Ik* considered among thceligihlcs of the little world in which she lived. She had heard (what women does not?) of her neighbors’ talk about her, hut being of that happy disposition which docs not heed the stories Dame Kumor occasionally circulates, she kept on her way regardless of all the gossips said. The widow’s cottage was an inviting spot when the snow lay piled up in great masses in the roadways and on the mountain sides and the mercury was away below zero. A bright light always shone from the windows v bile N li '■SXL~ ”J'M HEAL GLAD TO SEE YOf, DEA- CON.’’ the hickory logs crack led and sputtered in the wide, often fireplace. Everything alMiut the place was s<t neat, clean and wholesome looking that one felt at home the moment he crossed thethresh- old. At least that is what Deacon Hard ing thought <ui New Year's eve a* he came in sight of tin* cozy home of the widow while on his way ton meeting of the town hoard. The deacon was feel ing cold and out of sorts generally, and somehow his ideas had been traveling for weeks past in a direction decidedly singular for such a confirmed bachelor as he. All he appeared to lead up to one object and that was the Widow Martin. The deacon was getting on dangerous ground, hut he didn’t seem to know it. He had always said there wasn't a wom an who could catch him. lie had lived so long without onetl.it he was not go ing to betaken in by any of them at this time of life. Not he; and he grew sev- <* 1 inches higher every time he hugged th t consolation to his breast. Hut this pai cular New Year’s eve he was un- ace,) ntably lonely and dispirited. I’- erybody who was anybody in Con- v , was full of rest and cheer and just briii ful of happiness. The spirit of ti e holidays was everywhere, hut the deacon w as alone. There was no one to welcome him. no one to greet him w ith “A Happy New Year!” at his home. < x- sides and across the* valley the willow had tin* door often and was waiting tor her \ isitor. ”1 just thought I’d stop a minute, I M rs. Mart in, to warm up, lor it’s power- I ful cold out this afternoon," said the deacon, stamping his feet to shake tin- snow from his boots In forcenterhig. “I'm real glad to see you. thaeon; conic right in and sit down by tin fire." In a few moments Deacon Harding had removed his heavy coal ami thick gloves and was comfortably seatid on one side oft he broad fireplace, w bile 11n widow was rocking herself gently to and fro at t he ot her. As his good temper increased the dea con kept looking over at the widow. What a nice, pleasant little woman sh«* was, to be sure, and she was pretty, too —there was no mistake about that! He sat there enjoying his novel sensations without speaking fora longtime. Sure ly there was somet hing t he matter with him this New Year’scvc. He was usual- “Do tell, deacon,” replied the widow, shuddering, “tint don't you think you'll gel chilled if you sit so far from the fire? Do draw up closerml get w arm; you've ^ot quite a way lo go to tow n and you in'isf take care of \ onrselfin such tei ri- i>!e \\ eat her." "Yes, ma’am; it be chilly, that’s a f::et. i think I’ll move upa piece tothc fire.” “Ilow kind she is!” the deacon kept :• pi ai mg to himself ns he edged nearer toward the blazing logs and at t in* same time drew closer to the rocker, where tin* w idow still sat sewing. “I saw you at church last Sunday, Mrs. Mai tin. The minister preached a powerful fine sermon, didn’t he?” re marked the deacon, after another long interval. "Yes. dem on; and it did me a power of good, (oo.” “I'm real glad to hear you say that, Mrs. Martin,” exclaimed the deacon. His face fairly beamed with delight. The chairs touched now. The <h aeon w as absent from the tow u meet ing that New Year’s eve. When the villagers assembled at church next day they saw a little wom an sitting beside Deacon Harding. It was the Widow Martin. Stic was wedded to the deacon New Year's morning, for tin* parson had said it wasn't good for man to be alone.—H. A. MacDonald, in Chicago Mail. Timely ITcruutlon. "Have you thought about doing any Christmas (shopping yet?” asked Mr. H iinnimune. "No, dear," was the reply. “It is a | little early for such preparations, isn't it?” “M'yes. Hut it is w ell to take time by the forelock, you know. Have you a memorandum lx>ok handy?” “Yes.” “Well, you might jot dow n these lit tle points. Here’s the brand of cigars that 1 prefer. They eumiot by acypos- '<T\2j \ ,4* i 1 H!' pi'! m)!' E'l II ill iiilli !! I'lffiMnlil m&m&. mSSm-A ' .'ifflii il'MilalM iwiiWPlim I I ' '''' ' ' 'i ^ j ' jl IWi i*! il llllllii?:'!'!!,; PSIH ill ii nil lilililiiliw nil I ■rr ilillllntl‘^WiHT~l 1 '''iji';;, Ttwr" pi ittii:.. ‘ .. . YV XT "• A 51, ll"'i ’•■'Aii v's“; -- - - — • -lv vVV, r v> •% ailiiimiu ' ' n"!! "ho ”” " !llii!r" ; vtn»t!Mi im i’x- i* ' . • •** "• -ii lAniinB " ™ Ik. . niiiini' P- ill! l^ , 9L. H r 'u4 '■ t'i NM"- ..i -T il! *'WE f RE ALWAYS WELCOME, YOU AWO I t WE BRING GREAT JOY AND CHEER; i cone TO 5TAY BUT ONE SHORT NIGHT t BUT YOU ST^Y /ILL. THE YEA1R*" bin put ituplhechlm- ncy so that Santa Glaiiacoiihlgi tit; 1 i Of courso I pulled it ^ down again, and now* I must re- * grot It, For if I’m to be Santa Claus, and that’s of course expected, « I’m soi ry that I cannot claim the note was misdirected. She wants a rr< at big doll, she says, with wavy, tpilden tresses. Some hat- to put upon the doll, and lots of handsome dresses; A bureau and a trundle bed, a set of little dishes, A table and a trunk as well, besides some ’’real gold fishes.’’ She wants a •■led, of course, I learn, and likewise lots of randy. She also adds, <piite calmly: ”A piano would be handy.” She wants a watch and lots of books, and games as well, in plenty; Of minor toys, it seems to me, she asks for fully twenty. She writes that she would like to have a little stove for cooking, And for a necklace, I’m informed, most anxiously she's looking; She wants a desk'that’s ’’all her own,’’ on which to do her writing, i And altogether, 1 confess, the outlook’s not inviting. The things that she would like to have, I find by calculation. Would cost a thousand dollars at the low est valuation. And <?o I say regretfully, with spirits most dejected, I’m sorry that Ycapnot claim her note was misdirected. ccpt, perhaps, his old housekeeper, who was deaf and ill-tempered enough to sour the biggest cask of eider in his cel lar. It was no wonder, then, that ns he reached the Widow Martin’s cottage he determined to stop just, for a chat with her and to warni himself before going to the meeting. That was all. If he bad been told there was anything else on his mind lie would have thought the suggest ion ridiculous. The widow heard the deaeon’s buekhonnl stop—in fact she had seen him coming up the road—and there had been a hasty glance over tin* room, and just a peep in the looking-glass on the mantel to see if everything was in order, long before the deaeon’s voice was heard on the frosty air and the wheels had censed to | revolve in front of the cottage. By the | time he had blanketed and covered his burse and led him to the shed out of the ! <old blasts that swept down the hill- ly able to talk about’something wher ever he was, but now In* couldn’t say a word if his life bad depended on it, though he tried desperately several times to start a conversation. And the widow just sat there, apparently en tirely unconscious, with her mind seem ingly fixed upon sonic trifle she was s-nving. Did she have an idea of what was passing in her visitor’s mind? Of j course not; women are such dear, inno cent creatures, especially widow s. The deacon grew very restlessasthe minutes passed sw iftly by and finally, as if the heat was too great, he got up and moved away from the fire. Somehow when he settled down again his chair was much nearer the widow, but she didn’t seem to notice the change and kept on sew ing. “It’s powerful cold to-day, Mrs. Mar tin. There’ll Ik* a heavy frost to-night, I reckon,” remarked the deacon, finding his speech at lust. while if the truth must be told he abso lutely chuckled aloud and rubbed bis hands on his knees as if something had happened with which he was immense ly delighted. “Do you recall what the parson preached about?” It must have been the heat from the burning logs that caused the widow’s cheeks to blush so. She couldn't even look up from her sewingasshcreplied: “Well, come to think of it, deacon, I think it was about weddings and such things. Hut I ain't quite sure, for I didn't pay much attention. I’m afraid, tot hat part of t he discourse.” The chairs were getting very close. “That’s it. that’s it,” cried the deacon, bringing bis hands down upon his knees with a slap that startled the ca nary from his i»erch and set t he widow’s heart beating furiously. “That’s it. And don’t you remember w icre he said it wasn’t good for ninfl to live alone? I think he told the truth, don’t you?” -ability be purchased ut a bargain. Here is the number of slipper that I wear, and you might make a note of the fact that my preference in neckties is dark red, with small black figure, also that 1 do not need any suspei tiers.” Ami .‘he thanked him and wrote it all down, thereby saving no small shau* of future regrets- ami embarmssnicnts,— Washington Star. A liiiitdiiy Mockery. He held a handsome Kussian leather pocketIxiok up for the inspection of his- friends. "lU'diitiful!” they exclaimed. “A mockery,” In replied, turning it upside dow n and shaking it. “A most useful present,” they p« r- sisted. “A holiday mockery,” he repeated. "Of w hat use is a fine pocketbook to a man who has gone broke on Christmas presents for the very girl who gave it to him?"—Chicago Post ■vc-Chicago Post. The Day After Oh dear, it’s so far to next rhrlfcimas! Heems long as forever and mo I’ve boon counting the days ovcr’n’oY Three hundred and sixty-four! That’s a dreadful lot to be waiting To hang up your stockings, you see; Put to-morrow that’s sometiiing—there’s only three hundred and sixty-three! —Harper’s Yeung People. V 1’KOI’ VBI.Y A (TJirACO GIRL’S. 'id 1:1 i^li. LV» I .• v* Chhnmy McGovern — Great Scott! Mickey, get on ter dat. 1 wouldn’t want dor job of darnin’ dat feller’s sock. Mickey MeSwatt—But say, but just t’ink wot a eineh dat sock would be at Chris’mas time ter knock ole Santy Cluss silly.—N. Y. Truth. A TYotuan’s Mlstsike. A well-dressed woman in search of a Christines present for her son walked up and tlow n the aisles of a Ixiok store, elosely s< inning the titles of the books. At last she picked up a volume and handed it to the clerk. “I- thisagood hook?” she asked. “An excellent book, madame,” replied the elerk, as he wrapped it up, “and the only eopy we have left.” “How fortunate I am to have secured it, then,” the delighted woman exclaimed. “My son is just crazy over the game, and 1 wanted to get a good authority on it so that he could learn to play it properly.” The clerk looked dazed as he handed his customer the copy of Charles Dickens* "(Ticket on the Hearth.” and she had been gone some time before it dawned upon him what a mistake she had made. No one knows what the boy said.-—• Golden Days. Not Necessary. Dora^—Here’s some mistletoe for your Christmas. Cora—(’an yon spare it? Dora—Oh, I don’t need it.—N. Y. Truth. IlcMn Again. Turn the soiled leaves with one more look. And drop one more repenting tear; And then begin in God’s own Hook The story of another year. —Frank W. Hutt, In P.am’s Horn. FOMPENH ATION. v^v r -iy* -7 T tj I l J! \ | Prjl: ■LlC-'-' ■ - -Kb., 1 ; Cf-- - • Tommy—How main presents did yer* get? Jackie—Twenty-one. How many d’yer get? Tommy Nineteen. But I'll bet yer I can make more t>oise with mine than yer can with yours. N. Y. Truth. A* liMuat. i Rngga—Well, obi man, what did you I get in your stocking thi* morning? \Vagg8—My foot.—Brooklyn Life.