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Bellefonte, Pa., Dec. 23, 1892.
TWO LITTLE STOCKINGS.
Two little stockings hung side by side,
Close to the fireplace broad and wide.
“Two #" said Saint Nick, as down he came,
Loaded with toys and many a game
“Ho, ho I” said he, with a laugh of fun,
“I'I1 have no cheating, my pretty one ;
I know who dwells in this house, my dear,
There's only one little g rl lives near,”
So he crept up close to the chimney place,
And measured asock with a sober face.
Just then a wee little note fell out,
And flutteredilow like a bird about.
“Aha! what's this ?”? said he in surprise,
As he pushed his specs close up to his eyes,
And read the address in a childs rough plan,
“Dear Saint Nicholas,” so it began :
“The other stocking you see on the wall
I have hung for a chald named Clara Hall,
She's a poor girl, but very good,
So I thought, perhaps, you kindly would
Fill up her stocking, too, to night,
And help to make her Christmas bright.
If you've not enough for both stockings there
Please put all in Clara's, 1 shall not care.”
Saint Nicholas brushed a tear from his eye,
And, “God bless you, darling,‘ he said with a
sigh.
Then Sofily he blew through the chimney
ig
A note like a bird's, as it soars on high,
When down came two of the funniest mortals
That ever were seen this side earth’s portal’s.
“Hurry up,” said Saint Nick, “and nicely pre-
pare : 5
All a little girl needs where money is rare.
Then oh, what a scene there was in that room’!
Away went the elves, but down from the
gloom :
Of the socty old chimney comes trumbling
OW.
A child’s whole wardrobe, from head to toe.
How Santa Claus laughed, as he gathered them
in
And fastened each one to the sock with a pin
Right to the toe he hung a blue dress,
“She'll think it came from the sky, I guess,”
Said Saint Nicholas, smoothing the folds of
blue
And tying the hood to the stocking, too.
When all the warm clothes were fastened on,
And bot little socks were filled and done,
Then Sauta Claus tucked a toy hers and there,
And hurried away to the frosty air,
Saying, “God pity the poor, and bless the dear
child
Who pities them, too, on this night so wild.’
The wind caught the words and bore them, on
high
Till they died Avex on the midnight sky;
While Saint Nicholas flew through the icy air,
Bringing ‘‘peace and good wlll” with him
everywhere.
THE EPITOR’S CHRISTMAS,
To Farmer Brown our thanks are due for one
big jug of rye ;
(The Sons of Temperance meet to-night—sup-
pose they'll leave it dry.
To Jones, the well-known jeweler, one collar
button tin ;
(Now, we'd be happy if we had a shirt to wear
it in.
To Parson Brown for sixteen tracts—a Bible
fair to see :
(It’s very fortunats for us they made salvation
ree
One box of collars—celluloid—that do not take
to dirt:
(But like the collar button, they're no good
without the shirt.)
One stove, w.th pots and pans—hurrah !—and
wood at least a cord :
Three turkeys and an appetite ! (We're in it
vraise the Lord!)
— Atlanta Constitution.
DEACON ALLAWATER'S BABY.
BY FLORENCE WATTERS SNEDEKER.
It was a stormy night. Without,
the north wind howled over the waste
ot snow. It rattled the doors and win-
.dows of the deacou’s great house, clat-
tered the loose clapboards, shrieked
down the chimneys. Within, myste-
rious noises stirred 1n the deserted rooms
and halls and crept up and down the
stairs. The only dire that burned
smouldered low in the deacon’s sitting-
room, and the deacon sat there alone.
It was a crisis in Deacon Allawater’s
life. To be sure bis life had many cri-
ses—one might say, had been a series
of them, It was a crisis when the dea-
con snatched from the wall his forefa-
ther’s sword ot the Revolution, and at
its point chased his eldest son Albert
“around the breakfast table and out of
the house; it was a crisis when Helen,
his oldest daughter, ran away from
boarding-schocl; and another when
she came with her husband to beg for-
givenessin vain ; till others were when
the remaining children departed in
wrath ; and then came ove when bis
wife laid down her weary life, and her
spirit escaped to the land that knows
no tumult.
But this crisis was different, wholly
difterent. This time it wus his wealth
that was gone; that wealth for which
he had worked and hoarded and en-
slaved his wife and children and fought
his neighbors and squeezed the poor
and denied the church. It was gone.
It had vanished in a day. The deacon
clutched his straggling white locks
and groaned.
Help! Help he must
drooped upon his kuees. :
Oh, he had been a master-hand at
prayer, the deacon! So said tne com-
munity; and so he knew. The phras-
es had rollel from his lips full and
sounding, At his tongue’s-end was all
the Scripture gathered from forty
years of beating it into his uunregener-
ate children. The deacon opened his
mouth to pray.
Cold—ecold as a stone lay his beart
within his bosom. By no effort of his
once all-powerful will, by no mental
tension could he put life into the words.
It was no use to struggle, to beat the
air, to wring his hands. The convic-
tion dawned slowly, overwhelmingly
upon him, that with his wealth he had
lost his religion,
He staggered to his feet, went out in-
to the freezing hall, and by the creak-
ing stair rail dragged himself up to his
bedroom. As be entered, the moon
looked in through flying clouds like a
pallid face. The deacon shuddered,
fled across its track, and, with tremb-
ling fingers, unlocked the top drawer
of his bureau.
Yes, it it was there. He took it from
its case. Ile opened it, aud held it out
to glitter in the mooolight. He drew
it along his coat sleeve—first one side,
then the other.
But Deacon Allawater's theology
had always been clear and orthodox.
Firmly as he had believed in God had
he believed in the devil ; in a personal
devil, too, with horns and cloven hoofs,
fit to hale impenitent sinners down to a
pit whence arose flames, odor of brime-
stone. The deacon’s hair rose upon
his head, With all his strength he
flung the razor from him, ;
It shivered the window. Through
the broken pane came a gust that
flappped the curtain out against the
ceiling and sent some papers a-whirring
have. He
RS CER Td RA a SEE
about the room and about the head of
the deacon as he crouched upon the
bed. His teeth chattered from cold
and fright. Heinstantly expected the
grip of theflend. The horror of expec: |
tancy grew upon him— |
Clang | went the doorbell. :
The wretched deacon sank upon the |
floor. |
It was not until mary minutes had |
passed and quiet had come back that
Deacon Allawater gathered his quak-
ing limbs together, went down to the
deor, drew back the fastenings and
cautiously turned the knob.
No one was there. As he peered
out, the wild rack of the clouds alone
met his wild eyes. But what was this at
his feet? A common willow basket!
Was it real? Was it dangerous?
Should he touch it? He poked at it
and pried it, growing bolder. Thea,
holding it gingerly at arm’s-length, he
carried it into the sitting-room and set
it upon the table.
He turned up the light. He raked
the fire into a blaze. There had been
treasures hid in baskets before this.
He carefully took off the cover. Be-
neath was a flannel blanket. With a
dawning presentiment he angrily
thrust aside the wrappings, and—yes,
there lay a baby.
A sleeping baby, with warm red
cheeks, and rings of yellow hair moist
upon its blue-veined temples, and par-
ted lips, and sweet breath stealing
through, A living, breathing baby.
Now ‘the light upon his eyelids
pricked them wide.” Two blue eyes
looked out in wonderment. Upright
in its nest eat the baby, saw the bright-
ness, felt the warmth, threw up its arms
and laughed in the deacon’s scowling
face.
“Land o’Goshen |”
Mrs, Harris stood rigid on the sill
of the deacon’s sitting room, her bon:
net strings jerked to the point of stran-
“ gulation, her best black shawl dropped
ruthlessly to the floor.
Deacon Allawater, sitting up in his
rocking-chair, began to rub his stiff
knees, Ilis companion, on the lounge
as if aroused at once to the daylight
and to the perils of existence, eparred
out with his pink fists, opened his
mouth, and sent forth a preliminary
yell.
© “Where did it come from ? Whose
is it? What—"
“Woman, you know as much about
it as I do,” snarled the master of the
house, getting upon his feet. “Take
the thing, can’t you? There! stop its
aoise someway.” :
When he came down to breakfast
his haggard face was so unlovely that
good Mrs. Harris, her eyes going back
to the baby on her knee, was reminded
of King Herod and the babes of Beth-
lehem. :
“Those Jenkenses are at the bottom
of this,” mused the deacon over his
coffee, his eyes, too, on the now crow:
ing baby. “They always have a house-
ful of brats. Little villains! They’ve
tormented me these ten years—racing
through my grain-fields, tearing down
my stone walls, stealing my fruit—and
soundly have they been thrashed for it.
Bat I'll have the law on them for this,
this very day!”
“I must say, it don’t appear likely,”
remonstrated Mrs. Harrie. “They're
poor enough, goodness knows, But
this they would’nt do. Such a fine-
grown boy! Must be a year old at the
least calculation,”
But he did not go out immediately.
Indeed, before the morning was over
he had decided to let the Jenkenses
alone until the next day. Another
matter was troubling him. Tonight
the revival meetings were to begin at
church.
It was a trying day for Mra. Harris.
While the deacon paced the house,
wandered from room to room, or fll in-
to dark reverie, she was mentally pit-
ting her strength against his, and fore-
casting the issue of a hand-to-band tus
sle. For, whenever his eyes fell upon
the baby, when he once or twice stood
still to watch it, her heart, as she after
wards related, jumped into her mouth,
expecting to see the poor innocent
pitched through the window, or into
the clothes-biler with the suds a stirrin’
and a-foamin’, the Lord forgive me the
thought!”
That night there was a goodly gath-
ering in the village church. ‘Deacon
Allawater will lead in prayer,” an
nounced the young minister.
The pause was, perhaps, a trifle long.
But when the deacon prayed, it was
with all his usual fervor. They spoke
of it as they gathered around the stove
after meeting.
“It's wonderful—wondernl I” said
one sister. “His gift does beat every-
thing! It fairly takes you off your
feet. Aud his language——as easy and
beautiful as the newspaper! The min-
ister himself can’t do better. But to
think of the stories about him!"
“I believe them,” exclaimed a jaunty
looking girl in a red bonnet. “Did you
see him go out of church to-night?
‘Good-evening, deacon,’ says I as pleas-
ant as could be. He never answered a
word, but locked at me as hateful, I
declare, for the minute, I was really
scared.”
Mis. Harris stood waiting with her
bonnet and shawl on when Deacon
Allawater entered his tront door.
“] only want to say, deacon, my
daughter Cynthy’s home now, and she’s
powerful fond of children. And, until
you find out where it belongs—"’
“Who? What? There, woman,
go!”
Poor Mrs. Harris, stumbling along
the lane, had a second, more painful
vision of King Herod and the babes,
His door was not shut before the dea-
con repented him. That nuisance of a
child! If it had not been for his pride,
he would have called Mrs. Harris back,
and told her to take it. Moodily he
fastened up the house. The baby slept
again in the corner of the sitting room
lounge. Lamp in hand he stopped be-
fore it.
Where had he seen pictures with a
light abont a baby’s head—and angels
too? What smiling? He watched |
the little mouth quiver. ‘Babies smile
when the angels kiss them,” he had
heard people say. How and if a man
given over to the fiends—
Shamefaced, he gathered the child
in his arms, and, secure in his room,
laid it in his own bed. Hours passed
ere he slept. Then a grisly dream
came, He gasped himself awake, and
fumbled about until his withered hand
found and held one like a crumpled
rose.
Four long weeks the revival meetings
continued. Each night saw Deacon
Allawater in his place; and each night |
he drove home like one pursued, and |
glept holding the baby’s hand.
Mrs. Harris's fears were gradually
allayed, especially as the child throve.
But what deep schemes could the dea-
con be laying? The day after the re-
vival meetings closed she gathered
heart of grace to speak again.
“You've no cause to lay this up
against these Jenkenses, Deacon Alla.
water. All I can make out of it, or
you either, is some poor-house affair.”
“Of course you know. Women al-
was do,” answered the deacon, aroused
from watching the infant gymnast up-
on the floor.
He spent considerable time in the
same fashion. He was very lonely,
‘very idle; and idle and lonely Deacon
Allawater had not been before in all
his seventy years. A man is naturally
busy who has a fortune to increase, a
wife to worry, a half-dozen children to
battle with, or plan revenge upon. But
when these occupations vanish, why a
man may even fall to watching a baby.
He may curiously scan again and
again the pretiy features; may furtive-
ly draw a ring of hair around a knobby
forefinger, wondering at the silkiness;
may be surprised into a laugh, when a
funny fuzzle-top lifts up unexpectedly
at his knee, and little fingers catch at
his watch-chain ; may even envelop his
old head in his handkerchief, and leer
from behind it, to send a small person
into a collapse of laughter. In which
feat being almoet surprised by Mrs.
Harris, Deacon Allawater slammed his
slippers across the room and the door
behind his back in such a rage that
that poor lady caught up the now
frightened child and mingled her tears
with its own, amid desperate thoughts
of fleeing with it, and protestations that
it “shouldn’t be hurt—no, it shouldn’t
—by any wicked, wicked old deacon,
the darling!”
Long ago oue other baby had dared
such liberties with Deacon Allawater—
his youngest daughter, Emily. She
had blue eyes too, and just such hair.
Her desertion had touched him deepest,
and brought down his heaviest wrath.
Was the fellow so worthless, after all ?
The deacon bad so much time for
thinking, these days, that strange
thoughts came. He took to driving
into the village by the back
road, passing . a certain small
house in the twilight. It Jooked trim ;
was rather a pretty picture. The baby
there seemed about as big as his—that
is, as the baby at his house ; and that
boy romping with the father—named
after himself, as he had heard—must
be six years old. But Emily looked
looked pale—worked too hard, proba-
bly.
other strange thoughtcame, these
days. “When a man has but a miser-
able pittance, how much good is there
in hanging on to it?”
There was a sensation in the small
house one morning. An envelope
found under the door held a fifty dol-
lar bill. Ned could not think what
made his mother’s face so red, when
she just stood still and said, “Oh!”
Nor did he see any use in his having to
play around by the gate, and watch for
the grandfather who never noticed him
on the rare occasions of his passing.
When the grandfather did come by oue
evening in the twilight, he looked so
dreadful as he shook his whip and
cried, “Ga’ap!” that Ned fled to his
mother for safety.
Why Dobbs, the grocer, suddenly
raised the wages of his clerk, the dea-
con’s youngest son, Stuart, was a mys-
tery to the clerk himself. Dobbs was
good, and a kind at heart; knew too,
of his clerk’s struggle for an education;
and that it was his determination to
enter the college, instead of business,
which had barred his father’s door
against him. But Dobbs was rather
close. It was a matter that Stuart All-
awater pondered as the grain ripened
and the fruit waxed mellow.
Early in the autumn the deacon as-
tonished Mrs. Harris and the commu-
nity by a trip to the city. “Went off
as grand as could be in his best suit,
with only the word, ‘Look after things
till I come back, Mrs Harris,” reported
that lady, burdened with a sense of the
mysterious, How muen would her
burden have been increased had she
been able to follow up her master’s
movements ! :
For, avoiding the city thoroughfares,
stealing through back streets and alleys,
hanging in the evenings about windows
in a way to interest policemen, ques-
tioning these elyly propitiated police-
men, questioning children, picking up
chance acquaintances with clerks and
servants, the deacon passed the week.
He came home satisfied. He had seen
Albert, driven away from home at the
point of the sword twenty-five years be-
fore, and returned but once since—at
his mother’s tuneral. He had satisfied
hiimselt that rumor was right. Albert's
business was a large one, and he had
taken his unmaried sister into his
house, and his younger brother Ear-
nest into his store. For Barnest’s ill-
health would never let him get ahead,
and he had but lately recovered from a
tedious illness.
That week one fact went down in
Earnest Allawater’s note-book with a
line of interrogation points; his doec-
tor’s bill had been sent in receipted.
When the traveller reached home a
package ot lately ordered papers was
awaiting him—back numbers of the
Chicago FKagle. “Wheu a girl runs |
away from home it might, perhaps, be |
a satisfaction if the fellow amounted to
gomething,” reflected the deacon, as he |
pored over the long hated periodical.
“In such a case, could a nan be rea-
sonatly expected to cling quite the
same to his hatred?”
had heard of such changes coming up-
‘on men when they stood at death’s
| anew—~he, a pillar in the church, while
For by this tie Deacon Allawater
was sorely puzzled over the strange al-
teratioa in himself. What had be
come of his anger, of his thirst for re-
venge? Could it be a warming? He
door. Yes, a warning it must surely
be. And what a conviction for a man
who had lost his religion, and his| hope
in God, and believed in nothing but the
devil! Unhappy deacon! He knew
his duty only too planly : to call in the
young minister, to confess all, to begin
the neighbors with whom he had quar-
relled exulted in his downfall. It was
too hard. He fled from the conviction,
as often &s it came upon him, to his
gole comforter, the baby.
The child was learning to walk now,
making poor work of it with his fat
legs, and had constantly to be picked
up and set right, and to be so often res-
cued from destruction—DMrs. Harris be-
ing busy, and if the truth be told, ne-
glectful —that a man had hard work to
make sense of his paper. Then, too,
he needed much entertainment at this
stage of his existence, and was develop-
ing a wonderful talent for riding cock-
horses, and ehouting at the antics of a
hoary-headed lion that prowled and |
growled about the floor with him. His
conversational powers were still crude.
But hiscapacity for listening torhymes
and stories, when the wintry day closed
in, and the firelight flickered in his
drowsy eyes, was insatiable.
So Christmas day came round, and
found Deacon Allawater strangely
comfortable for a man at whose feet
death and perdition were yawning.
The thought was in his mind as he
crept out of his room that Christmas
morning—crept out, shoes in hand, so
as not to wake the baby. Perhaps it
was that which so softened him. For,
as he threw open the shutters and
looked upon the tenderness of’the sky,
the purity of the earth, the pink smoke
curling up over the solemn hemlocks,
tears, were in his eyes. When he had
made the fires—he made the fires him-
self now, Mrs. Harris coming late, and
the baby being imperative on the point
of an early breakfast-—and the rooms
were pleasantly steeped in light and
warmth, the fancy took him to go into
the dark parlors, throw open the barred
shutters, and look at tha portraits on
the wall.
There they all hung ina row, first
the girls, and then the boys, and the
mother at the end. It was unfortunate
that oil portraits have such a same-
ress that even frocks and trousers are
not as distinctive as one could wish.
Still the artist, clever fellow, had helped
the matter immensely by giving all the
boys hoops and sticks, and the girls
baskets of flowers’ His wife wasn’t
made good-looking enough ; for in those
days she had been handsome. But
she changed afterwards. How she did
change! what with the work and his
bad temper. But now she was at rest,
striking the harp and wearing the
crown, where not for one moment—no,
not even to ask forgiveness----would be
be allowed to look upon her in her glo-
ry.
Weeping softly before his wife's por-
trait, a baby’s voice caught the ear of
Deacon Allawater. He hurried back.
But what sounds were these?
They were all around him the next
moment. They were laughing and cry-
ing, caressing and explaining, in a
breath. Did he think he could deceive
them? But they had found him out!
And now they would never leave him
again. While the children capered,
and the babies crowed, until Mrs. Har-
ps burst in, bearing in triumph the ba-
y !
Well, the women presently bore it
off. Then, girls at home once more,
they donned their aprons and went to
work, setting fires a-leaping in all ‘the
rooms, and savory odors a-wafting up
the kitchen stairs. From top to bot-
tom of the great house ranged the chil-
dren, not forgetting the attic. And the
men, the deacon’s strong sons, gather-
ing about him, began a discussion of
the times and the goings-on which made
the old man rub his eyes and wonder
where he had waked up.
Then they met again about a Christ-
mas table that might have gladdened
the immortals. Such glorified turkeys!
Such triumphs of pastry? Such smil-
ing faces to garland the board! Cous-
in answering to cousin with explosions
of unsmotherable merriment. At the
deacon’s right hand sat a baby; who
the first thing, as though master ot cer-
emonies, held up his face and demand-
ed a kiss.
Bending down, his hand oun the
child’s head, the deacon gave it.
The sight overcame Mrs. Harris.
“Such a work of grace!” she sobbed
behind her apron.
Work of grace? and he a castaway !
Little she knows! Little they any of
them knew, inwardly sorrowed the dea-
con.
But a change came slowly into the
aged face----a light-- -a look of blessed
understanding. Then, “Children, let
us now return thanks,” said Deacon
Allawater.— Harper's Bazar.
Be Charitable.
Again the Christmas-tide is here
with its beautiful story, older than the
story of the cross, and as dear to the
heart of the Christian believer. The
heart must be sad indeed that does not
thrill anew at the thought of all that
was meant by those wonderful words ;
“On earth peace, good will to men.”
We must remember that the day com- |
memorates the birth of Him who gave |
tomankind the greatest gift possible
to bestow, eternal life—and not forget
to give our mite from our abundance,
ENVOL
"Twas the night after Christmas,
And all through the house
Not a creature was sleeping—
Not even a mcuse.
Mince-pie, cheese and coflee
Had got in a lick.
And at four in the morning
Were raising Old Nick
— Puck.
ET ECT
How Johnny Got A Gun.
Johnny Harney stood by the gate in
front of the little white farm house
where he lived, and watched the twilight
darken into Christmas eve. There were
trees about the house ; but a little ways
beyond the road ran down to a great
stretch of lowland thut was coverad in |
the summer by tall, wiry mersh grass |
and by the flowers that love damp
places, and where courtless little green |
frogs hopped about among the ham-
mocks. Beyond this was the lake,—one
great field of wild rice, with here and
there a silver net-work, where the twi-
light lingered on some open water.
Way down at the foot of the lake the
lights at the club house gleamed bright- |
ly, tor to-morrow was Christmas, and all
the sportsmen were up from the city for
a Christmas dinner on ducks of their
own shooting.
John Harney was a good boy, and sel-
dom discontented or out of sorts, but
when ke thought of all the nice guns |
that stood along the racks in the sitting |
room, and the great bunches of ducks
and squirrels that lay in the kitchen of
the club house he did feel just a little
bit covetous. For that was John’s
greatest sorcow. He didn’t have a gun
Oiten when chores were done, he
would take the shabby little square-end-
ed boat, and row down into the river to
watch the hunters. He would hear the
guns sound way off across the lake, and
a flock of ducks would come flying over,
growing less at every place where some
canvas- coated sportsman waited among
the grass.
It was a sad sort of pleasure John got
from this. But, then, a gun costs a
great deal of money fora farmer's boy
and the price of Tommy's spotted wood-
en horse, Jimmy’s trumphet and all the
other presents wouldn't nearly have
bought one.
It was growing colder all the time,
and even through his thick new mittens
John's hands were beginning to {feel
namb ; so he started to go into the warm :
kitchen fire.
But then--a long drawn cry came
faintly across the lake ; “Help!”
It sends such a thrill of excitement
a-ting- lingdown one’s nerves—that call
for aid.
He knew in an instant why the per-
son had called.
“Somebody’s got lost in the grass!’
he thought, as he hurried down to the
lake ; he’d better not try tostay out all
through this kind of a night ! ”
It took along while to reach the
place from where the shouts had come
from and to get the hunter to the shore,
for the poor fellow numbed and ex-
hausted and lost among the great fields
of grass, had dropped the oars and sat
huddled in the stern, yielding to the
drowsiness which is so often a fatal one.
But he soon cane to, when Jobn had
got him to the house, and what a jolly
Christmas guest he was then—almost as
good as if Santa Claus himself bad tied
his deer to the fence and staid with them
all the evening.
With the little Harney’s clustered
about the stranger’s knee, listening
open-mouthed to his wondrous stories,
the father leaning against the wall
smoking his pipe, and the mother softly
rocking. baby’s cradle—all lighted by
the glow of the firelight, it was a pretty
scene to see—one that the sprites of
Christmas love to look upon. And
when the Christmas guest was done, the
mother told of that strange star of won-
drous beauty that shone another Christ-
mas night, above tbe manger where the
infant King lay sleeping--so long ago,
and so far away—in Bethlehem, of Ju-
dea.
And the father, looking backward to
his earlier years, bethought him of a
story altogether new—one that had slip-
ped his memcry until now (as things of
such slight import will) about a fierce
gaunt wolf of monstrous size that he,
Putman-like, had slain in a cave by the
light of its own eyes.
But John, of all these tales, heard not
a word What were these childish stor-
ies of bears and wolves and Indians to
the sight of the beautiful gun, with its
smooth round barrels and shapely stock,
that belonged to the Christmas guest.
and tbat stood in the corner by the door?
The stranger, as he gazed around at
his little audience, might have noticed
where the boy's eyes were wandering,
but if be did he said nothing, and kept
right on with his stories.
Santa Claus must have been very
nearly . through with his gift-giving
when the little Harneys went to bed,
each witha bright new silver dollar
clasped in his little fat hand; and the
guest turned to John. “I won’t forget,
my boy, what you have done for me,”
he said solmnly. “They would have
found me there, all cold and still among
the grass, like they did pocr Phillips
last winter, and my Christmas day
would have been atthe home of Him,
whose birth it celebrates. I thank you |
now, and perbaps before long I may be |
able to show my gratitude in a better |
way.” And any one could see that he
meant what he said. Then the lamps
were put out, and the dream-folks came
to take the place of the Christmas
sprites, while the wind whistled around
the corners and old Jack Frost peered |
in through the green shutters; and all
the fields and roads, and the woods and
lowlands, took on a covering of snowy
whiteness,
Long before the first happy city tod-
dler bad rushei to his stocking to find
what Santa Claus had left, even before
that merry old gentlemen and his fleet-
footed reindeer had reached their icy
northern home, the Harneys were awake
and breakfast was on the table.
| mas!
It was a bounteous breakfast, too, for
to the poor whom we have always
with us. Make glad the heart of the
widow and orphan by a load of wood,
a barrel of apples or a turkey or a pie,
aod your own heart will be glad, if!
done in that spirit of faith which these !
words signify : “Inasmuch as ye have !
done it to one of the least of these ye
have done it unto Me.”
—— Subscribe for the WATCHMAN,
that family; because, although the
stranger did not know it, or at least did |
not show that be knew it, all the goed
things, that were to bave been forthe
Christmas dinner were brought forth (to
the great joy of the little Harneys, who
could hardly have existed till noon
without them,) and were placed before
the Christmas guest. !
Soon after, when thanks and merry
Christmas wishes had been given time
and again, the hunter was obliged to de-
STTINTIIRR
part ; for, as he told ‘hem, his friends at
the club house would be Digmeneg at
his absence ; so heand John walked
down to the landing together.
“You n.ust visit me at the house,” he
said, as be took the boy's hand in part-
ing, and then, stepping into his cance,
he was soon rapidly getting out of sight.
“Ob, mister, wait; you forgot some-
thing,” cailed a childish voice from be-
hind. and one of the little Harnevs eame
running down the road as fast as his
short legs could earry him, with the
stranger’s gun ! “Come back’ sir; you
have left your gun !” shouted John,
takiog the precious weapon in his bands
and waving it above his head. But the
Christmas guest came back not a stroke.
He only rose to his feet, end placing his
bands so as to form a trumpet, he
shouted something back--something
that made John’s face radiant with de-
light, and bis heart almost burst with
! gratitude.
“I didn’t forget it,” came faintly to
the shore. “It’s yours. Merry Christ-
And the little canoe and the
Christmas guest were lost to sight
among the grass.-—— Miss Annie M. Ness,
in York Gazette.
Says Santa;
“For the child of the North, a rose from the
summer land far;
For the child of the South, a snowflake a-flash
like a star;
For the child of the West, a lark with the glad
sunrise light ;
For the child of the East,a whip-poor-will
song and good night !”
Billy’s Santa Claus Experience.
Of course I don’t believe in ary such
person as Santa Claus, but Tommy
does. Tommy is my little brother,
aged six. Last Christmas I thought
I'd make some tun for the young one
by playing Santa Claus, but as always
happens when I try to amuase anybody
1 jes got myself into trouble.
I went to bed pretty early on Christ-
mas eve £0 as to give my parents a
chance to get the presents out of the
closet in mama's room, where they had
been locked up since they were bought.
I kept my close on except my shoes,
and put my night gown over them so as
I’d lock white if any of them came
near me. Then I waited, pinchin my-
self to keep awake. Afterawhile papa
came into the room with a lot of things
that he dumped on Tommy's bed.
Then mama came in and put some
things on mine and in our two stock-
ings that were hung up by the chim-
ney. Then thev both went out very
quiet, and soon ali the lights went out
too.
I kep on pinchin myself and waitin
for a time, and then when I was sure
that everybody was asleep I got up.
The first thing I went into was my sis-
ter’s room, and got her white fur rug
that mamma gave her on her birthday,
and her sealskin cape that was hang-
ing on the closet door. I tied the cape
on my head with shoestrings and it
made a good big cap. Then I put the
fur rug around me and pinned it with
big safety pios what I found on. Tom-
my’s garters. Then I got mamma’s
new scrap basket, trimmed with roses,
what Mrs. Simmong broidered for the
church fair, and piled all of the kid's
toys into it. I fastened it to my back
with papa’s suspenders, and then I
started for the roof.
I hurt my fingers some opening the
scuttle, but kept right on. It was snow-
ing hard and I stood and let myself
get pretty well covered with flakes,
Then I crawled over to the chimuey
that went down into our room and
climbed up on topofit. I had brought
my bicycle lantern with me and I light-
ed itso as Tommy could see me when
I came down the chimney into the
room.
There did not seem to be any places
inside the chimney where I could hold
on by my feet, but the ceiling in our
room was uot very high and I had of-
ten jumped most as far, so I jest let her
go, and I suppose I went down. Any-
way, I did not know about anything
fora long time. Then I woke up all
in the dark with my head feelin queer,
and when I tried to turn over in bed I
found I wasn’tin bed at all; and then
my arms and legs began to hurt ter-
rible mostly one arm that was doubled
up. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t
because my bones hurt soand I was
terrible cold and there was nothing to
stand on. I was jes stuck. Then I began
to cry, and pretty soon I heard mamma's
voice sayic to papa :
“Those must be sparrers that are
making that noise in the chimney.
Jes touch a match to the wood in the
bovs’ fire place.”
I heard papa strike a light and then
the wood began to crackle. Then, by
jinks! it began to get hot and smoky
and I screamed;
“Help! Murder! Pat out that fire
lest you want to burn me up!
Then I heard papa stamping on the
wood and mamma calling out :
“Where's Billy ? Where is my chile?”
Next Tommy woke up aud began to
cry and everything was terrible, spec:
ially the pains all over me, Then papa
called out very stern:
“William, if you are in that chimney
come down at once !” aud I answered,
cryin, that I would if I could, but was
stuck and couldn’t.
Then I heard papa gettin dressed,
and pretty coon he and Jonn froem the
stable went up on the roof and let down
ropes what I put around me and they
hauled me up.
It was jes daylight and I was all
black and sooty and scratched and my
arm was broken.
Everybody scolded me except mamma
I had spoiled my sister's white rug,
and broken all of Tommy’s toys, and
the snow what went in through the
scuttle melted and marked the parlor
ceiling, besides I guess it cost papa a
good deal to get my arm mended. No-
body would believe that I had jes meant
to make some fun for Tommy, and my
arm and all my bruised places hurt me
awful for a long time. IfI live to be
million I am never goin’ to play Santa
Claus agin.
——A man may not be so badly off
for presents it he only hae but pre-
sence of mind.