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BY. PP. GRAY MEEK.
The stars shone out with quivering light,
As shepherds, on that holy night,
Their vigils lone were keeping.
When lo! from out the studded sky
There burst upon the wondering eye
A vision that did earth outvie,
From Heaven's portals sweeping.
The shepherds all were sore amazed,
As tremblingly they upward gazed
At form angelic flying. :
But hark! they hear the angel sing:
“Good tidings of great joy I bring,
For unto you 1s born a King,
He’s in a manger lying.”
Melodious rang the seraph’s voice:
“Fear not, but evermore rejoice,
And cease fore’er your sighing,
For unto you is born this day,
In David’s city, blest for aye,
The Saviour, Christ, the living Way,
Exult, with angels vying.’’
And now a host, a heavenly throng,
Bweeps all the air and earth along,
Triumphant chorus raising.
“To God be glory,” now the cry,
“And praise to Him who reignson high,”
“Good will to men,” rings from the sky
From choir celestial praising.
A star more bright than all the rest
Shone out, that holiest night and best,
The wise men safely guiding.
And lo! the star before them went,
And to their path a radiance lent
To lead them where their steps were bent,
In worshipful confiding.
And as they came to lowly inn,
And found the new-born Babe within,
They joyed with joy sesediog,
And when they saw the holy chi
Within the arms of virgin mild,
They praised, with lips pure, undefiled,
The Lord’s most gracious leading.
Low at His feet they humbly fell,
And sought, in vain, their joy to tell,
But opened out their treasures.
Rich frankincense and myrrh they brought,
And gifts of gold with jewels wrought,
To lay before the Babe they'd sought,
Outspread in fullest measures.
Then let the bells their carols ring,
To frais the manger-cradled King,
The Christ of sacred story.
Let every heart, with men of old,
Pour out its frankincense and gold,
In loyalty and love untold,
To God, the King of Glory.
—Mrs. J. T. Greenleaf, in Good Housekeeping .
“UNTO THE GREEN HOLLY.”
BY EVA WILDER MCGLASSON.
No one could understand it. If she
had been beautiful, or bright, or well
connected, or rich, the village might
have found the matter plain. Bat
when Vint Nichols fell in love with
her there was distinctly nothiug in her
looks or circumstances to aftord a rea-
sonabie;base for the young man’s act-
ion. For she was little and spare,
with a small clay-colored face, from
which dull brown eyes stared with a
sort of dog-like pathos. And her hair
had the peculiarly dead flaxen hue
which is directly intimative of sunless
rooms and meagre food. Her very at-
tire, even in the estimate of the small
village, where the great elementary
fact of fashion existed only in modest
sort, was lamentably poor.
On the day when Nichols first saw
her she was toiling up the steep hill
road, clad in a chocolate-colored frock
which showed about the skirt yellow-
ish streaks indicative of let out tucks.
A thin shawl pointed its threadbare
fringes between her narrow shoulders,
and her heap of hazy hair was half hid
in a limp hat piteously trimmed with
dejected looking grasses.
The group of men on the post-office
porch suspended talk to observe her.
“Kind of a sorry looking little
trick,” remarked a man in jeans.
“Visiting up vender at Bailey's”
“Any kin to them ?"’ asked Nichols,
quickly. He had caught the briefest
glimpse of the face under that poor
hat— a face so wan, so sad, and yet so
appealingly childish that something
tugged at bis heart.
“Heh? Er—yes. Sort of second
cousin to Bailey, I hear tell,” pursued
the other, happy to furnish informa-
tion to a man so flourishing
in worldly matters as was Nichols.
One’s cap may well be doffed to a fel-
low-being who owns a stave yard and
two buckers. “This yere girl’s name's
Clarrissy Mosely. She's from Lincoln
county. ’'Pears like she's got a step-
mam, and the old lady's always a
picking at her, and so Clarissy aims to
strike out for herself, Bailey ’lows
she lays off to locate here if she kin
git sewing to do.”
Nichols, with his hands constrained-
ly pocketed, gazed after the little fig-
ure going up the hill road. The eve-
ning sun shone through the highway
dust, casting about the girl's feet a
haze of gold in which she seemed to
float. Before her the tall Kentucky
knobs rose barren with late fall.
Clumps of dull red brush burned lusti-
ly in ledges of the rocks, but below in
the river bottoms, where most of the
hamlet lay, only an occasional stubble
field took the eye with a touch of viv-
id color. The South Fork lay thick
and swart, ribbed at its banks with
bleached loge. Piles of lumber sat
about, gray and square as tombs.
Like distant pastoral pipes the mill
saws rang sweet and high. Presently
a whistle blew shrill. From the vari-
ous small houses came smells of cook-
ing. It was supper time, and men in
blue blouses began to appear at the
gates of the mill.
It was an accustomed scene to Nich-
ols. From the inn doors, the stave-
office window, and the store porch—
that Mecca of village bachelordom—
he had viewed this evening outlook
many times as a dull, uaromantic vis
ta. Now on a sudden it had meaning.
Those mean houses were homes.
That thread of emoke denoted a
hearth at which folk who loved each-
other gathered. The thin crooning of
a voice in a cottage hard by struck
him to the soul. It was the lullaby of
a woman who clasped her baby to her
Nichols young face paled a little.
He drew his cap over his eyes, and
turned into the road to speak to Bailey,
the sawyer, just then coming up from
the mill shoot.
Something later, Bailey, entering
his own domain, a pea green edifice of
one story, pointed a jocular finger at
his second cousin,
jecturally letting slip.
STATE RIGHTS AND FEDERAL UNION...
EE RAS AT NS,
BELLEFONTE, PA. DEC. 22,1. 3.”
“You're going to hev comp’ny to-
night, Clarissy I” he announced. And
as the girl looked at him confusedly,
he winked reassurance. “She's got a
beau, Clarissy hez,” he explained to
his wife as she poured the coffee.
“Y Gee! the best fixed man in town !”’
In a prophetic burst he added: “I
reckon you won’t need to chase round
after nobody’s sewing. Clarissy. Nich-
ols was mighty int'rusted about you.
Well, sirs, it ain’t always the reddest-
cheeked girls that catches em.”
This view proved less vividly fanci-
ful than it seemed to Clarissy in the
hearing. For that night, as the stars
crept out, peering over the Cumber-
land’s heights and glassing themselves
in its turbid water, Nichols came up
the road to the Bailey cottage. He
came obviously as a suitor. The neck
scarf at his throat was of the pale lay-
ender hue sacred in village regions to
those who trim their ways for love.
From his pocket a stiff handkerchief
displayed four white peaks. His dark
head was bedewed with liquid odors,
and his boots above an honest rim of
red mud, cast off dazzling gleams.
Clarissa, with her lean hands
clinched in embarrassment, sat mute
and scared. She had been so evilly
handled by her step-mother that an
outcast state was the only state.to
which she was able to accommodate
herself. She made no effort at speech.
She was too dazed for gayety, for any
of those encouraging blandishments
which Mrs. Bailey afterwards urgently
“Why’n earth didn’t you say some:
thin’ pleasant, Clarissy ? You set like
a stone statute, so you did, and him
fahly talkin’ himse'f hoarse! Tell you
what it is, men’s right like bees:
they’re huntin’ sugar, not vinegar.
You got to step up to ’em lively! I'd
never in the livin’ world hev got Bai-
ley if I hedn’t jest natchelly kept a
palaverin’ and wheedlin’ of him till he
skercely knowed where he was at.
You got to keep right at 'em; for
they're mighty oncertain, men is, and
if one girl won’t toss 'em a kiss there's
others thet will. So you better watch
“] don’t know how to do,” gasped
Clarissa, bewildered at the brilliancy
of the chance which she, through ig-
norance of ways and wiles, was con-
One evening she and Nichols were
walking along the cliff road. Far
down below them the village lay half
seen in the twilight. A dimness of
sunset crimson folded the dark western
hills. Everything was motionless and
quiet, except that a bat, restlessly
whirring across the fading crimson,
seemed still to feel the fret and fever of
Nichols walked in a small gait to
keep step with Clarissa, who loitered
at his side, a little sprite, almost spec:
tral in her austere delicacy of line and
color. Her face was shyly lifted. The
flaxen hair frayed about her brows
like a silvery nimbns about the face of
a Virgin of the Botticellian type.
Against her slight frame her lax skirts |
sagged. She kept her heavy eyelids |
down, being halt afraid to gaze openly
at the figure beside her, arrayed in a
brand-new suit, and with a neck scarf
of tenderly suggestive hue below its
Suddenly a gray twig, catching at
her skirt, rose in the path with a
snake: like twist. Clarissa uttered a
cry, and caught at Nichols’ sleeve.
“It was only a loose branch,” he
reassured her, agitatedly clasping her
small clinging hand; ‘but say, ob,
Clarissa, you'll let me take care of you
always, won't you?"
Coming to the village ear, this be-
trothal was altogether unaccountable.
No one could make out “what on
earth Vint Nichols see in thet pore
little skite of a Mosely gyrl.” And,
indeed, the Mosely girl was herselt
more surprised than any one else.
She had been shut in a dungeon of
despair ; she had expected no prince;
and behold here were the sound of sil
ver trumpets, a cloth of purple, and
the royal suite doing obeisance. She
felt like ‘tending the knee and lifting
pressed palms. Then, as Nichols in-
sisted on being himself the slave, Clar-
issa suffered a curious revulsion of
gentiment, She permitted herself to
be adored, and actually developed a
right queenly air of condescension in
her bearing toward her lover.
“Blame if she don’t wind Nichols
round her little finger!” speculated
Bailey. “She'll rule the roost in that
“I'll be a house wuth rulin’,” re
turned his wife. ‘Nichols hev bought
the best lot in town, and he aims to
put up a two story house with piazzers,
Law, well | Somes bora to luck. On-
ly, if I was Clarissy, I'd hate to live
acrost from that old house of Saler’s—
a grave in its front yard, and all.
It'd give me the shakes, Clarissy.
Clarissa, with dignified unconcern,
looked toward the site of her tuture |
home. The lot sloped a little over the
bill's brow. Just beyond it, in a |
thicket of beeches, the old Saler cot- |
tage slanted its clapboarded roof. |
Gray lichens scaled the eaves, and
blistered the ancient walls like fossil
tears. A scrap of broken window |
blinked into the weedy yard, the fur
ther end of which showed always a
myrtle green spot, darkly evident be-
neath a gnarled rose tree, Whether
there was snow about, or’ the pale
freshuess of spring, the deep verdancy
of summer or the party-colored drift-
ing of autumn leafage, that spot lay al-
ways in view. Saler’s little daughter
had slept for forty years under those
myrtle sprigs. She had been only a
baby when she died ; but though Saler
had moved to another town, and was
old and case hardened in business pur-
suits he still remembered the dimpled
little thing who had been lowered so
long ago into that rifted garden end.
“I'll get him to sell the place, and
we'll tear theold thing down,” said
“I'll never consent to build opposite
unless you do,” said Clarissa firmly.
“It would make me miserable to have
that rickety hut across the road. It’s
in frightful repair. And that grave!
Oh, of course the place must be torn
“Certainly,” acquiesced Nichols,
with great decision.
Day by day the walls of his new
house rose in pine hued prominence
against the green hill-side. On a cer-
tain summer morning he and Clarissa,
returning from a wedding journey to
Lexington, passed over the freshly
painted threshold of- the lavender-
colored structure, and were at home to
their kinsfolk and acquaintance.
“I never laid eyes onto no such stufted
chairs as you got, Clarissy,” said Mrs.
Bailey, on her first visit. “And lace
curtings and a organ! Well, some’s
born to luck! You'd ought to thank
your God, Clarissy, for givin' you a
man like you got, and a house with
water in the kitchen.”
“I shall never be happy,” said Clar-
issa, smoothing down the folds of her
pink cambric frock, “till that Saler
house is torn down. We've made him
offers, but he won't sell, And I can’t
look out without seeing those broken
windows and that baby’s grave. Oh
dear! Sometimes I just know I see
something white flickering through
the brush yonder—a little ghost!”
Mrs. Bailey rose with dignity.
“You're plumb crazy,” she re-
marked, with easy candor. “By the
time yon got a teethin’ baby ot your
own you won't hev time to see ghosts.
Youn better quit complainin’, and try
to make Vint happy. Husbands and
sweethearts ain’t the same thing.
You may ketch a mzn with a purse of
your lips, but it takes the grip of the
bull jaw to holt him”
Clarissa tossed her head. The flax
en hair was prettier now than it had
been, and a generous diet had brought
a rosy glow to Clarissa’s cheeks. Her
lips were lined with pink, and her eyes
were dark and bright.
“You are handsomer than ever,”
Nichols said daily to his wife. “Isit
—oh, Clarissa, is it because you are
“] can never be really happy while
that old house scowls at me daily,”
replied Clarissa, slipping coldly from her |
husband’s arms. Nichols sighed. She
slipping coldly from him.
Her ambition perpetually stimulated
him to new business ventures.
had never before felt in her hand the
reins of the steed of fortune, and in the
exhilaration of the novel experience
Clarissa was riding rather recklessly. |
“If Saler won't sell, we will,” she
Viat, and build a bigger house.
want doable parlors.”
“I reckon we'll have to wait till
next year,” said Nichols, “I'm a lit
tle in debt—building and all.
ceut I got is invested in staves. I've got
a big drive up river waiting for rain.”
He looked thinrer and paler than
when he had wooed Bailey’s young
cousin. Busitess cares sat heavy up-
on him in these autumn days, and his
vision strained to the far horizon
which lay beyond the time of “tides.”
The two buckers in his yard stood si-
lent, waiting hungrily for those rough
slips of oak that lay upstream. In his
dreams Nichols saw their corrugated
pistons in activity, their double blades
skimming off the staves to smooth con-
cavity. Nichols laughed in his sleep,
thinking of the pyramid of bucked
staves that should rise in his yards.
Drouth lasted long. Then little
rains came, but too little to speak of.
“Oh, for a long wet spell!” sighed
“Rain!” said Clarissa, playing a
small tune on the organ. “This hole
of a village is bad enough when it’s
clear. When the rain sets in—well, I
don’t know how I'll stand that awful
old Saler house then.” She twitched
her shoulder a little as Nichols bent to
kiss her good-by. “Oh, how foolish
you are!” said Clarissa.
On a sudden the weather: changed.
The skies knotted themselves together
like the brows of one in anguish.
Lightning ‘shackled the hills, The
earth was shrouded in sheets of rain.
Day and night it poured, upriver and
down, and those who had prayed for a
big Christmas “tide felt thet the gods
were propitious. But even while
Christmas buying went on briskly at
the village store, and firs were cut
down from distant hill-sides, and great.
bunches of mistletoe were carried to
the school house to deck the barren
room for holiday ‘‘exercises’’—even
while all this was forward, a great fear
fell on those who had timber afloat.
“The “tide” was too heavy. Sud-
denly came word, too. of a freshet that
would be upon the booms by nightfall
—the very nightfall when children
; ne | stamwmered.
was always, materially and spiritnally, |
he | getin’ like he was plumb deranged—
“Let's bay up on the hill, |
} in’ music like Babylon hisself.
were wide-eyed with expectation of tr. ,% ‘d lost. I wanted you to have every-
“Christmas eve I" muttered Nichols,
as he watched the treacherous river
foam over its banks, and saw the wild
redness of the countless lanterns along
shore, and listened to the shouts of the
men leaping from log to log, or work-
ing with the boom ropes, or tipping
about in little skifts among the loosen-
ed drift. Nichols armed with a pike
pole, and halt sick and dizzy with cold
and weariness and dread, steadied him-
self as a shout rang from the opposite
“She's catching it
Look out for the boom! Is that you,
Nichols? God A’mighty, man!
Your staves are slippin’ through the
boom like snowflakes. No use; we
can’t holt em in.”
Nichols leaned forward. A sudden
flood swept between the melting banks,
and he saw a current sharp with the
edges of thousands of staves floating
airily out toward the deep sea. A wild
laugh seemed to haunt the chill air.
It was the time of Christmas cheer.
Nichols could see the lighted store
windows full of toys and balsamic
greenery. Further off burned a small
er light in the room where Clarissa sat
at ease. Through the darkness her
face, careless, unloving, yet so sweet,
rose with eyes of menace. He had
hoped to do so much for her, and he
had lost everything.
Nichols groaned as he stumbled
againet a great coil of rope and sank
upon it. An intolerable desire for rest
stole over him. Thorough the anguish
of his soul he seemed, strangely
enough to see the myrtle hidden couch
where Saler’s little daughter slept so
well. To sleep—that was it—to sleep !
He cast a dull eye on the river, which,
even as he looked, softened to the like:
ness of a dark, dimpled arm held out
to receive him. Clarissa sat warm
and sate at home. If he, Nichols,
yielded to the murmuring invitation of
the river, if he closed with its swift
embrace, and drank its sweet, fierce
kiss, aud was whirled away in a delir-
ious passion of death, perhaps then
Clarissa would forgive him ?
Some men passed, and saw the
crouching figure by the coil of rope.
“Keep your eye onto him, Joe,”
said one. “It's Vint Nichols. He's
lost his pile to-night. Cuss a mount-
Ing stream, anyhow |’
Up in her bright sitting room Claris-
sa, todeed, sat as Nichols imagined
her. She was idly practising oa the
organ. Some one knocked. The door
burst open, and Mrs. Bailey stood ex-
citedly on the threshold.
Cen [ e??
“have everything I want !” sobbed
Crarissa against Nichols’ dripping
shoulder. “Everything! And if the
house is gone—we can live somewhere
else.” She paused, and broke into a
low laugh. “Vint,” she cried, “Saler
will rent us his cottage. We'll mend
the fence and fix the windows. I
know now why that place worried me
so—it was begging for curtains and
pots of geraniwms and paint and soap-
. Nichols gazed at her, half forgetting,
in the warmth at his heart, that they
were not going to be so romantically
poor as Clarissa fancied.
“You forget,” he said, “dear, you
torget Saler’s daughter.”
“I shall plant roses over her,”
breathed Clarissa, “poor little baby!
And to-morrow—ah, Vint, to-morrow |
—I'm goingto lay a wreath of holly
oun her little lonely grave, so she'll
have a share in the happy, happy
Christmas we're going to keep.— Har-
Ye who have scorned each other,
Or injured friend or brother,
In this fast fading year,
Ye who by word or deed
Have made a kind heart bleed,
Come gather here!
Let sinned against and sinning
Forget their strife’s Legluding.
And join in friendship now ;
Be linkr no longer broken,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken
Under the holly bough.
A CHRISTMAS GIFT AND WHAT
CAME OF IT.
There were traces of tears on Tom.
mie’s face. His eyes were still red and
and his hair was tumbled. The boy
had been crying. It was a new thing
for him to be found in this way, for
Tommie was one of the brightest faced
boys in the village. He lived in a little
house on a side road just outside of the
village with his mother. She sewed
when she could get work, nursed the
sick, helped cook when some one was
giving a large party, and was ready to
be useful in any way she could.
But this year she had not been get-
ting as much todo as in other years.
Fewer parties were made, and the peo-
ple seemed to wear their old clothes
longer ; so Mrs. Bogardus (Tommie’s
mother) saw Christmas coming with
only enough moaey in her purse to buy
food and fuel. She had none to spare
for present’s for Tommie.
Her boy did not know how poor
“Clarissy | my goodness! are you a |
playin’ chunes when men’s lives is in
danger?’ she cried, casting her wet
shawl back. Clarissa had risen. She |
had paled a hitle, and stood catching |
at the collar of her crimson gown.
“J don’t know what you mean,” she |
“Mean!” vociferated Mrs. Bailey. |
“Hain’t yon heard tell of the freshet? |
Everything’s sweepin’ through the
boom. Wilkins's boy is drowned, and
thar ain’c a man on the river to-night
but takes his lite in his hands. Your
man’s lost every splinter of wood be
had afloat. I just got word he was
and you—you dressed up to kill, a play-
God to forgive me tor marryin’ kin of
yourn, so I do, Clarissy
She broke off, panting.
Clarissa had grown white as the
thread of ribbon in her shining hair.
Her eyes stared large and dazed. She
tottered as if she would have fallen;
and then, still tremulous, sped sudden-
ly forward, and past the portly figure
in the doorway. .
“Clarissy I” cried Mra. Bailey,
scared and confused, The wind
howled back at her as she peered into
the whirling rain, but the darkness
had already swallowed the slight small
torm of Nichols wife.
Down on the river confusion reigned.
Everywhere was red streaked dark-
ing water. Men's voices rose loud and.
insistent ; but Nichols, sitting on the
rope coil, heard and saw only vaguely. |
The sound that reached him most defi-
rest, forever mixing its utterance with
Nichols's memory of another voice, as
sweet but less concerned to give him a
hint of love or peace. Clarissa would
not care. Nichols, rising rapidly,
stumbled nearer the verge of the stream.
As he moved, two figures appeared on
the bank behind him. Inthe hand of
one a lantern swung, pricking the
gloom with dozens of flaming needles.
“There he is—there’s Nichols,” said
a man’s tones,
“Where ?"’ said a softer voice. In
the red shot dusk something in crim-
son garments took shape-—something
with drenched long hair blowing’ out
io the wet wind. “Where?” said the
soft voice. And then Nichols, leaning
over the river's edge, felt a clasp ot
sudden fingers on his arm.: Clarissa’s
wet hair blew up against his face, but
through its meshes he saw her white
cheeks, her slight throat, and parted
lips, Was it Clarissa? Clarissa with
such a look in her eves as stilled the
very beating of his heart?
“Vint 1” ghe said ; “Vint!”
“It’s all'lost,” he stammered, con:
fused by het tenderness of modulation.
ness, and the clamor of rain and rush- i Ee and expected
she was, nor how hard she had to work
to earn money enongh to clothe and
feed him. The boys at school were all
talking of the big stocking they were
going to hang up for Santa Clans to
fill ; they also told what niece things
they hoped he would put into them.
Tommie's mind was filled with what
he beard, and he saw no reason why
Santa Claus, if he had so many things,
and loved good little boys, should not
slide down the ehimmey of the little
house, and while mamma and be were
asleep, fill the stockings. Without
gaying anything to her, he went to the
drawer, picked out two of the longest
stockings, marked on one, For Mamma,
and on the other one For Me, and
hung them before the fire place. Then |
he quietly crept to bed and dreamed
about loads of toys, baskets of cream
chocolates, and nice things for his
Waking up before it was light, real |
early in the morning, he slipped from.
his little bed down into the front room,
to find the stockings and. bring them
back to suprise and please his mamma.
He pus his head up in the dark to feel
the stockings, as they bung on the back
of the chair. There they were, to be
sure; but ohl what was the matter? They,
were as empty as when he hung them
up the night before. He felt dreadfully,
about it. What had he done? Why,
had Santa Claus passed him over? His.
mother heard him crying, and ealled
Then she learned what:
woman she cried with her boy, because
of his disappointment ; and then the
little fellow brightened up. bravely to
the siren voice of the comfort his mother.
river, forever murmuring its rhythm of |
i out and passed a house neaw by, where
After his simple breakfast. he went
the boy called him into see what Santa
Claus had brought. Tbero- were nice
toys, sweet candies pretty books. Tom-
mie was glad that the boy had them,
but at the thought of his own disap
pointment and his mother’s the tears
would start in spite of himself. The
boy’s mother understood what the
tears meant, but eaid nothing to him.
Shortly she left ths room. : After a
little time she came back and told
Tommie: that his mother waated him.
He ran over to her asking, “What
is it Mamma ?'" Taking his hand she
led bim to the weod-shed, and there
vied to a post, was a. splendid lamb
with a blue ribbon around its neck,
and on the ribbon wasa eard with the
words, “Santa Claus thinks of Tommie,
All this occurred three years ago.
But the lamb has grown into a sheep,
and Tommie now bas four fine sheep
He has learned how to feed sheep and
take care of them. A farmer cuts their
wool for him and buys it; and Tom:
mie ia now wearing a nice suit of all.
“Home, everything. I risked all
wool ‘Iron Clad” made from the fleece
of his own sheep. ;
TWO PRECIOUS TRAINS,
The gisvuain Jeaves at 6 P. M. :
or the land where the po blows, .
The mother dear is the Ee
And the passenger laughs and crows.
The palaee car is the: mother’s arms;
The whistle, a low, sweet strain ;
The passenger winks-and nods and blinks:
And goes to sleep in the train!
At8 P. M. the next train starts
For the Poppy land afar,
The summons clear falls on the ear; -
All aboard. for the sleeping car!”
But what is the fare to Po 1 ?
I hope it is net too TY ands
The fare is this, a hug and a kiss
And it’s paid to the engineer,
So I asked of Hin who children took
Mi lis knocin kindness great,
“Take charge, [ pray. ofthe trai ’
That Tors at Sands” Sing exch day
“Keep watch of the passengers,”
“For to me they are very dear;
And special ward, O gracious Lord,
O’er the gentle engineer.”
— Christian ‘Union,
The Wind's Christmas.
His Adventures on the Bue of the Holy Day.
thus I pray
_ The eve of the anniversary of Christ's:
birth was bitter cold ; the wind whistled
through the leafless trees and remorse-
lessly slashed the windows, which set up
a most unearthly wail—their petition:
for mercy. Master Wind, however,
knew no pity.. He laughed scornfully:
at their agony, .and continued his ruth«
less mirth with renewed vigor.
He was in a-playful mood and: tried
all manuer of tricks with the passers-by,
for on this night, tired of the monotony
of his Eolian prison, he ‘came out withe
full intent to seek diversion and by
mingling with the crowd find something
which would awaken in him: soma emo-
tion having a different tenor from the
old song he was wont to chant: He al
so felt that it was @hristmas. Off he
snatched yon dude’s hat and ‘hurled * it
into the gutter. Oh, what a sight that
silk headgear was when put on again!
“Ha! ha!” laughed the Wind, “that
was well done, sirrab I what fun!” and .
flew on to farther mischief.
_ Truly, he had plenty of scope to exer-
cise his wild freaks, for the streets were -
filled with people, hurrying to and fro, .
in and out of the brilliantly lighted
shops where such manifold = wonders -
were displayed to the eager purchaser.
Over all these the Wind’s eye swept— -
he scorned: and mocked ‘them all—noth-
ing satisfied him.
ours shpped by. Shall he. be-
thwarted in his wish?” N8, a thousand
times no | * Rather will be overstep all’
boundaries, tear down roofe, unroot .
trees, and, at any rate, carry out his de-
At last, almost despairing, he per--
ceived a little hut. crossing his route.-
Its humble, weather beaten roof attrac.
ted the Wind’s attention.
; PY pens Bere; said: he, and, modera-:
ing his flight, he boldl d in.
What a sight met his. oa Drepe
Ia the tiny room,.cold, bare and com-.
fortless, a. maiden sat near the rickety.
bed, on which a women lay seemingly
asleep-—or did she dream ? : Surely, that .
face of marble coldness, those limp. .and .
nerveless hands did .net belong to a liv-
ing person. Can it be that this. child, .
alone at such late-hour, watched ‘beside -
The Wind sighed, a sense cf sadness.
stole over him--YHe was moved to pity.
He howled no more; but gently creeping
in through an air-hole in the roof, he
drew himself together in a corner and.
Hari! The bells pealed cut triumphs:
antly. ‘Peace and good will to man!:
Christ is born!” The maiden roused
herself and looked with teanful eyes.on
the fuce of the. dead, tken kneeling:
down she prayed aloud: Oh, loving:
Christ, Thou who wert born this . night.
to bless and save the world, look dawn.
from Thy home on one of Thy poor:
children. Yesterday, the world: to mee
was bright, ol so beautifui—my darling:
mother lived—to day it is all dark: and:
full of misery. What am Tin this wide
sphere without ber 2 Ol! do nat let me
linger—tako me, too. ILiet me join the
angel choir singing around Thy throne.
Toke, oh | taks me 1”
She ended, the balls. without also
‘eased to peal. With a cry of woashe
threw her arms arosnd that beloved
form—alas! now only a. form of clay —
The Wind, silent. till now, began to
“She shall have her prayess an-
i swered,’” cried he, “I will see. tosthat.”
With a.Joud murmur he spread his icy
breath round and round tie now sleep-
ing maiden, and, satisfied: with. his ad-
venture, returned to his recky ome.
Two days after a small. funaral pro-
cession was weading its. way slong the
country road; The uncovered heads of
the men following the. simply coffin, in
whieh two loving hearts. were forever
united, did not heed the stiff, winter
breeze traveling with them.
“Whew !"”suddenly sang the Wind,
the sound was so strange, s0 weird, that
it startled one.and all.
What did: the Wind say? Did he.
pity ?— Phila. Thnes.
30,000 Tons of Steel Rails.
Western Iron Works. to, Start Up With tha
, Pittsburg: Seales.
New: Yorx, Dec. 18. —The Colorade.
Fuel and Iron. Company made a con:
tract this afternoon with the receivers.
of the. Union Pacific Railway Company °
for the delivery of about 30,000 tons of
steel rails. T'his is the first large con~
tract for rails that has been made in
the West this season, and it will. result
in the employment. of about 1,50¢: men
at the Fuel and Iron Company’s works
«It is understood ‘that in reswming
operations the company will ask the
men in its employ to sign the Pitts:
burg scale of wages.
$10,000 In Gold Stolen.
Savings of a Lifetime Hidden in ‘the Cellim
Taken From a Farmer. \
INDIANAPOLIS, Dec. 18. —Ten thous-
and dollars in gold has been stolen from
the cellar of David Stout’s house, two
miles northwest of Haughville,
Stout is over '60 years old, and the
| money was the suvings of yeary,