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CHRISTMAS CARSL.
Hosanna! Hosanna!
‘e nations hear the story—
Today ye are redeemed,
sade heirs with Christ in glory!
Bring out the silent harps
And tune them all anew,
Then sing till angels stand amazed=-
A Saviour’s born to you.
Hosanna! Hosanna!
"Twas shepherds told the story—
The star had led the way
To a manger filled with glory.
Ring out, ye Christmas bells!
Death’s power hath passed away,
And heaven rings with this glad theme—
Man is redeemed today.
Hosanna! Hosanna!
Let heaven and earth repeat.
Join seraphim and cherub
In hcmage at his feet.
Let song of saving grace,
With angel’s anthem vie,
For unto God the sweetest sound
Is a redeemed one’s cry.
Bring roses, sweet roses!
For unto you isgiven
A ransom from the grave,
A passport into heaven.
Swing wide, ye pearly gates!
Let anthems have full sway.
The King cf Glory left his throne
Upon that Christmas day.
—William IE. Sheilield in Brooklyn Eagle.
UNDER THE
SOUTHERN CROSS.
=
It was about 4 o’clock on Christmas
eve and business was over as I closed
my desk and rose with a weary yawn.
There was little in my surroundings to
remind me of the day, no frost on the
windows, no snow on the ground out-
side and no sharp bracing cold in the
air. The windows were as wide open as
they could be, and the steady swinging
of the ‘‘punkah’’ overhead was all that
kept the room from being stiflingly hot
and close, for the office was situated
somewhere about latitude 14 north, in
the faraway Philippine islands, where
the great, beautiful flowers have no per-
fume and the wonderful birds never
sing, where the southern cross glitters
over the land at night and the great
dipper is upside down and the sun sets
within two minutes of a quarter after 6
all tho year around.
Zo I had before me about two hours
and a half of daylight, and I was try-
ing to decide whether to utilize it by
riding out to the tennis club and hav-
ing afternoon tea, or walking to the
park to hear the band play and see the
Spanish dignitaries. The native clerks
in the outer room had dusted up and
now came gliding in with bare, splay
toed tet, like black headed ghosts in
their white clothes, to bid me ‘‘buenas
noches’’ and a happy Christmas, and in-
cidentally to receive each his holiday
gift of one or perhaps five big silver dol-
lars, according to his station, from Jose,
the half breed chief clerk, who on the
strength of his dignity and of his speak-
ing a little English kept his shirt tuck-
ed inside his trousers and wore embroid-
ered sandals, down to little Nito, the
errand boy, hardly more than a savage
of the wilderness. They had the
“Christmas feeling’’ anyway, and asso-
ciated it with the mercury’s ranging
from 80 to 105 degrees, as we New Eng-
landers do its rambling from zero to
freezing.
The last ‘‘muchas gracias, senor,”
had been said, and the last clerk glided
out, and the gray headed old ‘‘punkah
cooly’ was stealthily watching to see
me take up my jacket, the signal for
his departure, when the tramping of
unmistakable and evidently stout boots
sounded without, and with a prodigious
crash of the screen door there entered
into my sanctum stalwart Captain Hale
of the good ship Monhegan, arrayed in
snowy linen and crowned with a broad
pith helmet, accompanied by stout and
jolly Mrs. Hale, carrying a big basket
and a brown gingham umbrella, with
her cheerful face beaming from the
depths of a real old fashioned sunbonnet.
“Good evening, sir,’’ they both call-
ed out, and Mrs. Hale added: ‘‘Wish
you a merry Christmas, Mr. B. My,
ain’t it hot !’’ subsiding into the bam-
boo chair which I had placed for: her
under the punkah, with a ‘‘pica, hom-
bre’’ (faster, man), to old Pedro, the
cooly, who redoubled his efforts with a
disapproving grunt.
“Good gracious, Mr. B.,”’ exclaimed
Mrs. Hale, ‘‘don’t, for pity’s sake, make
that poor old feller work so this hot day
on my ’count. Stop it,’’ shaking her um-
brella vigorously at Pedro, who took
this for a signai to go faster still, and
the big fan flapping madly back and
forth till I called, ‘‘Despacio’’ (gently).
The Monhegan had been in the bay
for a month past under charter to me
for Boston, and was now cleared and
ready to sail the next day. I had spent
many a pleasant hour on board “vith the
captain and his wife, rejoicing in the
homelike feeling it gave me to hear
their good old Yankee forms of speech.
The very sight of their healthy faces,
browned by the sun in many seas, did
me good in my weary exile, and their
presence seemed to diffuse an atmos-
phere of the breezy pines and wind
swept shores of Maine. And how good
their primitive, shipboard food was aft-
er months of awful Spanish cooked din-
ners on shore!
And now the sound of their hearty
voices seemed to give the earthquake
rent, dingy walls of the old office build-
ing a pleasanter aspect. ‘‘You see, Mr.
B.,”’ said the captain, ‘‘we kinder
thought we’d drop in and give ye the
good wishes of the season ’'fore goin
round to do our Christmasin. Fact is,”’
he added, smiling, ‘‘the old lady can’t
get on without celebratin Christmas,
no matter where she is, and she’s al-
ways bound to give some presents to
folks. If we're at sea, she gives ’em to
my crew, and if we’re in port like this
she hunts up poor folks and gives ’em
to 'em, heathens and all. Ain’t that so,
mother?’’
Mrs. Hale nodded. ‘‘That’s a fact,
father,”’ she said. ‘‘Why, ’twouldn’t
seem the least m®e like Christmas if 1
couldn’t give presents, whether I be
home in Boothbay or not As for hea-
thens, that don’t make a bit of differ-
ence. It’s Christmas jest the same,
wheter they know it or not, and it
tickles ’em jest as much to get presents,
and me to give ’em. And you're jest
the same, John. You know you be.’’
“Well, I don’t know but what I be,
Maria, ’’ acknowledged the captain, and
they went on to tell of their queer ex-
periences while ‘‘Christmasin’’ in out of
the way Chinese and African ports with
chuckles and peals of laughter that set
Pedro grinning by force of example,
though he couldn’t understand a word.
‘“And speakin of that, Mr. B.,”’ said
Mrs. Hale, “I thought maybe I could
make it a little more like Christmas to
you and them other young men hére
away from their own folks, so I made
you this.” And with that she extracted
from her basket the very grandfather of
all Christmas plum puddings—the first
one I had seen for three years. ‘‘Maybe
’tain’t jest what you’d get at home, ’’
she said, holding it out with both hands
while the captain towered beside her,
six feet of genuine delight at my sur-
prise. ¢ ’cause I didn’t have just the
right fixin’s, but I guess it’ll go down
pretty well. There, take it and don’t
bother to say one word.”” And I knew
the kind old soul saw that for the mo-
ment I could as easily have flown as
uttered the thanks I felt.
“Trust the old lady to know what
boys like,’ said the captain. ‘“We had
a boy once ourselves. He’d be jest about
your age now,’’ he added in a lower
tone, glancing at his wife.
“We've got him now, John, as I've
always said and always will,” said
Mrs. Hale quietly, rearranging her bas-
ket.
The captain went on in answer to my
wondering look: ‘‘You see, our boy run
off when he wa’'n’t more’n 15. He’d
been kind of wild, as boys be, and I'm
afraid Iwas a little harsh to him Any-
way he went off without a word, and
we ain’t never heard of him since. I
feel pretty sure he’s dead, but mother
here sticks to it he ain’t.”’
“And I'm goin to stick to it, John,
till I know for sure.’’ And then with a
cheery smile at me: ‘‘It kind of does me
good to keep lookin forward to seein
Rufe again some day. Now, come along,
John; it's gettin late.”’
I slipped on my jacket, whereupon
Pedro vanished, and accompanied the
worthy couple down to the door of the
building. On the stairs Mrs. Hale turn-
ed and whispered to me: ‘‘John talks
as if he didn’t care much about Rufe’s
goin off, but now he really does, Mr.
B. If hecould find our boy, ’twould
take ten years off his age and mine too.’’
I did not doubt it, and I refrained
from saying that I thought it would
probably add ten years to Rufe’s if he
could realize the sort of mother and fa-
ther he had left so many years ago.
So I bade them good night, promising
to see them in tie morning aida with
hearty tian: : for their roongheivl kind-
ness, and waiched then as they trudged
away toward the native guarters, their
sturdy figures towering above the mot-
ley crowd ot natives and Chinamen
who threuged the narrow street aud
filled the air with their uncouth galble.
I sent my greem home with the pre-
cious pudding, and, mounting my pony,
threaded my way around to the English
club. There I found McGregor, the old
Scotch doctor, standing in the doorway
and amusing himself by tossing coppers
one at a time to a crowd of lame, halt
and blind beggars, who as each coin fell
instantly became an appalling tangle of
skinny arms and legs.
‘‘Hello!’’ said he as I drew up. ‘I
was just coming round after you. ‘‘Su-
lu!” (get away) to the beggars, who
were plucking at various portions of his
raiment, and, like metamorphosed Oli-
ver Twists, asking for more. ‘‘Aren’t
you acting American consul just now?’’
he inquired.
During the temporary absence of the
consul I had undertaken his not very
arduous duties, being the only other
American resident in the place.
‘“Well,”” continued the ‘‘medico,”’
“I have a fellow countryman of yours
very bad with fever down in Malacanan
(native quarter), a sailorman, only just
out of the Spanish jail for thumping a
guardia (policeman) last year. I have
my doubts of his lasting long, and you’d
better come down if you will.”
Of course I would come, consul or
not. In these hidden corners of the
world any one in trouble, vagabond
sailor, ‘beach comber’’ or unlucky clerk
out of employment, is as sure of help
from more fortunate fellow countrymen
as if he were in his native land—surer
perhaps, unless he happen to be a Chi-
naman, in which case his friends let
him die unmolested and then pay the
expenses of burying him in China, a
backhanded sort of philanthropy, very
characteristic in John Chinaman.
So the doctor jumped into a public
carriage and rattled away toward Ma-
lacanan, while I followed on my pony,
leaving the beggars to philosophically
squat down around the club doorway
and resume their everlasting wail of
“Charity, for love of heaven, charity!”’
Poor old McGregor’s story was a sad
he had come to the “Philippines on a
pleasure trip with his wife, and here
she died suddenly of cholera, that ter-
rible scourge of the east, which then was
claiming its victims by thousands, and
for 20 years the doctor had never left
the island where she lay, among the
tall palms in the little English cemetery
on Santa Ana hill. But many others
had reason tc bless the cause that kept
Dr. McGregor among them. From the
proudest Spanish official in his palace
to the humblest savage in his bamboo
hut the doctor’s time and skill were al-
ways at their service. And many a
youngster fresh from home had been
saved from going wrong in that land of
wild and lawless life by his kindly
words of counsel and advice.
We stopped at last before a miserable
hut on the outskirts of the town, and
giving the pony in charge of a passing
native I followed the doctor in. The in-
terior was dark and comparatively cool.
An old native woman, like a grotesque
image, was squatting on the bamboo
floor beside a heap of ‘‘nipa’’ leaves
and pieces of matting, on which lay a
white man, tossing, turning and bab-
bling with delirium, in the full grip of
the jungle fever—a young man evident-
ly, nts once powerful frame, fearfully
reduced by illness and confinement, cov-
cred by the ragged and grimy shirt and
trousers of a sailor. He became quieter
as McGregor raised his head and drank
the medicine given him, but began mut-
tering again as the doctor laid him
down.
‘‘He was a wee bit more rational this
afternoon,’’ said McGregor, ‘‘and told
me a bit of his story, but he couldn’t
or wouldn’t tell his name. I found him
just outside on the grass and brought
him in here for want of a better place.’’
‘“Was there nothing in his pockets?’’
I asked.
‘‘Nought but these,”’ showing a few
centimes, at which the old woman
glared greedily. ‘‘He may come to his
senses a bit soon. Ye’d better bide
awhile. ”’
“Is he past hope, Mac?’ I asked.
“Can’t we do anything—take him to a
better house, I mean?”
The docter shook his head. ‘If we
could get kim vp north now, I'd say
he’d ct well with the constitution he
one. Long years before, asa young man,
Las It’s the poor of the place that keeps
J, 7
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“CHRISTMAS COME> BUT ONCE A YEAR.”
nim down. The poor lad’s made like
one of our ain collie dogs—strong and
well in the cold, but when taken by fe-
ver in this climate—whish! burns up
like gunpowder.’
It was terrible to see one of my own
race dying thus in the lowest degrada-
tion, like a wretched savage, nursed by
an ignorant old barbarian only for the
sake of the money she knew we would
give her, more terrible as time went on,
and the poor parched lips never ceased
their childish, unintelligible chatter.
Oh, for a bit of ice or anything to cool
that burning forehead! But nothing is
cool there, nothing but death.
So we sat in silence, I with my hel-
met fanning the flushed face, so drawn
and haggard, which must have been
strong and handsome in health, and the
doctor ever and anon raised the heavy
head with the gentleness of a woman
and gave medicine, while the old hag
crouched in a corner and mumbled to
herself, wondering if when the man was
dead she would get a whcle silver pe-
so or not. Outside the brown people
chattered and laughed in their freedom
from care, now and then peering in with
curious faces and running away with
fresh shouts. Their turn might come
next, but little they cared. The present
was theirs for enjoyment of life. Never
mind tomorrow.
Suddenly the tumult seemed to in-
crease and concentrate farther down the
road. Then it began to approach, the
screams and happy laughter of children
mingled with the clearer tones of a for-
eigner’s tongue, and as the crowd reach-
ed the hut I suddenly heard a familiar §'
voice saying: ‘‘There, little boy, don’t
you be so greedy. Let that little girl
have some. Ain’t it nice, John, to see
how they enjoy it?’’
McGregor looked up in wonder, and
I rose and went to the door. There I
found Captain Hale and his wife, sur-
rounded by a perfect horde of delighted
children, he tossing coppers about from
a canvas bag and she distributing can-
dy, penny whistles and numerous odds
and ends from her huge basket, both
their faces perfect pictures of the honest
pleasure which changed to such pro-
found amazement at the sight of me
that for a moment a combined assault
by the native infantry on their basis of
supplies was almost successful, only
prevented by a vigorous use of the cap-
tain’s bamboo stick and Mrs. Hale’s
gingham umbrella.
I started to explain why I was there,
but before I finished Mrs. Hale, with an
exclamation of, ‘“Why, the poor fel-
low!’ gave her basket a whirl which
sent its contents flying in every direc-
tion, thereby creating a scene of riot
which those peaceful tropic shades had
never witnessed the like of, and then
trotted straight into the hut, followed
by her husband, who bent his tall form
nearly double to enter the door.
The doctor rose and bowed with cour-
tesy of 50 years ago as the motherly old} =
lady bent down by the sufferer’s side,
crying: ‘Oh, the poor, poor fellow!
Just see him, John!”’ Ch
I moved in from the doorway, andj gk
the light of the setting sun fell on thej”4
invalid’s face, and suddenly a cry wentj&
up that rang through the tiny hovel
and far above the noisy clamor outside
—a cry from the depths of a mother’s
heart: ‘‘John! Father! It’s our Rufe,
our own boy! Oh, Rufy, Rufy, after all
these years!”
* se * = * ® *
Step out softly, kind old doctor.
Come with me and watch the sun go-
ing down in all its tropical glory be-
hind the great volcanic range, if you
can see it, for I cannot. It is all a blur
to me. But I can see this—a noble ship
at anchor in the bay with all sails bent,
ready to sail tomorrow and bear away
from this burning land one fever strick-
en to the cool breezes of the open sea
and sure recovery under his own moth-
er’s care.
And hark to the bells of vespers thi
Christmas eve as they ring the warnin
from church and gray cathedral, of th
glorious word they will tell tomorrow
to men of every faith and creed, ‘Glo;
to God in the highest, and on eart
peace, good will toward men !”’—Charl
Bryant Howard in Short Stories.
——When Allyn K. Capron was killed a
Las Guasimas, his father, the late captain,
lifted the hat that covered the dead man’:
face, looked for a moment, said, ‘Weil
done, my boy!’ replaced the hat. turned
on his heel and at once resumed his milita-|
ry duties.