Bellefonte, Pa., Dec. 23, 1398. LONG AFORE HE KNOWED. Jes’ a little bit 0’ feller—I remember still— Ust to ery for Christmas, like a youngster will, Fourth o’ July nothin’ to it'—New Year's ain't a smell; Easter Sunday—Circus-day—jes’ all dead in the shell! Lordy, though! at night, von know, to set around and hear The old folks work the story off’ about and deer, And “Santy” skootin’ round the roef, all wrapped up in fur and fuzz— Long afore the sledge I knowed who “Santy Claus” wuz! Ust to wait, and set up late. a week or two ahead; Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed; Kittle stewin’ on the fire and mother settin’ here Darnin’ socks and rockin’ in the skreeky rockin’ cheer; Pap’d gap’, and wunder where it was the money went, ( And guar’l with his frosted heels, and spill his liniment, And me a-dreamin’ sleigh bells when the clock ‘ad whirr and buzz, * Long afore I knowed who “Santy Claus” wuz! Size the fireplace up, and figger how “OM Santy” could Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would; Wisht that I could hide and see him—wundered what he'd say Ef he ketched a feller layin’ fer him thataway! But I bet on him, and liked him, same as if he had Turned to pat me on the back and say: “Look here, my lad, Here's my pack—jes’ he’p yourse't, like all good boys does!” Long afore I knowed who “‘Santy Claus” wuz! Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it "peared to be— Truth made out o’ lies like that un’s good enough fer me! Wisht I still was so confidin’ I could jes’ go wild Over hangin’ up my stockin’s like the little child Climbin’ in my lap to-night, and beggin’ me to tell ‘Bout them reindeers, and “Old Santy’’ that she loves so well— I'm half sorry for this little girl sweetheart of his— Long afore She knows who “Santy Claus” is! —By James Whitcomb Riley. “MINERVY?” Yuletide In The Far Northwest. Mivervy! Minervy! Yuh got them calves up? “*No’m—not yet-"’ “Well, clear out. High time. It's time fer your paw to be back from town. I'd be ashamed to go puttin’ things off so, an’ a-curlin’ my hair to a crisp with a red- hot iron! Primp? My-O! what's the use in primpin’ so? If Doug Hodges comes home with your paw to spend Christmas he’ll be apt to find out your hair don’t curl of itself. Merev, child! Yuh didn’t git a good curl on that one at the back o’ your neck. Yuh might as well do’t right while you're a doin’ it. I’d laff if I couldn’t curl my hair evener ’'n that, an’ expectin’ a beau to come an’ spend Christ- mas! Take an’ give me them tongs.’ Minerva handed her mother the curling- iron with a sigh of mingled relief and ex- haustion. She was a slim, sallow-com- plexioned girl, with large, irregular feat- ures. She had a little weak stoop which made her shoulder blades stand out sharp- ly. Her eyes, alone, were beautiful; they were large and brown, with golden glints in their velvet depths. They were wholly out of harmony with her sickly face and poor figure. ' Her mother gave her head a sharp push and it dropped forward in limp obedience on her long neck. “There! said her mother in the vigorous tone with which she would have said, “So!” toa cow. ‘‘Bend the back of your neck out so’s I can git the tongs around this lock.” The girl stretched her neck further in a futile attempt to perform this impossible feat. ‘Oh, my, there! Don’t stick your neck out that way or your head’ll roll off in the cellar,” exclaimed her mother, with a sigh of impatience. ‘‘Yuh uever can do things like other girls. There's Lily Belle Me- Namara now—why can’t yuh pattern after her a little? Her hair’s always curled jest as pretty at the back o’ her head 's on the forehead. Shedon’t stick out her shoulder blades the way you do yours, either. It makes a body feel offul to see yuh stooped over so! Lily Belle McNamara holds her- self up like an arrer; everybody looks when she goes up the aisle at meetin’. She always looks jest as neat as a new tin pan, too. I saw her once jest after she’d wed out a hig redish-bed, an’ My-O! She didn’s have a speck o' dirt on ler. Look-ee! there goes the minister all primped up in his best, with his chin clean shaved! I bet he’s a-goin’ down to see the Widow Peters. I bet.” Mrs. Bunt gave the iron a jerk, releas- ing a small, bobby curl on the back of Minerva’s bended neck. Two strides took her to the window. She pulled the green shade cautiously aside and peered out. Her skin wrinkled up around her narrowed eyes. “Yes, sir-ee!”’” she announced, triumph- antly, a moment later. *‘If he ain’t you may shoot me! Turned right down the Northeast Diagonal, as bold as brass, with- out so much as lookin’ around to see if anybody seen him. He must be pushed. His wife ain’t dead a year—an’ him with his chin shaved up that way! I bet the mournin’ band’s off ’o his hat a ready. I reckon that’s where he’s a-goin’ to dinner to-morrow. I ast him here, an’ he said he had an invite ahead 0’ me. She must of ast him the minute he got back from his wife's funeral! I see her ’'n the Rialty in Seattle, the other day a buyin’ a lavender dress!” “I'd like to have a lavender dress,” spoke up Minerva, suddenly, with a little quaver. ‘‘A—lavender—dress! Fer What do yuh want of & 1 complected like you 27’ “I don’t see why not.” “Yuh don’t see why not, vou’d look like sole-leather.’’ There was a silence. Another little bob- by curl nestled beside the first on Minerva’s neck. Presently, she said, (and there was a break in her thin voice) as of tears: “Wkat do you think I'd look best in then, ma?’ “W’y Ido’ know,’ thoughtful eyes. pity sake! avender dress, aigh? W'y, She reflected with “Let’s see.”” She burst Blair, Rr. E. Maxwell, rn. H. SCHOLL, R. G. THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE COLLEGE FOOT BALL TEAM OF 3 8 3. a Penrose, I. T. Hewitt, R. H. Newton, Coach. Heckel, . 1. Capt. Murray, «. Randolph, L. c. Cure, r. B. F. F. Miller, r. 7. D. K. Miller, nL. H. Curtin, L. I. Ruble, L. E. Hayes, 1. H. Platt, R. H. 2. The Mistletoe. Lore of the Little Plant So Popular at Christmas- tide. A most quaint and charming little plant to study is the mistletoe, says a writer in the Detroit Free Press. It is an evergreen. We seldom see it, or hear much about it, save at Christmas time. The reason of this is that where it lives and thrives and grows, it blossoms in February and March, and the berries are ripe and the foliage is in all its glory, its best dress, in the fol- lowing December, when it is imported and i 1 | | | | | | | | | | | | H. Miller, L. T. out laughing suddenly in comfortable mirth. “‘If yuh want fax, Minervy, [ do’ know ’s there’s any best to yuh. The Lord didn’t do overly much fer yuh in the way o’ looks. Lily Belle McNa—"’ ‘I guess, if you’re done curlin’ up my hair ma, I'll take an’ get the calves up,’ said Minerva. There was a hurt look on her face. “All right. It’s high time. your time so, a-curlin’ your hair! Belle—"’ Minerva slipped out of the room and closed the door. She coughed as she went. The Bunt ranch was on one of the large islands of Puget Sound. The boats came up through a long blue arm that almost di- vided the island. It was a beautiful thing to see—their coming in; the white line of smoke winding around the firred crests of the smaller islands, and later the glisten- ing curves of the boats themselves, as they came throbbing up the narrow water-ave- nue, floored with blue and ceiled with blue and walled with sombre green. Here and there rich fruit and vegetable farms sloped Wastin’ Lilly background. and fall sown wheat, although it was the day before Christmas. Minerva threw a shawl over her head to to the pasture. There had been no heavy frosts yet, and the young brakes were bravely putting up their curved heads, around them. The willows were hanging was in leaf. cabbage had spread anew its broad leaves, reach beautiful golden hands bearing pale, early torches in their hollowed palms. It was sunset; and all the little gaily- clad, ranning clouds were ‘jumping ropes?’ of many colors, which were being turned slowly by invisible hands across the west. plucked a handful of ‘‘spring beauties.” ‘Poor, little pale things,’ she said. ““They’ve come too early; the frost or the cold rain’ll kill em sure.” She pinned them on her flat breast and went on. She let down the bars and the calves came leaping through from the pas- ture. She stood for a few moments looking down the blue arm with a soft light in her eyes. Then a faint trail of smoke drifted slowly into view. She started from her leaning posture aud a rich glow burned over face. She put up the bars with trembling hands and hastened home; little hammers were pounding away like mad in her tem- ples. It was a full hour before the boat glided in to the Bunt pier—which had been most fearfully and wonderfully fashioned out of “shakes.” Minerva was assisting in the preparation of the supper. “Has he come with your pa?’’ asked her mother, entering the kitchen suddenly; for those two there was only one ‘‘he’ on earth. “I do’ know,” said Minerva, fumbling about aimlessly. “I ain’t looked.” ‘Yuh ain’t looked, aigh? It’s a pity yuh ain’t looked! Why, what ails yuh? Yuh go around as if yuh was a-steppin’ on eggs. What makes yuh ac’ the dunce so? It ain’t the first time he’s come, by a jug- ful. Goose-head!”’ “D’yuh want this here apple-butter for supper, ma ?"’ “Yes, I want that apple-butter for sup- per—if he’s come. Why don’t choo look out an’ see if he’s come ?”’ ‘I can’t,” said poor Minerva, faintly. “I’m so afraid he ain’t come. Yon look, ma.’’ “If he ain’t come,’’ said Mrs. Bunt, de- risively, setting herself broadly before the window; ‘‘I reckon yuh’ll have the creep- in’ paralysis come on an’ stay on till he does come. He's all fixed up. He’s finer lookin’ ’n ever. There ain’t a young man on the sound got a better pair o’ legs 'n his’n:’’ she added, with pride. ‘‘it’sa wonder Lily Belle McNamara ain’t set her cap at him, seein’s he’s been teachin’ school so clost to her pa’s. Not that it 'w’d do her any good. He never’d dare throw off on yuh, after his mother an’ me fixed it all up of ourselves.” “Well, I'd dare—if he wanted Lily Belle McNamara, or Lily Belle Anything else,” said Minerva, with a quick, unex- pected flash in her eyes. ‘Yuh needn’t to explode so. They're right here ’t the house. All is,’’ she ad- ded, with a stern look as she went to the door. “Ish’u’d jest like to see him try to throw off on yuh I'd show him pretty quick that he ec¢’uldn’t come it.”” She opened the door. “Land o’ Love an’ Go- shen! Yuh come, did yuh? i for sore eyes to see yuh. | Come right in. Never mind your feet. Whose trunk was that come in on the boat with yuh?” “How 2" “I say whose trunk was that come in on the boat with yuh? Yuh gone deef 2’ “Trunk? I do’ know.” “Well, come in. Here's a-waitin’ to see yuh.” Minerva came forward, scarlet faced, and | shook hands limply. Her hand was like a bird’s claw. Minervy, Minerva stooped by asheltered bank and ; It’s a cure | Doug Hodges. | down to the water from their dark forest They were green with clover i protect her new curls from the ravages of the i galt wind, and ran down the narrow path | pushing the moist earth into little cones - out their silver tassels; the wild eglantine ; In damp places the skunk from whose velvet depths would later on | The young man’s face reflected the scar- | let of hers. “Well, Minervy,”" he said, ‘‘you gettin’ supper ?’’ “Yes sir,”’ politeness. He sat down and slid his chair to the window with a squeak. “It’s a goin to be a nice Christmas.”’ “It is so.” “It’s lots warmer ’n usual.” “*Yes—it is so.”? There was a beautiful happiness now on Minerva’s face, which had been so pale and anxious about the time the boat land- ed; but it was a happiness that had some- thing pathetic in it. The young man did not seem to be over- burdened with joy. He looked embar- rassed and ill at ease. His weak blue eves shifted away from Mrs. Bunt’s steady ask- ing look. Finally she said, dryly, as she took a sip of the boiling gravy to test its seasoning— ‘‘What’s the matter of yuh, Doug ?”’ He gave a jump. ‘Matter? Nothin’. Why 2” ‘You look so? Benn teachin’ school over close to McNamara's ain’t choo 2”? “Yes'm.”” The red cume hack to his face. ‘‘Hunh.” There was a silence. Minerva was step- ping around spryly. Now and then she looked at him with shining eyes. The lit- tle curls were bobbing coquettishly on the back of her neck and on her brow. The remainder of her hair was twisted into a tight wisp. She wore a dull green, badly fitting dress, with funny bows of ribbon sewed all over it. Once the young man gave her a long searching look; then, with out the slightest change of countenance, he turned his eyes toward the boat just draw- ing away from the pier. Mis. Bunt poured the gravy into a bowl, scraping the pan dexterously with a tin spoon. “Yuh know Lily Belle 2” The young fellow cleared his throat. “*Ye’es'm.”’ ‘‘Supper’s all ready. Setup. Pa! Oh, pa! Why don’t choo you come to supper ? I don’t see where that trunk’s a-goin’ to. Minervy, is it still a-settin’ down there on the wort 2" Minerva craned her long neck. “Yes’m.” Mrs. Bunt sighed helplessly. ‘It beats me. Well, set up before everything gets cold. Oh, my land! I bet it’s the Widow Peters’s noo outfit! It just struck me all of a sudden.” ‘‘I heard yesterday that her 'n the minis- ter was a-goin to git married,” said Mr. Bunt. *I bet.” After supper Mr. Bunt went out to the barn to ‘“‘fodder’’ the cattle. The guest arose to accompany him, but Mrs. Bunt pointed with a large, crooked finger to the sitting room. I'll come in an’ talk to yuh while reds up the dishes.’ He went in with an unwilling air and sat down by the big fireplace. Mrs. Bunt closed the door and pulled her chair up close to him. There was a clatter of dishes. Minerva lifted up her weak, cracked voice and com- menced to sing: “Last night there were four Marys, To-night there’ll be but three, There was Mary Seaton and Mary Beaton And Mary Carmichael—and me!” “I wish she wouldn’t sing that mournful thing so,” said her mother. *‘It makes somethin’ come up in my win’pipe. She seems to lean to mournful songs—grave- yard I call ’em. She’s turrable happy be- cause yuh come to stay Christmas, Dong.’ He stirred uneasily. ‘“That so 2" “Yes, is’s so. You're the only thing she’s ever had to be happy over. Been stuck here on this island ever sence she was kuee-high to a grass-hopper. If any- thing happened to you, I guess it 'u’d kill her—there ain’t much to her with tha cough o’ her 'n. How old be yuh now 2” ‘Twenty-five.’ ‘‘Hunh. Most time down, ain’t it 2? Young Hodges swallowed before he spoke. He was very pale. He took up the poker and commenced stirring the red coals. ‘I expect so.’’ “‘Yuh’ve been engaged to Minervy now close onto four years.” There was no reply. ““Ain’t yuh 2" “Yes'm.” “Well, why don’t yuh settle down 2’ Perspiration began to bead upon his brow. He realized that the awfu! ordeal, the mere anticipation of which has given sleepless nights to more than one young man, was upon him. He was being asked his intentions.” “I do’t know,” he said, helplessly. ‘I do’t know just why I don’t, Miss Bunt.” ‘Well, yuh'd best think about it Why said Minerva, with quivering Minervy yuh was a-settlin’ ” don’t yuh live on your ranch instid o’ gad- din’ to the other side o’ the island to teach school? Yuh’d make more.” ‘Maybe I would.” ‘May bees don’t fly 'n December. How’s Lily Belle McNamara?’ ‘‘She’s well.” He punched the fire till the sparks sput- tered up the chimney in a scarlet cloud. “Hunh.” “You goin an’set down. | ‘‘She—she—she’s a-comin’ over here to- morrow, ’’ “Over where ?”’ | “‘Over here.” ~ ‘‘Here? Here? To our house ?"’ “Ye—es’m.”’ ; ‘What's she comin’ here for 2’ “To spend Christmas, I s’pose.’’ ‘‘People don’t go places to spend Christ- mas without an invite. There was an awful sternness in Mrs. Bunt’s voice. “Well, I—I give her an invite.’’ “Yuh did! Yuh ast her to come here to spend Christmas? What made yuh?” “I thought maybe yon'd like to have her.” “Yuh thought maybe I'd like to have her, hunh 2”? Mrs. Bant’s tone was wither- ing. Well. when I want anybody, I’ve got enough gam’tion to ask em of myself. Lain’t anybody’s skim milk—an’ my girl ain’t neither.” The door was opened hesitatingly and Minerva entered. “I guess I’m all through, ma.’ “Well,” Mrs. Bant got up slowly. “Go back an’ put a stick o’ wood in the stove.’’ As the door closed, she fronted the mis- erable-faced young man again. ‘‘Seein’s you can’t screw up courage to set the day, Doug,” she said, with cheer- ful affability, “I'll help yuh out. We'll call it the first day o May; an if yub don’t walk up to the church with Minervy on that day, I'll take that big ranch o yourn for breach o promise.” Minerva came in again, and Mrs. Bunt retired with a parting injunction, ‘Don’t set up later’n 12, yuh gooseheads, you!” Miss Lily Belle McNamara arrived on the noon boat. stood at the window watching them climb the hill. ‘She’s got a noo hat,’ announced Mrs. Bunt grimly.’ ‘It’s offul pretty; got purple grapes on’t. They're the latest style. She must of got it in Seattle.’ ‘Well, I wish yuh held your head up the way she does!” The glow went out of Mi- nerva’s face. ‘She’s got ona noo dress, too. I'll be switched if it ain’t got velvet panels up the sides! There—lookee! what a straight up an down back she’s got—no wonder she looks stylish.” She turned and gave a dissatisfied look at Minerva’s shoul- ders. “Why can’t choo hold yourself up ? Stead of stoop! She wears her dresses mighty short.’ She’s got pretty ankles,’ said poor Min- erva, with a sigh that had no malice. There was sufficient woman in her to envy the ankles far more than the straight, up and down back. She went to the door slowly. ‘That choo, Lily Belle?’ she said, with a struggle to be cordial. ‘I’m reel glad yuh come. Why, Doug, you're offul red in the face— I never see youso red before.’ ‘It’s hot work climbin the hill,’ said her ; mother, drily. ‘It is so,” said Lily Belle, gaily. ‘I’m ready to drop—so I guess I will.’ She sunk, laughing, upon a chair. got to say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Shesat in a beautiful glow of health and happiness, and Dong Hodges stood looking down upon, gloating over her beauty. As he so stood, Minerva's eyes went to his face and dwelt there—at first with gen- tlest love, only; but later, with something else that sent the blood away from her plain face. ‘Well, don’t set in the kitching,’ said Mrs. Bunt. ‘There’s a fire in the settin room. Step right in.’ : Lily Bell cast a glance at Minerva’a old low-backed organ as she passed. ‘Oh. Mi- nervy, can you play the ‘Prize Banner Quickstep ?’ ‘No; I wish I cud.’ } ‘Well, I can—TI’ve just iearned it.’ ‘‘Minervy can play ‘Angel Voices in the Night,” announced Mrs. Bunt, proud as a peacock. ‘It’s lots hard n ‘The Prize Ban- ner.” It’s full of little grace notes. Yuh can’t play it can yuh 2’ ‘Oh, yes,’ said Lily Belle pleasantly ; ‘I could play it three years ago.’ She sat down at the organ and com- menced to play something light and merry. She played with spirit and grace, making the old instrument turn out jigs and horn- pipes far beneath its dignity. Doug Hod- ges stood with his arms folded, observing her intently. Minerva stood with her back to the window; her eyes never moved from his face. He was very pale. She breathed slowly and noiselessly; her lips were parted. Mrs. Bunt watched all three impartially. ‘My, I for- ’ Doug Hodges gave her a frowning look— one that asked with the impatience of a ten years’ husband if she couldn't wait till the ‘Rochester Schottisch’ was finished. She put her hand on her chest and, still coughing, slipped out of the room. Her mother glanced after her for a mo- ment; then she arose and followed her. The Christmas dinner was eaten solemn- ly at 3 o’clock. There was a thick soup, made of canned oysters, with little rings of butter floating on top; there were two big roasted chickens with sage dressing; a dome of mashed potatoes with a pool of melted butter in its sunken crater, stewed pumpkin, stewed corn, pickled peaches and beans, brown gravy, mince pie and floating island and crabapple jelly—all trembling and glowing upon the table at Minerva and her mother = Suddenly Minerva commenced coughing. | ; the same time. Minerva served her | but she ate little herself. When the dishes had been washed and the floor swept Mrs. Bunt stood the broom up stiffly behind he kitchen door, while Minerva hung the dishpan out on the porch and stretched the dishcloth smoothly over it. ‘Now, Lily Belle,’ said Mrs. Bunt, firm- i 1y, pulling down her sleeves, ‘we’ll go in the setting room. Doug an Minervy’s a goin to take a walk. ‘I'd just as soon go along with em, Mis Junt.’ ; ‘Well, I guess they'd like to be alone a leetle while—on Christmas, to.’ ‘We’d just as soon have her along of us,’ spoke up the young man boldly, witha red face. ‘Well she'll set here with me. That's settled. Yuh’n Minervy go on now. I'd laff if I'd have anybody tag me an my girl around all day, if I was a young man.’ ‘Why, the idee!’ fluttered Lily Belle. ‘Well, I wud, I'd laff.” She passed near Minerva. ‘The day’s all set,’ she said, in a stern whisper. ‘Has he told yuh? It’s the first day of May.’ The girl’s large eyes glowed out of her white face. : ‘Who set it?’ ‘I did.’ The sunset was drawing its long beauti- ful ribbons out of the beryl skies and coil- ing them so low in the west in splendid loops of color. A strong wind was blow- ing up the arm, the waves pounded and broke upon the rocks. Minerva walked silently by her lover's side. Once she shivered and drew her cape | closer about her chest. Several times she ! coughed. { "You've got a cold ain’t choo?’ said the | | young mau at last, indifferently. ‘No, only a cough.’ He looked at her. ‘You've got thinner ’n when I was here last.’ ‘It’s been six months.” Her voice sounded hollow. There was a drawn look about her mouth. ‘It has? So long? more 'n a month.’’ And he began to walk more slowly, while guests faithfully; Why it didn’t seem she fell into his pace unconsciously, like an obedient dog. ‘It seems like six years to me.” The words ought to have shaken his soul—there was such a hearthreak in them. ‘It all depends on the way you spend your time. I s’pose,” he said. A smile came upon his mouth; his eyes smiled too —as in memory of something sweet. The girl saw. Her breath came with a sound that was almost a sob. She stopped suddenly and faced him. All her passion, all her heartbreak, all her despair broke loose in that second and shook her so that | she could not speak. But her eyes spoke. Presently, she got control, of her voice— poor, shaken thing, that it was. ‘Why don’t yuh speak up? she said fiercely. ‘Why don’t yuh tell me?’ ‘Why don’t I tell you what? He stared at her stupidly, the smile slowly leaving his face. ‘That you’re tired 0’—o’ bein engaged to me.” The words must have hurt. She pressed both hands hard upon her throat, and coughed. ‘Why don’t you tell me that you want her.’ He had the manhood to quail—and to insult her by no lie. But before he could speak her passion had burned itself out. Her face worked strongly and tears leaped to her eyes, sting- ing. ‘Oh, Doug, Doug,’ she raid gently; ‘I wudn’t of had yuh for long anyhow. Then yuh cud of had her, an 1'd of been happy a little while first. It wudn’t of been more 'n a year—an she’s so well and pretty, she cud of waited. But it’s all right. Yuh go on an have her, an don’t worry about me. I guess the worst part is over now. One thing, dyin won’t be haf so hard.” She sank down upon a rock and turned her face down the arm—not blue now, but dull gray, like the sky from which all color has gone. ‘Yuh goon in an tell her. I guess I'll stay out here a while.’ He stood still. ‘Your—that is—your ma—-’ ‘Oh! she said quickly. A quiver went across her face. ‘I forgot her. Oh, poor ma!’ She arose and stood irresolute. Then she said, slowly—‘I'll go in with yuh. We won’t let her know till you’n and Lily Bellearegone. Then I’ll tell her myself.’ ‘She—she.’ ‘It’11 be all right,’ she assured him, pa- tiently. ‘She don’t cross me in anything —since I got to coughin’ so.’ “He turned back, then with his head up and a glow on his face—-the happiest cow- ard that ever breathed God’s air. She went swaying along beside him. The wind tore her cape from her chest. She coughed often. Her face as bleak as the sea; but her soul shone like a steadfast | star out of her beautiful eyes.—Ella Hig- qinson. Under the Covers. Wife (waking suddenly from sleep)-— “Henry did you call 2” Husband {who has been spending pre- vious evening with the boys)—‘‘No, I’ll | raise it five.”’— | | tle shrub ! oak, and then is su used to decorate our homes and add to the holiday cheer. This strange little plant is a native of most of the tropical parts of Europe. Half a dozen varieties grow in this country, but as they are not marked by the same peculiarities as their foreign relatives, they are called by a different name, though they all belong to the same family. Some vari- eties have very showy flowers. The modest, though widely known, lit- we call the mistletoe grows mostly, in Normandy, a border portion of France, upon the trees of the extensive apple orchards. In the cider districts it is looked upon as a great pest, for once established, it draws the sustenance as long as there is any life in its host. It is succulent when young, but becomes woody as it grows older. Tt often attaches itself, too, to the pposed by the peasants to possess magical power and to bestow | wonderful strength. The mistletoe does not grow in Ireland or Scotland or the north of England, and often there young apple trees with the queer little plant grafted and growing upon them are sold as a curiosity, a freak of na- ture to ‘‘turn an honest (or dishonest) penny.” In olden times the mistletoe was called All-heal. The tree upon which it grew was believed to be chosen of God, was looked upon with veneration and awe, and the curious little plant was considered an antidote to all diseases. Even at the pres- ent day in Sweden all ailments are be- lieved to be warded off by wearing a ring made of its wood. The berries of the mistletoe are of a creamy white, about the size of small cur- rants. and grow in clusters in the divisions of the little branches. The leaves are long, ovate, waxy, and of a delicate green, often almost yellow. Birds are very fond of the berries, and by them the seeds are carried from place, to place and thus the plant is propagated. The berries contain a thick, vicious fluid; they burst open when ripe, and so they readily adhere to the trees and shrubs where they chance to fall. There they germinate and take root and draw their nourishment, not from the earth as other plants do, but from some other growth. So it is a parasite, not self- supporting, but living on something else, and when the tree to which it is fastened dies, then the dependent little thing dies also. There isan old tradition that asserts that long, long ago the mistletoe was a big tree nourished from mother earth as other trees are, and that the cross of our Saviour was made from the wood; but after the cruci- fixion it was fated to be, not a tree, not even a shrub, hut a dependent—not even to draw its life direct from the ground its- elf but to live upon some other plant— doomed to be always a parasite. The weird tales and fanciful stories of the poor little mistletoe have stirred young hearts and interested older ones by their mystical associations from far, far back in the long ago, when The mistletoe hung in the castle hall. The holly branch shone on the old oak wall. Truly a quaint and queer little plant is the mistletoe. Time to Swear Off. He Saw the Walls Bulge Out and Thought His Jag Was Becoming Terrible. The man with the bird cage was drunk. He knew what train he was going on and he knew enough to tell all the depot offi- cials to see that he didn’t get left. Other- wise he would have been transferred to the nearby police station. He was having lots of innocent fun sing- ing to his birds, two red birds which he called Tom and Jerry. They couldn’t put him out for that. Passenger Director Sher- wood kept an eye on him, however, and finally asked him to step into the other waiting room. There the crowd was smaller, owing to the drab canvass walls, which almost encircle the room since the remodeling began. Tom and Jerry bad an unsteady ride dur- ing the change of base, but no one else would be allowed to carry them. He had taken them with him on his rounds and never set them down once, so he said. It must have been a stormy voyage. On his breath could be read the numbers of every barrel house on North Main street. He reached a seat and gazed about his new quarters. A guest of wind caused the canvas walls to sway in on all sides. “‘Guesh I musht be gettin’ purty jagged,”’ he remarked, his eyes growing wild. The canvas swayed back. ‘*Gee! Wonder when my trainsh gone? I’m gettin’ awful drunk.’ Every time the wall bulged his body swayed forward; when it drew outward he sank back in his efforts to keep an imagined perpendicular. He took his eyes off the wall and seemed to get steadier and sadder, looking at the floor. He was worried. He had forgotten to sing. He decided to get aboard his train before things grew worse. He got on his feet and he walked fairly well toward the door, holding Tom and Jerry carefully. All would have been well if the canvas beside him had not at that moment bulged in with a strong guest of wind. Instinctively he leaned toward it to keep his balance. He clawed the air. Tom and Jerry were capsized and together man and birds went careening into the canvas. When he extricated himself he pushed the soft drab cloth gently with his fingers and gazed at the expanse about him. ‘“Shought twash a wall,’’ said he, laugh- ing at his mistake. ‘Didn’t know zhay had a b’loon ’shension at the depot.. Whensh she go up?’ —_—— Forest Preservation in Bohemia. After the many centuries during which the forests of Bohemia have furnished fuel and building material for a dense popula- tion it is said that they retain nearly their primeval area. This is due to the fore- thonght of the government in ordaining that as trees are cut down others shall be planted to fill the vacancies. The wood is mostly pine. Trees are constantly being cut, but wherever a clearing is made small trees are planted the next spring. These new trees are raised from the seed in small enclosures scattered in the mountains, and are thence transplanted. If you want fine work done of every description the WATCHMAN office is the place to come.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers