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
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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.