JEMIMA. Of all the pleasant places, on, the best, Ido believe, Was old Jemima's kitchen one snowy Christ- mas eve, When Ted and Eleanor and I drew up her big armchair, And we, on kitchen boxes, sat in a circle there ! : And Aunt Jemima said : chillun heah ag'in ? Well, I reckon [ must tell you about Br'er Tar-ra-pin, How he frazzled po’ ole Mistah Fox and fool- ed Br’er Buzzard, too, And played a mighty low-down trick on Mistah Kangaroo.” The wind howled down the chimney, but the fire it snapped and glowed As Jemima told us, also, of Br'er Rabbit and Br'er Toad, And that other funny story of Br’er Turtle and Br’er Coon, And showed us li'l Brler Rabbit's house, away up in the moon. And then she said: “Now, chillun, run— 'fo’ Santa comes along !”’ And leaned back in ner squeaky chair and sang a Christmas song. —Carolyn S. Bailey, in December St. Nicholas. “Lan” sakes! You A CHRISTMAS EXILE. The day after Silas Pemberton’s funeral Mrs. Probin drove around to see Miss Jane Glenn. Her vigilant alertness had its challenge in the matter of the dead man’s sister, and she mes the suggested problem with the sarety a great many people are privileged to possess when confronting other people’s affairs. Her fat pony slipped the bridle, as it al- ways did, at the Glenn gate, where, in spring, the red and white clover was un- bearably tempting, aud even late in De- cember stray chance blades were to be found. He nibbled eagerly as far as he could reach—for Mrs. Probyn, aware of his failing, always added a halter to his neck which no tugging for random mouthfuls could undo. Marjory Glenn, Miss Jane’s young step- sister, listened to their discussion. She listened a great deal to Mrs. Probyn; it was much less exhausting than baving to talk to her. ‘It’s very sad,’’ Miss Jane said, count- ing stitches in her knitting with a rigid forefinger and wrinkled brows. “Very sad!” she repeated, firmly. ‘‘She’s 1eally very repellent,”” Mrs. Pro- byn complained. “Well, I don’t know? Marjorie said, perversely. ‘‘Perhaps we haven’t enconr- aged her.” “‘ Encouraged her?" *‘To be friendly.’ Mrs. Probyn, on the point of remon- strance, remembered how little good it ever did to argue with Marjorie, and, be- sides, she felt argument was unnecessary. She kuew her view must be altogether the oorrecs one. ‘I suppose Christmas means very little to her, anyway,” Mis. Probyn continued. “There are people that way; they seem quite unable to recognize the privilege of the holidays.”’ “Well, I shouldn’t think that to Miss Nancy they’d seem exactly priviliges,’’ Marjorie resorted. She was rather quick and impetuous and her imagination could make a joyless pie-. ture—its grayness intensified by the ho, day exuberance her own environment offered—of the snowbound, sermon-ciad Christmas days Miss Nancy must have Spent. She could not fancy a single scar- let gleam in the Paritanism of the idea she evolved, and it made her sympathy the more acute. : “Is is very hard to be kind to her,” Mrs. Probyn continued. ‘I made Mr. Offingham acknowledge, when I met him just now, that his visit did no good.” ‘“How unpleasant for him!’ Marjorie commented. 2 ‘Well, clergymen are used to that sort of thing,”” Mrs. Probyn virtuously explained. . "It’s all in the day’s work with them! They expect ingratisnde. Though, I must say in the Episcopal Church the visits are always duty visits—a mere master of form. As I tell Flo, there are times when I feel positively homesick for Mr. Stebbins! If it hadn’s been for Flo, I'd never have left bis church. Mr. Probyn is really bitter about it. He says he used to feel as if he bad a place in Mr. Stebbins’ chureh, but in St. Luke’s it’s different.” : ‘‘Poor Mr. Stebbins!” Marjorie mur- mured with irrelevance. “I don’t think any one need pity him!” Mrs. Piobyn was a little stiffly oun the de- fensive for her former pastor, even though the defensive was of a shamefaced quality, as when a man resolutely praises his first wife to her successor. ‘‘He’s just heen offered a Nashville pulpis.”’ **And he’s accepted?”’ “Of course! The salary is five times what he has here. He’s a notable man.” ‘“He must be!” Marjorie pursued the subject. ‘It seems one’s valnation of one’s self is always a movable festival,'’ she ad- ded, thoughtfally, as she threaded ber nee- dle with embroidery silk. *‘It must bea great pleasure to him to understand what 4 loss the people sustain in his going.” Miss Jane anticipating the climax Mrs. Probyn and Marjorie so frequently wan- aged, came iuto is gallantly. *‘Do you know whether Miss Nanoy has anything at all to live on? She is so re- served —'’ , ‘‘Peculiarly so!"’ Mrs. Probin interjected. ‘‘Very naturally so, I shink,’’ Miss Jane continued, a little stifly. Miss Jane knew by experience that poverty is’ seldom ex- pansive, A small legacy from a distant relative bad in the last few years given her eomparative comfort, but she understood the up-hill effort of carrying pride with poverty. : “I used to think it a New England characteristic,”’ Maijorie said, *‘to be re- served.’ . Mis. Probyn was a New Englander. Her husband bad brought an immense amount of energy to the management of a cedar- factory in Madderly, and Mrs. Probyn had eoncentrated her faculties on the sociai and mental needs of the lazy little Soathern town—and of course it is not possible to arrive at a successful analysis of people without studying their affairs. Flo Pro- byn, the only child, had apparently im- bibed the atmosphere of the place saf- ficiently to lack energy of any. kind. ‘‘I isn’t,”’ Marjorie had commented to Miss Jane, ‘‘that Flo tries to be Sonthern] It’s simply her snhconscions effort not to be like ber mother.” : ‘““The New Englander's of the better class”’—Mrs. Probyn’s emphasis was that of the wife of a manufacturer, and removed her implied estate leagues and leagnes and open. They have the grand trait of sincerity! They never hide things —never heat about the bush. Now Miss Nancy bas heen living here—how many years?’ ‘“Thirsy,”’ Miss Jane said, promptly, *‘No, more! nearly thirty-five.’ “And in all that time’’—Mrs. Probyn dropped her voice into italics—' ‘has she eaer told anybody anything about her life?’ ‘Well, you see,’”’ Marjorie «aid, inno- cently, ‘‘we’ve never questioned her! The neglect of duty was on our part.”’ “Thirty-five vears!”” Mis. Probyn re- peated, with dauntless zeal, ‘‘and I have been told that she bas never had auy inter- course with her neighbors. Her brother, poor old man! never looked happy.’’ ‘‘A great many Northern people were prejudiced against us after the war,’’ Miss Jane explained. ‘‘Miss Nancy never has gotten over hers.’’ “It is with the individual!’ Mrs. Pro- byn declared. ‘‘Now I am from Boston— and I am unprejudiced.’”’ ‘“‘But you badn’t a special reason to be bitter!’’ Miss Jane reminded. That makes a difference!’ That it did, all those who knew old Miss Nancy Pemberton would have ubhesitat- ingly agreed. In the days following her brother’s funeral it was a bitterness that ached. It made her manner stiffer and barder than ever to the few people who went to her. There was nothing they couid do, she said; she wanted nothing. Two days after the funeial she went to the graveyard and planted a rose-bush at the head of the grave. The weather had heen cold for Madderlv—so cold that there was the possibility of a freeze the next day, which would be Christmas. and in that case the flowers, of course, conld not live. Bus Miss Nancy set them out with a de- termination thas fought off the certainty. She put double rows of violets on each side of the grave, and made a bed at the foot where she would plant mignonette and pansies in the spring. She was sixty-five years old, and she felt very tired as she straightened from her work. The grave was still covered with withered flowers from the faneral. One large bunch of late chrysanthemoms had been tied with ribbons of the Confederate colors, and among the faded flowers they seemed the moss vivid memorial. Miss Nancy’s lips tightened; ber invol- untary gesture would have torn the ribbons away, but she checked it. The twin hrother who was dead had been a confeder- ate soldier—and the fact was her tragedy. She went back to the little house, now 80 explicitly empty, uncovered the tiny fire smouldering on the hearth, and sitting down by the window in a straight, uncom- fortable chair, let her uncompromising gaze wander over the sleeping fiower-beds in the front yard —the beds Silas had helped her to plant and care for during those thirty- five years in Madderly. She sat erect; it was one of the many dif- ferences between her and her neighbors— her unbending stiffness of attitude. For the people of Madderly took life easily— in rocking chairs; and Miss Naney, far re- moved from any share in the life about her by poverty as well as inclination, regarded the people as through an inverted spyglass —far-off marionettes toward whom her at- titnde was the detachment of a supreme in- difference thnt never stooped to direct ob- servation. Her first years among them had been those of an alien during the tumultuous reconstruction period, and later her sus- tained and definite withdrawal of herself bad created a seclusion that her neighbors had ceased to interfere with. In her lim- ited way, Miss Nancy bad the prerogative of almost royal aloofness. | She made no friends, had no intimates, and if one did not put the many curious pbases of her bard life to mere eecen- tricity, the impression, was strongly, of a person serving a life sentence with stern acceptance. The house was filled with the magic stillness that is the after-clause of death, and the gray-baired woman sitting by the window felt the enveloping quality of the silence which her voice now would be the only one to break. She had utterly refused the outside kindness that wonld willingly bave helped her if it bad been allowed. Her red, work-hardened hands were pa- thesically idle; and there is nothing sadder than enforced idleness with those to whom work is the only resource. Her thoughts, as she sat there, were al- together in the past. She forgot that her brother's death and the loss of his listle pension meaut possible destitution; that her age, bare and grim and desolate lay be- fore her. Altogether, her mind went back to her old home in Vermont. It was a memory that had remained fresh notwith- standing the long years of absence and es- trangement. She and Silas had been twins and the youngest of the family. They bad been a great deal to each other; though, even in their childhood, there had never been any unnecessary affection. Such ex- pression of feeling bad heen a ruperfluity not allowed in the workaday Puritanism of their upbiinging. But that she had cared for him mote than for any of the others she had abundantly proved—against all her principles, all her traditions. It bad been voluntary ; she had gone to him of her own accord, and she could never, in looking back, feel that she could have dove other- wise. Bat she began now, that it was fin- ished, to take herself to task with the man- ner of it—the spirit of her sacrifice. For it had been a sacrifice. The cat, sleek and hot on the hearth rug, rose lazily from a nap and rubbed against her knee. She had never cared for old Boh—an ordinarv black and gray cat with a persistent babit of mewing—but Silas bad made a pet of him, soshe conquered the impulse to push him away. The cold wind outside tossed the last leaves still clinging from the trees by the gate, and a tall branch of a rose-bush grow- ing close to the house brushed against the window-pane. It bore a cluster of pale yellow buds, ready to bloom iuto roses if the cold weather would only wait a little longer. All ber years in the South had failed to accustom Miss Nanoy io the rea- son’s anachronisms. So often the summer seemed prolonged into the heart of winter, and again, after so little interval, it wassum- mer in Madderly, when in the Norsh it was merely spring. She hated the hot, riotous sumer thas in the South rushed upon youn before preparation. Those winters of ice and snow—no one but herself would ever know how she had longed for them. Silas bad always liked the Southern climate, and, looking back, she could trace the great change in him to his visit South to his mother’s uncle, who had gone to teach school there, and had chosen to remain the rest of his life in Madderly. Silas was his namesake, and rpent six impressionable months with him, going back to Vermont wish all his share of strong prejudices firm- ly set in favor of the South and its princi- ples. © His father and hrothers were aholi- tionists, and she remembered the storm that had come when Silas expressed his from Miss Nancy’s—‘‘are always [rank opinions. Silas was then barely twenty, and his father’s stern anger and disapproval silenced kim for a while. Two or three years later the uncle died and left Silas all be had—an acre or two of land and a negro slave, old and quite i - firm. To Silas, who bad all the sense of bumor his family lacked, it was an amaos- ing bequest, hut bis refusal to revoke his owneiship and free the slave made the final bitter quarrel. Silas went South ‘‘to take care of his property.”’ After that his name was cat out of the Bible and his sister was commanded to forget she had such a broth- er. Thn times were electric, the sternness Hebraic. Silas wrote his sister a letter after war was declared: ‘‘Take care of yourselves. The South is sure to whip!”’ he bad as- serted, ‘‘and then it will be a fine thing to have me speak up for you! I'll do it, no matter what’s been said. And remember, Nan, I’ll always take care of youn.” This ill spelled, rollicking letter had heen a contrast to the unforgettably gloomy atmosphere of her home. Her father’s anger bad been unswerving. The shame that his son’s act had brought on him remained always unforgiven. The old farmer's soul was as bleak and hare as his own hillsides in winter. The other sons, the ‘‘four Pemberton boys,”’ were among the first to enlist for the Union. ‘‘Sons to be proud of,” the neighbors said, heartily, and no one ever mentioned Silas. It was only in despair his sister could think of him. She said nothing, but as she knitted socks and made shirts for the four Union brothers, every stitch of her needle, every turn of her thread was interwoven with the thought of Silas. ‘‘Be you upholding Silas, Nancy?" her father demanded one day. ‘‘You never say anything. No child of mine shall ever bave to do with him again—nor speak up for him. When they do, they’ll belong here no more.” Old Nathaniel Pemberton meant what be said, and Nancy knew it. Three-fourths of her agreed with him — mind, conscience, and perjudice; bus an- other part of her did pot. bad had a community "of interests since childhood. In the breaking away from fam- ily tradition, and the sentiment of duty bad come the feeling of bereavement al- most as great to his sister as if he were dead. The years of the war dragged terri- bly. Cruel years of suspense ahd sorrow. One of the brothers died in hospital, and he was brought home and buried with the honor given to a soldier who fought for his country, his coffin draped with the flag. But his death did not give Nancy Pember- ton the pang of grief she felt for Silas, even while she stood by the open grave. A wonth after Appomattox Miss Naney had received a letter from the South. Her face bad hardened and paled as she read is. ‘‘Left a leg at Chickamauga,’’ he wrote, drolly, ‘‘and had my right arm crippled by the bluecoats in Georgia. I’ve got a roof over me, thanks to Uncle Si! My poor old nig died while the war was going on; so there I was fighting for property rights I didn’t have! Lots of others were in the same boat. Guess vou all are thinking — serve me right! I'm proud of the side I fought on. We’d a’ licked you if you hadn’t kept a-coming when we couldn’s! And I’m proud of the leg I lost trying to whip the Yanks! How’s the boys? Hope they got through all right—more than I did! I know yon all wouldn’t want I shonld come back. TI couldn’t on one leg, anyhow! ?”’ When she read the letter Miss Navey bad gathered together her few personal possessions and packed her trank with neatness and precision. She had enough money to take her to Madderly and a few dollars to spare, and so, one evening at twilight she crept away unobserved, taking a last look from the turn in the goad at the old, weather-beaten farmhouse. The lilacs werein bloom and their delicate fra- grance had followed her with a farewell sweetness. She had felt obliged to go to Silas; Silas, whose behavior had saddened and estranged her without destroying the roots of she old affection. Also her con- science told her she owed a duty to him now, more than ever, in his misfortune. So she had gone to him; had worked for him and taken care of him for nearly thirty-five years. Ah, those years! A life- time in a strange country among strange people. She was an alien and an enemy to the cause they had loss, and silent as she had been, she had made it very clear how intensely disassociate she was in every fibre to what concerned them. They, she had to remember grudgingly, had been kind in helping her to get work because of their pity for Silas. She bad seen the ruin and havoc of the war; the loss and poverty of homes that had been splendid; the brave effort to rise from defeat. But it did not soften her hardness towards them. To her they remained, and always would remain, enemies, who had led Silas away. Looking back, she remembered she had felt that no bitterness could equal the knowledge that she had sacrificed her prin- ciples, her home, her people, for a brother who was unworthy. Yes, that had been her thought, as she toiled with shut lips and tireless fingers for her brother’s cowm- fort. And this was the worst of it—to re- member the spirit in which she bad made ber sacrifice. The gate clicked and some one came lightly up the steps. On the knock at the door, Miss Nancy rose, brushing down the wrinkles of her black dress. It was Marjorie Glenn. Miss Nancy said ‘Good evening,’’ apathesically, but Mar- jorie’s soft fingers held bers a moment with a sympathetio pressure. ‘*‘My sister thought you might not care for visitors,”’ she said, ‘‘but I thought it would be so lonely I wonld come in fora a little while. And I wanted to ask you something.” Miss Nancy found her a chair. ‘‘You're real kind,’’ she said. ‘‘I be lonesome.’ Matjorie, a little nervous as to how she would take it. unfolded ber idea. The Weatrays were leaving Madderly, perhaps for years, and their place needed a care- taker. ‘‘If yon will think abont it, Miss Nan- oy,” Marjorie urged, ‘‘unless, perhaps, you would rather go back to Vermont.” She hesitated a little, feeling strongly the repression and aloofness of the New Eng- land woman's distrast and unshared sor- row. Marjorie had once interpreted her to Miss Jaue. *‘She’s like a prisoner on a pa- role that will lass forever! She can’t help her attitude—it’s instinctive.” Marjorie. who knew that in the past year the little house Silas Pemberton had inher- ited from his uncle had been mortgaged, was eager to get her consent to the plan she and Miss Jane had thought out and ar- ranged with the Westrays. She knew Miss Nancv’s pride, aud feared she would suspect and refuse she offer. But Miss Nan- oy was in the grip of a feeling almost, if not gnite, as strong as pride. She turned to face her visitor—mavsklike as usual, but with a certain unleashed appeal in her eyes. ‘I'm obliged to you,’ she said slowly. ‘‘You’re real kind. I'll do the best I can.”’ She pansed. ‘Yon must excuse me. I can’t nohow listen. I'm goin’ to talk to you— She and Silas | | o yes, I be.”’” She spoke as arguing with her- self. “I ain’t said a word all this time. It wasn’t needed that I should. Iain’s talked in thirty years. Seems like I sometimes feel so I must talk—if it wasn’t to nobody but the tables aud chairs. I've beén a wicked woman.” ‘Oh no, Miss Nancy,’”’ Marjorie said, soothingly, but she was a little frightened, though Miss Nancy showed no sigus of hysterics. Her old face, strongly featured and wrinkled, was like flint, and her voice even and monotonous. ‘‘Yes, I have,’’ she repeated, dully. *‘Si- las went wrong, but when he was depend- ent on me 1 made him feel all I was doing for him—--all I had given up for him. I never said nothing, but be knew it! Seems like you don’t have to say things; people can feel them. I bated everything he liked. and couldn’ talk to him ahout what he had given up. I guess he was glad to get out of the house and sit at the post-office. He liked the folks and they were real kind to him, but be found out they didn’t really respect him. He heard one of the old sol- diers he served with say a turncoat couldn’ never be trusted, aod it hart him had, though it wasn’t raid of him. He never went back to the post-office after that, and he missed it a heap. He just stayed bere at home and tried to work in the garden and see to my flowers; he planted the sweet peas every year. He used to like to give them to the school-children when thev’d go by.” She looked through the window, and her mind’s eye supplied the brave array of bloom—pink avd white, pale lilac and deep maroon—and the bent, crippled, old man stooping over them in the little front yard. ‘He didn’t ever complain, but I know he’d ’a’ been glad if I’d talked to him like I used toin Vermont, and I uvever did. He used to be so fond of a joke.”’ ‘Dear Miss Nancy, everyhody knows how good and faithful you were to him! Yon’ve stood by him all these years.’ “But how did I do it?’’ She turned on Muijorie fiercely. “‘Don’t I know how I dul it? People don’t know, but I do! Many a time he'd look at me cheerful aud pleasant like and ery to talk, and I’d take no notice, and answer short. He'd just sigh; he’d never sav a word. I made bim feel all the time that he’d made an aw- ful mistake, and instead of helping him to bear it, I was always making him feel how he'd spoiled my life, too. Dr. Grange was talking to Silas once, and I heard him say, ‘‘Whatever a man does to another, he does to himself,” and I’ve been remembering it. Just before \he died he said I had been a good sister to him and he hadn’t deserved is.”? Her hopeless tone gave an ironic signific- ance to the words. ©] wish he’d bave gotten mad some- times,’ she added. ‘‘He didn’t have any- body bus me. Spite of his coming here and his way of feeling, he was a stranger, joss like me.” Marjorie felt the tears in her eyes, and she put her band on Miss Neney’s arm ‘with a comforting touch. ‘The Daughters of the Confederacy,’”’ Miss Nancy went on, gent him his cross of honor. It came the day before he died; he was proud of it, and he made me promise to pin it on him in his coffin. He bated to ask me, for he kuew how I felt about the war.. I pinned it ou; it looked real well.” Again there was a little silence. ‘‘He was “When be wae sick in April he talked about them. and I knew that he was fret- sing for Vermont. Mr. Lawrence came to see him oue day, and I heard Silas tell him how the lilacs bloomed at home and he wanted to see some again. The next day Mr. Lawrence brought an armful of it te him. Silas was as bappy as a child with that lilac. It was real kind of Mr. Law- rence.’’ jorie agreed. The little incident threw a new light on Willy Lawrence. ‘Silas always wanted to go back to Ver- mont. I guess he would have wanted to be buried there.’ **Vermont must have been a beautiful place,”” Marjoitie said, frying to divert the current of her thoughts. ‘‘Perhaps you will go back some day.’’ “It was just—home, I guess.” Miss Nancy’s voice was bard, bat the words hurt in their wistfulness. She added, very simply, “I can’t go back—ever.”’ **Oh, Miss Nancy, but now—"’ *‘It don’t change it.”” She shook her head. ‘When he was alive, they always thought I upheld Silas. Father did as long as he lived. I couldu’t never tell him that I didn’t. I let them think it then, and now he’s dead, I want them to think it! I've lived bere thirty-five years, and I guess I’ll die here. I don’t want that Silas should be left by himself.” When Maj rie roseto go a little latter, Miss Nancy went with her to the gate. ‘This was a neighborly custom common in Madderly, but she bad never practised it before, and the act spoke volumes. Marjorie had felt how nearly impossible it would be to brighten the dreariness of Miss Nancy’s Christmas with holiday wishes and gifts. She had the instinctive feeling of how distasteful they would be to her, but for herself she regretted the de- nial of the greatest plaesure the season brings. That she had, without knowing it, given Miss Nancy the gifs of human in- terest and sympathy, she was quite un- aware. Every house in Maddeily had its preparations for Christmas except this, and it burt to go away and leave it grim and forbidding, in its lack of response to the universal joy of the season. She could only comfort herself with the thought of the things her sister would send the next day. The wind was no longer blowing as they came out of the house and there was a cold, red snnset. The square brick tower of St. Luke’s stood ous against the brilliant west, dominating the view of Madderly from its terraced height above the river, likea hene- diction of peace. Dr. Grange had begun the practice of having afternoon prayers, and Mr. Offing- ham, his recent successor, had continued it. As a rule, very few ever came; the bells rang their sweet invitation, the rector and the organist were in their places; but rarely more than two or three voices made their responses from the dim twilight of the church. Bus this was Christmas eve, and more people than usnal were coming out of the church. Marjorie could see Mrs. Probyn on the steps, followed by Flo. She saw her sister in the porch and remembered a mes- sage. **My sister thought perhaps you would come over to St. Luke's sometimes —It’s so near. 't's,’’ hesitatinglv, ‘‘comforting— jnst to go. IT know it isn’t your church— hut sometimes in the afternoons—? And to-morrow—if I come hy, won’t yon—?"’ But Miss Nancy shook her head. “T can’t feel right to go to church,’ she said, firmly; ‘’twonldn’s heright. I can’t feel TI con!d worship in the charch—any ohnrch—with people I can’t no way think like. I'd be a hypoorite. I've juss got to so fond of lilacs,”’ Mise Nancy said at lass.’ **Yes, it was kind and thoughtfal,’’ Mar- | go on like I commenced.” There was no appeal from her finality. Mai jorie pat out her hand iu good-bye. “I’m sorry,” she said, gently. Miss Nancy gave her usval limp hand- shake, but as her guest opened the gate, her voice followed her and made her pause. ‘““You’ve been real good.” Her voice seemed to apologize for the lack of response no effort could subsidize from disuse. *‘I guess it did me good to talk to you. You’ve been real kind.””—By May Harris, in the Harper’s Bazar. Concerning Eilkons, In Russia, to many of the regiments ordered to the Far East for active service bave heen presented on the eve of depart- ure, by the highest officials of the Czar’s Government, eikons, or holy pictures pe- culiar to the Eastern Church. Each regi- ment carries the eikon with it to the front, the troops placing confidence in its mir- aculous powers, and trusting that throngh possession of it victory may he vouchsafed to the Russian arms. To General Kuro- patkin, on his leaving St. Petersburg were presented no less than eighty eikons. The eikon is regarded by members of the Greek Church, which has ninety-six million Russian adherents, with especial reverence and affection, and, like the crucifix among other sects of the Christian community finds a place in the household of the devout. The word eikon is Greek, and literally designates an image, that is to say, a picture, statue, or relief, though in the Greek Orthodox Church it is now applied most especially to the representation of Christ or a saint painted in colors upon a plaque, so as to form a picture some few inches in height; an eikon may consist of one picture only, or three may be hinged together by frames, one in the centre and one on either side. The history of the eikon, or holy picture, is of great interest, and forms a most im- portant chapter in the history of the de- velopment of the Eastern Church. At a very early date mention is made of the use of images as aids to Christian worship. The historian Irenaeus speaks of the disciples of Marcellina as possess- ing images, which they were in the habit of crowning and placirg leside the statues of the philosphers, such as Aristotle, Plato, etc. A life portrait of Christ was supposed by his sect to have been executed by Pontius Pilate. It is not, however, until the year 306 A. D. that definite mention is made of holy pictures. In that year, the Synod of Elvira decreed that pictures should not be placed in churches, ‘‘lest that which is worshipped and adored ‘ be placed upon walls.”” It is supposed that this decrée referred particularly to frescoes, which, in times of religious persecution, it would be impossible to remove and hide away from profanation. ~ At the commencement of the eighth cen- tury a serious crisis occurred in the Eastern church. In the year 728, Leo, the Isaurian, Emperor of the East, endeavored to free the church from the idolatry of image worship. In consequence, a controversy ensued as to the employment of the word ‘‘idolatry,’’ many theologians maintaining that it was permissible, without ‘‘idolatry,”’ to offer a ‘‘relative worship’ to the like- ness of Christ. Among those whe sup ported the relative worship of eikons were John of Damascus and Pope Gregory. The latter pointed out that the pictures them- selves should not be worshiped, but were of value in that they served to teach by pictorial language that which should be worshiped. Moreover, he maintained that that which the educated were able to learn by reading, the ignorant could learn by looking at pictures. It is a curious fact that the holy pictures of the present day are still for the most part exceedingly lacking in artistic merit, the style adhered to being of a rude ar- chaio type, presenting the stiff angular, staring figures of Mosaic work, a style which artists of the Italian school over- came in the fourteenth century, aud of which Margaritone d’Arezzio was among the last exponents. The colors employed are usually brilliant, the eikon, at first glance presenting the appearance of a four- teenth century illumination, Painters of eikons are not permitted to represent nude or sparsely-draped figures, while i$ is ordained that portraits shall he only half length, uf omnis stulfoe cogitationis ocassio tollatur. This latter regnlation, however, is not always strictly adhered to. Paintings of the God-head, or Trinity, are entirely forhidden. Death of Mrs. Gilbert. The death of old Mrs. Gilbert will be sincerely mourned by all theatre-goers when they look back and remember the pleasant evenings spent in seeing her and enjoying her acting and charming per- sonality. The life of an actor or actress is a strenuous one, full of bardships and much study, but in Mrs. Gilhert’s ca<e a happy one. To he successful in anything one must be thoroughly in earnest and in love with one’s work, whether the work be amusement or real woik. Mrs Gilbert was an example of this. If giving innocent pleasure to the many be a useful and good life, Mrs. Gilbert led a good and useful one, and her long career will live in the grateful hearts of the public asa happy memory. Her death, too, was quick and presumably without suffering—long saf- fering, at least—and one can recall the beautiful words of Longfellow, ‘‘Time has dealt gently with me; not smiting, but as a barper lays his open palms upon his strings to deaden their vibration.’ Let us only add, ‘‘Requiescat in pace.’’— Pub- lic Ledger. A New Test for Old Eggs. A new and simple method for testing eges ia based upon the fact that the air chamber in the flat end of she egg increases with age. II the egg is placed in a saturat- ed solution of common =alt it will show an increasing inclination to float with the long axis vertical. A scale is attached to the vessel containing the salt solution so that she inclination of the floating egg to- ward the horizontal can be measured. In this way the age of the egg can be deter- mined almost to a day. A fresh egg lies in a horizontal position at the bottom of the vessel; an egg from three to five days old shows an elevation of the flat end, so that its long axis forms an angle of 20 degrees With an egg eight days old the angle increases to 45 degress; with an egg fourteen days old to 60 de- grees, and with one three weeks old to 75 degrees, while an egg a month old floats vertically upon the pointed end. ~——If silver is washed every week in warm suds containing a tablespoonful of ammonia the polish can be preserved for a long time. ———Subscribe for the WATCHMAN. For the Discontents. After all what more is there in life than a happy condition. The humblest laborer is the envied of the richest financier, if he has brightuess and health about him. Though his home be i1ude and its greatest luxury the most trifling necessity of the millionaire and he has that priceless jewel, contentment, he has all that the Creator bath designed for man and should give unceasing praise for it. A letter tothe New York Sun was an- swered as follows last Thursday and we publish it, together with the Sun's com- ments, because we hope it will be helpful to those strugglers who think they have nothing: “To the Editor of I'he Sun.—Sir: I desire an unhiassed. nnprejadiced opinion of wnat I amount to in the world, just how much I may pass for, considering what I have in the way of education. “Thirty-five years ago I was born on the East Side of New York City, close to where Tweed held forth. My parenis were then in comfort- able circumstances, but reverses came, and at 10 years ot age I found myself practically cut off from any hope of ever again going to school. Soon [ was at work ins grocery for the large salary of one dollar and a half a week. From that time on until to-day I have been at it, work- ing hard. Sometimes I think I have done fairly well; again I feel I am a total failure. ‘When about 12 years of age I began to read the Sun and have never wavered in the feeling that it was the one true newspaper. To that paper, to my pittance spent for the 150 books I own and the burning of midnight oil I owe to-day what- ever may be my education. . “To get back tothe story. I grew and waxed in strength aod health, During the interval from my advent in the grocery store I have done as follows: I bought and studied a grammar Shakespeare, sometimes read the Bible, the his- tory of England, Greece, Rome, France, our own country; I have read Milton's ‘Paradise Lost, Dickens, Pope, Hawthorne, Longfellow, the Conquest of Mexizo and Peru, Von Holst on the United States, and daily the Sun. I have mas- tered Munson shorthand, write it to-day, 100 words per minute (not for business), and can pound a ‘Remington.’ ‘For a period of ten years I have held a posi- tion in the Government service—too long, I think, for my own good. My salary is $1,200 a year. 1 have a good wife, a humble home, but good and nice, and six children, all well formed, healthy, happy, better clothed than their father at their age, yea, better fed. “Now, have I succeeded or not? Am I where I ought to be for what 1 did and went through ? Mind you, I nm sober, always su; do not smoke or chew; but take a drink when I feel I want it— average, three a week. ‘“The Sun and myselfare old chums. Now, tell me frankly what you think. I am hailed as a good fellow, honest and loyal to my friends, yet there seems tome to be a lacking—that I am fitted for a place I cannot get. UNCERTAIN. ‘“WasHiNGcToN, July 31st.” 3 y Frankly, what do we think? We think and affirm positively and without qualification that our old Washington friend bas been successful and enviably successful in his career. He is better off in every way than the gieat majority of men and he ought to be happy. His letter suggests that he has a disposition which of itself is worth more than material rich- es, for his query does not imply discontent with his position. He would like to do better. Of course he would. So would everybody else. That is a craving in man- kind which prevents the stagnation of society. The theory that in a future life in heav- en will come complete content and per- fect satisfaction for the souls of the saved, implies a futare which would be destruc- tive of progress for ‘the individual and reduce him to surfeited and discontented inanity. 2 In nature there is no rest. Everything .is at work, and a man content to remain idle yet satisfied with his condition would be a monstrous exception from the law of being. There is no such man. The most restless and the most discontented of creatures are the people who are rich enough to be idle and who #¢ry to makea playtime of life and get satisfaction in loafing. Next come the unfortunate peo- ple who search in vain for something to do. As this time millions of citizens of this republic are waiting impatiently and anx- iously for the revult of the election next November; yet, however it goes, the per- sonal interests of a very small part of them will be affected in any way. Probably even our Washington friend, though he bolds a place 1n the Government service, will be protected from baim by the civil service law, whether Mr Roose- velt or Judge Parker shall be elected. Why, then, isanybhody concerned ahout the result ? ‘‘For a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which be possesseth;’’ ‘‘the life is more than meat, and the body is more than raimens.’’ His highest hopes and ambitions and greatess interests are, after all, not purely selfish. Patriotism is described by certain cynical philosophers as folly; and partisan- ship, in Mugwump estimation, is a a sen- timent confined to narrow minds. If that is so, the impulse of affection which in- duces our friend to provide his wife and children with comforts and luxuries which were denied to him in his youth is also gilly altruism. He might live ina nig- gardly fashion and save more money. He might crush ont his paternal affection as a too costly luxury. Bat then he wounld be poor indeed. Now be is rich; and it is sentiment which en- riches him. He has won the greatest of the prizes of life in his happy and loving home. Withoat it he would be poor and pitiable with millions of money. Our friend ’s reading has been good. He could not have made a hetter selection if he had had Rockefeller’s fortune to enable him to buy hooks by the thousand. One of the great blessings of this time is the cheap price at which the hest literature of all ages is obtainable. For the cost of car fare up and down town a man can now buy one of She greatest books which the world has ever produced. ‘Happy? Everybody is happy and suoc- cessful who can surround himself with the blessings of our friend’s Washington home. He will he happier the more he works and the less he thinks ahout himeslf. " Thetr Way. ‘‘I snppose all vour neighhois were ong to see you the first time you went whizzing through the street in your new auntomo- bile.”? ‘‘No, they were all busy getting their work done ahead of time so they could be ont watching the next evening when I had to have the blamed thing towed home he-* hind an express wagon.’’—Chicago Record Herald. “Reason For it. ‘‘Skorcher must he getting weak-mind- ed,” said the first antomobilist. ‘I haven’t noticed it,’’ replied other. ‘Why, he told me he stopped his auto once vesterday because there was a pedes- trian iv his road.” “Bus I believe the pedestrian had a gun.’ the ——1If salt is sprinkled over the range before trying is commenced, there will be no disagreeable odor if the fat spatters over.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers