Benue itn Belletonte, Pa., December 24, 1915. O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM! O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above the deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee tonight. For Christ is born of Mary; And gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars together Proclaim the holy birth; And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth. How silently, how silently! The wondrous Gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still The dear Christ enters in. O holy Child of Bethlehem, Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sins, and enter in, Be born in us today. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; O come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel. . —Philips Brooks Christmas Carol. WHY THE CHIMES RANG. There was once, in a far-away country, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like lines of ants all moving in the same direction. At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing over it as far up as one could see. Isay as far as one could see, because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any one claimed to be able to see the top. Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower was a chime of Christ- mas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been built, and were the most beaatiful bells in the world. Some thought it was because a great mu- sician had cast them and arranged them in their place; others said it was because of the greot height, which reached up where the air was clearest and purest; however that might be, no one who had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky; others, as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees. But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. They were Christmas chimes you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the church their offerings to the Christ-child; and when the greatest and best offering was laid on the altar, there used to come sounding through the mu- sic of the choir the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. But for many long years they had never been heard. It was said that people had been growing less careful of their gifts for the Christ-child, and that no offering was brought, great enough to deserve the music of the chimes. Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one try- ing to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower. Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother. They knew very little ‘about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan, which they had often talked over when by themselves, to go to see the beautiful celebration. “Nobody can guess, Little Brother,” Pedro would say, “all the fine things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the Christ-child sometimes comes down to bless the serv- ice. What if we could see him?” The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough, Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, be- fore nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the lights of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed, they were about to enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stopped to look at it. It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired to get in where she might bave found shelter. The soft snow made of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All this Pedro saw in a moment, and he kneit down beside her and tried to rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could rub some snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a mo- ment he stood up and said: “It’s no use Little Brother. You will have to go on alone.” “Alone?” cried Little Brother. “And you not see the Christmas festival?” “No,” said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in his throat. “See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the chap- el window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Every one has gone to church now, but when you come back you can bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing, and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket.” “But I cannot bear to leave you, and £0 on alone,” said Little Brother. “Both of us need not miss the serv- ice,” said Pedro, “and it had better be I than you; and oh! if you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in any one’s way, take this little piece of silver of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is | looking. Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with you.” In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city, and winked hard to keep back the tears, as he heard the crunch- ing footsteps sounding farther and far- ther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the music and splendor of the Christmas celebration that he had been planning for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in the snow. The great church was a wonder- ful place that night. Every one said that it had never looked so bright and beauti- ful before. When the organ played and the thousands of people sang the walls shook with the sound, and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble around him. At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be laid on the altar. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down their gifts to the Christ-child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the aisle. A great writer brought his book, and last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There went a great murmur through the church, as the peo- ple saw the king take from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the holy Child. “Surely,” every one said, “we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has ever hap- | pened before.” But still only the cold wind was heard | in the tower, and the people shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they never really be- lieved the story of the chimes, and doubt- ed if they ever rang at all. The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly the organist stopped playing as though he had been shot, and every one looked at the old minister, who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a sound could be heard from any- one in the church, but as the people strained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the chimes in the tower. So far away, and yet so clear the music seemed—so much sweeter were the notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they all stood up together and stared straight at the altar, to see what great gift had awakened the long silent bells. . But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking, and had laid Pedro’s little piece of silver on the altar. —By Raymond MacDonald Alden. American Red Cross Will Award Pen- nant to Best Seal Sellers. The States, cities, towns and villages selling the largest number of Red Cross Seals per capita will be given pennants in their respective classes by The Ameri- can Red Cross and The National Associa- tion for the Study and Prevention of Tuberculosis, as announced in a bulletin issued today. Last year’s ‘competition was limited to cities, towns and villages. but for the 1915 Seals Campaign pennants will be awarded to States as well. To avcid pitting villages against large cities, they have been divided into ten classes, as follows: Population less than 600 to 1,200; from 1,200 to 2,000; thence to 8,000; thence to 25,000; thence to 50,000; thence to 150,000; thence to 1,000,000; and over 1,000,000. A handsome silk banner in red and white will be awarded to the city, village, town or county anywhere in the United States and territories which shall make the.highest score in sale per capita in its class. The populations considered are the Federal Estimates for 1915. The States with Hawaii—which is a strong competitor—are likewise grouped in classes. Class A, population up to 1,250,000; Class B, 1,250,000 to 2,400,000; Class C, 2,400,000 upwards. Of the 19 “A” States, Rhode Island led last year with a sale of 2.112 seals per inhabitant. Of the 17 “B” States, Minnesota led with 956 seal per inhabitant. Of the 13 States with populations (1915) more than 2,- 400,000, Wisconsin led with 1,478 seals. It beat New York State by seven-thous- andths of a seal, although New York State outside New York City won out over Wisconsin, with 1.930 seals per capita. ; In the 1914 competition staid cities bestirred themselves in rivalry to be published as the most generous support- ers of public health work through pur- chase of the Red Cross Seals. In other places the anti-tuberculosis workers started the selling campaign up again between Christmas and New Years to get their town in the Honor Roll for the sale of three seals per capita. ast year’s pennant winners were: Population Seals per Capita Pittsburgh, Pa 533,905 2.007 Rochester, N.Y. 218,149 4.76 Troy, N. Y. 76,183 5.72 New Rochelle, N, Y. 28,897 6.01 Charleston, W. Va. 22,996 6.638 Sewickley, Pa. 4.479 16.774 Garden City, N. Y. 1100 20.49 THE CALL OF THE NEW YEAR. Quit you like men, be strong; There’s a burden to bear, There's a grief to share, There’s a heart that breaks ’neath a load of care— But fare ye forth with a song. Quit you like men, be strong; There’s a battle to fight, There’s a wrong to right, There’s a God who blesses the good with might— ’ So fare ye forth with a song. Quit you like men, be strong; There’s a work to do, There's a world to make new, There's a call for men who are brave and true—- On! on with a song! Quit you like men, be strong; There’s a year of grace, There's a God to face, There’s another heat in the great world race— Speed! speed with a song! —William Herbert Hudnuil- ——They are all good enough, but the WATCHMAN is always the best. He stopped with a deep intake of 1 i Santa Claus’ breath and moved nearer the fire. Jerome, watching him furtively, saw | that he was fully dressed to go out. | Sweetheart. [Concluded from last week.] Chapter VIL. The Peace of God. OWARD midnight somebody step- ped close to the improvised bed and stood looking down with troubled eyes at the child curled up among the blankets there. The light from the low fire cast an occasional flick- [f ering flame upon the ¥ tiny segment of cheek just visible above the woolén covering, like a snowdrop peeping out of a mass of old bracken, and on the floating strands of hair that had lost their golden sheen in the semiobscurity. An hour or so earlier the men had gone to their bunks in the long loft Stood Look- overhead. and their ina Pown : ier 1 rou- heavy breathing now bled Eyes. proclaimed the fact that they were resting from their labors. ; Every one in the house was sleeping’ but Shawe. Even old Jerome, who sat huddled by the side of the little one, ! nodded at his post. He had maintain- | ed the right of watching by supremacy of his years and her evident prefer- | ence for him, jealousy putting aside all offers that his vigil be shared. He stirred now and opened his eyes, star- ing into the face of the man above him, “What is it?” he demanded, with a low, savage growl. | “I couldn’t sleep.” Shawe whispered back. “for thinking of the ones who are mourning for her—her mother and uncle. The father isn't home, she said. Don’t you remember—‘God bless far- away daddy? So he won't be trou- bled. But the others—they ought to know. We've had all the Christmas sport, and they nothing but black’ misery and bitterness. They ought to know quickly.” Old Jerome's hand fluttered above the little head, half fell to it. then was drawn reluctantly back. ' “Ye-es; they'd orter know,” he said dully. “But how? Who is she?” He! shifted his position, averting his eyes. ! “I've be'n thinkin’ thet p’r’aps she’s nobut a little Christmus sperit come to cheer us in this God forsook spot” — “That's nonsense, man. Look at her sleeping there as human as we are, though with a difference. 1 tell you she has kith and kin, and their hearts are bleeding for her at this moment.’ I'm going to find them.” | “Ye shan't take her with yer, Shawe,” the old man whimpered. “I'll roust up the others, an’ they'll fight “Ye shan’t take her with yer, Shawe,” the old man whimpered. { yer—I—1 can’t; she’s made me too | trembly. But ye shan’t take her.” “You're crazy! I'd no thought of taking her. It's colder than charity outside, and the frost is like a badger’s tooth. Besides, it must be almost thir- ty miles to Wistar, and there's no house nearer. is there? No; I go by myself.” “An’ ef ye don’t win through— | there’s thet chanst.” “I don’t—that’s all. But I'm not hopeless. I've got to win through.” “Best wait till mornin’,” Jerome said after the silence between them had grown unbearable. “P’r’aps somebody ll be goin’ by from Merle, an’ ye could git a lift, or p’r'aps her folks’ll come from somewhars. Ye don’ know whar she come from anyways,” he finished triumphantly. “We worked out the sum that she came with that man Terry. Every- thing she said about Santa Claus fitted him like a glove, you—who know him —say. And he came from Wistar, so she belongs there. Perhaps her people didn’t miss her till late, and what traces would she leave if she came on in his sleigh? Answer me that. How would they ever dream of searching for her up here when there’s the river. Good God, a child like that wouldn't fotice the spruce bush signals put up where the ice is thin, and there are the open water holes by the barns!” ' Here's my hand.” . ment and by the moment. ' wrapped everything close. i ever, and while he could “Waal,” he muttered slowly after a time, “ef ye be so sot on goin’, ye're goin’, 1 s'pose. P’raps ye’re right. | Somehow I was only thinkin’ from my side an’ hedn’t got roun’ to the moth- er’'s. Mebbe an ol’ codger like me never would ha’ got roun’—can’t say. It was an unusual demonstration, but Shawe showed no particular surprise, everything being a little out of the or- dinary that night. He grasped the ex: tended hand warmly, then let it drop and turned away, bending again for a moment over the sleeping child. “Wish 1 were going to hear her laugh over the stocking,” he said hall to himself. “Got a wife an’ fambly?”’ Jerome asked. “No,” the other returned. “Thought mebbe ye hed, ‘count o yer thinkin' how the mother ’d feel Mebbe ye hed oncet.” “Yes,” Shawe answered shortly. “Then ye know how turr'ble master- ful the kids are. Strange, ain’t it} Mine hed got so ez he could patty cake, ye understan’. Lord, there warn't never a sight like it—never! Thought fust ’twas a kinder fool thing the mother ’d learned it, but bless yer I didn’t think so long; ‘twas the pur ties’ sight— | ‘“ ‘Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man’ "’— | Shawe moved cautiously across the room and paused at the door to look back at the old man softly clapping his palms together. Something in his glance recalled Jerome to a sense of his surroundings. He got up in his turn and joined his companion. “Ye'll keep an eye out fer them deers, won't yer?’ he whispered anx- iously. “Christmas eve they all kneel in the woods an’ look up to he’vin, ye know. Thet's Injin talk roun' here from way back. Some 0° the oldest fellers swear their folks seed the thing done. Can't say 'xactly ez 1 D’lieve it myself, but 'twould be a purty sight— an’ anyways ye jes' watch out. Waal. luck to ye, lad; luck to ye.” | “Oh, you'll see me again, never fear!” Shawe said lightly to cover the other's concern. “I'm a bad penny. So long!" He let himself out into the night, closing the door speedily and with as little noise as possible, but quick as he had been a blast of the nipping air filled the room. Jerome hurriedly drew the blankets closer about his little charge; then he stooped to the fire. coaxing it into a brighter glow. f “Fer a bad penny,” he mumbled as he went back to his place, ‘“Shawe rings oncommon true. There ain’t nary of us ez would ha’ thought o doin’ what he’s a-doin’—nary a blessed one of us. I swan he’s dif’runt some: how—kinder apart, but square—square. ' Never knowed nethin’ ’bout Shawe— hed to take him on his face value, so to say. He ain't a gabber ’bout him- self, but gen-i-al—gen-i-al—an’ oncom: mon quick witted inter the barg’in. We'd a-waited till kingdom come afore we'd thought ’bout fillin’ them stock: in’s ef he hedn’t started the game. an’ twas him ez heerd her callin’ when the rest of us was deef ez postses. H’m, mebbe”’— But praise and con Jecture alike were silenced as the griz zled head dropped forward and the old chopper fell into a heavy doze. : Shawe meanwhile, oblivious to both , thrust his hands deep into his pock: . ets and started off on his lonely er rand. It might prove fruitless, but re sults were not for him to consider. His was to do the duty of the mo- Nor did it seem to him that he was doing any: thing to be especially commended. He had been driven out into the night by! his thoughts of the distress in the child’s home, and once they had taken possession of him it was impossible tc stay warm and comfortable in his bunk. He simply had to go. He could not wait. Besides, he told himself, it wasn't much. He had been out on nights to which this, bitter as it was. was balmy by comparison. He had faced gales, terrible as that chill wind which the old Moslem fable says wil! blow over the earth in the last days. and yet had come safely through There was no air stirring at this time. i The intense silent cold of the north He was guarded against it, how- keep in rapid motion he had little to fear from its searching tooth. He drove his hands deeper into his pockets and strode on. The way had been broken through some weeks earlier and was well defined. There was no chance of miss- ing it. In the clearing the night was as bright as day. Under the light of the moon the snow lay like an immense sil- ver shield across which the trees threw bars of shadow, but as the road wound through the woods the brightness re- Hands, Tat treated in great measure, Hore has shimmering only here : and there through the high trunks, striking off a gleam from this snowy head and that or shivering down like a lance of steel as if to pierce the deep- er blackness which crouched beyond. Shawe knew no fear. He passed on silently and as swiftly as possible, casting a wary glance around occa- sionally. but he seemed to be the only living creature abroad that night. The deer, if there were any, were not stir- ring, or his eyes perhaps were too skeptical to witness the simple spec- tacle of their adoration. There was no sign of life anywhere. It was almost as if it were the end of the world, and he the last man—the last of creation— He Drove His ' close at his side. left on earth, so wide and empty were the spaces about him. The great vault overhead, in which the moon and stars rode cally, was out of his pygmy reach. Presently, as the trees grew sparser and the road showed its slighter de- pression through the plain of snow lying beyond like some frozen sea, he! became conscious of life and motion With the instinct of the woodland creatures he held himself perfectly tense and waited, Then right across his path there lum- bered a huge, clumsy shape, its breath showing like smoke on the moonlit air. Suddenly great drops of moisture stood out on Shawe’'s face as if il were midsummer, and his weight of He bad, never felt fear before, yet now panic | It was not the thought | of physical hurt that appalled him, ! but rather the sense of the utter fu. So the end hadi furs had become intolerable. gripped him. tility of his endeavor. come, and over there, still very fai : away, a little child’s mother was sob! ' bing. He could almost hear het moans. He stirred his hand from his pocket to his belt and grasped the butt of his| It] might not be too late! His finger was | pistol, drawing it forth swiftly. Right Across His Path There Lumber- ed a Huge, Ciumsy Shape. firm as iron as it touched the trigger, but the next instant the beast slouch: ed noisily into the shadows beyond. There was no other sound; had been no other sound. The cartridges lay unused in their chambers. Shawe low: ered his hand. He had not been dreaming, he told himself. He could swear to that. And the animal was no creature of fancy. He had seen it quite plainly; had felt its breath as it passed; had met the dull stare of its eyes. It was real—as real as he was at that moment—yet he had not fired because there had seemed no need. The beast had simply disregarded him, Then suddenly Shawe laughed aloud, not boisterously, but very gently—the way you do sometimes when some- i thing has happened that seems almost i too good to be true and tlie quick tears rush into your eyes. they were in his also. “It’s the peace of God,” he said soft ly to himself; “the peace of God"— For on the moment he remembered the old tradition he had heard in many lands that on the night before Christ- mas, from the day’s close to the day's coming, there is no slaughter any- where among the beasts; that the fierc- est and most savage of them all are as harmless as doves to one another and even to their natural enemy—man. He put his pistol back into his belt, unspeakably glad that no shot of his had broken the holy truce. It was useless to try to account for what had happened—to believe in the legend or to laugh it away and attribute the ani- mal’s indifference to some natural cause. The whole experience—dream or reality—left him throbbing with a sense of gratitude that nothing had interfered with his mission. The thought seemed to lend him greater activity, as if his moccasined feet had suddenly become winged. There could be no loitering anywhere while the mother mourned for her little one, her voice crying vaguely, vainly, through that wonder space of time when, be- cause of another little child, God's peace wrapped the earth close. Chapter VIII. “You—You Bumpbrey ?”’ Ni : SC 3s 4 San Ih NG HERE were no landmarks dis- cernible. Terry would have recognized certain ones, as would also some of the lum- bermen, but to Shawe, who was a stranger, the whole country was un- familiar. All he could do, therefore, was to lessen the distance step by step, knowing that while he kept the road he could not miss his destination. Yet he never lost heart, nor was he particularly tired. As boy and man, much of his time had been spent in the open. He was used to hardships, I think perhaps rough weather and great exertion {The present undertaking seemed slight ‘compared to others he had known. Presentl> the white light of early idawn crept faintly up—little Peep o |Day he’s called—a tiny fellow, truly, 'to be sent out to fight the darkness and yet so persistent and undaunted that every moment he glowed more confidently at his task and grew big ger and bigger with his efforts. The moon had looked scornfully at the com ing of such an adversary, but now she paled visibly and called in her routed army of moonbeams, while below the sleeping world laughed here and thers at the contest, stirring out of its slum bers. As soon as his duties were ac complished the little champion stole away, losing himself in the brightness that filed the sky, and madé#& it and Back In the Shanty the Little Child Was Already Waking. the land look like tinted silver, but nobody missed him, for the morning was at hand. There was a gorgeous, rosy flush along the east melting ‘into purple, out of which the sun came up like a wonderful flower, opening slow- ly, first pink, then yellow, then red— and it was Christmas (lay! Shawe’s eyes gladdened at the sight, though he did not pause. He couldn’t —oh, now less than ever—now, he must hurry—hurry. Back in the shanty men’s hut the little child was already waking, he knew, and her glee was filling the house, but in her home oth- ers were waking. too—they had not slept—and listening in vain for the mu- sic of her laughter. He must hurry! So he kept on. but somehow, though he was beginning to be very tired, the going was much easier. Joy comes with the morning and new hope; all the doubts and fears of the night dis- appear. They are some of the foes little Peep o' Day vanquishes so tri- umphantly. Shawe couldn't feel de- spondent in that beautiful world while the still morning brightened around him, especially when ev- ery step brought him nearer his goal. He laughed like a boy and shouted out “Merry * Christmas” though there was no one by to answer his greeting, but the clear cold air bore it wide, and it helped to swell the chorus going up all over the earth. He ran a few paces, so wonderfully light hearted had he grown, and flung out his arms, clapping them against his body to warm him- self; then he sobered down — outwardly. No- body would ever have supposed that the tall, fur clad figure, with head bent a trifle and only a bit of his face visible between his big cap and high collar, was There Was the bearer of joyful No One to news. For one thing he Answer. was walking quite stolid- ly, and your happy messengers are al- ways winged, and for another he was looking neither to left nor right. Wasn't he? Then why did he start suddenly and throw back his head, - laughing up again at the sky? Why? Because just in front of him there was a house—an ugly, squat little house, the glass in its windows twinkling in the sun. He drew nearer, and his heart, that had almost instantly rush- ed into -his throat, fell back to its proper place with a most discouraging thump. The house seemed uninhabit- ed—deserted—as if the people who had lived there had grown tired of being 50 far from the settlement and had gone back to be with their kind, per- haps to stay there always, or at least over this day of festivity. It was im- possible to associate a merry Christ. mas with this sober, grownup abode. A closer approach, however, revealed a small thread of smoke issuing from the chimney, but otherwise the general air of dreariness about the place—its lone. liness, its empty, staring windows— chilled Shawe more than the winter night had done. [Continued on page 6, Col. 1.]
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers