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THE SOUTHERN WORLD, DECEMBER 16,1883.
fjornq j&iticlq.
THE DYING TEAK.
The Bekle wind that woo'd with emorotia sighs,
The trembling leaves amid the sunny glades,
With harsher tones now through the forest hies;
And at his rude voice their verdure fades—
As fades the love of purity and truth
When passion's voice supplants those holy powers
That sprang from chaos clothed In fadeless youth,
And decked with garlands of perennial flowers.
But ere they die—those blighted leaves of love.
Like Nlobe more beautiful In woe—
A thousand charms are showered from above
To add frash luster and a richer glow
Bright gold and amber shame their vernal bloom,
Alas! 'tla but the beauty of the tomb.
-JOHMBOIT.
Good by to the Old Year I
Many a heart has In sorrow sunk,
And the cup of woe has been deeply drunk,
Oood-by to the Old Year I
—LT. Bbadley.
BACTIKI.UK BRINDLE’M CURI8THA8.
Bachelor Brindle gives the half-burned log
in the fire-place a kick that sends the red
sparks flying, and wonders crustily where
that bit of rhyme strung on a half-forgotten
fragment of melody, comes from, and how
it happens to chant itself to him so persist
ently to-night. It is a dismal night. Out
side, a high east wind shrieks and squeals,
skirmishes around corners and echoes away
dolefully in every stray cavernous retreat
and nook. Within bursts of tawny and
scarlet Maine light up bachelor Brindle's fa
vorite apartment, big, low-ceiled, .and com
fortable, yet wearing the air of careless disor-
order peculiar to a bachelor's apartments.
And bachelor Brindle listening, to the
wind’s boisterous whistlings and plaintive
minor chords, becomes cross-grained, and
even misanthropical.
“Song,and feast," he mutters gr^mbly,
“holly etc! Humph. Gammon! Where’s
any holly,and who’d go draggling around in
this slush and sleet to bring it in? What's
set me to thinking of .”
“Christmas eve," chants the tea-kettle
swinging briskly over the blaze.
“Crl jkey I” is Bachelor Brindle’s reprehen
sible exclamation, “ so it is. I like to have
forgot i t."
As if sprinkled with some subtle, magic
powder, the firelight, flickering, quivering,
-dflnciiift suddenly lights a path across the
floor, through the cottage walls, beyond the
murk and mist, far into the past, where a
cheery Christmas fire is burning; there are
busy bands and hurrying feet and merry
voices; there is an intoxicating flavor of
holiday cheer; there is song and gladness;
there are bright-eyed cousins, troopsof rel
atives and friends, and radiant among all,
is a romping, black-eyed girl with a turned
up nose, who wore a scarlet jacket
“And had temper enough for two,” grunts
bachelor Brindle. There is a dim spot in
the path of light. “Half your fault,” sings
the tea-kettle cheerfully. “More than lialf,”
snorts the wind belligerently, coming in a
puff dqxn the chimney to back the tea-ket
tle. “'Twas, 'twas, ’twas,"
A momentary lulling of the aggressive
wind, and a soft sputtering in tbe red coals
brings bachelor Brindle’s mind back to his
present lot.
“Snow,” he mutters with a shudder.
“Time was when the idea brought only-fool-
ishly bright visions of sleigh rides with her,
of frolics and fun, and—oh, what’s tbe use?
They're all gone, she among the rest, and
I’m a forlorn old soul with no one to so
much as cook a Christmas dinner for me—
unless I could coax Aunt Haney over.
Christmas eve! bless us. What an old
wretch I was to forget it."
Bachelor Brindie give the fore stick a dis
contented poke, and turns to light the tall
lamp on the shelf, then brings forth his old-
fashioned brown Bible, and once more fol
lows the story of the beautiful Babe and
the first Christmas morning, while without
the wind whirls its fleecy white burden
about at its own erratic will.
• • • • • •
“Ugh! what a depress!ngly un-Christmas
evening, Christmas eve I”
Mab Lacy caught her breath, and clutched
at her veil with both hands, as the rampant
gale charged with millions of sleety needles
swooped around the corner and nearly blew
her off the steps of the grim, tall, narrow-,
chested house with its gray-green shutters,
the bit of white paper tacked against tbe
door bearing the faded notice “Furnished
Rooms for Rent,” revealing Its nature and
characteristics.
“Shelter is shelter, such a night os this, If
it is the waste and desert gloom of Malone’s
establishment with its mackerel-eoented
balls and roaoby oorners," she continued,
plunging into the shadows of the long, dim
hall, and feeling in the dark for her door
knob; “with all of its faults It Is a haven of
refuge Mercy, Peggy! What are you
tumbling my furniture about and slopping
up my oil-cloth for? And whose is this big
barn of a trunk ?”
The stout mald-of-all-work, on her knees
by the desolate little box-stove, arose with a
red flannel floor-cloth in one hand, and a
bar of yellow soap in the other, eyed Mab
doubtfully, tried to scratch her eyes with
her elbow, and failing, gave her broora-like
head a.random rub with tbe soap and an
swered :
"New feller cornin’ to-morrow; and Miss
Malone sayed as how you hadn’t paid yer
rent this week, an' bein’ gentlemen prefer
red—’cause they don't muss things up
acookin’ in their rooms, an’ not wantin’ to
lose a shore payin’ roomer, an’—an’ .”
“But Peggy, to-morrow is Christmas!”
Mab sat down on the strange trunk, clasping
her damp gloved hands in helpless bewild
erment.
“ That's what I know,” said Peggy, rub
bing her ear with the soap, “but Miss Ma
lone she says how tbe rent ain’t paid an’—”
“But I was going to pay it next week, and
would have last week if I hadn’t been sick
and not able to work, os I told her.”
“That’s so. But I reckon the' ain’t no
use in raisin’ a fuss,” said Peggy, philosoph
ically, he’s done paid for a month’s rent,und
she’s tuck it. She sayed anyhow, she reck
oned you was more of a lady’n to want
to stay wher’ you weren't wanted. But he
wont come till mornin’, you can stay to
night.
“But what am I going to do then?”
“Room rentin’ agency down yander,"
said Peggy, indicating the direction by a
a flirt of the floorcloth. <■
Mab opened her flat little pocket book and
shook its contents into her lap. “Peggy,”
she said, “how many rooms could I rent for
a dollar and a half?”
“Dunno,” answered Peggy, with easy
vagueness ns she picked up her bucket of
suds and departed.
“Nhr care,” added Mab to herself, leaning
her head against the cold, white wall of her
little bed-room, “neither does any one else
in the world. How different from the old
Christmas eve in the country, when royal
Ares roared on every hearth, and everybody
was kin to everybody else, before so many of
them died, or left the dear, peaceful, stupid
old Hollow—and I among them And now
there is scarcely one left who would know
me—only Aunt Nancy Dawson, who could
have been my aunt really now, if Ben and I
could have kept our tempers till the wed
ding-day. Ah, well he has forgotten me,
but Aunt Nancy might be glad to see me,
and—yes, a dollar and a half will take me to
the Hollow. I'll go. The room is mine to
night, and sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof. I will trust in the Father of the fa
therless, who leads ns on by paths we know
not of.”
• • • • •
“Aunt Nancy—Aunt Na-an-cy 1"
“Dear aakea I don't shriek a body all in
pieces, you Ben Brindle; what you after?”
The door of the little deep-eved kitchen
flew open, letting out a scent of boiling cof
fee into the clear December air; a bine linsy
skirt cleared the passage way, and Aunt
Nancy Dawson popped into the sitting-room,
armed with a broom which she at onoe pro
ceeded to devote to the obliteration of the
string of powdery tracks left by her nephew
across tbe striped rag carpet “Knowed
ther'd be tracks wherever ther, was a man,”
observed the little woman, whisking away
briskly, “whaty’ out so early fer?"
“We el” said the old bachelor rather do
lorously, “you see the long and short of it
is, I’m lonesome, Aunt Nancy—awful lone
some."
"Jeswhat you orto be,” returned Aunt
Nancy, with blunt candor, “y’ own fault.
I've told you to get marr.ed forty tirues, ain’t
I?"
“But there ain’t any one left to marry,
round here as I know of.”
“Fiddle! ain’t ther’ tbe wider Barley ?”
“Y-es, there’s the wider Barley," said Mr.
Brindle doubtfully, "but you know she does
weigh most three hundred, and u kind of
curious and cross-grained like.”
"There’s Melissy Hicks; a lovely house
keeper—couldn’t get a better.”
“N-o; she's too good. A feller could never
get a bit of rest 'long as she could And a
straw or raveling to fuss about. Wants ev
erything in straight rows and no crooks no
where. 8be’d put strings to all the young
ones she could find and run ’em up on poles
like butter beans if she could. Anyhow,
Aunt Nancy, I don’t reckon I could get mar
ried right off to-day, and l would kind of
like some one to cook a Christmas dinner
forme. Not that a fellow can’t pack the
spirit of Christmas around in his heart with
out any dinner, but it would make it feel
like old Christmases, and I want you to
jump right up into my sleigh and go home
with me, Aunt Nancy, and stay all day.
Hey ?”
“I shan’t," said Aunt Nancy, with no
waste of empty apology; “I'm going to Jim
Dawson’s folkses, across the Branch—prom
ised ’em a month ago, an’ it’s saved me cook
in’ a lot of truck. Ole Pepper’s hitched
now, ’n I’m goin’ to start in jnst the time it
takes me to get my shawl an’ green woosted
sun-bonnet on. You kin go along too if you
like."
“No—I don't like,” returned bachelor
Brindle. “They'll flsh out all their kin
folks from six counties and bave’eui there,
and I don't know half of ’em, and don’tseem
to want any crowd to-day—only just them I
know. I'll go home and roast a sweet potato
in the ashes and cook a spare-rib before tbe
fire-place; that’ll be good enough, only the
gravy ’ll be full of cinders."
Bachelor Brindle drove slowly homeward,
his spirits rather depressed in spite of the
beauty of the day, bright with a glad glory
of sunshine pouring down goldenly over the
flawless white fleece of the night’s bestowing,
yet already beginning to grow damp and
heavy under the warm glow, when turning
the corner of a fence, where the drifts were
blown up like blocks of marble, his horse
gave a startled spring and stopped at sight of
a small, dark figure trudging along on foot,
a picture unusual enougli to scare any horse
in tbe country where not a farmer’s daugh
ter, in however moderate circumstances,
will undertake a mile journey at any season
of the year unless provided with some shape
or form of a “ nag." And Mr. Brindle gazed
down with a wonder that grew deep and in
tense at sight of the fair little face with its
dark eyes and slightly upturned nose toward
him.
“ Mab Lacy 1 ” he cried; “is it Mab Lacy,
or a Christmas vision ? ”
“It is Mab Lacy,” alio answered, with a
little, fluttering laugh. “ I’ve come back to
see Aunt Nancy.”
" Then you’ve come on as much of a wild-
goose chase as I have," he returned, rueful
ly. “8he’s gone—gone plum to the Branch.
Her Old Pepper beats my Floss woefully,
and I saw the gable end of her sleigh shy
around the corner before I got to the end of
the lane."
“Oh, then what—what shall I do?” cried
Mab, overcome with the suddenly desperate
appearance of her position, and sitting reck
lessly down upon a wayside stump, whose
white cap of snow was gradually shrinking
away and cozing in drops down its sides.
“ Don’t do that! ” cried Mr. Brindle, with
alarmed sharpness; “you mustn’t sit on a
wet stump and catch a cold just because
Aunt Nancy took a notion to go bumming
around for a Christmas lark. Jump in my
sleigh, like a sensible girl, and we’ll see.”
“ What’s the use?" wailed Mab, trying to
stop a little rill of tears that was slipping
down her cheek with a corner of her gray
veil. “ I can’t go home with you, and there’s
nowhere to go. Oh, Mr. Brindle -Ben, what
shall I do?”
“ Do just what I tell you,” said Mr. Brin
dle. ** First give me your hand, and you
jump in here back of this robe. Now we'll
have a talk. So you’re alone, Mab ? ”
*• All alone. Ben,” sighed Mab.
" Well, look here. I’m the same old Ben
you always knew—and hated.”
“ I didn't,” said Mab. “ I—I—you k now,
Ben ”
“ And you’re the same Mab Lacy / always
knew ?’’
“Yes; I'm tempted to wish I was someone
else just now.”
"Well/ain’t. If you're alone we’re both
alone, Mab, for I am ; and it’s rather rough,
in my opinion. Now, why couldn’t we drop
overboard this big slice of time that’s sepa
rated us so long, and go back to where we left
off before we flew out at each other?"
"How could we?” asked Mab.
"Look through yonder, said Ben, pointing
to a little yellow cottage at the end of a lane
branching off the road. “Our new minister
lives there, Man.”
“ Does he ?” Mab’s tone expressed noth
ing whatever, but bachelor Brindle’s solemn
gray eyes caught the flicker of a blush in her
cheek.
“ Yes, he does,” he answered. “Mab, I’ve
got ten dollars in my pocket. I expect the
minister is needing about ten dollars awful
bad.”
“Had’t you better make him a present of
U?” asked Mab, sweetly smiling off at the
lace-work of the snow-dappled treabranebes
n the winter-blue distance. Ben looked a
little disconcerted, then rallied.
" But, Mab,” he said, “he's kind of proud.
I would’nt dare to offer it to him without
giving him a chance to earn it Mab—Mab,
you haven’t lost your tormenting ways, but
tbe bargain we made back yonder at the
stump was that I would help you out of your
trouble if you’d do as I said. There’s no one
to find fault with what we do—nothing to
keep us apart. Now, Mab, we’re going
straight to the minister’s cottage, and you
know what for.”
“ Then,” said Mab, turning her blooming
face to him, “all I’ve got to say, Ben, if
you’re right sure you're right, why go
ahead.”
So Mr. Brindle had a wife to cook his
Christmas dinner, after all. There was mer
ry bustling, there was laughter and gladness
in the hitherto lonely bachelor quarters.
And there was, too, a sweetly solemn hour
in the tender gray Christmas twilight,
wherein Ben and Mab, with the big Bible
between them, bent lo# their heads in grate
ful acknowledgment of the loving care of the
One who, through trial and sorrow, ever and
always, leads us on.—Hattie Whitney in Detno~
reit’e Monthly.
Recipes.
We give below a number of good and tried
recipes, for the benefit of those who may
not be familiar with the trials of making
preparations for the Christmas festivities,
and hope that some of our lady readers may ,
be able to obtain some assistance from them.
Lemon Puts.—’The yelk of three eggs, one
cup of sugar, lump of butter the size of a
walnut, two tablespoons of water, one ta
blespoon of flour, grute, peel and squeeze
one half lemon.
Sponge Cake.—Four eggs, one tumbler of
sugar, a small pinch of salt, one tumbler of
flour, two tablespoonsful of cold wAter; beat
the eggs separately and add sugar to yelks
then the whites, then the salt, water, flour,
then the flavoring.
Pick out the finest of any kind of fruit,
leave in the stones, beat the whites of
three eggs to a stiff froth; lay the fruit
in the beaten egg, with the stems up
ward ; drain them and beat again the part
that drips; take them, one by one, and dip
them into finely powdered sugar; cover a
pan with a sheet of whitepaper, place the
fruit on it, and set it in a «eoi ov<*; wi,^
the icing on the fruit becomes firm, pile
them on a dish and set them in a cold place.
Whipped Cbeam PiB.—Sweeten with white
sugar one teacup very thick cream, made as
cold as possible without freezing, and flavor
with lemon according to taste; beat until as
light as eggs for frosting, and keep cool until
the crust is ready; make crust moderately
rich, prick well with a fork, bake, spread on
the cream and put jelly over the top; this
makes two pies.
Pudding.—An excellent pudding is made
of eight mashed potatoes, one quarter of a
pound of butter, four eggs, one gill of milk,
a quarter of a teaspoonful of salt, and flour
enough to make a stiff batter. Beat well to
gether. then sprinkle flour on the inside
of a pudding bag, and put the batter in. Al
low three inches at the top, so that the pud
ding may have ample room to rise in. Boil
for two hours; then take from the kettle,
dip quickly in cold water, and you will have
no difficulty in removing it from the bag.
Serve hot with sauce.
Suet Pudding.—A nice and easily made
suet pudding is made of one cup of suet,
chopped fine, and with every bit of gristle
removed, one cup each of molasses, milk
and fruit; raisins and currants mixed, or
dried cherries are best for this purpose; one
heaping tablespoonful of brown sugar,
one teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in a little
hot water, complete the ingredients called
for, with the exception of flour enough to
make a stiff batter. Take care to stir the
flour in so gradually as to be certain not one
lump, if ever so small, is left; steam it in an
earthen pudding dish for three hours; ’serve
with wine sauce, or with the common pud
ding sauce of flour, sugar, butter and water.
Pbune Pudding.—A prune pudding may
be something new to some one. Heat a little
more than a pint of sweet milk to the boiling
point, then stir in gradually a little cold
milk in which you have rubbed smooth a
heaping tablespoonful of corn starch; add
sugar to suit your taste; threa-well-beaten
eggs, about a teaspoonful of butter, and a
little grated nutmeg. Let this come to a
boil, then pour in a buttered pudding dish,
first adding a cupful of stewed prunes, with
tbe stones taken out. Bake for from fifteen
to twenty minutes according to the state of
the oven, 8erve with or without sauce. A
little cream improves it if poured over it
when placed In saucers.