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18 THE
The Family
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THE OLD MAN'S LIKE.
no vnn like to lumi). oh ever so far
Off a step, or over a bar,
Or down a steep hill, not minding the
bump?"
"No," the old man said, "I don't like to
jump."
"Do you like to ride on the railroad ears,
And smell the smoke and feel the jars,
And watch the fences running to hide?"
"No," the old man said, "I don't care to
ride."
"Do s*ou like to fish down at the spring,
And get a crawdad on your string.
Then bait his hind leg, an' catch what
you wish?"
"No," the old man said, "I don't like to
fish."
"Do you like to run and run and run,
And yell like Injuns?ain't that fun!
Make the most noise of all the boys?"
"Vn " thp old man Raid "I don't like
noise."
"But surely you like to climb up trees,
Wa-a-ay up In the sky where's always a
breeze;
And skin the cat up high? That's fine!"
"No," the old man said, "I don't like to
climb."
"If you don't mind, I wish you'd tell
If you like anything real well?
Is there nothing you like?" The old man
smiled:
"The thing I like best is a little child."
?Echange.
ELSA'S CHRISTMAS BLUES.
By Mary Hoge Wardlaw.
For days she had been dimly aware of
it, and had dimly struggled against it,
even before she admitted to herself its
existence. But there came a morning
when it passed from the subconscious to
the conscious stage, and could no longer
be ignored. Then her husband, after one
scrutinizing glance, read It in the woebegone
countenance behind the coffeeurn.
"What's ui). voune woman?" he cried.
cheerily. "Christmas blues, already?"
She gave him a dejected little nod. "Resist
it, grapple with it, trample it under
foot! Be a she-ro in the strife!" His
voice rang out in playful vehemence.
"8ay to yourself. Millions of minutes for
hopefulness, but not one second for despair."
Elsa understood her husband too well
to be wounded by his affectionate teasing;
she answered:
"I have resisted, Herbert, and grappled
anrl tromnlo/1 hooM a a Tint ii'a wnron
this year than ever."
"Go out and buy some Christmas
gifts/' he suggested in his natural tones,
producing a flabby pocket-book, and waving
it enticingly,
"You know I hardly ever buy my
PRESBYTERIAN OF THE SOU
Christmas gifts, and the slippers and
center-pieces and the other fol-de-rols are
all made."
"Christmas baking to do?"
"I finished it up yesterday."
"Any calls to pay?"
"No pressing ones, but that may serve
to kill a few dismal hours."
When young Mrs. Harvey re-entered
her cosy little flat that afternoon the
Christmas Blues, so far from having faded,
had assumed a deeper hue. Sne had
found Cora and Kitty and Louise deep
in happy mysteries, in pretty little concealments;
their living-rooms gay with
bits of ribbon and tinsel and lace. A
curly-haired doll in the act of trying on
a Parisian costume would be hastily
thrust into a drawer as its curly-haired
future mama entered the room. A young
mother, when fortune favored her, knit
frantically upon a gorgeous pair of reins,
tucking them into the depths of her
work-bag when the prancing steed that
was to be, woke rosy and dewy from his
nap. All sorts of bulging and suggestive
parcels were constantly being delivered
and whisked out of sight. The young
matrons seemed to have forgotten all
topics of conversation save those relating
to the season, the most effective way
to decorate a Christmas tree, or the
newest idea in. hinging stockings in a
flat. Elsa was glad to be at home again.
"If only this week, if only the next two
days, were over," she sighed. "It is desperate
to be so entirely out of things."
The silence of the apartment smote
her painfully after the excited Christmas
racket in the other homes; no baby
voice to chatter ceaselessly about Santa
Claus, no chubby fingers to tangle her
silks and worsteds, no little feet to caper
around ecstatically, no little eyes to
shine, rapt and angelic, at the story of
the Christ-child, the song and the star.
She could easily recall the festive atmosphere
of her girlhood's home at this season.
How dear it' all was to her sweet
German mother, what a joyous occasion
she made it for her little daughters! The
smell of the little German Christmas
cakes, the echo of the Christmas cho
ruses, the grandeur of the glittering
Christmas tree, seemed real to her now.
Tomorrow she would go to see that
* dear mother, a prisoner, through pain, in
a distant part of the city. She would
take the fleecy shawl she had knitted for
the rheumatic shoulders, and she would
receive a loving welcome, but there
would be no German cakes or choruses.
Suddenly she sat up straight in her
easy chair. She knew how to make those
Christmas cakes. The ingredients that
made them peculiarly German could eas
ily be procured, and how they would re
jolce the heart of the Mutterchen.
When Herbert returned for his late
dinner a fragrant smell saluted his nostrils,
and an eager, elated little woman
sprang to meet him, pouring plan after
plain into his bewildered ear.
The evening sped .only too rapidly, for
Elba's Angers and tongue ran a merry
race, and skillful Herbert was very nearly
as busy as his enthusiastic little wife.
TH. December 22, igog.
Christmas eve was brilliantly bracing,
and Frau Jansen was easily induced to
spend an hour with a neighbor, the
neighbor rolling the invalid chair from
one apartment to another. The swell
and roar of the streets drowned any unusual
sounds within doors, and the two
old ladies exchanged in their mother
tongues reminiscences of the days when
the Kinder were at home for the merry
season. Scarcely was the hour over
when Frau Jansen was summoned to return,
to receive her daughter and her
son-in-law. The neighbor required no
pressing to enter awhile and chat with
ner young favorite, Elsa, and gay-spirited
Herbert.
As they reached Frau Jansen's apartment
the door was thrown elaborately
open, and the dear old mother's mild,
blue eyes fell upon a dazzling vision.
In the center of the room stood a
charmingly bedecked Christmas tree,
festooned with glittering chains, flashing
with gold and silver balls, and lit up by
sparkling candles. Grouped around it
she perceived a circle of familiar faces,
some of whom she had cot beheld for
years, and every face was beaming with
good-will.
As she was rolled in a burst of song
iiueu me air, a unrisimas song orougnt
from the Fatherland a reminder of dear
old days.
Then came greetings, words of goodcheer
In the hearty German tongue, from
friends who had not forgotten her, but
had only been separated by the miles,
the exactions and distractions of the big
city.
The little German cakes, so indispensable
to such a gathering, met with an
appreciative welcome, and disappeared
like magic. Song succeeded song; the
violin, in the hands of a master, cast its
Rnell linnn thft hporpra hanJahinnr anrHM
thoughts and worldly cares. The Christmas
star, surmounting the tree, shone
upon smiling faces, iJVit could not outshine
the gladness of the gentle, blue
eyes beneath the silver hair, nor the radiant
countenance of the sweet young
daughter who had found a cure for her
Christmas Blues.
A SELF-MADE CHRISTMAS.
Helen Butler Smith.
Lettv Ashworth. onlv efehteon. desner
ately homesick in a boarding house, and
almost at the end of her money! The
fact that it was the day before Christ-'
mas aggravated the situation. She had
sent every dollar she could spare up to
her Vermont home to go into the evergaping
mouth of the farm mortgage, and
now in the midst of all the Christmas
chatter and planning Bhe felt an outcast
?she who loved to give and could not.
-VI haven't a single thing to give to
anybody," she said to herself. '"O dear! '
I do hope none of the girls will wish me
a Merry Chirstmas. If they do, I - shall
jubi ?crBwii?or cry. "
She looked about her cell-like room.
It-was very clean and very dreary; differentiated
from fifty other rooms in the
Young Women's Homq only by the faces