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18 THE The Family ?nrntrnmmmmm;?iiiiiiiiiiiimmtm 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