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Entered according to Act of Congress, in June, 1869, by J. W. Bukke & Cos., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the So. District of Georgia.
Vol. 111-—No. 26.
Altered from the Little Sower.
WAS IT A MERRY CHRISTMAS ?
!M n
v,as day before Christ
mas! Bessie Gray was seated
on the floor, dressing Annie
Serepha, the youngest of her large fam
ily of dolls. We were as quiet and
happy as possible, until Leonard came
rushing into the parlor, exclaiming :
“I’ll kill Rod Lane ! see if I don’t!”
“ Oh, Len ! what makes you say such
wicked things?” cried Bessie, as she
dropped Annie Serepha and caught hold
of her brother’s hand, while her blue
eyes filled with tears. “ Don’t you
know papa said it was sinful to get in a
passion and threaten the lives of your
playmates?”
“ I don't care! you needn’t preach !
you’re not a saint! and if you are,
you’ve no cause for being anything else.
You do not have boys’ trials to endure.
Here you sit, quietly talking to that
pink and white piece of wax-perfection,
with no one to rush in and carry it off
where you’d never get sight of it again.
Ah, you need not hold me! I’ll be
revenged on Rod Lane, the mean old
hypocrite.”
“ What has Rod done ?”
“ Done ! I’ve no patience with you !
lie’s done everything. Last week he
got into my desk, and carried off my
composition, and made me lose the
prize. I was sure of it, you see, for
there was not a blot, nor a misspelled
word in it. Then he managed to rub
out the examples I had put on my slate,
and stole the big red apple I was intend
ing to give the teacher; and to-day,
while I was at home at dinner, he car
ried off my base ball —that splendid one
that Uncle Harry gave me,” and over
come with the thoughts of all his trials,
Len actually let two great tears roll
down his cheeks, and fall on the bright
eagle buttons of his coat.
“ Are you sure that Rod Lane did all
this mischief?” asked Bessie, thought
fully. “ Rod don’t look like a bad boy,
and he never takes his eyes from his
books during school hours.”
MACON, GEORGIA, DECEMBER 25, 1869.
“ The little sneak ! Os course he did
it! All the rest of the scholars are gen
tlemen's sons. His father, —mother, I
mean, —is a poor seamstress, and Rod
never has decent clothes to wear, or
anything to eat, hardly. He just creeps
around like a cat, and one never knows
where he is. I hate sneaks.”
“ Yes, so do I; but are you sure Rod
is a sneak? Have you ever seen him
do a mean act? What benefit could it
be to him to steal your composition, or
rub out your sums ?”
“ Oh, Bessie, how green you are!
Don’t he know we all despise him, be
cause —because —well, because we do ;
and of course he’ll play us tricks.”
“ Is that the way you would do, Len,
if you were a poor widow’s boy and not
a gentleman 11 s son ?” sarcastically said
Mr. Gray, who had, unknown to the
children, been listening to the conver
sation. “I’m ashamed of you!” he
continued. “A gentleman's son, for
sooth ! And, pray tell me, what makes
a gentleman in your estimation? Mon
ey ? Well, then, Rod was ahead of you
once, for his father could have bought
me ten times over, and his mother is,
by birth, a lady, the daughter of a no-
.Whole No. 130.
bleman. I think you’ll have to take
back all you’ve said about Roderick,
and look to some of your richer com
panions for your lost ball and composi
tion. Riches do not make gentlemen,
and fine clothes do not always cover
honest hearts.”
Len hung his head. His father was
his idol, and he keenly felt a reproof
from him. In his associations at school
he had fallen into the error, which, alas !
some older persons have not escaped,
of thinking that fine raiment and plenty
of money constitute respectability, and
that poor, ill-clad persons, must, of ne
cessity, be low and dishonest.
Seating himself upon the sofa, and
taking Bessie in his lap, Mr. Gray grave
ly drew his son to his side, saying:
“My boy, I have long noticed this
growing disposition on your part, to
give way to vehement anger at every
little provocation, and to imagine that
you are better than those of your com
panions who happen to have less of this
world’s goods than yourself. I think I
must tell you a story, one that I am sure
you will not soon forget.
“ Once there was a man who, in spite
of all the efforts of his friends, squan
dered in drink the riches which he had
inherited ; and his wife, dying of a bro
ken heart, was laid to rest in the grave,
leaving her only child, a little boy, eight
years of age, to the care of a drunken
father.
“One night —it was the night before
Christmas —this little boy wandered
through the streets, ragged, hungry, and
forsaken. His father was at the ale
house, and in the shanty which they
called home there was neither food nor
fire. How beautiful the shop windows
looked, glistening with light and
warmth! In the street, many boys
shouted and laughed, as they skated
along the icy pavement. Proud fathers
smiled, as they crowded their pockets
with Christmas gifts. Many wanderers,
with pinched and care-worn faces, vvere
also abroad that night; but in all the
moving throng, none seemed so forlorn
as the drunkard’s son.
“ The most tempting spot, however,