Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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,