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to the hungry child, was the window of
the bakery, where the white loaves rest
ed so lovingly against the rich amber
colored bunns, and the fruit cake seem
ed bursting its sides with a surfeit of
raisins and currants, whilst the dainty
frosting rivalled the winter snow. As
he stood gazing into the window, with
the bright gas light shining upon him,
revealing every rent in his faded cloth
ing, as well as his anxious, hungry face,
a lady, accompanied by a little boy
about his own age, came out, with a
loaded basket. The woman was passing
on without glancing at the half-famished
child, when her son pulled her cloak
and whispered :
“ ‘Mamma, do you think he’s hun
gry ?’
“ Hastily looking up, his mother took
in the whole story at a glance.
“ ‘I think he is,’ she said scfily. ‘You
may ask him to come home with you to
supper.’
“ Without a moment’s hesitation, the
generous boy took hold of the little out
cast’s hand and led him along the gas
lighted streets, until they reached an
elegant residence, far more elegant than
this that you think so line. The supper
was waiting. Words cannot express
the thoughts of this poor boy, as he sat
beside the luxurious board.
“ After siffiper, the lady sent him into
the bath room, and his young benefac
tor, with his mother’s permission, took
from the wardrobe anew and comfort
able suit of his own clothes, and pre
sented them to him. Then came a long,
delightful evening, passed in looking at
toys and picture books, and in listening
to the music of the piano. At last, ut
terly bewildered, the little fellow was
marched off to bed, scarcely knowing
whether he was in Heaven or upon a
new earth.
“ The next day was Christmas, and a
merry Christmas it was to this hitherto
neglected child, whose happiness was
complete when a pair of new and shining
skates were found upon the Christmas
tree, for him.
“Through this lady’s inliuenee, a
good home was secured, and from that
hour prosperity shone upon the drunk
ard’s son. Leonard, that drunkard’s
son was your father, and the little
boy who led him home, who gave him
food, shelter, and clothing, was the
father of Roderick Lane ! Which, think
you now, is the gentleman's son, Roder
ick or yourself?
“ Years ago, I lost sight of my boy
friend, and it was only yesterday that I
learned of his death and his widow’s
destitute circumstances; but while I
live, the son of James Lane shall share
equally with my own children in what
ever possessions the Heavenly Father
sees fit to give me.
“ In the long talk which I had with
Roderick, I learned how patiently he
had borne the sneers and false accusa
tions of his school-mates; and I also
learned, through him, that it was your
BURKE’S WEEKLY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
particular friend, Clarence Moore, who
stole your composition, rubbed out your
sum, and ate your apple. Roderick,
having no proof of these things, and
knowing that you would not believe
him, kept silent.”
It was late when Mr. Gray finished
his story, and with the promise that the
children should go with him to carry the
Christmas greetings to the widow and
her son, lie bade them good night.
Bessie picked up Annie Serepha, and
going to her own little room, tucked her
and all the rest of her large family of
dolls into their various cribs and cra
dles for the night. Then, climbing up
on her own bed, she knelt, and, with
clasped hands, repeated her evening
prayer, while the new moon looked
down, turning her tears to diamonds.
Dear, tender-hearted Bessie ! Her tears
were tears of rejoicing at the thought of
the happy hearts to be born with the
merry Christmas.
Len looked out of his window, and
tried to whistle; and he, too, brushed
away a tear, as if ashamed that the
moon should see a boy cry. I don’t
know, but I suspect there was a change
in his feelings, and that he had a better
understanding of what constitutes a
gentleman’s son, and that his tears were
tears of penitence, for I heard him say,
very softly, that he guessed he wouldn’t
kill Rod Lane just yet.
Early the next day, a splendid sleigh
drew up before the old tenement house,
and all the neighbors stared as they saw
Rod and his mother driven away half
buried in buffalo robes. I suppose they
are staring yet, for I know they have
never seen the widow and her son re
turn to that dreary abode. There was
a grand dinner that day. Rod and Len
soon came to an understanding, and
loved each other like brothers. Bessie’s
dolls had a table by themselves, and
though Annie Serepha sat at the head of
the table and poured the tea into the
tiny China cups, I suspect it was Bessie’s
guiding hand that kept it from spilling.
Mrs. M. M. B. Goodwin.
Flowers and Children.
Flowers and children are of near kin,
and too much of forcing, or too much of
display, ruins their chief charms. I
love to associate them together, and to
win the little ones to a love of flowers.
Some day they tell me that a violet or
tuft of lillies is dead ; but on a spring
morring they come, radiant with a story
that the very same violet is blooming
swee.er than ever upon some far away
cleft of the hill side. So you, my child,
if the Great Master lifts you from us,
shall bloom —as God is good —on some
richer, sunnier ground. We talk thus,
but if the change really comes, it is more
grievous than the blight of a thousand
flowers. She who loved their search
among the thickets will never search
them again. She whose glad eyes would
have opened in pleasant bewilderment
upon some change of shrubbery, or of
paths, will never open them again. She
whose feet would have danced along the
new wood path, carrying joy and merri
ment into its shady depths, will never
set foot upon these walks again.
Christmas at our House.
/~?pOlIREE little curly heads
/'/l All in a row,
uOiiD chubby hands
-'' s ryno Whiter than snow !
Under the counterpane,
\jJJO Heedless of time,
qY* Three little innocents
Breathing in rhyme.
Three little stockings hung
Up on the wall —
Minnie’s and Rosa’s,
And baby’s so small ;
Three little scarlet ones,
Dear girls and boys,
Three little scarlet ones
Brimming with toys.
jJt •$*
Six little pattering feet
Out on the floor,
Three little faces thrust
In at the door.
Six little wondering eyes
Anxious to see,
Three little busy tongues
Prattling in glee.
Three little dinner-plates
Set with the rest,
Six little rosy lips
Eating the best.
Three little darlings
To cherish and feed —
Christmas at our house
Is Christmas indeed.
Written for Burke’s Weekly.
THE ADVENTURES OF
BIG-FOOT WALLACE,
The Texks Ranger and Hunter,
By the Author of “ Jack Dobell; or, A Boy's
Ad-ventures in Texas."
CHAPTER XXIX.
PLENTY OF WATER —A HALT FOR REFRESH
MENT—OUR AUTHOR AMONG THE ROCKS
HE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE —
TREED BY MEXICAN HOGS.
E had travelled but a few miles
when our trail led us into a
narrow pass in the hills, and
after going up this two or three miles
farther, we came to one of the most
beautiful little valleys I had ever seen,
through the midst of which there ran a
bold stream of water, bordered by fine
large cypress and pecan trees. The
grass in this valley was luxuriant, and
the Indians we were following had stop
ped in it some time to recruit their
horses, after passing over the desert
country we had just come through, as
was evident from the quantity of bones
and other offal around their camps. As
our own horses had had but little grass
for the last two days, I thought it would
be good policy to follow their example,
and rest them here until the next day.
So we picked out a suitable place for a
camp-ground, in a grove of pecans, and
staked the animals out to graze.
Our author was a great geologist, I
think he called it, as well as a book
maker, and would frequently talk to me
about the “stratas” and the “ prima
ry ” and “ tertiary” formations, though
I told him I did not know anything of
such matters, and whenever we stopped
to camp, lie would frequently “boge”
about for hours among the caverns and
gulches, hunting what he called “speci
mens,” and come back with his pockets
filled with rocks, which he would sort
out and label, and then store them away
carefully in his saddlebags. On one
occasion I beard one of my men say to
another, “ Bill, what in the thunder do
you suppose that ‘ author ’ has got in
his saddle wallets that makes them so
heavy?”
“Don’t know,” said Bill, “unless
they are nuggets.”
“Nuggets!” said the other, “they
are rocks just like these you see laying
all around here. I know it is so, for I
looked into them this morning !”
“ Why,” answered Bill, “ what do
you reckon the fool is packing them
about for?”
“No idea,” said the other, “unless
he has no faith in that ‘ bird gun’ and
‘ pepper box’ he totes, and intends to
fight with them when we catch up with
these Ingens. The truth is, Bill,” he
continued, “ the fellow is as crazy as a
bed bug, sure, and if he only had any
weepins about him that could hurt a
body, I should keep my eye skinned on
him, certain.”
In fact, by this time the belief was
prevalent among the men that our au
thor was really “unsettled” in his
mind, which supposition proved, in the
end, of service to him, for, of course,
they could not hold a crazy man respon
sible for anything he did.
As soon after our halt as he had un
saddled and staked his horse, he went
out, as usual, hunting “ specimens” in
the ravines and gullies among the hills.
I was just settling myself upon my
blanket, to take a comfortable snooze,
when we heard him “ hallo ” repeated
ly about half a mile from camp.
“There,” said one of the men, “there
is that crazy chap got into a scrape with
another buck, I suppose, and some
body will have to go and help him out
of it.”
“Yes,” said another, “and the first
thing he knows he will have his‘hair
lifted,’ ‘boging ’ about alone, with noth
ing but that ‘pop-gun’ of his to fight
with. He had better trust to his ‘um
brell.’ ”
I was satisfied, however, it could not
be a buck that was after him this time,
for I had noticed, when he left camp,
that he did not take his “pop-gun” along
with him, and as he continued to “sing
out ” louder and louder, I, at length,
picked up my rifle, and started off to
see what sort of a scrape he had got