Newspaper Page Text
In midnight hour and with adorers few
He doth inaugurate His earthly reign.
Who comes the ancient promise to pursue.
And man's lost heritauce restore again.
THE LEGEND OF CHRIST CHURCH.
Near the southern coast of England,
Rising dark from hills of given.
An ancient church with Norman towers
By the sailor's eye is seen.
Seven centuries have written
Strangest stories ou each stone.
Making thus a vast palimpsest
With rank ivy overgrown.
Of the legends, rarest, sweetest,
Is the story of its birth.
When the mighty frame was lifted
Skyward from its native earth.
In the time of William Rufus,
Norman monks both brave and good.
Laid with zeal its strong foundations,—
For its timbers hewed the wood.
Day by day there lalx>red with them
One who from the forest came;
No one knew his home or nation.
No one ever asked his name.
As w ild violets on the hillside
Bloom when southern winds have blown.
By the deft blows of his chisel
Flowers sprang from solkl stone.
And the woods felt all the magic
Of his gentle artist hand —
Yielded sha]x*s that filled with wonder
A11 the skillful Norman band.
When at eventide tht% master
Paid the wages of the day.
Heeding not, the wondrouc stranger
Wended to the hills his way.
Then the puzzled workmen queried:
“Who is this, who asks no hire.
Yet whose perfect skill leaves nothing
Truest art could e'er desire t”
None gave answer to their question.
But as whirling mountain snows
Heap great drifts among the gorges.
Steadily the church arose.
Till the hour came for placing
The great lieam which «)muS the navo;
For its length the oak tree, bowing.
All his mighty fiber gave.
No oak on the hills of England
Towered so far above hU kin
As this monarch, strong, sound hearted.
Fit church walls to enter in.
Ah! we nil fall short in something.
Measured by tl» taw's demand.
Ami the oak beam .ailed in inches
By the distance of a hand.
Then despair possessed the workmen;
When thabtoilsome day was done.
Mournfully they phidd-d homeward;
Lingered there the Silent One.
How he labored in the starlight.
While cool-night winds round him stirred.
While the world in silence slumbered.
Their is no recorded word.
But the first faint flush of sunrise
Showed the beam set in its place.
While the stranger met the workmen
• With a smile upon his face.
Speaking low. in accents gentle.
Like some disbint anthem's strain:
•‘Unless the J*or«l doth all in building,
AH the work of man Is vain."
As the mists drift from a landscape.
Swept the dimness from their sight;
Knew they then 'twas Christ, the Master,
Who hod labored through the night
B. W.
CHRISTMAS AND THE CYNIC.
A Pessimist and Optimist Talk It
Over.
"There is more brotherly love and uplifting
of spirit in a good fat turkey than in all the
Christmas stories that ever were penned,"
said tun cynic, “Holiday literature is not to
my taste. It is usually of forced growth.
Written to fit the day, it has a flavor of un
naturalness. The hero of the Christmas
story is either translated on that day, or he
has a streak of jierfectly phenomenal luck.
It's never so in real life. In fact, pleasure is
more evasive on Christmas than at any other
time, notwithstanding nil the extravagant
sentiment si t afloat alxmt the good will busi
ness."
To which the optimist replied: “But isn't it
a good thing to have even the stories come
out rightf It’s pleasant to know that make-
believe people find one day in tlic^-ear joy
ous. There are so many wot blaukets flung
around on the other 364.”
“I would rather have my slice of good will
cut up and given to me every now and then
than to have a big chunk of it on Christmas,"
continued the cynic. “All this bluster isn't
sincere. Plenty of people give presents be
cause it's expected of them, not because they
have a feeling of tenderness toward their fel
low mortals. And bow is humanity benefited
by a spurt of generosity I”
“It isn’t perfection, this world isn't,” said
the optimist, musingly, “but there's lots of
goodness in the human animal after all. No
body but the babies cares for presents partic
ularly ; but it's a pretty custom to give them.
We’re likely to grow so despicably selfish if
there was no Chr*. *’uas to remind us that we
could make soniehody else glad. And when
you come right down to solid facta, the dear,
grotesque old myth, Santa Claus, has done
more toward expanding the human heart and
keeping it tender toward the children and the
poor than all the sermons. What would we
do without this „ood genius of Babyland who
fills the stockings while their owners are
away in the beautiful Land of Nodr
The simple unquestioning faith they
have in him is worth more than the
crown of kings. There is no danger of tha
earth being made too good by a gush
of generosity. We still have all the old
scourges and a few new ones. The Russian
exiles still toil in agony in the Siberian mine*
SUPPLEMENT TO THE BANNER-WATCHMAN, ATHtNS, GA. DECEMBER, 28, 1886
The gaunt wolf of famine still prowls j
through the streets: of great cities and on
lonely country roads. The forked tongue of
the hydra-beaded devil of slander strikes here
and there doing its blasting work. The
north wind stings through the beggar's rags.
The hot breath of disease still leaves its olden
track of sorrow in the houses of the rich and j
the hovels of the poor, and the old, old mar
plot, Death, is as formidable as ever. Oh, j
no, there is no danger of tho grim old world
getting too good even for a day, but through I
the leaden sky there gleam such stars of ^
promise that one can almost, forget that
Chris mas trees are sawed off at the base and
have sticks for roots. ,
“Speaking of Christmas trees,” said .the
cynic, “1 saw the most miserable caricature !
of one to-day that could be imagined. It was j
a cast off limb from some Dives' umbrageous
one. A small Lazarus had dragged It home, ‘
set it np near the front window in the pater- |
nal shanty and strung it full of his miserable
possessions. There wasn't an article worth a
penny in the lot The collection was the
most depressing one ever on exhibition. Small
chunks of nothing wrapped in greasy paper,
dusters of old buttons found on the sidewalk
from time to time, bits of leather, nails, whit
tled sticks, pieces of colored glass, and a small
china doll with both arms and legs broken
off, comprised the assortment Being a
cynic, I'm not much given to emotional
ecstasy, but I could have wept over this
serious burlesque of Christmas cheer. And
that’s alxmt what Christmas means to half
the people. The bluster and pleasure of the
well-to do only emphasizes tlie distress of the
poverty stricken. The Christmas angels are
not impartial They fly swiftly over the
roofs of the wretched and linger long by the
hearthstones of the rich.”
The optimist smiled and sighed as he
musingly answered: “Yes, the millenium Js
a long way off, but there is some good will
among us, some generosity, some unselfish
ness, some almost perfect love, and some
hope for the future of the race. We can’t
all have full Christmas trees any more than
we can all have continual joy and riches and
contentment. It isn't in the plan; but it’s
something for a few to have pleasure. It has
been said that if you make children happy
while they are children, you make them
happy twenty years later by the memory of
it The rain of sorrow will fall upon them
soon enough. Care and grief, old age and
death are waiting for them down the road.”
“Well, I wish the false would be rung out
and the true rung in as soon as possible,” said
the cynic, as lie walked away. G. G.
THE HAPPIEST MOMENT.
HOW IT CAME TO THE QUESTS OF A CHRIST
MAS PARTY.
Honor, aged 20, and her Aunt Margaret,
aged 38 and unmarried,.maintained them
selves by keeping a morning school for young
ladies in Paradise row, one of the back
streets of Camden Town, London, which
consists of ten mean little bouses. Aunt Mar
garet was the daughter of the rector of Bray-
lei gh, and Honor was her sister’s child. Tha
sister had married an artist, and she and her
husband both died when Honor was a mere
baby. Her aunt and grandfather had edu
cated her. Soon after tha rector’s death tha
two ladies were impoverished by the failure
of the liauk which contained their little store
of wealth. So the school was opened, and
they got on fairly well, enjoying their inde
pendence,.although not in receipt of a very
promising income.
Honor had an uncle—her father’s brother—
the rich Mr. Bryson, who, although he gave
them no financial aid, always invited his
niece and her aunt to spend the holidays at
his house. As the Christmas of 1872 drew
near the two impoverished gentlewomen be
gan to fix over their bits of finery in the ex
pectation of the-Usual ^Mt to Unde Bryson's.
Instead of the anticipated invitation they re
ceived a very polite notoTTWre Unci* B. *ay-
ing that “the coming *o far motVfe5»» alwaya
been a tax upon them,” and
“would # not again press the invitation.”
softened the blow with a check for £20, his
best wishes and the compliments of the sea
son.
There was a reason for this beyond what
the two disappointed ladies could dream of.
The Brysons had a marriageable daughter,
anil there was a certain Sir Edward Dusart
who, tliey thought, was about to propose to
her, and Aunt Bryson had discovered that
Honor was much too handsome and attractive
to have around when such an important pos
sibility was pending; and Sir Edward was to
be a "Christinas guest. Aunt Margaret had
fondly.dreamed that Sir Edward cared for
Honor, whom he had met more than once at
Vncle Bryson’s. But when she beard that he
was about to propose to Uncle Bryson’s
daughter Amelia she hoped that Honor did
not care for him.
The first impulse of Aunt Margaret and
Honor on receiving Uncle Bryson’s check was
to send it back. Second thought persuaded
them to keep it and use every penny of it in
giving a Christmas party themselves—not a
party for the rich and prosperous, nor even
for their financial equals; but a party for the
good and kind among their neighbors, the in
habitants of Paradise Row, humble souls, to
whom all pleasures were rare.
They took Mr. Redmond, the incumbent of
the new church in their district, into their
confidence, and he was greatly interested in
the plan, and promised to help them all he
could. He was the only friend the two ladies
had made since they went to Paradise row
to whom they could say anything about their
past lives. He often looked in upon them
after their day’s work was done, and it seemed
plain to Aunt Margaret that he took great in
terest in Honor. Sometimes Aunt Margaret
said to herself that the match would not be
so undesirable, although he was a widower,
with a grown up daughter, and a little too
old for Honor.
They had a busy time preparing for the
feast. They felt in duty bound to spend every
penny of the money. In addition to the sup
per, every guest was to have a present, and
several sick ones were to have presents sent
them. They called in “Old Nannie” to help
the maid of all work get the feast ready, and,
in her language, the house soon “smelt as
good as a cook shop.” Old Nannie was to be
one of the guests of the Christmas party. She
had been in charge of the guardians of the
poor; but had managed to have her “ *low-
ances” sent to her lowly lodgings, and never
got into the dreaded “house,” where the poor
are taken in the last extremity.
Among the other important guests were
the “little tailor and his wife,” “Sally’s grand
mother,” “Johnny and his mother.” and the
"poor lodger." Bally’s grandmother was in
the receipt of parish relief. The “poor
lodger,” as the neighbors called him, was a
young man about whom no one knew
more than that be did not appear to ha!
friend in the world, and that he had ben]
desperate need, having just struggled through
a long illness in an attic of a bouse where
lodged Johnny and his mother. The latter, y
a tailor's widow, only just contrived to keep '
body and soul together by working for the
city warehouses; and the little tailor and his
wife got their living by patching and botch
ing for people as poor as themselves.
Although every one else jetted about the
little tailor and his wife clinging to the belief
that they would again see their son, who had
gone abroad to seek his fortune, and had not
been heard of for years, Honor did not The
belief helped them to bear their privations
better than they might otherwise have done,
she thought
And there was Grace Fairlis, the national
school mistress, a gentlewoman, who had been
auite alone In the world since her mother’s
death; and poor little Annie, -the drunken
jobbler's daughter, and the good natnred old
soldier, with the bullet in his leg, who helped
everybody. The ladies were almost afraid
they would be obliged to send a separate in
vitation to the bullet, it was such an impor
tant-factor in the old man's life.
Then, there was Mrs. 1*0171611, who was
“genteeL” They were uncertain whether she
would come, for, although she had now the
recommendation of being poor and lonely,
she prided herself upon having “once moved
in a different sphere.” She talked of her
father having been an agent for something or
somebody, and alluded to her late husband’s
“avocations” in a way which, if slightly in
definite, bad its effect in Paradise row. She
thought a great deal about keeping up the
“distinction of classes,” and the proper ob
servances of etiquette; and she told Aunt
Margaret that she had serious doubts as to
whether she could call upon her and Honor,
until she heard they had a piano and taught
French.
Nobody refused, and by 5 o’clock on Christ
mas afternoon they had everything prepared.
It was cold Christmas weather, so the cur
tains were drawn, a bright fire was burning
in every room, chairs and couches, hired for
the occasion from the broker round the
corner, were plentiful, and Honor’s piano
forte at the further end of the sitting room
opened ready for use. There was a certain
fitness even in the hired furniture. The
small settee for the littlo tailor and his wife;
the faded, crimson easy chair—so fitting a
throne for gentility—for Mrs. Parnell; the
big, high shouldered one, 60 admirably
adapted for the poor lodger, who, rumor said,
did not like to be looked at; the pretty little
lounge full of dimples, with a stool at its
feet, for Johnnie and his mother; the old
fashioned one with the cushions for Nannie;
and the straight backed one with the arms
for the old soldier; they all seemed to have
been specially designed to suit the different
idiosyucracies of the guests.
miserable attic of one of the meanest houses
in the street, where the most poverty
stricken gave him the name of the “poor
1 °The iiitie tailor's aside to his wife: “Them
was swell clothes once, mother, and nothing
will get the gentleman out of them any more
than it will out of him,” showed that others
thought as I did.
Then came the old soldier, brisk and neat
and upright as a soldier with a ballet in his
leg could be expected to be. Everything
about him, from his dear, keen gray eyes.to
his carefully brushed and mended clothes and
well polished boots, bearing witness to a life
of discipline. By the hand he ted Annie, the
little motherless girl, whose father, the
drunken cobbler, lived in the same house
with him. He had done what he could for
her in the way of adornment, brushing the
beautiful golden hair and tying it np with a
piece of string into a funny little knob at the
top of her brad, brightly polishing her poor,
shabby boots, and presenting her with a gay
pictured pocket handkerchief to carry in her
hand; and ha had paid respect to the season
by pinning a few holly berries in the front of
her thin, worn frock.
As they entered the room she hung back,
clinging nervously to him, and looking as
scared as though she expected she was going
to be beaten. Honor had some difficulty in
inducing her to loose her protector’s hand and
take the stool provided for her in a warm
corner near the fire. When she at length sat
down she shrank timidly against the wall, as
though only desirous to escape notice.
All felt that little Annie needed , sympathy
and kindness more than did any guest there,
if the soul was to be kept much longer in the
great mournful eyes. Most pitiful of a)l was
the old look in the pinched, white face. She
seemed to regard us with a kind of calm in
dulgence, as grown-up children playing at
life, which she had long seen the sad real
ity of.
All went well, and with music and chatting
that night when we was ‘eerouging’ tosee the *1 shaI1 “7 T™ did not pass this way," was
•luminations,’ and she said she’d sooner a «>« eager interruption,
deal have me to take care of her than Steve » id the blessed mother, "yon most
Jackson; for Steve was well to do in the «!>«* on, y the truth. Say: They passed me
world—set up for himself, with a horse and while I was sowing this oom.’”
cart and all complete, in the green grocery Aud tb » travelers pursued their journey,
line, a master man. He was a Letter figure Th* nclt morning the sower was amazed to
of a man to look at, too, for it’s no use m- I flnd that his com had sprung up and ripened
trying to make believe as I was ever so hanu lu tho night While he. was gazing at it in
aome as she thought me.” ! astonishment, Herod’s officers rode up and
Mrs. Peebles was next asked to speak, i Questioned him.
Just then Sally beckoned Honor outof the “Ves, I saw the people of whom yon speak,"
room, and when she re-entered, which she “j 1 * “They passed while I was sowing
did before Mrs. Peebles began to talk, there this corn.”
was a look on her face telling that something Then the officers moved on, feeling sure
unusual had happened. She put her hand on that the persons seen by the sower were not
the back of a chair, as if to steady herself, aud *■“ Ho 'y family, for such fine ripe com must
said: “Mrs. Peebles,)I think there Is somebody
here who can tall your story for you.”
SAD FACED LITTLE ANNIE.
The little tailor rose, with his eyes shooting
from his head and his face as white as the
dead. Mrs. Peebles gasped, but could not
speak, for lo! following Honor into the room
V was a tall, good looking young man with
the time was spent very happily until 9
o’clock. Then, before the queer company I '' afl “ luoK,u B y° Kn l? ™
... .-tai .mint the t»hl„ Honor nmoo-vt «T“. h™ 1 ™ beard and bronzed
MBS. PARNELL IS THE EASY CHAIR.
Mm Parnell was the first to arrive.
She entered the room with a very grand
_ andin full dress, as it hadf
was seated around the table, Honor proposed
that each one relate the history of the hap
piest moment of his life.
The happiest moment! There was a puz
zled, half doubtful expression in some of the
faces os thought traveled back into the past;
but it presently disappeared, and there was a
smile more or less expansive upon every one’s
face. Even the poor lodger had a reticent
smile upon his lips, as he turned his eyes med
itatively toward the fire.
Johnnie led off. He admitted without
shame that the happiest moment of his life
was when he had been invited to the party,
and Sally had assured him that there would
be all the turkey, mince pie and pudding that
he could eat. His mother blushed over his
very materialistic idea of happiness. Her
own story was this: “I think the very hap
piest moment I have ever had was when the
manager at the warehouse promised to give
me a shilling a dozen extra for making the
shirts, for,” she added, looking round with a
deprecatory little smile, as though to apolo
gize for the homeliness of the cause of her
happy moment, “growing boy* are a'most
always hungry.”
Mrs. Parnell, when called upon to relate
her story, coughed meditatively behind her
fan for a moment or two, and then gracious
ly said that the happiest moment of her life
was when she danced with Lord Langland at
the tenantry ball, when she was just 18.
Grace Fairlie and Honor had some difficulty
in keeping their countenances as they ex
changed glances. Even the “poor lodger”
was evincing some signs of having once known
how to laugh. But the others appeared suffi
ciently impressed to satisfy Mrs. Parnell, had
she hod any misgivings upon the point. She
vae gazing complacently into the fire. She
had simply related a fact, and was too much
absorbed m the pleasant recollections it had
called up to notice any one's face.
Old Nannie thought the greatest amount
of bliss she ever experienced was when she
outwitted tho poor guaixiians and got her
“ ’lowance out ’stead of going into the house."
The old soldier described how a feeling
that his mother was near him pulling him
away from a trench during a battle, gave
him his happiest moment, because just as he
was fairly out a shell burst in the trench and
be knew that he had been saved from certain
have been sown months before.
Ruth O'Cqnnob.
THE SIGN DIVINE.
eenia
fcoio « d
little faded and-lLS* 1 ***>*fcd
— ’ come to . j co **®dered
party andNmderitood ^ hodoi ®v«iW
Honor hurriedly conducted her to the seat
of honor, explaining that she felt it so kind
of her to come and help them entertain their
guests, who were for tho most part people in
humble life.
Mrs. Parnell looked rather disagreeably sur
prised and drew herself up a little haughtily
for a moment! But she bad only tiine-to say
that, althougllshe had not been accustomed
to mix with her inferiors, she bad no objec
tion to do so for'once,-and under the circum
stance of being invited to assist in entertain
ing the good people, when, after a little scuf
fling in the passage, the door opened, and,
assisted by a friendly push from Sally, old
Nannie entered the room.
To figure as one of the guests for whom she
had helped to prepare was just at first too
much for old Nannie’s philosophy. There was
certainly a great contrast between Mrs. Par
nell in her faded grandeur and Nannie in her
short, scant, well worn merino gown, her
plain musiin cap, her sleeves too short to
cover her bony wrists and her bands bearing
witness to a life of toil Her only prepara
tions for company seemed to have been that
of turning down her cuffs, which were usually
turned up, putting on an old fashioned collar
with a frill reaching to her thin shoulders,
and pinned on awry, with a brooch of Cam
den Town emeralds and diamonds purchased
for her by Sally in honor of the occasion.
So far all was going on propitiously; and
no sooner was Nannie Inducted into her com
fortable chair by the fire in the back room,
where she sat with a hand planted upon each
knee, and her eyes turned complacently to
ward the well spread table, than the little
tailor and his wife—neither of them much
more than five feet high—were ushered in.
The pretty, fair-haired school mistress, in
deep mourning, was welcomed, and after her
came Johnny and his mother. No one seemed
to think of calling her anything but “Johnny’s
mother.” With them came the “poor
lodger,” who had not been easily induced to
accept the invitation, and who was looking
very doubtful and reserved, and on the de
fensive, so to speak, as though their motive
was as yet not quite clear to him.
But Honor’s diplomatic little aside, which
had answered so well with the others, seemed
to succeed with him also; at any rate, so far
as disarming his suspicions went In reply he
bowed low, with a few words about his esti
mation of the privilege of being allowed to
assist Miss Bryson in any way. But it was
enough to show that he was a gentleman, had
he not, evidently weak as he was, and appre
ciative of the comfortable chair assigned to
him, so courteously endeavored to decline it 1
in favor of others. The threadbare clothes i
which hung so loosely about his tall, gaunt i
frame contrasted piteously with his dis- i
tinguished bearing. At the same time there 1
was no trace in his countenance, which was *
that of a refined thinker, of any vice which
might have brought him so low in the
face—their own Tom, tho long hoped for,
long absent son, who had returned on Christ
mas night, exactly as absent sons frequently
do in books, but very rarely in real life. He
fell on his knees before Mrs. Peebles, sobbing
in her lap, while the little tailor was wildly
shaking hands with everybody. The happi
est moment had come for all three of the
Peebles family. Their story hod told itself.
Grace Fr.irlio, the little schoolmistress,
said: “I am obliged to acknowledge that I
owe the happiest moments I have ever expe
rienced to the receipt of a letter that came
to me one day when I was terribly in need
of the help it brought.” Over the poor
lodger’s face stole an expression of almost
angelic joy, but only Aunt Margaret noticed
it.
Then they all turned to little Annie—feeble,
prematurely old, sad faced little Annie—who
sat gazing reflectively into the fire aud then
said: “I 'member once father said he would
give me a worse hiding than ever when he
came home, ’cause I waited for him outside
the public, aud when he come he fell asleep
and forgot to give it me. If that will do,
miss?”
Little Annie! Poor littlo Annie! How
could she know that this story which she told
so simply in so few wonts was the must pa
thetic that had ever l*?cii written?
Then it was Honor’s turn to talk. She had
just begun her story—a fairy story—when,
glancing tip, her face expressed astonishment,
confusion and happiness, all in an instant.
There, standing in the door, unannounced,
was Sir Edward Dusart. Anyoue who un
derstood .the language of fnces would know at
once by a glance at Honor’s that her happiest
moment had conte; that her story, too, had
told itself, for only one thing could rave
brought Sir Edward Dusart to her from
Uncle Bryson’s on that Christmas night. And
wasn’t it curious that the scheming of the
Brysons to keep him from again meeting
Honor had brought _abojit. the very thing
tliey had tried to prevent? And isn't it al
ways so? Behind Sir Edward came Mr. Red
mond, who, after greeting everybody, said
something to Aunt Margaret which seemed
to make her face radiant and caused her to
tell the story of her happiest moment with
. ueen .rum curmm . her ey« only. Bhe it was. not Honor, who
by the watchful «>irit of his dead ! had been tie cause of his visit* there, and in
L the fewest words possible on that Christmas
: you bare another dream
■ leg out of tha way
” aazed Johnnie.
poor lodger,
the door holding"!
"besides, that did me no hurt.”
“No hurt to be shot?”
“Well, my boy, there’s different ways of
being hurt, as perhaps you’ll find out as you
get older. I’d bad my lesson, you see, and
didn’t need to be taught over again.”
“But ain’t you going to tell us how you got
the bullet in your leg?” persisted Johnnie.
“You didn’t have that through the dream?”
“Well, I got shot while I was fetching out
a young”— He paused, ruffling up his
scanty hair. “But I am no hand at telling
them sort of things. It isn't for me to say
why I'm a bit proud of the bullet I carry
about with me, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps
it will be enough if I say that it brought me
this,” touching the cross upon his breast, and
rather shyly adding: “It was p French offi
cer that was saved, an only son”—here
he gazed afar off dreamily and cut short his
story.
The “poor lodger,” when asked to tell his
story, begged to be excused fora little longer,
and gave way to Sally, who, after some
stammering, said, in high delight, glancing
shyly round:
“It was last night, then. He met me fetch
ing the supper beer, and he said he’d got
enough saved for a tidy bit of furniture, and
a little put by for a rainy day, as well as reg
ular work, so there was no coll to wait.”
Everybody congratulated Solly, and Aunt j able Christmas night she says there is an
Margaret said that he ought to have been 1 advantage to be derived from an occasional
invited, at which, amidst a merry laugh from mixture of dosses. James Brooks, the old
all, Sally, with a very red face, said: “He eoldier, is in receipt of a pension, which finds
isn't so fur off as he couldn't be found by it* way to him, he imagines, from France,
supper time, if you please, ma’am. He said is a frequent visitor at the hall, where
night he made this plain to her; and later,
when addressing a few words of good will
and good wishes to all before the curious
^company rose from the table, he said this was
of the happiest moments of his life.
after he and Sir Edward had bo
th© company, Mr. Williams, the
making his way toward
up to his'
face. He was telling'5&$**° cxcuse W®
her mistress, as a sadden atufeilL 0 * neuralgia
obliged him to leave rat
Sir Edward Dusart caught sight of
called out: “Elstonl Is it? Why, Elston,
old fellow, where on earth have you sprung
from?” The poor lodger moved on toward the
door, making no answer. Sir Edward sprang
after him, and with his arm around his neck,
school boy fashion, went with him into the
hall When they both returned Sir Edward
introduced the poor lodger as the best friend
he ever had, and one of the best scholars of
his own university. The little company was
greatly astonished to learn that he wasn’t
Mr. Williams at all, but Mr. Elston; but
they were still more astonished some weeks
later when they learned that he and Grace
Fairlie were married—they became engaged
that very night, and were married as soon as
he was established as a lawyer. So his story,
also, was not told, but told itself.
The little tailor and his wife are as happy
as they could desire. Mrs. Parnell is better
off now, and with Lady Dusart for her
friend, more “genteel” and exclusive than
ever. Whfti any one refers to that znemor-
eomething about being somewhere handy, to
see if he could be of any use in bringing up
the trays and such like.”
THE LONG ABSENT SON AT HI8 MOTHER’S
Sir Edward and Lady Dusart are always
glad to welcome him, and to the Rectory, a
mile away, where Mr. Redmond and Aunt
Margaret ore host and hostess. There is a
pretty cottage in the village, of which
Johnnie's mother is the mistress. There old
Nannie's last days were spent in comfort.
Johnnie became a sailor lad; but after some
years of seafaring, came home and “settled
down” iu the village with his mother. Poor
little Annie* Not all the love and care of her
kind friends could keep her long with them.
The tired little spirit fled early from a world
which it found too cruel to linger in.
M. Newman.
A Legend of the Flight Into Egypt,
“Arise, and take the child and his mother
into Egypt,” and they fled through the
solemn darkness of the night.
The next day they came upon a man tow
ing com. Some mysterious influence at
tracted him to the travelers. From the
countenance of the mother, or from the ear
nest eyes of the child she bore in her arms, a
softening gleam of grace descended into his
heart. He was very kind to them, and per-
The little tailor, Mr. IPeeblee, was then ^ totted them to cross his field, and the young
called upon to tell his story. “Well, if I mother, folding her babe yet more closely to
______ _ , must, I must,” be said; “but I’m afraid it *** heart » leaned forward, explaining to him
mi»m»aU* vain when I tell that they were tanned by enemies. "And If
•ealeaato desire to conceal himself in the . thrt mJ happiest moment waa ■ they come this way.” eeld the met, love
voice, “and ut if yon have teen us
“Who knocks!” the waiting angel said ;
“What sign u thine!”
“In holy war my blood was shed.
From battle's beat my soul has sped;
That sign is mine.’’
“I cannot bkl the gate unfold
For sign like thine.”
“To holy works I gave my gold—
Gave all—the sum was manifold;
That sign is mine.”
“Thy works are grand; but thou hast not
The sign Divine.”
“O angel! I have safely brought
The record of the deeds I wrought;
That sign is mine.” ..
“Not that 1 Not that! Thou must yet bring
A sign Divine.”
“O angel, angel! tell the King
That for him I gave everything;
That sign is mine.”
“Thy life was pure ; but give thy Lord
His sign divine.”
“O angel, angel! tell the Lord
That all my life I taught His word ;
That sign is mine.”
“He knoweth all; but thou must make
The sign Divine.”
“O angel! I did gladly take
Great burdens on me for His sake ;
That sign is mine.”
“O waiting soul! thou hast not brought
The sign Divine.”
“Sweet angel, for the Lord I fought.
Yet at His gate I have not got
His sign Divine.”
1
“O spirit dear! I cannot see
The sign Divine
That lifts the heavy gate for thee.”
“O angel! see my agony
For sign Divine.”
“O happy soul! the gate swings wide.
The sign is thine;
In woe thine arms extended wide
Portrays the cross—the crucified—
The sign Divine.”
..Gertrude Giemson.
Happiness as It Is in Youth and Maturity*
Isn’t it a little queer that as we grow from
youth to manhood the objects change which
bring us pleasure? -The amount of happi
ness realized varies but little? There seems
to be a certain amount of the article implanted
in us; no more, no less. Tho boy’s sled gives
place to the richly caparisoned sleigh, the toy
house to the imposing residence, the toy
watch to a real one, the toy boat to an ocean
yacht—but the first yielded quite os much
pleasure as the last.
The Christmas gifts and pleasures of youth
brought as much happiness as houses and
lands, honors and fame do tn after years.
Our happiness is all relative, anyway. We
eniov by comp«un*rm Th,. h^-. J-Hfr
enough to fill hi* mind. Urn man’* yacht is
merely a toy, which hu It* use fora time
end then ceases to omn.., . Christina* I* a
reality to the young—a definite pleasure
point. To the full grown boys and girh it is
an attempt to arouse the old enthusiasm th*
belief in Santa Claus, the enjoyment in gift
giving and gift receiving. It comes and goee,
and they try hard to persuade thenwelvee
that they enjoyed it with an old time z
Did it set forever that
Christmas morn
When Its wonderful
mission ceased ?
‘Or was it a planet
like the rest?
W ith earth and water
and sky.
Which the dear Christ in Hi* downward flight
Smiled on as He passed it by f
“Quick when It caught the wonderful gleam,
So bright that it pierced all space.
It could not choose but light the whole world
And point u) the glorified face.”
My fittle girl's eyes were full of thought
As she asked me this question grave;
And I, like one in the presence of kings,
Was an awed and silenced slave.
8he weighed my wisdom and found it void.
Ah! yes; it was very plain
From that day forth I must abdicate.
And be oracle ne'er again.
So I said, “My darling, I cannot tell;
Perhaps ft was os you say.
The beautiful star caught its wondrous light
As the Christ sped on His vfsy. (
"But if it is so or not, I think
It has never sunk quite out of sight,” ,
And she cried out quick In her joyous way, 1
“Ob, let us go find it to-night 1”
Ah ! little one, we are not shepherds, or wise, t
But may we not see as they did ?
Mot with our eyes, but down in our souls, >
The star not quite veiled or hid. ;
But shining clear, with a living light,
With a light that'll never dim,
TUI it pierces e'en through the outer night,
And leads us straight to Him,
_ Alice E. Ivxa