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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