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Ths Two ChriBtmas Trees.
' ' I.
I
KrlFH Krlngle walked the city,
Ablaze with glaring light;
< X would see,” he said, “ how mortals
Keep the Ohrlst-chlid’s memory bright,”
H* sought a stately mansion;
Within, a glai t tree
Flood loaae . d »wn with costly gilts,
A. goo lly siiht to see.
Above a white dove hovered,
B jIow the caudles shone
Through crytdal globes, where changing h^es
Mocked every precious stone.
But Krlss Kringle’s brow was troubled,
For greed on every ti e
Kobted the lair giltsoi metr blessing,
And love was lost in pride.
And pampered menials, Jeering,
Drove the beggar lrom the door.
“ He hath no share In Christmas-tide
Who thinks not ol God’s poor,”
Mused the loving spirit sadly,
As he plunged into the night:
«> jis the light ol love and kindness
Keeps the Chrlst-chlld’s memory bright.”
,. II.
£ crszy wooden shutter
Fenced a cracked and dingy pane,
| From tne fiercest of the weather,
i The lull sweep of the rain.
Some twinkling rushlights glimmered
la the bare and flreless 1 ooui,
A tiny fir-branch shimmered
'Mid the ball-lighted gloom.
It bore fo* • rosy apples,
A top, a kuile, a doll,
Buch as the poorest purse can buy,
Rough, poor.and tawdry all.
Yet Carl and Hans and G . etchen
Capered and lau ;hed wltn glee,
At the unwonted radianco
Of the blessed Curistmas tree.
Krlss Krlngle saw the mother
Give the poor gifts away,
Till the labt and largest apple
Hung twirling from the spray.
*i You can cut that,” said the father,
But little Hans spoke low,
«> Poor Wilhelm has no mother,
one died six day s ago.
«i He has bo apples, father,
No pretty Curistmas toys, *
No candles brig at, to give him light,
Hike all the other boys.”
III.
len honest Hans, ihe porter,
Laid down his pipe, and kis sed
i e pitying ouild, then straightway sought
The orphan, as he wished.
How the children gave him welcome,
And the poor gift ma le him glad ;
low while the rushlights lasted,
A merry romp they had.
ft was too long to tell you,
But Still I fain would say
[hat good Krlss Krlngle uttered,
As he smilingly turned away.
Rest Is this house lotever!
For love and pity greet
i ever-lovlug Curist-ohild.
tut where ti is coming feet
id that no human sorrow
ian pa s the Jealous door,
Tereln HU Father’s wratu shall fi id
A reauy threshing fl ior.
L> Better this gloomy hovel
Than the palace bathed in light,
|ince in it love aud pity
M ike the Curlst-chlld's memory bright.”
Christmas Chimes.
Snow ! snow ! snow ! under foot, on
thewet #ushy pavement, overhead,
' weighiug down the leadeu like clouds,
[and in the air, almost stopping dne’s
|breath by its dense, cold white flakeB.
Ever since morning it has been
Inowiug, ever since the sun rose—or
rather wo ere it should have risen, for
after a few struggling attemps to shed
its rays on Mather Earth old Sol wise
ly concluded he was def iated, and re
tire leaving the snow master of the
fleld—ever since then it has been fal
ling in a perfect misty sheet. Thr iugh
all this cold and sleet corpus a woman.
Her clothing none too warm, entirely
fails to protect her delicate, trail limbs
from the exceeding severity of the
weather. The co.d has drawn blue
lines round the sensitive mouth and
the trausparent hands in vain seek a
shelter under the threadbare shawl ;
her step is tired and faltering, but in
spite of the conteuding elemeuts she
pushes bravely onward ; at least she
pauses as if vaguely uncertain of her
way. While she stands a shrill ory is
heard and a small child tries to hide
itself in the folds of her scanty dress.
Involuntarily the womau moves so as
to screen the boy.
Hardly had she done so when a
man brushes by them with a mutter
ed oath and disappears dewn a neigh
boring street, and as he passes them,
the boy crouches more closely still to
his proteotor. When the sound of
Ihis footsteps die awav he commences
jto speak, the impetuosity of his words
well as a slight accent betraying his
[foreign origin.
“How oan I over thank madan e;
that man I think would have beaten
ie to death if he had caught me—
[als^malutenant L9 suls sauve.”
“Et pourgaol?” she asks, shivering
i though the very effort to speak
ter mors cold. In his excite-
der that she has answered him in
French, but naturally he continues in
that language.
“Why ? Ah! because I would not
lie.’’
“He wished you to tell a false
hood ?”
“Yes, and see how he has hurt me !”
The child extends his arm i,s he
speaks, but the darkness is so great
fiat although she knows by instinct
that he has made the gesture she can
see nothir g.
“You had better return home,” she
says presently as he shows no signs of
leaving her.
“Can’t I go with you?’’ he asks.
A half smile crosses her lips, he is
such a little fellow. Tenderly she
lays her hand on the curly head and
her lips tremble as she answers him.
“ My home is a very poor one.”
“Ah! what is the difference, if you
will only take me there; I am so
cold.”
She does not speak, but tafcing his
hand walks on, at last they turn into
a still darker street with rows of high,
dirty looking houses. It is one of
those she enters, mounting flights of
stairs until she reaches a dor of
which she holds the key ; this room
the two enter. The woman, after
shaking the snow from elf her dress,
lights a candle, and placing a piece ot
dry bread on the table bids the boy
eat.
“ But where is your own suppei ?”
he questions.
“ I have had plenty,” she answers
shortly. She watches him for a mo
ment as he fairly devours the food,
and then she turns her eyes toward
the window and permits her thoughts
to drift away. She is recalled, how-
tv-r, presently, by a pair of soft arms
around the neck, and turning, she
meets the eyes of the little waif.
“ I cannot eat, madam,” he says, in
the liquid accent i of his native climes
“ Because 1 am sure it is your supper.”
li is the first time she has looked at
tentively at him, and something in
his face seems to claim her attention.
Her cheek blanches and hot tears
spring to her eyes.
“ Don’t cry,” pleads the child, then
as she covers her face with her ba id ;
“ or that either it makes me think of
papa,” trying to draw her fingers
down as he speaks.
“ Wnat is your father’s name?” she
questions, eagerly.
“ Just the same as mine, L^on La-
garilere.”
The woman uttered a half-suppress
ed cry.
“ Leon's child! my God! I might
have known it.”
“ Do you know papa?”
She seems uncoi scious of his words
“Perhaps you can tell me where
m mima is ?”
“No darling ” she answered gently,
“I can tell you nothing, but how is it
I met you to night all alone?”
Leon hangs his head.
“I ran away,” then more quickly,
“Poor papa is always so sad that I
thought if I could find mamma she
would comfort him, so yesterday I rau
a vay, but after awhile I got tired and
hungry, and then I met a man who
said he knew for whom I was looking,
so I went with him, but he took away
all my pretty clothes and gave me
these, though I okibd and cried,
then because I would not say I was
his child he beat me, and at last was
going to put me on board a big ship
when I got away, and found you -I
am so glaifc I did,” nestling more
closely to her as he speaks.
“I shall have a hard time to find
her, for its ever so long since I saw
her last, most three y -ars, I think I
heard papa say—and you see I was
only four then, but I remember she
had long yellow hair. Papa said the
suu must have kissed it, it was so
very yellow, and great big blue eyes ;
she was awful pretty. Ah, please
don’t cry, it makes me sorry.”
“My darling! my darling!” she
moans, burying her f we in his shor.,
clustering curls.
“Papa wassofoad of her, why he
always kissed her if he came la or
went out, but one day he came home
looking so queer and w;ent straight up
to mamma aud showed her a letter.
She read it and then laughed. ‘Way
of course you know, Leon, I did not
write it,' she said, but he never spoke
a word. I think a lot more was said
that I can’t remember, and then 1
saw her put her arms round his neok
and heard her say : ‘Leon, Is It likely
when I have loved only you, that I
should write such a letter to another?’
But papa pushed her away, saying
something that made her get all red,
and then mamma left the room.
That night she came to my bed, aud
‘My little BABY,’ I heard her whis
p u r and then she kissed me, many,
many times, til! I fell asleep in her
arms. I never saw her since. For a
long time, madame, I used to tease
every one about her, but at last I
stopped.”
“G) on, dear.”
“There is not much more to tell. It
was a good bit ago that Auntie Lou
came to our house, and had a long
talk with papa—they spoke so loud—
and at last Auutie went away looking
awful mad. I went in the room ami
found papa lying all of a heap on the
table with lots cf papers strewn around
him. I stood by him a long time be
fore he noticed me ; at last he took my
face bet veen his hands and said so
sadly, ‘Leon, do you remember your
mother?’ ‘Yes, sir.' I answered.
‘Then child,” papawentou, ‘In alter
years remember a>so that she was the
best woman that ever lived, and that
I, by my absurd j ialousy, have most
cruelly wronged her*’ I don’t under
stand what he meant, but that was
what he said. After this he got sick
and the doctors said he must leave
France, so w 3 came over here; but
every night in his sleep I heard papa
call for Adele—that’s my mamma’s
name—md once I heard him Say,
“Ah! Adele, if you were living you
could not have left me so long alone.”
Then you see I thought maybe I could
find her, i o i ran away, and now poor
papa has no one.
“You think if she was to go back he
would be glad to see her?” the woman
asked.
“Yes,indeed !” the boy cries eagerly.
She rises and proceeds to replace
the shawl she has first taken off, about
her head she twisti a large black veil
so as to completely screen her fea
tures.
“Leon, do you know the name of
thehotal where your lather is stop
ping?”
“I think it was Ev—, something,”
is the vague reply.
“Evert?” she queries.
“Perhaps; anyway it is a big
place.”
Carefully she wraps his cloak about
him and leads him down stairs. The
dim gas light in the sheets only
makes the cold seem more biting.
The snow has stopped falling, but the
wintry blast that whistles through the
leafless branenes is as penetrating.
Leon involuntarily draws back to
ward the poor shelter the house af
fords, but his companion, taking bis
hand, toldly plunges into the heavy
drifts. They walk as swiftly on as
they can until the child’s limbs, half
stiff with cold, refuse to do their
office. Without a word the woman
iifis nim in her ur ns, and thus en
cumbered by her heavy bur len de
terminedly fights her way forward.
They have now reached a better
portion of the city. Most of the
houses are brilliantly lighted, aud
from some come sweet strains of
music. Through the half open shut
ters ladies and gentlemen may be
seen dressing, amid shouts of laughter
and gay conversation, the tall, green
evergreens.
Before a larger house than the rest
the woman stops for a moment to
rest. As she stands there one of the
lower windows is thrown violently
open and with a merry ringing laugh
a young girl runs out on to the bal
cony. After a moment she is followed
by a gentleman, who smilingly, but
still resolutely wrests irom her cling
iugfiugeri a spray of mietletoe and
holds it victoriously above her head.
She tries to bend far from him over
the edge of the balcony, but his firm
grasp draws her nearer and nearer to
him, uniil his moustached lips almost
graze her cheek, when with a rapid
movement she frees herself aud with
a saucy glance that challenges him to
follow, runs back into the house.
With a half sigh the woman quits the
scene, the boy on her breast orying
plaintively with the cold, aud she
gently hushed him to rest, at last
they reaoh the Everet House. Half
afraid of the answer she may receive
she questions the waiter and finds
that fortune has indeed guarded her
steps and that M. Lagardera is still an
imnate of the hotel. The Waiter, who
instantly recognized Leon, showed
them into a private parlor while he
informed the child’s father.
The genial warmth of the room
rouses the boy, and his blue eyes are
wide open as his father enters. With
a Joy|al senam he rushes forward aud
lsgpl&sped in a warm embrace. For a
few 'momenta neither think of the
presence of the tall, straight, black
robJd figure, standing by the fireside—
Lgpn lijLtlie first to remember
Yj^^list th&afe madame,”he sa
think I should have died if it had not
been for her.”
He has taken the hand of each as he
speaks aud is standing between them
his childish face full of plea«ure.
“H >w can I thank you,” Lagardere
says earnestly, “words are too poor,
but if I can in any way repay you.”
Her fingers closed convulsively over
Leou’s hands, but she makes no reply.
“If I could [r ive—
But the sentence is never finished,
the woman stretches out her arms to
him, and sinking on her knees cries
piteously :
“Pardon, only pardon me!” The
veil has fallen from her head dragging
with it her wealth of golden hair, aud
there crouching at his feet, after three
long, weary years, Leon Lagardere
sees his wife.
“I should never have left you” she
goes on rapidly. “I was so foolishly
proud and I thought you had lost your
love for me, now—”
But it is her child’s voice that breaks
through her words.
“Papa, papa! I did bring mamma
back, and never knew it.”
The child’s arms are around her
neck, his fresh young lips clinging to
hers, and when her husband raises
her, it is with Leon still in her arms.
Gently he takes the boy from her,
drawing her to him; he has not
spoken, but the .loving, worshipping
look in his eyes seem to satisfy her,
for, droppinghtr head on his shoulder,
Adele regains once more the peace she
lost three years ago.
As they stand there thus reunited,
the Christmas chimes ring forth, tell
ing us that Curistmas Day has come
bringing with it “Peace on eaith and
good will towards man.”
Galoshes.
Its orthography is still unsettled, for
we find goloshes, galoshes, galoches,
galloches, golashes, etc. We may, of
course, pass aver the fanciful deriva
tion from “ Goliath’s shoes.” Cham
ber’s Encyclopedia informs us that
the term was introduced to this
country as a cord-wainer’s technicality,
to signify a method of rapairing old
boots aud shoes by putting a narrow
strip of leather above the sole so as to
surround the lower part of the upper
leather. It was also adopted by the
patten and clog makers to distinguish
what were also called French clogs
from ordinary clogs or pattens.” Hey-
len’s “ History of the Sabbatb,” pt. ii.
chap, vii., states that an act passed in
the reign of Ed war 1 TV. decreed that
“ no cordwainer or cobbler within the
cittyof London, or within three miles
of any part of the said citty, &5., do
upon any Sunday in the yeere or on
the feasts of the ascension or nativity
of our Lord, or on the feast of Corpus
Christi, sell or commaud to be sold
any shooes, huseans (i. e. bootes) or
galoches, or upon the Sunday or any
other of the said feasts shall set or put
upon the feet or leggs of any person
any shooes, huseans or galoches upon
pain of forfeiture or loss of 2)s. as
often as any person shall do contrary
to this ordinance.” The earliest spell
ing of the word is galloche or galoche.
Chaucer uses the word in the “Squire’s
Tale
Ne were worthy to uuboole his ;aloche,
Ther doubleuesse ol falulug shuld approohe,
N j coude so thunke a wight as he did me.
From the Gullicse of the Romans also
come the French galoche, the Spanish
golocha aud the French gallosche.
The New German Magazine
Gun.
According to Engineer ing, the new
gun, which is considered by t le Ger
man Government to have proved it-
atlf the most suitable military repeat
ing rifle, is the invention of the
Messrs. Mauser, the originators of the
present German regulation rifle. The
magaziue consists of a tube contained
in the stock, and has a spiral spring
which keeps the cartridges up to the
brsedli action. When the bolt is with-
tlr twn, a cartridge, which has been
forced out of the maguz'ne by the
spiral spring, is raised up to the level
of the cartridge chamber, into which
it is driven by the bolt as it returns.
The^whole aotion of loading is com
prised in the baokward and forward
motion of the bolt. In order to avoid
waste of ammunition, a lever is at
tached to one side of the action, by
whloh the magazine can be instantly
closed, the gun being then loaded and
fired as an ordinary breech-loader.
The reloading of the magazine is stated
only to oooupy a few seconds. This
system can be applied to the Mauser
riflp of 1871 model, now in use, at
very small ooa|. Two thousand of
these weapons are in oourse of con
struction, and will be served out as
quickly as possible to one of thegraua-
regimenU^uow quwr ert '
Man-Hunting in Siberia.
Sorry, indeed, even when death
does not come to put an end to his ex
istence, is the lot of the convict who
lias succeeded in escaping from the
mines of Eastern S beria. Without
resources of any kind, he must beg or
rob his way back to Russia. The al
ternative of seeking employment is
one which often has disastrous conse
quences. The convict of the lowest
type regards the Siberian colonist as
an inferior, and has a saying which
describes him as “blind for three days
after birth.” But the colonist has his
revenpe. He works the supercilious
convict like a beast of burden, and
gives him as little rest and as little
food as possible. When wages
are demanded the colonist has an
original way of satisfying his la
borer. The money is paid without
demur, but before the convict can get
clear, he falls dead, killed by a b ulle:
from the gun of his- cruel employer.
This method of payment is some'
times carried out on a large scale. It
is adopted in the case of vagabond
laborer i who, having finished their
autumn work in the flields, return te
the neighboring village to be paid off.
The wages are forthcoming, and the
labor rs allowed to depart with their
hardly earned money. But they have
no sooner gone than the peasant far
mer assembles bis neighbors and hav
ing provided them with horses and
firearms, the whole party sallies fjrdi
in pursuit of the vagabonds. The re
turning laborers are speedily over
taken ; rnostar-. killed on thespot, all
are r >bbed,the recovered money being
divided between the farmer and his
confederates.
The only respect shown for author
ity is the prevalent habit, wber s rob
bery has been the motive of slaughter,
of concealing the dead. The murdered
convicts are usually cut up and mu
tilated, and the remains buried in
out-of-the-way places, This hunting
of the “hunchbacks,” as the
escaped convicts are often called
in derision, has gone on for years,
entering so deeply into (he habito
of the people that it has escaped
the attention of few travelers through
Eastern Siberia. “Where are the,
men?” was asked of a woman left ir
charge of a small village adjoin!
the highway. “Gone after the hunc
backs,” was the, reply. Such Is t?
prevailing demoraliz \tion in this
spect that boys have been heard
ask their father i to kill vagabonds
order that they may see “how ti
fellow will roil on his hump.” Ii
some of the governments it is certaj
death tor a convict escaped, or
under supervision, to be caught
turning from the mine. Occasiot
the soldiers imitate the colonislj
their exploitations of the vagabl
The Ci’ssack, as well as the ordinl
colonist, covets cheap labor, and'
in the habit of rewarding with an^
ounce or two of lead the convict who
decliues to pass from one condition of|
bond slavery to another.
During the colonization of the
Transbaikal region the hunting
vagabonds was one of the common dj
versions of the newly arrived settler
Fr >rn Tomsk to Chiti there is a local
ity that has rendered itself notorious
for the pursuit on a large scale of es
caped convicts. In the Tomsk gov
ernment itself whole villages are de
scribed as living solely by the rob
bery of vagabonds. The river Karasan
has been so filled with the bodies of
murdered convicts as to become pu
trid. Near Fingul open woods are
known as a favorite ground lor the
slaughter. The whole of the district
is full of the mem >ries and traditions
of Siberian man-hunting. Hsroes of
the sport are still alive. Bitkov,
Romanov and Z ivorota were eaoh ex»
per. In different ways. R nnanov, for
instance, gained celebrity in the vil
lage of Fiugul, where he was in thej
habit of lying in ambush close to the !
highway, and shooting down every
vagabond who passed. In the autumn
evenings Bitkov used to piok ofH
stragglers along the banks of the rlvj
Augar. During subsequent s[
along the Biry us there were India
ual Siberians who boasted that ti
had brought down as many as s^
and in some oases ninety vagabc
Only upon one of these hunter
men do the vagabonds seem to
taken vengeauee. They selected
Puramonioh, who had been all hi
life engaged in killing convicts. TI
vagtdS&nds assembled together, seize
him and brought his career to a
by plunging hi^nilve;
in caiulHifigu f