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68 THE SOUTHERN WORLD, DECEMBER 16,1883. fjornq j&iticlq. THE DYING TEAK. The Bekle wind that woo'd with emorotia sighs, The trembling leaves amid the sunny glades, With harsher tones now through the forest hies; And at his rude voice their verdure fades— As fades the love of purity and truth When passion's voice supplants those holy powers That sprang from chaos clothed In fadeless youth, And decked with garlands of perennial flowers. But ere they die—those blighted leaves of love. Like Nlobe more beautiful In woe— A thousand charms are showered from above To add frash luster and a richer glow Bright gold and amber shame their vernal bloom, Alas! 'tla but the beauty of the tomb. -JOHMBOIT. Good by to the Old Year I Many a heart has In sorrow sunk, And the cup of woe has been deeply drunk, Oood-by to the Old Year I —LT. Bbadley. BACTIKI.UK BRINDLE’M CURI8THA8. Bachelor Brindle gives the half-burned log in the fire-place a kick that sends the red sparks flying, and wonders crustily where that bit of rhyme strung on a half-forgotten fragment of melody, comes from, and how it happens to chant itself to him so persist ently to-night. It is a dismal night. Out side, a high east wind shrieks and squeals, skirmishes around corners and echoes away dolefully in every stray cavernous retreat and nook. Within bursts of tawny and scarlet Maine light up bachelor Brindle's fa vorite apartment, big, low-ceiled, .and com fortable, yet wearing the air of careless disor- order peculiar to a bachelor's apartments. And bachelor Brindle listening, to the wind’s boisterous whistlings and plaintive minor chords, becomes cross-grained, and even misanthropical. “Song,and feast," he mutters gr^mbly, “holly etc! Humph. Gammon! Where’s any holly,and who’d go draggling around in this slush and sleet to bring it in? What's set me to thinking of .” “Christmas eve," chants the tea-kettle swinging briskly over the blaze. “Crl jkey I” is Bachelor Brindle’s reprehen sible exclamation, “ so it is. I like to have forgot i t." As if sprinkled with some subtle, magic powder, the firelight, flickering, quivering, -dflnciiift suddenly lights a path across the floor, through the cottage walls, beyond the murk and mist, far into the past, where a cheery Christmas fire is burning; there are busy bands and hurrying feet and merry voices; there is an intoxicating flavor of holiday cheer; there is song and gladness; there are bright-eyed cousins, troopsof rel atives and friends, and radiant among all, is a romping, black-eyed girl with a turned up nose, who wore a scarlet jacket “And had temper enough for two,” grunts bachelor Brindle. There is a dim spot in the path of light. “Half your fault,” sings the tea-kettle cheerfully. “More than lialf,” snorts the wind belligerently, coming in a puff dqxn the chimney to back the tea-ket tle. “'Twas, 'twas, ’twas," A momentary lulling of the aggressive wind, and a soft sputtering in tbe red coals brings bachelor Brindle’s mind back to his present lot. “Snow,” he mutters with a shudder. “Time was when the idea brought only-fool- ishly bright visions of sleigh rides with her, of frolics and fun, and—oh, what’s tbe use? They're all gone, she among the rest, and I’m a forlorn old soul with no one to so much as cook a Christmas dinner for me— unless I could coax Aunt Haney over. Christmas eve! bless us. What an old wretch I was to forget it." Bachelor Brindie give the fore stick a dis contented poke, and turns to light the tall lamp on the shelf, then brings forth his old- fashioned brown Bible, and once more fol lows the story of the beautiful Babe and the first Christmas morning, while without the wind whirls its fleecy white burden about at its own erratic will. • • • • • • “Ugh! what a depress!ngly un-Christmas evening, Christmas eve I” Mab Lacy caught her breath, and clutched at her veil with both hands, as the rampant gale charged with millions of sleety needles swooped around the corner and nearly blew her off the steps of the grim, tall, narrow-, chested house with its gray-green shutters, the bit of white paper tacked against tbe door bearing the faded notice “Furnished Rooms for Rent,” revealing Its nature and characteristics. “Shelter is shelter, such a night os this, If it is the waste and desert gloom of Malone’s establishment with its mackerel-eoented balls and roaoby oorners," she continued, plunging into the shadows of the long, dim hall, and feeling in the dark for her door knob; “with all of its faults It Is a haven of refuge Mercy, Peggy! What are you tumbling my furniture about and slopping up my oil-cloth for? And whose is this big barn of a trunk ?” The stout mald-of-all-work, on her knees by the desolate little box-stove, arose with a red flannel floor-cloth in one hand, and a bar of yellow soap in the other, eyed Mab doubtfully, tried to scratch her eyes with her elbow, and failing, gave her broora-like head a.random rub with tbe soap and an swered : "New feller cornin’ to-morrow; and Miss Malone sayed as how you hadn’t paid yer rent this week, an' bein’ gentlemen prefer red—’cause they don't muss things up acookin’ in their rooms, an’ not wantin’ to lose a shore payin’ roomer, an’—an’ .” “But Peggy, to-morrow is Christmas!” Mab sat down on the strange trunk, clasping her damp gloved hands in helpless bewild erment. “ That's what I know,” said Peggy, rub bing her ear with the soap, “but Miss Ma lone she says how tbe rent ain’t paid an’—” “But I was going to pay it next week, and would have last week if I hadn’t been sick and not able to work, os I told her.” “That’s so. But I reckon the' ain’t no use in raisin’ a fuss,” said Peggy, philosoph ically, he’s done paid for a month’s rent,und she’s tuck it. She sayed anyhow, she reck oned you was more of a lady’n to want to stay wher’ you weren't wanted. But he wont come till mornin’, you can stay to night. “But what am I going to do then?” “Room rentin’ agency down yander," said Peggy, indicating the direction by a a flirt of the floorcloth. <■ Mab opened her flat little pocket book and shook its contents into her lap. “Peggy,” she said, “how many rooms could I rent for a dollar and a half?” “Dunno,” answered Peggy, with easy vagueness ns she picked up her bucket of suds and departed. “Nhr care,” added Mab to herself, leaning her head against the cold, white wall of her little bed-room, “neither does any one else in the world. How different from the old Christmas eve in the country, when royal Ares roared on every hearth, and everybody was kin to everybody else, before so many of them died, or left the dear, peaceful, stupid old Hollow—and I among them And now there is scarcely one left who would know me—only Aunt Nancy Dawson, who could have been my aunt really now, if Ben and I could have kept our tempers till the wed ding-day. Ah, well he has forgotten me, but Aunt Nancy might be glad to see me, and—yes, a dollar and a half will take me to the Hollow. I'll go. The room is mine to night, and sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I will trust in the Father of the fa therless, who leads ns on by paths we know not of.” • • • • • “Aunt Nancy—Aunt Na-an-cy 1" “Dear aakea I don't shriek a body all in pieces, you Ben Brindle; what you after?” The door of the little deep-eved kitchen flew open, letting out a scent of boiling cof fee into the clear December air; a bine linsy skirt cleared the passage way, and Aunt Nancy Dawson popped into the sitting-room, armed with a broom which she at onoe pro ceeded to devote to the obliteration of the string of powdery tracks left by her nephew across tbe striped rag carpet “Knowed ther'd be tracks wherever ther, was a man,” observed the little woman, whisking away briskly, “whaty’ out so early fer?" “We el” said the old bachelor rather do lorously, “you see the long and short of it is, I’m lonesome, Aunt Nancy—awful lone some." "Jeswhat you orto be,” returned Aunt Nancy, with blunt candor, “y’ own fault. I've told you to get marr.ed forty tirues, ain’t I?" “But there ain’t any one left to marry, round here as I know of.” “Fiddle! ain’t ther’ tbe wider Barley ?” “Y-es, there’s the wider Barley," said Mr. Brindle doubtfully, "but you know she does weigh most three hundred, and u kind of curious and cross-grained like.” "There’s Melissy Hicks; a lovely house keeper—couldn’t get a better.” “N-o; she's too good. A feller could never get a bit of rest 'long as she could And a straw or raveling to fuss about. Wants ev erything in straight rows and no crooks no where. 8be’d put strings to all the young ones she could find and run ’em up on poles like butter beans if she could. Anyhow, Aunt Nancy, I don’t reckon I could get mar ried right off to-day, and l would kind of like some one to cook a Christmas dinner forme. Not that a fellow can’t pack the spirit of Christmas around in his heart with out any dinner, but it would make it feel like old Christmases, and I want you to jump right up into my sleigh and go home with me, Aunt Nancy, and stay all day. Hey ?” “I shan’t," said Aunt Nancy, with no waste of empty apology; “I'm going to Jim Dawson’s folkses, across the Branch—prom ised ’em a month ago, an’ it’s saved me cook in’ a lot of truck. Ole Pepper’s hitched now, ’n I’m goin’ to start in jnst the time it takes me to get my shawl an’ green woosted sun-bonnet on. You kin go along too if you like." “No—I don't like,” returned bachelor Brindle. “They'll flsh out all their kin folks from six counties and bave’eui there, and I don't know half of ’em, and don’tseem to want any crowd to-day—only just them I know. I'll go home and roast a sweet potato in the ashes and cook a spare-rib before tbe fire-place; that’ll be good enough, only the gravy ’ll be full of cinders." Bachelor Brindle drove slowly homeward, his spirits rather depressed in spite of the beauty of the day, bright with a glad glory of sunshine pouring down goldenly over the flawless white fleece of the night’s bestowing, yet already beginning to grow damp and heavy under the warm glow, when turning the corner of a fence, where the drifts were blown up like blocks of marble, his horse gave a startled spring and stopped at sight of a small, dark figure trudging along on foot, a picture unusual enougli to scare any horse in tbe country where not a farmer’s daugh ter, in however moderate circumstances, will undertake a mile journey at any season of the year unless provided with some shape or form of a “ nag." And Mr. Brindle gazed down with a wonder that grew deep and in tense at sight of the fair little face with its dark eyes and slightly upturned nose toward him. “ Mab Lacy 1 ” he cried; “is it Mab Lacy, or a Christmas vision ? ” “It is Mab Lacy,” alio answered, with a little, fluttering laugh. “ I’ve come back to see Aunt Nancy.” " Then you’ve come on as much of a wild- goose chase as I have," he returned, rueful ly. “8he’s gone—gone plum to the Branch. Her Old Pepper beats my Floss woefully, and I saw the gable end of her sleigh shy around the corner before I got to the end of the lane." “Oh, then what—what shall I do?” cried Mab, overcome with the suddenly desperate appearance of her position, and sitting reck lessly down upon a wayside stump, whose white cap of snow was gradually shrinking away and cozing in drops down its sides. “ Don’t do that! ” cried Mr. Brindle, with alarmed sharpness; “you mustn’t sit on a wet stump and catch a cold just because Aunt Nancy took a notion to go bumming around for a Christmas lark. Jump in my sleigh, like a sensible girl, and we’ll see.” “ What’s the use?" wailed Mab, trying to stop a little rill of tears that was slipping down her cheek with a corner of her gray veil. “ I can’t go home with you, and there’s nowhere to go. Oh, Mr. Brindle -Ben, what shall I do?” “ Do just what I tell you,” said Mr. Brin dle. ** First give me your hand, and you jump in here back of this robe. Now we'll have a talk. So you’re alone, Mab ? ” *• All alone. Ben,” sighed Mab. " Well, look here. I’m the same old Ben you always knew—and hated.” “ I didn't,” said Mab. “ I—I—you k now, Ben ” “ And you’re the same Mab Lacy / always knew ?’’ “Yes; I'm tempted to wish I was someone else just now.” "Well/ain’t. If you're alone we’re both alone, Mab, for I am ; and it’s rather rough, in my opinion. Now, why couldn’t we drop overboard this big slice of time that’s sepa rated us so long, and go back to where we left off before we flew out at each other?" "How could we?” asked Mab. "Look through yonder, said Ben, pointing to a little yellow cottage at the end of a lane branching off the road. “Our new minister lives there, Man.” “ Does he ?” Mab’s tone expressed noth ing whatever, but bachelor Brindle’s solemn gray eyes caught the flicker of a blush in her cheek. “ Yes, he does,” he answered. “Mab, I’ve got ten dollars in my pocket. I expect the minister is needing about ten dollars awful bad.” “Had’t you better make him a present of U?” asked Mab, sweetly smiling off at the lace-work of the snow-dappled treabranebes n the winter-blue distance. Ben looked a little disconcerted, then rallied. " But, Mab,” he said, “he's kind of proud. I would’nt dare to offer it to him without giving him a chance to earn it Mab—Mab, you haven’t lost your tormenting ways, but tbe bargain we made back yonder at the stump was that I would help you out of your trouble if you’d do as I said. There’s no one to find fault with what we do—nothing to keep us apart. Now, Mab, we’re going straight to the minister’s cottage, and you know what for.” “ Then,” said Mab, turning her blooming face to him, “all I’ve got to say, Ben, if you’re right sure you're right, why go ahead.” So Mr. Brindle had a wife to cook his Christmas dinner, after all. There was mer ry bustling, there was laughter and gladness in the hitherto lonely bachelor quarters. And there was, too, a sweetly solemn hour in the tender gray Christmas twilight, wherein Ben and Mab, with the big Bible between them, bent lo# their heads in grate ful acknowledgment of the loving care of the One who, through trial and sorrow, ever and always, leads us on.—Hattie Whitney in Detno~ reit’e Monthly. Recipes. We give below a number of good and tried recipes, for the benefit of those who may not be familiar with the trials of making preparations for the Christmas festivities, and hope that some of our lady readers may , be able to obtain some assistance from them. Lemon Puts.—’The yelk of three eggs, one cup of sugar, lump of butter the size of a walnut, two tablespoons of water, one ta blespoon of flour, grute, peel and squeeze one half lemon. Sponge Cake.—Four eggs, one tumbler of sugar, a small pinch of salt, one tumbler of flour, two tablespoonsful of cold wAter; beat the eggs separately and add sugar to yelks then the whites, then the salt, water, flour, then the flavoring. Pick out the finest of any kind of fruit, leave in the stones, beat the whites of three eggs to a stiff froth; lay the fruit in the beaten egg, with the stems up ward ; drain them and beat again the part that drips; take them, one by one, and dip them into finely powdered sugar; cover a pan with a sheet of whitepaper, place the fruit on it, and set it in a «eoi ov<*; wi,^ the icing on the fruit becomes firm, pile them on a dish and set them in a cold place. Whipped Cbeam PiB.—Sweeten with white sugar one teacup very thick cream, made as cold as possible without freezing, and flavor with lemon according to taste; beat until as light as eggs for frosting, and keep cool until the crust is ready; make crust moderately rich, prick well with a fork, bake, spread on the cream and put jelly over the top; this makes two pies. Pudding.—An excellent pudding is made of eight mashed potatoes, one quarter of a pound of butter, four eggs, one gill of milk, a quarter of a teaspoonful of salt, and flour enough to make a stiff batter. Beat well to gether. then sprinkle flour on the inside of a pudding bag, and put the batter in. Al low three inches at the top, so that the pud ding may have ample room to rise in. Boil for two hours; then take from the kettle, dip quickly in cold water, and you will have no difficulty in removing it from the bag. Serve hot with sauce. Suet Pudding.—A nice and easily made suet pudding is made of one cup of suet, chopped fine, and with every bit of gristle removed, one cup each of molasses, milk and fruit; raisins and currants mixed, or dried cherries are best for this purpose; one heaping tablespoonful of brown sugar, one teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in a little hot water, complete the ingredients called for, with the exception of flour enough to make a stiff batter. Take care to stir the flour in so gradually as to be certain not one lump, if ever so small, is left; steam it in an earthen pudding dish for three hours; ’serve with wine sauce, or with the common pud ding sauce of flour, sugar, butter and water. Pbune Pudding.—A prune pudding may be something new to some one. Heat a little more than a pint of sweet milk to the boiling point, then stir in gradually a little cold milk in which you have rubbed smooth a heaping tablespoonful of corn starch; add sugar to suit your taste; threa-well-beaten eggs, about a teaspoonful of butter, and a little grated nutmeg. Let this come to a boil, then pour in a buttered pudding dish, first adding a cupful of stewed prunes, with tbe stones taken out. Bake for from fifteen to twenty minutes according to the state of the oven, 8erve with or without sauce. A little cream improves it if poured over it when placed In saucers.