[Illustration: The author making his book, as pictured by his friend, Will Crawford. ]

A Little Book for Christmas

Containing a Greeting, a Word of Advice, Some Personal Adventures, aCarol, a Meditation, and Three Christmas Stories for All Ages

ByCyrus Townsend Brady

Author of"And Thus He Came, A Christmas Fantasy, " "Christmas When the West WasYoung, " etc. , etc. 

With Illustrations and Decorations byWill Crawford

G. P. Putnam's SonsNew York and LondonThe Knickerbocker Press1917

DEDICATEDTOMRS. LEONARD L. HILLAND HER CHARMING COMPANIONS OF THE AMERICAN CRITERION SOCIETY OF NEWYORK BY THEIR CHAPLAIN

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PREFACE

Christmas is one of the great days of obligation and observance in theChurch of which I am a Priest; but it is much more than that, it is oneof the great days of obligation and observance in the world. Furthermoreit is one of the evidences of the power of Him Whose birth wecommemorate that its observation is not limited by conditions of raceand creed. Those who fail to see in Him what we see nevertheless seesomething and even by imperfect visions are moved to joy. The worldtransmutes that joy into blessing, not merely by giving of its substancebut of its soul because men perceive that it is for the soul's good andbecause they hope to receive its benefits although they well know thatgiving is far better than receiving, in the very words of Him Who gaveus the greatest of all gifts--Himself. 

As a Priest of the Church, as a Missionary in the Far West, as theRector of large and important parishes I have been brought in touch withvaried life. Christmas in all its phases is familiar to me. The authorof many books and stories as well as the preacher of many sermons, it isnatural that Christmas should have engaged a large part of my attention. Out of the abundance of material which I have accumulated in the courseof a long ministry and a longer life I have gathered here a sheaf ofthings I have written about Christmas; personal adventures, storiessuggested by the old yet ever-new theme; meditations, words of advicewhich I am old enough to be entitled to give; and last but not leastgood wishes and good will. I might even call this little volume _A Bookof Good Will toward Men_. And so fit it not only for Christmas but forall other seasons as well. 

If it shall add to your joy in Christmas, dear reader, and better still, if it shall move you to add to the joy of some one else atChristmas-tide or in any other season, I shall be well repaid for myefforts and incidentally you will also be repaid for your purchase. 

CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY. 

THE HEMLOCKS, PARK HILL, YONKERS, N. Y. 1917

NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

The author is in debt to his long-time and greatly beloved friend theRev. Alsop Leffingwell for the beautiful musical setting of the littlecarol which this book contains. 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 PAGEI. --A CHRISTMAS GREETING 1 "_Peace on Earth, Good Will toward Men_"

II. --FROM A FAR COUNTRY 13 A story for grown-ups _Being a new variation of an ancient theme_

III. --ON CHRISTMAS GIVING 59 _Being a word of much needed advice_

IV. --IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING 69 A story for girls _In which it is shown how different the same thing may be_

V. --A CHRISTMAS CAROL 81 _To be sung to the music accompanying it_

VI. --THE LONE SCOUT'S CHRISTMAS 85 A story for boys _Wherein is set forth the courage of youth_

VII. --LOOKING INTO THE MANGER 115 _A Christmas meditation_

VIII. --CHRISTMAS IN THE SNOWS 141 _Being some personal adventures in the Far West_

IX. --A CHRISTMAS WISH 173 _For everybody everywhere_

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ILLUSTRATIONS

 PAGETHE AUTHOR MAKING HIS BOOK _Frontispiece_

"I SOUGHT DAT SANTY CLAUS TAME DOWN DE CHIMNEY, " SAID THE YOUNGER OF THETWAIN 46

"I AM SURE, MISS, THAT THEY DO WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS" 76

"THE STARS LOOK DOWN" 84

"THRUSTING HIS TOES INTO THE STRAPS HE STRUCK OUT BOLDLY" 96

"THE WORLD BOWS DOWN TO A MOTHER AND HER CHILD--AND THE MOTHER HERSELFIS AT THE FEET OF THE CHILD" 124

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A CHRISTMAS GREETING

"_Good Will Toward Men"--St. Luke 11-14. _

There was a time when the spirit of Christmas was of the present. Thereis a period when most of it is of the past. There shall come a dayperhaps when all of it will be of the future. The child time, thepresent; the middle years, the past; old age, the future. 

Come to my mind Christmas Days of long ago. As a boy again I enter intothe spirit of the Christmas stockings hanging before my fire. I knowwhat the children think to-day. I recall what they feel. 

Passes childhood, and I look down the nearer years. There rise beforeme remembrances of Christmas Days on storm-tossed seas, where waves beatupon the ice-bound ship. I recall again the bitter touch ofwater-warping winter, of drifts of snow, of wind-swept plains. In thegamut of my remembrance I am once more in the poor, mean, lonely littlesanctuary out on the prairie, with a handful of Christians, mostlywomen, gathered together in the freezing, draughty building. In lateryears I worship in the great cathedral church, ablaze with lights, verdant and fragrant with the evergreen pines, echoing with joyfulcarols and celestial harmonies. My recollections are of contrasts likethose of life--joy and sadness, poverty and ease. 

And the pictures are full of faces, many of which may be seen no more byearthly vision. I miss the clasp of vanished hands, I crave the soundof voices stilled. As we old and older grow, there is a note of sadnessin our glee. Whether we will or not we must twine the cypress with theholly. The recollection of each passing year brings deeper regret. Howmany have gone from those circles that we recall when we were children?How many little feet that pattered upon the stair on Christmas morningnow tread softer paths and walk in broader ways; sisters and brotherswho used to come back from the far countries to the old home--alas, theycannot come from the farther country in which they now are, and perhaps, saddest thought of all, we would not wish them to come again. How many, with whom we joined hands around the Christmas tree, have gone?

Circles are broken, families are separated, loved ones are lost, but theold world sweeps on. Others come to take our places. As we stood at theknee of some unforgotten mother, so other children stand. As welistened to the story of the Christ Child from the lips of some grey oldfather, so other children listen and we ourselves perchance are fathersor mothers too. Other groups come to us for the deathless story. Littleheads which recall vanished halcyon days of youth bend around anotheryounger mother. Smaller hands than ours write letters to Santa Claus andhear the story, the sweetest story ever told, of the Baby who came toMary and through her to all the daughters and sons of women on thatwinter night on the Bethlehem hills. 

And we thank God for the children who take us out of the past, out ofourselves, away from recollections that weigh us down; the children thatweave in the woof and warp of life when our own youth has passed, someof the buoyancy, the joy, the happiness of the present; the children inwhose opening lives we turn hopefully to the future. We thank God atthis Christmas season that it pleased Him to send His beloved Son tocome to us as a little child, like any other child. We thank God that inthe lesser sense we may see in every child who comes to-day anotherincarnation of divinity. We thank God for the portion of His Spirit withwhich He dowers every child of man, just as we thank Him for pouring itall upon the Infant in the Manger. 

There is no age that has not had its prophet. No country, no people, butthat has produced its leader. But did any of them ever before come as alittle child? Did any of them begin to lead while yet in arms? Lodgesthere upon any other baby brow "the round and top of sovereignty?" Whatdistinguished Christ and His Christian followers from all the world?Behold! no mighty monarch, but "a little child shall lead them!"

You may see through the glass darkly, you may not know or understandthe blessedness of faith in Him as He would have you know it, but thereis nothing that can dim the light that radiates from that birth in therude cave back of the inn. Ah, it pierces through the darkness of thatshrouding night. It shines to-day. Still sparkles the Star in the East. He is that Star. 

There is nothing that can take from mankind--even doubting mankind--thespirit of Christ and the Christmas season. Our celebrations do not restupon the conclusions of logic, or the demonstrations of philosophy; Iwould not even argue that they depend inevitably or absolutely upon thepossession of a certain faith in Jesus, but we accept Christmas, nevertheless; we endeavour to apply the Christmas spirit, for just oncein the year; it may be because we cannot, try as we may, crush oututterly and entirely the divinity that is in us that makes for God. Thestories and tales for Christmas which have for their theme the hardheart softened are not mere fictions of the imagination. They rest uponan instinctive consciousness of a profound philosophic truth. 

What is the unpardonable sin, I wonder? Is it to be persistently andforever unkind? Does it mean perhaps the absolute refusal to accept theprinciple of love which is indeed creation's final law? The lessons ofthe Christmastide are so many; the appeals that now may be made tohumanity crowd to the lips from full minds and fuller hearts. Might wenot reduce them all to the explication of the underlying principle ofGod's purpose to us, as expressed in those themic words of love withwhich angels and men greeted the advent of the Child on the firstChristmas morning, "Good will toward men?"

Let us then show our good will toward men by doing good and bringinghappiness to someone--if not to everyone--at this Christmas season. Putaside the memories of disappointments, of sorrows that have notvanished, of cares that still burden, and do good in spite of thembecause you would not dim the brightness of the present for any humanheart with the shadows of old regrets. Do good because of a future whichopens possibilities before you, for others, if not for yourselves. 

Brethren, friends, all, let us make up our minds that we will be kindlyaffectioned one to another in our homes and out of them, on thisapproaching Christmas day. That the old debate, the ancient strife, therankling recollection, the sharp contention, shall be put aside, that"envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness" shall be done awaywith. Let us forgive and forget; but if we cannot forget let us at leastforgive. And so let there be peace between man and man at Christmas--atruce of God. 

Let us pray that Love shall come as a little child to our households. That He shall be in our hearts and shall find His expression in all thatwe do or say on this birthday of goodness and cheer for the world. Thenlet us resolve that the spirit of the day shall be carried out throughour lives, that as Christ did not come for an hour, but for a lifetime, we would fain become as little children on this day of days that we maybegin a new life of good will to men. 

Let us make this a new birthday of kindness and love that shall endure. That is a Christmas hope, a Christmas wish. Let us give to it thegracious expression of life among men. 

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FROM A FAR COUNTRY

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_Being a New Variation of an Ancient Theme_

A STORY FOR GROWN-UPS

I

"_A certain man had two sons_"--so begins the best and most famous storyin the world's literature. Use of the absolute superlative is alwaysdangerous, but none will gainsay that statement, I am sure. This story, which follows that familiar tale afar off, indeed, begins in the sameway. And the parallelism between the two is exact up to a certain point. What difference a little point doth make; like the little fire, behold, how great a matter it kindleth! Indeed, lacking that one detail theolder story would have had no value; it would not have been told;without its addition this would have been a repetition of the other. 

When the modern young prodigal came to himself, when he found himself nolonger able to endure the husks of the swine like his ancient exemplar, when he rose and returned to his father because of that distaste, hefound no father watching and waiting for him at the end of the road!Upon that change the action of this story hangs. It was a pity, too, because the elder brother was there and in a mood not unlike that of hisfamous prototype. 

Indeed, there was added to that elder brother's natural resentment atthe younger's course the blinding power of a great sorrow, for thefather of the two sons was dead. He had died of a broken heart. Possessed of no omniscience of mind or vision, he had been unable toforesee the long delayed turning point in the career of his younger sonand death came too swiftly to enable them to meet again. So long as hehad strength, that father had stood, as it were, at the top of the hilllooking down the road watching and hoping. 

And but the day before the tardy prodigal's return he had been laid awaywith his own fathers in the God's acre around the village church in thePennsylvania hills. Therefore there was no fatted calf ready for thedisillusioned youth whose waywardness had killed his father. It will beremembered that the original elder brother objected seriously to fattedcalves on such occasions. Indeed, the funeral baked meats would coldlyfurnish forth a welcoming meal if any such were called for. 

For all his waywardness, for all his self-will, the younger son hadloved his father well, and it was a terrible shock to him (having cometo his senses) to find that he had returned too late. And for all hishardness and narrowness the eldest son also had loved his fatherwell--strong tribute to the quality of the dead parent--and when hefound himself bereft he naturally visited wrath upon the head of him whohe believed rightly was the cause of the untimely death of the old man. 

As he sat in the study, if such it might be called, of the departed, before the old-fashioned desk with its household and farm and businessaccounts, which in their order and method and long use were eloquent ofhis provident and farseeing father, his heart was hot within his breast. Grief and resentment alike gnawed at his vitals. They had received vividreports, even in the little town in which they dwelt, of the wild doingsof the wanderer, but they had enjoyed no direct communication with him. After a while even rumour ceased to busy itself with the doings of theyouth. He had dropped out of their lives utterly after he passed overthe hills and far away. 

The father had failed slowly for a time, only to break suddenly andswiftly in the end. And the hurried frantic search for the missing hadbrought no results. Ironically the god of chance had led the young man'srepentant footsteps to the door too late. 

"Where's father?" cried John Carstairs to the startled woman who staredat him as if she had seen a ghost as, at his knock, she opened the doorwhich he had found locked, not against him, but the hour was late and itwas the usual nightly precaution:

"Your brother is in your father's study, sir, " faltered the servant atlast. 

"Umph! Will, " said the man, his face changing. "I'd rather see fatherfirst. "

"I think you had better see Mr. William, sir. "

"What's the matter, Janet?" asked young Carstairs anxiously. "Is fatherill?"

"Yes, sir! indeed I think you had bettor see Mr. William at once, Mr. John. "

Strangely moved by the obvious agitation of the ancient servitor of thehouse who had known him from childhood, John Carstairs hurried down thelong hall to the door of his father's study. Always a scapegrace, generally in difficulties, full of mischief, he had approached that doormany times in fear of well merited punishment which was sure to be metedout to him. And he came to it with the old familiar apprehension thatnight, if from a different cause. He never dreamed that his father wasanything but ill. He must see his brother. He stood in no little awe ofthat brother, who was his exact antithesis in almost everything. Theyhad not got along particularly well. If his father had been inside thedoor he would have hesitated with his hand on the knob. If his fatherhad not been ill he would not have attempted to face his brother. Buthis anxiety, which was increased by a sudden foreboding, for Janet, themaid, had looked at him so strangely, moved him to quick action. Hethrew the door open instantly. What he saw did not reassure him. Williamwas clad in funeral black. He wore a long frock coat instead of theusual knockabout suit he affected on the farm. His face was white andhaggard. There was an instant interchange of names. 

"John!"

"William!"

And then--

"Is father ill?" burst out the younger. 

"Janet said--"

"Dead!" interposed William harshly, all his indignation flaming intospeech and action as he confronted the cause of the disaster. 

"Dead! Good God!"

"God had nothing to do with it. "

"You mean?"

"You did it. "

"I?"

"Yes. Your drunken revelry, your reckless extravagance, your dissipationwith women, your unfeeling silence, your--"

"Stop!" cried the younger. "I have come to my senses, I can't bear it. "

"I'll say it if it kills you. You did it, I repeat. He longed and prayedand waited and you didn't come. You didn't write. We could hear nothing. The best father on earth. "

The younger man sank down in a chair and covered his face with hishands. 

"When?" he gasped out finally. 

"Three days ago. "

"And have you--"

"He is buried beside mother in the churchyard yonder. Now that you arehere I thank God that he didn't live to see what you have become. "

The respectable elder brother's glance took in the disreputable younger, his once handsome face marred--one doesn't foregather with swine in thesty without acquiring marks of the association--his clothing in rags. Thus errant youth, that was youth no longer, came back from that farcountry. Under such circumstances one generally has to walk most of theway. He had often heard the chimes at midnight, sleeping coldly in thestraw stack of the fields, and the dust of the road clung to his person. Through his broken shoes his bare feet showed, and he trembled visiblyas the other confronted him, partly from hunger and weakness andshattered nerves, and partly from shame and horror and for what reasonGod only knew. 

The tall, handsome man in the long black coat, who towered over him sogrimly stern, was two years older than he, yet to the casual observerthe balance of time was against the prodigal by at least a dozen years. However, he was but faintly conscious of his older brother. One word andone sentence rang in his ear. Indeed, they beat upon his consciousnessuntil he blanched and quivered beneath their onslaught. 

"Dead--you did it!"

Yes, it was just. No mercy seasoned that justice in the heart of eitherman. The weaker, self-accusing, sat silent with bowed head, hisconscience seconding the words of the stronger. The voice of the elderran on with growing, terrifying intensity. 

"Please stop, " interposed the younger. He rose to his feet. "You areright, Will. You were always right and I was always wrong. I did killhim. But you need not have told me with such bitterness. I realized itthe minute you said he was dead. It's true. And yet I was honestlysorry. I came back to tell him so, to ask his forgiveness. "

"When your money was gone. "

"You can say that, too, " answered the other, wincing under the savagethrust. "It's as true as the rest probably, but sometimes a man has toget down very low before he looks up. It was that way with me. Well, I've had my share and I've had my fling. I've no business here. Good-bye. " He turned abruptly away. 

"Don't add more folly to what you have already done, " returned WilliamCarstairs, and with the beginnings of a belated pity, he added, "stayhere with me, there will be enough for us both and--"

"I can't. "

"Well, then, " he drew out of his pocket a roll of bills, "take these andwhen you want more--"

"Damn your money, " burst out John Carstairs, passionately. He struckthe other's outstretched hand, and in his surprise, William Carstairslet the bills scatter upon the floor. "I don't want it--blood money. Father is dead. I've had mine. I'll trouble you no more. "

He turned and staggered out of the room. Now William Carstairs was aproud man and John Carstairs had offended him deeply. He believed allthat he had said to his brother, yet there had been developing a feelingof pity for him in his heart, and in his cold way he had sought toexpress it. His magnanimity had been rejected with scorn. He looked downat the scattered bills on the floor. Characteristically--for heinherited his father's business ability without his heart--he stoopedover and picked them slowly up, thinking hard the while. He finallydecided that he would give his brother yet another chance for hisfather's sake. After all, they were brethren. But the decision came toolate. John Carstairs had stood not on the order of his going, but hadgone at once, none staying him. 

William Carstairs stood in the outer door, the light from the hallbehind him streaming out into the night. He could see nothing. He calledaloud, but there was no answer. He had no idea where his younger brotherhad gone. If he had been a man of finer feeling or quicker perception, perhaps if the positions of the two had been reversed and he had beenhis younger brother, he might have guessed that John might have beenfound beside the newest mound in the churchyard, had one sought himthere. But that idea did not come to William, and after staring into theblackness for a long time, he reluctantly closed the door. Perhaps thevagrant could be found in the morning. 

No, there had been no father waiting for the prodigal at the end of theroad, and what a difference it had made to that wanderer and vagabond!

II

We leave a blank line on the page and denote thereby that ten years havepassed. It was Christmas Eve, that is, it had been Christmas Eve whenthe little children had gone to bed. Now midnight had passed and it wasalready Christmas morning. In one of the greatest and most splendidhouses on the avenue two little children were nestled all snug in theirbeds in a nursery. In an adjoining room sound sleep had quieted thenerves of the usually vigilant and watchful nurse. But the littlechildren were wakeful. As always, visions of Santa Claus danced in theirheads. 

They were fearless children by nature and had been trained without theuse of bugaboos to keep them in the paths wherein they should go. Onthis night of nights they had left the doors of their nursery open. Theolder, a little girl of six, was startled, but not alarmed, as she laywatchfully waiting, by a creaking sound as of an opened door in thelibrary below. She listened with a beating heart under the coverlet;cause of agitation not fear, but hope. It might be, it must be SantaClaus, she decided. Brother, aged four, was close at hand in his ownsmall crib. She got out of her bed softly so as not to disturb SantaClaus, or--more important at the time--the nurse. She had an idea thatSaint Nicholas might not welcome a nurse, but she had no fear at allthat he would not be glad to see her. 

Need for a decision confronted her. Should she reserve the pleasure sheexpected to derive from the interview for herself or should she share itwith little brother? There was a certain risk in arousing brother. Hewas apt to awaken clamant, vociferous. Still, she resolved to try it. For one thing, it seemed so selfish to see Santa Claus alone, and foranother the adventure would be a little less timorous taken together. 

Slipping her feet into her bedroom slippers and covering her nightgownwith a little blanket wrap, she tip-toed over to brother's bed. Fortunately, he too was sleeping lightly, and for a like reason. For awonder she succeeded in arousing him without any outcry on his part. Hewas instantly keenly, if quietly, alive to the situation and itsfascinating possibilities. 

"You must be very quiet, John, " she whispered. "But I think Santa Clausis down in the library. We'll go down and catch him. "

Brother, as became the hardier male, disdained further protection of hissmall but valiant person. Clad only in his pajamas and his slippers, hefollowed sister out the door and down the stair. They went hand in hand, greatly excited by the desperate adventure. 

What proportion of the millions who dwelt in the great city werechildren of tender years only statisticians can say, but doubtless therewere thousands of little hearts beating with anticipation as the heartsof those children beat, and perhaps there may have been others who weresoftly creeping downstairs to catch Santa Claus unawares at that verymoment. 

One man at least was keenly conscious of one little soul who, withabsolutely nothing to warrant the expectation, nothing reasonable onwhich to base joyous anticipation, had gone to bed thinking of SantaClaus and hoping that, amidst equally deserving hundreds of thousands ofobscure children, this little mite in her cold, cheerless garret mightnot be overlooked by the generous dispenser of joy. With the sublimetrust of childhood she had insisted upon hanging up her ragged stocking. Santa Claus would have to be very careful indeed lest things should dropthrough and clatter upon the floor. Her heart had beaten, too, althoughshe descended no stair in the great house. She, too, lay wakeful, uneasy, watching, sleeping, drowsing, hoping. We may have some doubtsabout the eternal springing of hope in the human breast save in the caseof childhood--thank God it is always verdant there!

III

Now few people get so low that they do not love somebody, and I dare saythat no people get so low that somebody does not love them. 

"Crackerjack, " so called because of his super-excellence in his chosenprofession, was, or had been, a burglar and thief; a very ancient andhighly placed calling indeed. You doubtless remember that two thievescomprised the sole companions and attendants of the Greatest King uponthe most famous throne in history. His sole court at the culmination ofHis career. "Crackerjack" was no exception to the general rule aboutloving and being beloved set forth above. 

He loved the little lady whose tattered stocking swung in the breezefrom the cracked window. Also he loved the wretched woman who withhimself shared the honours of parentage to the poor but hopeful mitewho was also dreaming of Christmas and the morning. And his loveinspired him to action. Singular into what devious courses, utterlyunjustifiable, even so exalted and holy an emotion may lead fallibleman. Love--burglary! They do not belong naturally in association, yetslip cold, need, and hunger in between and we may have explanation evenif there be no justification. Oh, Love, how many crimes are committed inthy name!

"Crackerjack" would hardly have chosen Christmas eve for a thievingexpedition if there had been any other recourse. Unfortunately there wasnone. The burglar's profession, so far as he had practised it, wasundergoing a timely eclipse. Time was when it had been lucrative, itsrewards great. Then the law, which is no respecter of professions ofthat kind, had got him. "Crackerjack" had but recently returned from aprotracted sojourn at an institution arranged by the State in itspaternalism for the reception and harbouring of such as he. The pitifuldole with which the discharged prisoner had been unloaded upon a worldwhich had no welcome for him had been soon spent; even the hideousprison-made clothes had been pawned, and some rags, which were yet therags of a free man, which had been preserved through the long period ofseparation by his wife, gave him a poor shelter from the winter's cold. 

That wife had been faithful to him. She had done the best she could forherself and baby during the five years of the absence of the breadwinner, or in his case the bread taker would be the better phrase. Shehad eagerly waited the hour of his release; her joy had been soon turnedto bitterness. The fact that he had been in prison had shut every dooragainst him and even closed the few that had been open to her. Thethree pieces of human flotsam had been driven by the wind of adversityand tossed. They knew not where to turn when jettisoned by society. 

Came Christmas Eve. They had no money and no food and no fire. Stop! Thefire of love burned in the woman's heart, the fire of hate in the man's. Prison life usually completes the education in shame of the unfortunatemen who are thrust there. This was before the days in which humane meninterested themselves in prisons and prisoners and strove to awaken theworld to its responsibilities to, as well as the possibilities of, theconvict. 

But "Crackerjack" was a man of unusual character. Poverty, remorse, drink, all the things that go to wreck men by forcing them into evilcourses had laid him low, and because he was a man originally ofeducation and ability, he had shone as a criminal. The same force ofcharacter which made him super-burglar could change him from criminal toman if by chance they could be enlisted in the endeavour. 

He had involved the wife he had married in his misfortunes. She had beena good woman, weaker than he, yet she stuck to him. God chose the weakthing to rejuvenate the strong. In the prison he had enjoyed abundantleisure for reflection. After he learned of the birth of his daughter hedetermined to do differently when he was freed. Many men determine, especially in the case of an ex-convict, but society usually determinesbetter--no, not better, but more strongly. Society had different ideas. It was Brahministic in its religion. Caste? Yes, once a criminal alwaysa criminal. 

"Old girl, " said the broken man, "it's no use. I've tried to be decentfor your sake and the kid's, but it can't be done. I can't get honestwork. They've put the mark of Cain on me. They can take theconsequences. The kid's got to have some Christmas; you've got to havefood and drink and clothes and fire. God, how cold it is! I'll go outand get some. "

"Isn't there something else we can pawn?"

"Nothing. "

"Isn't there any work?"

"Work?" laughed the man bitterly. "I've tramped the city over seekingit, and you, too. Now, I'm going to get money--elsewhere. "

"Where?"

"Where it's to be had. "

"Oh, Jack, think. "

"If I thought, I'd kill you and the kid and myself. "

"Perhaps that would be better, " said the woman simply. "There doesn'tseem to be any place left for us. "

"We haven't come to that yet, " said the man. "Society owes me a livingand, by God, it's got to pay it to me. "

It was an oft-repeated, widely held assertion, whether fallacious or noteach may determine for himself. 

"I'm afraid, " said the woman. 

"You needn't be; nothing can be worse than this hell. "

He kissed her fiercely. Albeit she was thin and haggard she wasbeautiful to him. Then he bent over his little girl. He had not yet hadsufficient time since his release to get very well acquainted with her. She had been born while he was in prison, but it had not taken any timeat all for him to learn to love her. He stared at her a moment. He bentto kiss her and then stopped. He might awaken her. It is always best forthe children of the very poor to sleep. He who sleeps dines, runs theSpanish proverb. He turned and kissed the little ragged stockingsinstead, and then he went out. He was going to play--was it Santa Claus, indeed?

IV

The strange, illogical, ironical god of chance, or was it Providenceacting through some careless maid, had left an area window unlocked inthe biggest and newest house on the avenue. Any house would have beeneasy for "Crackerjack" if he had possessed the open sesame of his kit ofburglar's tools, but he had not had a jimmy in his hand since he wascaught with one and sent to Sing Sing. He had examined house afterhouse, trusting to luck as he wandered on, and, lo! fortune favouredhim. 

The clock in a nearby church struck the hour of two. The areaway wasdark. No one was abroad. He plunged down the steps, opened the windowand disappeared. No man could move more noiselessly than he. In thestill night he knew how the slightest sounds are magnified. He had madenone as he groped his way through the back of the house, arriving atlast in a room which he judged to be the library. Then, after listeningand hearing nothing, he ventured to turn the button of a side light in afar corner of the room. 

He was in a large apartment, beautifully furnished. Books and picturesabounded, but these did not interest him, although if he had madefurther examination he might have found things worthy of his attentioneven there. It so happened that the light bracket to which he hadblundered, or had been led, was immediately over a large wall safe. Evidently it had been placed there for the purpose of illuminating thesafe door. His eyes told him that instantly. This was greater fortunethan he expected. A wall safe in a house like that must contain thingsof value. 

Marking the position of the combination knob, he turned out the lightand waited again. The quiet of the night continued unbroken. A swiftinspection convinced him that the lock was only an ordinary combination. With proper--or improper--tools he could have opened it easily. Evenwithout tools, such were his delicately trained ear and his wonderfullytrained fingers that he thought he could feel and hear the combination. He knelt down by the knob and began to turn it slowly, listening andfeeling for the fall of the tumblers. Several times he almost got it, only to fail at the end, but by repeated trials and unexampled patience, his heart beating like a trip-hammer the while, he finally mastered thecombination and opened the safe door. 

In his excitement when he felt the door move he swung it outwardsharply. It had not been used for some time evidently and the hingescreaked. He checked the door and listened again. Was he to be balkedafter so much success? He was greatly relieved at the absence of sound. It was quite dark in the room. He could see nothing but the safe. Hereached his hand in and discovered it was filled with bulky articlescovered with some kind of cloth, silver evidently. 

He decided that he must have a look and again he switched on the light. Yes, his surmise had been correct. The safe was filled with silver. There was a small steel drawer in the middle of it. He had a broadbladed jack-knife in his pocket and at the risk of snapping the blade heforced the lock and drew out the drawer. It was filled with papers. Helifted the first one and stood staring at it in astonishment, for itwas an envelope which bore his name, written by a hand which had longsince mouldered away in the dust of a grave. 

V

Before he could open the envelope, there broke on his ear a still smallvoice, not that of conscience, not that of God; the voice of achild--but does not God speak perhaps as often through the lips ofchildhood as in any other way--and conscience, too?

"Are you Santa Claus?" the voice whispered in his ear. 

"Crackerjack" dropped the paper and turned like a flash, knife upraisedin his clenched hand, to confront a very little girl and a still smallerboy staring at him in open-eyed astonishment, an astonishment which waswithout any vestige of alarm. He looked down at the two and they lookedup at him, equal bewilderment on both sides. 

"I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney, " said the younger of thetwain, whose pajamas bespoke the nascent man. 

"In all the books he has a long white beard. Where's yours?" asked thecoming woman. 

This innocent question no less than the unaffected simplicity andsincerity of the questioner overpowered "Crackerjack. " He sank back intoa convenient chair and stared at the imperturbable pair. There was astrange and wonderful likeness in the sweet-faced golden-haired littlegirl before him to the worn, haggard, and ill-clad little girl who layshivering in the mean bed in the upper room where God was not--or so hefancied. 

"You're a little girl, aren't you?" he whispered. 

No voice had been or was raised above a whisper. It was a witching hourand its spell was upon them all. 

"Yes. "

"What is your name?"

"Helen. "

Now Helen had been "Crackerjack's" mother's name and it was the name ofhis own little girl, and although everybody else called her Nell, to himshe was always Helen. 

"And my name's John, " volunteered the other child. 

"John!" That was extraordinary!

"What's your other name?"

"John William. "

The man stared again. Could this be coincidence merely? John was his ownname and William that of his brother. 

"I mean what is your last name?"

"Carstairs, " answered the little girl. "Now you tell us who you are. Youaren't Santa Claus, are you? I don't hear any reindeers outside, orbells, and you haven't any pack, and you're not by the fireplace whereour stockings are. "

[Illustration: "I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney, " said theyounger of the twain. ]

"No, " said the man, "I'm not exactly Santa Claus, I'm his friend--I--"

What should he say to these children? In his bewilderment for the momenthe actually forgot the letter which he still held tightly in his hand. 

"Dat's muvver's safe, " continued the little boy. "She keeps lots o'things in it. It's all hers but dat drawer. Dat's papa's and--"

"I think I hear some one on the stairs, " broke in the little girlsuddenly in great excitement. "Maybe that's Santa Claus. "

"Perhaps it is, " said the man, who had also heard. "You wait and watchfor him. I'll go outside and attend to his reindeer. "

He made a movement to withdraw, but the girl caught him tightly by thehand. 

"If you are his friend, " she said, "you can introduce us. You know ournames and--"

The golden opportunity was gone. 

"Don't say a word, " whispered the man quickly. "We'll surprise him. Bevery still. "

He reached his hand up and turned out the light. He half hoped he mightbe mistaken, or that in the darkness they would not be seen, but no. They all heard the footsteps on the stair. They came down slowly, and itwas evident that whoever was approaching was using every precaution notto be heard. "Crackerjack" was in a frightful situation. He did not knowwhether to jerk himself away from the two children, for the boy hadclasped him around the leg and the girl still held his hand, or whetherto wait. 

The power of decision suddenly left him, for the steps stopped beforethe door. There was a little click as a hand pressed a button on thewall and the whole room was flooded with light from the greatelectrolier in the centre. Well, the game was up. "Crackerjack" had beencrouching low with the children. He rose to his feet and lookedstraightly enough into the barrel of a pistol held by a tall, severelooking man in a rich silk dressing robe, who confronted him in thedoorway. Two words broke from the lips of the two men, the same wordsthat had fallen from their lips when they met ten years before. 

"John!" cried the elder man, laying the weapon on a nearby table. 

"Will!" answered "Crackerjack" in the same breath. 

As if to mark the eternal difference as before, the one was clothed inhabiliments of wealth and luxury, the other in the rags and tatters ofpoverty and shame. 

"Why, that isn't Santa Claus, " instantly burst out the little girl, "that's papa. "

"Dis is Santy Claus's friend, papa, " said the little boy. "We were doin'to su'prise him. He said be very still and we minded. "

"So this is what you have come to, John, " said the elder man, but therewas an unwonted gentleness in his voice. 

"I swear to God I didn't know it was your house. I just came in herebecause the window was open. "

The other pointed to the safe. 

"But you were--"

"Of course I was. You don't suppose I wandered in for fun, do you? I'vegot a little girl of my own, and her name's Helen, too; our mother'sname. "

The other brother nodded. 

"She's hungry and cold and there's no Christmas for her or her mother. "

"Oh, Santy has been here already, " cried Master John Williams, runningtoward the great fireplace, having just that moment discovered thebulging stockings and piles of gifts. His sister made a move in the samedirection, for at the other corner hung her stocking and beneath it herpile, but the man's hand unconsciously tightened upon her hand and shestopped. 

"I'll stay with you, " she said, after a moment of hesitation. "Tell memore about your Helen. "

"There's nothing to tell. " He released her hand roughly. "You musn'ttouch me, " he added harshly. "Go. "

"You needn't go, my dear, " said her father quickly. "Indeed, I think, perhaps--"

"Is your Helen very poor?" quietly asked the little girl, possessingherself of his hand again, "because if she is she can have"--she lookedover at the pile of toys--"Well, I'll see. I'll give her lots of things, and--"

"What's this?" broke out the younger man harshly, extending his handwith the letter in it toward the other. 

"It is a letter to you from our father. "

"And you kept it from me?" cried the other. 

"Read it, " said William Carstairs. 

With trembling hands "Crackerjack" tore it open. It was a message oflove and forgiveness penned by a dying hand. 

"If I had had this then I might have been a different man, " said thepoor wretch. 

"There is another paper under it, or there should be, in the samedrawer, " went on William Carstairs, imperturbably. "Perhaps you wouldbetter read that. "

John Carstairs needed no second invitation. He turned to the opendrawer and took out the next paper. It was a copy of a will. The farmand business had been left to William, but one half of it was to be heldin trust for his brother. The man read it and then he crushed the paperin his hand. 

"And that, too, might have saved me. My God!" he cried, "I've been adrunken blackguard. I've gone down to the very depths. I have been inState's prison. I was, I am, a thief, but I never would have withheld adying man's forgiveness from his son. I never would have kept a poorwretch who was crazy with shame and who drank himself into crime out ofhis share of the property. "

Animated by a certain fell purpose, he leaped across the room and seizedthe pistol. 

"Yes, and I have you now!" he cried. "I'll make you pay. "

He levelled the weapon at his brother with a steady hand. 

"What are you doin' to do wif that pistol?" said young John William, curiously looking up from his stocking, while Helen cried out. Thelittle woman acted the better part. With rare intuition she came quicklyand took the left hand of the man and patted it gently. For one thing, her father was not afraid, and that reassured her. John Carstairs threwthe pistol down again. William Carstairs had never moved. 

"Now, " he said, "let me explain. "

"Can you explain away this?"

"I can. Father's will was not opened until the day after you left. AsGod is my judge I did not know he had written to you. I did not know hehad left anything to you. I left no stone unturned in an endeavour tofind you. I employed the best detectives in the land, but we found notrace of you whatever. Why, John, I have only been sorry once that Ilet you go that night, that I spoke those words to you, and that hasbeen all the time. "

"And where does this come from?" said the man, flinging his arm up andconfronting the magnificent room. 

"It came from the old farm. There was oil on it and I sold it for agreat price. I was happily married. I came here and have been successfulin business. Half of it all is yours. "

"I won't take it. "

"John, " said William Carstairs, "I offered you money once and you struckit out of my hand. You remember?"

"Yes. "

"What I am offering you now is your own. You can't strike it out of myhand. It is not mine, but yours. "

"I won't have it, " protested the man. "It's too late. You don't knowwhat I've been, a common thief. 'Crackerjack' is my name. Everypoliceman and detective in New York knows me. "

"But you've got a little Helen, too, haven't you?" interposed the littlegirl with wisdom and tact beyond her years. 

"Yes. "

"And you said she was very poor and had no Christmas. "

"Yes. "

"For her sake, John, " said William Carstairs. "Indeed you must not thinkyou have been punished alone. I have been punished, too. I'll help youbegin again. Here"--he stepped closer to his brother--"is my hand. "

The other stared at it uncomprehendingly. 

"There is nothing in it now but affection. Won't you take it?"

Slowly John Carstairs lifted his hand. His palm met that of his elderbrother. He was so hungry and so weak and so overcome that he swayed alittle. His head bowed, his body shook and the elder brother put his armaround him and drew him close. 

Into the room came William Carstairs' wife. She, too, had at last beenaroused by the conversation, and, missing her husband, she had thrown awrapper about her and had come down to seek him. 

"We tame down to find Santy Claus, " burst out young John William, at thesight of her, "and he's been here, look muvver. "

Yes, Santa Claus had indeed been there. The boy spoke better than heknew. 

"And this, " said little Helen eagerly, pointing proudly to her newacquaintance, "is a friend of his, and he knows papa and he's got alittle Helen and we're going to give her a Merry Christmas. "

William Carstairs had no secrets from his wife. With a flash of womanlyintuition, although she could not understand how he came to be there, she divined who this strange guest was who looked a pale, weak pictureof her strong and splendid husband, and yet she must have finalassurance. 

"Who is this gentleman, William?" she asked quietly, and John Carstairswas forever grateful to her for her word that night. 

"This, " said William Carstairs, "is my father's son, my brother, who wasdead and is alive again, and was lost and is found. "

And so, as it began with the beginning, this story ends with the endingof the best and most famous of all the stories that were ever told. 

[Illustration]

ON CHRISTMAS GIVING

[Illustration]

_Being a Word of Much Needed Advice_

Christmas is the birthday of our Lord, upon which we celebrate God'sineffable gift of Himself to His children. No human soul has ever beenable to realize the full significance of that gift, no heart has everbeen glad enough to contain the joy of it, and no mind has ever beenwise enough to express it. Nevertheless we powerfully appreciate theblessing and would fain convey it fitly. Therefore to commemorate thatgreat gift the custom of exchanging tokens of love and remembrance hasgrown until it has become well nigh universal. This is a day in which weourselves crave, as never at any other time, happiness and peace forthose we love and that ought to include everybody, for with the angelicmessage in our ears it should be impossible to hate any one on Christmasday however we may feel before or after. 

But despite the best of wills almost inevitably Christmas in manyinstances has created a burdensome demand. Perhaps by the method ofexclusion we shall find out what Christmas should be. It is not a timefor extravagance, for ostentation, for vulgar display, it is possible topurchase pleasure for someone else at too high a price to ourselves. Toparaphrase Polonius, "Costly thy gift as thy purse can buy, rich but notexpressed in fancy, for the gift oft proclaims the man. " In makingpresents observe three principal facts; the length of your purse, thecharacter of your friend, and the universal rule of good taste. Do notplunge into extravagance from which you will scarcely recover except inmonths of nervous strain and desperate financial struggle. On the otherhand do not be mean and niggardly in your gifts. Oh, not that; avoidselfishness at Christmas, if at no other time. Rather no gift at allthan a grudging one. Let your offerings represent yourselves and youraffections. Indeed if they do not represent you, they are not gifts atall. "The gift without the giver is bare. "

And above all banish from your mind the principle of reciprocity. The_lex talionis_ has no place in Christmas giving. Do not think or feelthat you must give to someone because someone gave to you. There is nobarter about it. You give because you love and without a thought ofreturn. Credit others with the same feeling and be governed thereby. Iknow one upon whose Christmas list there are over one hundred and fiftypeople, rich and poor, high and low, able and not able. That man wouldbe dismayed beyond measure if everyone of those people felt obliged tomake a return for the Christmas remembrances he so gladly sends them. 

In giving remember after all the cardinal principle of the day. Let yourgift be an expression of your kindly remembrance, your gentleconsideration, your joyful spirit, your spontaneous gratitude, yourabiding desire for peace and goodwill toward men. Hunt up somebody whoneeds and who without you may lack and suffer heart hunger, loneliness, and disappointment. 

Nor is Christmas a time for gluttonous eating and drinking. To gorgeone's self with quantities of rich and indigestible food is not thenoblest method of commemorating the day. The rules and laws of digestionare not abrogated upon the Holy day. These are material cautions, theday has a spiritual significance of which material manifestations are, or ought to be, outward and visible expressions only. 

Christmas is one of the great days of obligation in the Church year, then as at Easter if at no other time, Christians should gather aroundthe table of the Lord, kneeling before God's altar in the ministering ofthat Holy Communion which unites them with the past, the present, andthe future--the communion of the saints of God's Holy Church with HisBeloved Son. Then and thus in body, soul, and spirit we do trulyparticipate in the privilege and blessing of the Incarnation, then andthere we receive that strength which enables everyone of us to becomefactors in the great extension of that marvellous occurrence throughoutthe ages and throughout the world. 

Let us therefore on this Holy Natal Day, from which the whole worlddates its time, begin on our knees before that altar which is at oncemanger, cross, throne. Let us join thereafter in holy cheer of praiseand prayer and exhortation and Christmas carol, and then let us go forthwith a Christmas spirit in our hearts resolved to communicate it to thechildren of men, and not merely for the day but for the future. To makethe right use of these our privileges, this it is to save the world. 

In this spirit, therefore, so far as poor, fallible human nature permitshim to realize it and exhibit it, the author wishes all his readerswhich at present comprise his only flock--

A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR. 

[Illustration]

IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_In Which it is Shown how Different the Same Things may Be_

_A Story for Girls_

In Philadelphia the rich and the poor live cheek by jowl--or rather, back to back. Between the streets of the rich and parallel to them, runthe alleys of the poor. The rich man's garage jostles elbows with thepoor man's dwelling. 

In a big house fronting on one of the most fashionable streets lived alittle girl named Ethel. Other people lived in the big house also, afather, a mother, a butler, a French maid, and a host of other servants. Back of the big house was the garage. Facing the garage on the otherside of the alley was a little, old one-story-and-a-half brick house. In this house dwelt a little girl named Maggie. With her lived herfather who was a labourer; her mother, who took in washing; and half adozen brothers, four of whom worked at something or other, while the twolittlest went to school. 

Ethel and Maggie never played together. Their acquaintance was simply abowing one--better perhaps, a smiling one. From one window in the bigplayroom which was so far to one side of the house that Ethel could seepast the garage and get a glimpse of the window of the living-room inMaggie's house, the two little girls at first stared at each other. Oneday Maggie nodded and smiled, then Ethel, feeling very much frightened, for she had been cautioned against playing with or noticing the childrenin the alley, nodded and smiled back. Now neither of the children felthappy unless they had held a pantomimic conversation from window towindow at some time during the day. 

It was Christmas morning. Ethel awoke very early, as all properlyorganized children do on that day at least. She had a beautiful room inwhich she slept alone. Adjacent to it, in another room almost asbeautiful, slept Celeste, her mamma's French maid. Ethel had beenexquisitely trained. She lay awake a long time before making a sound ormovement, wishing it were time to arise. But Christmas was strong uponher, the infection of the season was in her blood. Presently she slippedsoftly out of bed, pattered across the room, paused at the door whichgave entrance to the hall which led to her mother's apartments, thenturned and plumped down upon Celeste. 

"Merry Christmas, " she cried shaking the maid. 

To awaken Celeste was a task of some difficulty. Ordinarily the Frenchwoman would have been indignant at being thus summarily routed outbefore the appointed hour but something of the spirit of Christmas hadtouched her as well. She answered the salutation of the little girlkindly enough, but as she sat up in bed she lifted a reproving finger. 

"But, " she said, "you mus' keep ze silence, Mademoiselle Ethel. Madame, vôtre maman, she say she mus' not be disturb' in ze morning. She hafbeen out ver' late in ze night and she haf go to ze bed ver' early. Shesay you mus' be ver' quiet on ze Matin de Noël!"

"I will be quiet, Celeste, " answered the little girl, her lip quiveringat the injunction. 

It was so hard to be repressed all the time but especially on ChristmasDay of all others. 

"Zen I will help you to dress immediatement, and zen Villiam, he villcall us to see ze tree. "

Never had the captious little girl been more docile, more obedient. Dressing Ethel that morning was a pleasure to Celeste. Scarcely had shecompleted the task and put on her own clothing when there was a tap onthe door. 

"Vat is it?"

"Mornin', Miss Celeste, " spoke a heavy voice outside, a voice subdued toa decorous softness of tone, "if you an' Miss Ethel are ready, the treeis lit, an'--"

"Ve air ready, Monsieur Villiam, " answered Celeste, throwing open thedoor dramatically. 

Ethel opened her mouth to welcome the butler--for if that solemn andportentous individual ever unbent it was to Miss Ethel, whom in hisheart of hearts he adored--but he placed a warning finger to his lipand whispered in an awestruck voice:

"The master, your father, came in late last night, Miss, an' he saidthere must be no noise or racket this morning. "

Ethel nodded sadly, her eyes filling at her disappointment; William thenmarched down the hall with a stately magnificence peculiar to butlers, and opened the door into the playroom. He flung it wide and stood to oneside like a grenadier, as Celeste and Ethel entered. There was agorgeous tree, beautifully trimmed. William had bought the tree andCeleste's French taste had adorned it. It was a sight to delight anychild's eyes and the things strewn around it on the floor were even moreattractive. Everything that money could buy, that Celeste and Williamcould think of was there. Ethel's mother had given her maid carteblanche to buy the child whatever she liked, and Ethel's father haddone the same with William. The two had pooled their issue and theresult was a toyshop dream. Ethel looked at the things in silence. 

"How do you like it, Miss?" asked William at last rather anxiously. 

"Mademoiselle is not pleased?" questioned the French woman. 

"It--it--is lovely, " faltered the little girl. 

"We haf selected zem ourselves. "

"Yes, Miss. "

"Didn't mamma--buy anything--or papa--or Santa?"

"Zey tell us to get vatever you vould like and nevair mind ze money. "

"It was so good of you, I am sure, " said Ethel struggling valiantlyagainst disappointment almost too great to bear. "Everything isbeautiful but--I--wish mamma or papa had--I wish they were here--I'dlike them to wish me a Merry Christmas. "

The little lip trembled but the upper teeth came down on it firmly. Thechild had courage. William looked at Celeste and Celeste shrugged hershoulders, both knowing what was lacking. 

"I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry Christmas, an'"--thebutler began bravely, but the situation was too much for him. "Theregoes the master's bell, " he said quickly and turned and stalked out ofthe room gravely, although no bell had summoned him. 

"You may go, Celeste, " said Ethel with a dignity not unlike her mother'smanner. 

[Illustration: "I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a MerryChristmas. "]

The maid shrugged her shoulders again, left the room and closed thedoor. Everything was lovely, everything was there except that personaltouch which means so much even to the littlest girl. Ethel was usedto being cared for by others than her parents but it came especiallyhard on her this morning. She turned, leaving the beautiful things asthey were placed about the tree, and walked to the end window whence shecould get a view of the little house beyond the garage over the backwall. 

There was a Christmas tree in Maggie's house too. It wouldn't have madea respectable branch for Ethel's tree, and the trimmings were so cheapand poor that Celeste would have thrown them into the waste basketimmediately. There were a few common, cheap, perishable little toysaround the tree on the floor but to Maggie it was a glimpse of heaven. She stood in her little white night-gown--no such thing as dressing forher on Christmas morning--staring around her. The whole family wasgrouped about her, even the littlest brothers, who went to schoolbecause they were not big enough to work, forgot their own joy inwatching their little sister. Her father, her mother, the big boys allin a state of more or less dishevelled undress stood around her, pointing out first one thing and then another which they had been ableto get for her by denying themselves some of the necessities of life. Maggie was so happy that her eyes brimmed, yet she did not cry. Shelaughed, she clapped her hands, and kissed them all round and finallyfound herself, a big orange in one hand, a tin trumpet in the other, perched upon her father's broad shoulders leading a frantic march aroundthe narrow confines of the living-room. As she passed by the one windowshe caught a glimpse of the alley. It had been snowing throughout thenight and the ground was white. 

"Oh, " she screamed with delight, "let me see the snow on Christmasmorning. "

Her father walked over to the window, parted the cheap lace curtains, while Maggie clapped her hands gleefully at the prospect. Presently shelifted her eyes and looked toward the other window high up in the air, where Ethel stood, a mournful little figure. Maggie's papa looked too. He knew how cheap and poor were the little gifts he had bought for hisdaughter. 

"I wish, " he thought, "that she could have some of the things that childup there has. "

Maggie however was quite content. She smiled, flourished her trumpet, waved her orange, but there was no answering smile on Ethel's face now. Finally the wistful little girl in the big house languidly waved herhand, and then Maggie was taken away to be dressed lest she should catchcold after the mischief was done. 

"I hope that she's having a nice Christmas, " said Maggie, referring toEthel. 

"I hope so too, " answered her mother, wishing that her little girlmight have some of the beautiful gifts she knew must be in the greathouse. 

"Whatever she has, " said Maggie, gleefully, "she can't have any nicerChristmas than I have, that you and papa and the boys gave me. I'm justas happy as I can be. "

Over in the big house, Ethel was also wishing. She was so unhappy sinceshe had seen Maggie in the arms of her big, bearded father, standing bythe window, that she could control herself no longer. She turned awayand threw herself down on the floor in front of the tree and buried herface in her hands bursting into tears. 

It was Christmas morning and she was all alone. 

[Illustration]

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

[Illustration]

"_Christmas Then and Now_"

 The Stars look down On David's town, While angels sing in Winter night; The Shepherds pray, And far away The Wise Men follow guiding light. 

 Little Christ Child By Mary Mild In Manger lies without the Inn; Of Man the Son, Yet God in One, To save the lost in World of Sin. 

 Still stars look down On David's town And still the Christ Child dwells with men, What thought give we To such as He, Or souls who live in Sin as then?

 Show we our love To Him above By offering others' grief to share; And Christmas cheer For all the year Bestow to lighten pain and care. 

"The Stars Look Down. "

CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

Words by Music byCYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY. ALSOP LEFFINGWELL. 

_Moderato_. 

[Illustration: [Music]

 The Stars look down On David's town, While angels sing in Winter night; The shepherds pray, And far away, The Wise Men follow Guiding light. Little Christ Child, By Mary Mild, In manger lies without the inn; Of Man the Son, Yet God in One, To save the lost in world of sin. 

 Still stars look down on David's town And still the Christ Child dwells with men. What thought give we To such as He, Or souls who live in Sin, as then? Show we our love To Him above By off'ring others' grief to share, And Christmas cheer For all the year Bestow to lighten Pain and Care. ]

THE LONE SCOUT'S CHRISTMAS

_Wherein is Set Forth the Courage and Resourcefulness of Youth_

_A Story for Boys_

Every boy likes snow on Christmas Day, but there is such a thing as toomuch of it. Henry Ives, alone in the long railroad coach, stared out ofthe clouded windows at the whirling mass of snow with feelings ofdismay. It was the day before Christmas, almost Christmas Eve. Henry didnot feel any too happy, indeed he had hard work to keep down a sob. Hismother had died but a few weeks before and his father, the captain of afreighter on the Great Lakes, had decided, very reluctantly, to send himto his brother who had a big ranch in western Nebraska. 

Henry had never seen his uncle or his aunt. He did not know what kindof people they were. The loss of his mother had been a terrible blow tohim and to be separated from his father had filled his cup of sorrow tothe brim. His father's work did not end with the close of navigation onthe lakes, and he could not get away then although he promised to comeand see Henry before the ice broke and traffic was resumed in thespring. 

The long journey from the little Ohio town on Lake Erie to westernNebraska had been without mishap. His uncle's ranch lay far away fromthe main line of the railroad on the end of the branch. There was butone train a day upon it, and that was a mixed train. The coach in whichHenry sat was attached to the end of a long string of freight cars. Travel was infrequent in that section of the country. On this day Henrywas the only passenger. 

The train had been going up-grade for many miles and had just aboutreached the crest of the divide. Bucking the snow had become more andmore difficult; several times the train had stopped. Sometimes theengine backed the train some distance to get headway to burst throughthe drift. So Henry thought nothing of it when the car came to a gentlestop. 

The all-day storm blew from the west and the front windows of the carwere covered with snow so he could not see ahead. Some time before theconductor and rear brakeman had gone forward to help dig the engine outof the drift and they had not come back. 

Henry sat in silence for some time watching the whirling snow. He wassad; even the thought of the gifts of his father and friends in histrunk which stood in the baggage compartment of the car did not cheerhim. More than all the Christmas gifts in the world, he wanted at thattime his mother and father and friends. 

"It doesn't look as though it was going to be a very merry Christmas forme, " he said aloud at last, and then feeling a little stiff from havingsat still so long he got up and walked to the front of the car. 

It was warm and pleasant in the coach. The Baker heater was going atfull blast and Henry noticed that there was plenty of coal. He tried tosee out from the front door; but as he was too prudent to open it andlet in the snow and cold he could make out nothing. The silence ratheralarmed him. The train had never waited so long before. 

Then, suddenly, came the thought that something very unusual was wrong. He must get a look at the train ahead. He ran back to the rear door, opened it and standing on the leeward side, peered forward. The engineand freight cars were not there! All he saw was the deep cut fillednearly to the height of the car with snow. 

Henry was of a mechanical turn of mind and he realized that doubtlessthe coupling had broken. That was what had happened. The trainmen hadnot noticed it and the train had gone on and left the coach. The breakhad occurred at the crest of the divide and the train had gone rapidlydown hill on the other side. The amount of snow told the boy that itwould not be possible for the train to back up and pick up the car. Hewas alone in the wilderness of rolling hills in far western Nebraska. And this was Christmas Eve!

It was enough to bring despair to any boy's heart. But Henry Ives wasmade of good stuff, he was a first-class Boy Scout and on his scout coatin the trunk were four Merit Badges. He had the spirit of his father, who had often bucked the November storms on Lake Superior in his greatsix-hundred-foot freighter, and danger inspired him. 

He went back into the car, closed the door, and sat down to think itover. He had very vague ideas as to how long such a storm would last andhow long he might be kept prisoner. He did not even know just where hewas or how far it was to the end of the road and the town where hisuncle's ranch lay. 

It was growing dark so he lighted one of the lamps close to the heaterand had plenty of light. In doing so he noticed in the baggage rack adinner pail. He remembered that the conductor had told him that his wifehad packed that dinner pail and although it did not belong to the boy hefelt justified in appropriating it in such circumstances. It was full offood--eggs, sandwiches, and a bottle of coffee. He was not very hungrybut he ate a sandwich. He was even getting cheerful about the situationbecause he had something to do. It was an adventure. 

While he had been eating, the storm had died away. Now he discoveredthat it had stopped snowing. All around him the country was a hilly, rolling prairie. The cut ran through a hill which seemed to be higherthan others in the neighbourhood. If he could get on top of it he mightsee where he was. Although day was ending it was not yet dark and Henrydecided upon an exploration. 

Now he could not walk on foot in that deep and drifted snow withoutsinking over his head under ordinary conditions, but his troop had donea great deal of winter work, and strapped alongside of his big, telescope grip were a pair of snow-shoes which he himself had made, andwith the use of which he was thoroughly familiar. 

"I mustn't spoil this new suit, " he told himself, so he ran to thebaggage-room of the car, opened his trunk, got out his Scout uniform andslipped into it in a jiffy. "Glad I ran in that 'antelope dressingrace, '" he muttered, "but I'll beat my former record now. " Over hiskhaki coat he put on his heavy sweater, then donned his wool cap andgloves, and with his snow-shoes under his arm hurried back to the rearplatform. The snow was on a level with the platform. It rose higher asthe coach reached into the cut. He saw that he would have to go downsome distance before he could turn and attempt the hill. 

He had used his snow-shoes many times in play but this was the firsttime they had ever been of real service to him. Thrusting his toes intothe straps he struck out boldly. 

[Illustration: "Thrusting his toes into the straps he struck outboldly. "]

To his delight he got along without the slightest difficulty althoughhe strode with great care. He gained the level and in ten minutes foundhimself on the top of the hill, where he could see miles and miles ofrolling prairie. He turned himself slowly about, to get a view of thecountry. 

As his glance swept the horizon, at first it did not fall upon a single, solitary thing except a vast expanse of snow. There was not a tree even. The awful loneliness filled him with dismay. He had about given up when, in the last quarter of the horizon he saw, perhaps a quarter of a mileaway, what looked like a fine trickle of blackish smoke that appeared torise from a shapeless mound that bulged above the monotonous level. 

"Smoke means fire, and fire means man, " he said, excitedly. 

The sky was rapidly clearing. A few stars had already appeared. Remembering what he had learned on camp and trail, he took his bearingby the stars; he did not mean to get lost if he left that hill. Lookingback, he could see the car, the lamp of which sent broad beams of lightthrough the windows across the snow. 

Then he plunged down the hill, thanking God in his boyish heart for thesnow-shoes and his knowledge of them. 

It did not take him long to reach the mound whence the smoke rose. Itwas a sod house, he found, built against a sharp knoll, which no doubtformed its rear wall. The wind had drifted the snow, leaving a half-openway to the door. Noiselessly the boy slipped down to it, drew his feetfrom the snow-shoes and knocked. There was a burst of sound inside. Itmade his heart jump, but he was reassured by the fact that the voiceswere those of children. What they said he could not make out; but, without further ado, he opened the door and entered. 

It was a fairly large room. There were two beds in it, a stove, a table, a chest of drawers and a few chairs. From one of the beds three headsstared at him. As each head was covered with a wool cap, drawn down overthe ears, like his own, he could not make out who they were. There weredishes on the table, but they were empty. The room was cold, although itwas evident that there was still a little fire in the stove. 

"Oh!" came from one of the heads in the bed. "I thought you were myfather. What is your name?"

"My name, " answered the boy, "is Henry Ives. I was left behind alone inthe railroad car about a mile back, and saw the smoke from your houseand here I am. "

"Have you brought us anything to burn?" asked the second head. 

"Or anything to eat?" questioned the third. 

"My name is Mary Wright, " said the first speaker, "and these are mybrothers George and Philip. Father went away yesterday morning with theteam, to get some coal and some food. He went to Kiowa. "

"That's where I am going, " interrupted Henry. 

"Yes, " continued Mary, "I suppose he can't get back because of the snow. It's an awful storm. "

"We haven't anything to eat, and I don't know when father will be back, "said George. 

"And it's Christmas Eve, " wailed Philip, who appeared to be about seven. 

He set up a howl about this which his brother George, who was aboutnine, had great difficulty in quieting. 

"We put the last shovelful of coal in the stove, " said Mary Wright, "and got into bed to keep warm. "

"I'll go outside while you get up and dress, " said Henry considerately, "and then we will try and get to the car. It is warm there, and there issomething to eat. "

"You needn't go, " said the girl; "we are all dressed. " She threw backthe covers and sprang out of bed. She was very pretty and about Henry'sown age, he discovered, although she was pale and haggard with cold andhunger. 

"Goody, goody!" exclaimed little Philip, as his feet landed on thefloor. "Maybe we'll have some Christmas, too. "

"Maybe we will, " said Henry, smiling at him. "At least we will havesomething to eat. "

"Well, let's start right away then, " urged George. 

This brought Henry face to face with a dilemma. "I have only one pairof snow-shoes, " he said at last, "and you probably don't know how to usethem anyway, and you can't walk on the snow. "

"I have a sled, " suggested George. 

"That won't do, " said Henry. "I've got to have something that won't sinkin the snow--that will lie flat, so I can draw you along. "

"How about that table?" said the girl. 

"Good suggestion, " cried Henry. 

It was nothing but a common kitchen table. He turned it upside down, took his Scout axe from its sheath, knocked the legs off, fastened apiece of clothesline to the butts of two of them. 

"Now if I could have something to turn up along the front, so as not todig into the snow, " he said, "it would be fine. " He thought a moment. "Where is that sled of yours, George?"

"Here, " said George, dragging it forth. The runners curved upwards. Henry cut them off, in spite of Philip's protests. He nailed theserunners to the front of the table and stretched rope tightly across themso that he had four up-curves in front of the table. 

"Now I want something to stretch on these things, so as to let the sledride over the snow, instead of digging into it, " he said to the girl. 

She brought him her father's old "slicker. " Henry cut it into suitableshape and nailed and lashed it securely to the runners and to the tabletop. Now he had a flat-bottomed sled with a rising front to it thatwould serve. He smiled as he looked at the queer contrivance and saidaloud: "I wish Mr. Lesher could see that!"

"Who is Mr. Lesher?" asked George. 

"Oh, he's my Scoutmaster back in Ohio. Now come on!"

He opened the door, drew the sled outside, pushed it up on the snow andstepped on it. It bore his weight perfectly. 

"It's all right, " he cried. "But it won't take all three of you atonce. "

"I'll wait, " said Mary, "you take the two boys. "

"Very well, " said Henry. 

"You'll surely come back for me?"

"Surely, and I think it's mighty brave of you to stay behind. Now comeon, boys, " he said. 

Leaving Mary filled with pleasure at such praise, he put the two boyscarefully into the sled, stepped into his snow-shoes and dragged themrapidly across the prairie. It was quite dark now, but the sky was clearand the stars were bright. The storm had completely stopped. Heremembered the bearings he had taken by the stars, and reached the highhill without difficulty. Below him lay the car. 

Presently he drew up before the platform. He put the boys in the car, told them to go up to the fire and warm themselves and not to touchanything. Then he went back for the girl. 

"Did you think I was not coming?" he asked as he re-entered the cabin. 

"I knew you would come back, " said the girl and it was Henry's turn totingle with pride. 

He wrapped her up carefully, and fairly ran back to the car. They foundthe boys warm and comfortable and greatly excited. 

"If we just had a Christmas tree and Santa Claus and something to eatand a drink of water and a place to sleep, " said the youngest boy, "itwould be great fun. "

"I am afraid we can't manage the Christmas tree, " said Henry, "but wecan have everything else. "

"Do you mean Santy?"

"Santy too, " answered the boy. "First of all, we will get something toeat. "

"We haven't had anything since morning, " said the girl. Henry dividedthe sandwiches into three portions. As it happened, there were threehard-boiled eggs. He gave one portion to each of his guests. 

"You haven't left any for yourself, " said Mary. 

"I ate before I looked for you, " answered Henry, although the onesandwich had by no means satisfied his hunger. 

"My, but this is good!" said George. 

"Our mother is dead, " said Mary Wright after a pause, "and our father isawful poor. He has taken out a homestead and we are trying to live on ituntil he gets it proved up. We have had a very hard time since motherdied. "

"Yes, I know, " said Henry, gravely; "my mother died, too. "

"I wonder what time it is?" asked the girl at last. 

Henry pulled out his watch. "It is after six o'clock, " he said. 

"Say, " broke in George, "that's a funny kind of a uniform you've goton. "

"It is a Boy Scout uniform. "

"Oh, is it?" exclaimed George. "I never saw one before. I wish I couldbe a Scout!"

"Maybe you can, " answered Henry. "I am going to organize a troop when Iget to Kiowa. But now I'm going to fix beds for you. Of course we areall sleepy after such a hard day. "

He had seen the trainmen lift up the bottoms of the seats and lay themlengthwise of the car. He did this, and soon made four fairlycomfortable beds. The two nearest the stove he gave to the boys. Heindicated the next one was for Mary, and the one further down toward themiddle of the car was for himself. 

"You can all go to bed right away, " he said when he had made hispreparations. The two boys decided to accept this advice. Mary said shewould stay up a little longer and talk with Henry. 

"You can't undress, " she said to the two boys. "You'll have to sleep asyou are. " She sat down in one of the car seats; Philip knelt down at oneknee and George at the other. The girl, who was barely fifteen hadalready taken her mother's place. She laid her hand on each bent headand listened while one after the other the boys said their prayers. Shekissed them good-night, saw them comfortably laid out on the bigcushions with their overcoats for pillows and turned away. 

"Say, " began Philip, "you forgot something, Mary. "

"What have I forgotten, dear?"

"Why, it's Christmas Eve and we must hang up our stockings. "

Mary threw up her hands. "I am afraid this is too far away for SantaClaus. He won't know that we are out here, " she said. 

"Oh, I don't know, " said Henry, thinking rapidly, "let them hang themup. "

Mary looked at him in surprise. "They haven't any to hang up, " she said. "We can't take those they're wearing. "

"You should have thought of that, " wailed Philip, "before you brought ushere. "

"I have some extra ones in my bag, " said Henry. "We will hang them up. "

He opened the bag and brought out three stockings, one for each of hisguests. He fastened them to the baggage racks above the seats andwatched the two boys contentedly close their eyes and go to sleep. 

"They will be awfully disappointed when they wake up in the morning anddo not find anything in them, " said Mary. 

"They're going to find something in them, " said Henry confidently. 

He went to the end of the car, opened his trunk and lifted out variouspackages which had been designed for him. Of course he was going onsixteen, but there were some things that would do for Philip and plentyof things for George and some good books that he had selected himselfthat would do for Mary. Then there were candy and nuts and cakes andoranges galore. Mary was even more excited than he was as they filledthe boys' stockings and arranged things that were too big to go in them. 

"These are your own Christmas gifts, I know, " said the girl, "and youhaven't hung up your stocking. "

"I don't need to. I have had my Christmas present. "

"And what is that?"

"A chance to make a merry Christmas for you and your little brothers, "answered Henry, and his heart was light. 

"How long do you suppose we will have to stay here?" asked the girl. 

"I don't know. I suppose they will try to dig us out to-morrow. Meanwhile we have nuts, oranges, crackers, and little cakes, to saynothing of the candy, to live on. Now you go to bed and have a goodsleep. "

"And what will you do?"

"I'll stay up for a while and read one of these books and keep the firegoing. "

"You are awfully good to us, " said Mary, turning away. "You are justlike a real Santa Claus. "

"We have to help other people--especially people in trouble, " answeredthe boy. "It is one of the first Scout rules. I am really glad I gotleft behind and found you. Good-night. "

The girl, whose experience that day had been hard, soon fell asleep withher brothers. Henry did not feel sleepy at all; he was bright and happyand rejoiced. This certainly _was_ an adventure. He wondered what Dickand Joe and Spike and the other fellows of his troop would think when hewrote them about it. He did not realize that he had saved the lives ofthe children, who would assuredly have frozen to death in the cabin. 

When he was satisfied that Mary was sound asleep, he put some things inher stocking and then piled in the rack over her head two books hethought the girl would like. It was late when he went to sleep himself, happier than he had dreamed he could be. 

He awoke once in the night to replenish the fire, but he was sleepingsoundly at seven o'clock in the morning when the door of the car openedand half a dozen men filed in. They had not made any noise. Even the bigsnow-plough tearing open the way from Kiowa had not disturbed the foursleepers. 

The first man in was the conductor. After the trainmen had discoveredthat the coach had been left behind they had managed to get into Kiowaand had started back at once with the rotary plough to open the road andto rescue the boy. Henry's uncle had been in town to meet Henry, and ofcourse the trainmen let him go back with them on the plough. The thirdman was Mr. Wright. He had been caught by the storm and, as he said, theabandoned coach must be near his claim, he asked to be taken alongbecause he was afraid his children would be freezing to death. 

The men stopped and surveyed the sleeping boys and girl. Their glancesranged from the children to the bulging stockings and the pile ofChristmas presents in the racks. 

"Well, can you beat that?" said the conductor. 

"By George!" exclaimed Rancher Ives, "a regular Christmas layout!"

"These are my children safe and well, thank God!" cried Mr. Wright. 

"Boy, " said the conductor, laying his hand on Henry's shoulder, "we cameto wish you a Merry Christmas. "

"Father!" cried Mary Wright, awakened by the voice, and the next minuteshe was in his arms, while she told him rapidly what Henry had done forthem all. 

The boys were awake, too, but humanity had no attraction for them. 

"Santa has come!" shouted Philip making a dive for his stocking. 

"This is your uncle, Jim Ives, " said the conductor to Henry. 

"And this is my father, " said Mary in turn. 

"I am awfully sorry, " said Henry to the conductor, "but we had to eatyour dinner. And I had to chop up your kitchen table, " he added, turningto Mr. Wright. 

"I am glad there was something to eat in the pail, " said one. 

"You could have chopped the cabin down, " said the other. 

"By George!" said the ranchman proudly. "I wrote to your father to sendyou out here and we'd make a man of you, but it seems to me you are aman already, " he continued as Mary Wright poured forth the story oftheir rescue. 

"No, I am not a man, " said Henry to his uncle, as he flushed with prideat the hearty praise of these men. "I am just a--"

"Just a what?" asked the conductor as the boy hesitated. 

"Why, just a Boy Scout, " answered Henry. 

LOOKING INTO THE MANGER

_A Christmas Meditation_

Christmas morning, the day we celebrate as the anniversary of the birthof our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, in the obscure, little hill townof Bethlehem in the far-off Judæan land, over nineteen hundred yearsago!

It is said:

 "When beggars die, there are no comets seen: The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. "

What is true of the passing of kings is perhaps more true of theircoming; yet in this birth are singular contradictions. The Child wasborn a beggar. There lacks no touch which even imagination could supplyto indicate the meanness of His earthly condition. Homeless, Hismother, save for the stable of the public inn--and words can hardlydescribe any place more unsuited--was shelterless, unprotected, in thathour of travail pain. 

I love to let my imagination dwell upon that scene. Sometimes I thinkwayfarers may have gathered in the tavern hard by and with music andplay sought to while away the hours as travellers have from timeimmemorial. Perhaps in some pause in their merriment, a strange cry ofanguish, borne by the night wind from the rude shelter without, may havestopped their revelry for a moment and one may have asked of another:

"What is that?"

The servant of the house who stood obsequious to promote their pleasuremay have answered apologetically:

"It is the cry of a woman of the people in travail in the inn yard. "

I can fancy their indifference to the answer, or I can hear perhaps therude jest, or the vulgar quip, with which such an announcement may havebeen received, as the play or the music went on again. 

Oh, yes, the world in solemn stillness lay, doubtless, that winternight, but not the people in it. They pursued their several vocations asusual. They loved or they hated, they worked or they played, they hopedor they despaired, they dreamed or they achieved, just as they had donethroughout the centuries, just as they have done since that day, just asthey will do far into the future; although their little God came tothem, as never He came before, in the stable in the Bethlehem hills thatnight. 

And yet, had they but cast their eyes upward like the wise men--it isalways your wise man who casts his eyes upward--they, too, might haveseen the star that blazed overhead. It was placed so high above theearth that all men everywhere could see to which spot on the surface itpointed. Or, had they been devout men, they would have listened forheavenly voices--it is always your devout man who tries to hear otherthings than the babble of the Babel in which he lives--they, too, couldhave heard the angelic chorus like the shepherds in the fields and onthe hillsides that frosty night. 

For the heavens did blaze forth the birth of the Child. Not with thethunder of guns, not with the blare of trumpets, not with the beating ofdrums, not with the lighting of castle, village, and town, the kindlingof beacons upon the far-flung hills, the cry of fast-riding messengersthrough the night, and the loud acclaim of thousands which greet thecoming of an earthly king, was He welcomed; but by the still shining ofa silent star and by the ineffable and transcendent voices of an AngelChoir. 

How long did the Shepherds listen to that chorus? How long did it ringover the hills and far away? Whither went the Wise Men? Into what dimdistance vanished the star?

 "Where are the roses of yesterday? What has become of last year's snow?"

And the residuum of it all was a little Baby held to a woman's breast ina miserable hovel in the most forlorn and detested corner of the world. And yet to-day and at this hour, and at every hour during thetwenty-four, men are looking into that chamber; men are bowing to thatChild and His mother, and even that mother is at the feet of the Child. 

From the snow peaks of the North land, "from Greenland's icy mountainsto India's coral strand, " and on and on through all the burning tropicsto the companion ice of the other pole, the antarctic, and girdling theworld from east to west as well, the adoration continues. It comes alikefrom the world's noblest, from the world's highest, from the world'struest, from the world's kindest, from the world's poorest, from theworld's humblest, from the world's best. 

Do not even the soldiers in the trenches upon the far-flung battle linespause to listen, look to see as for a moment dies away the cannonade? Donot even the sailors of war and trade peer across the tossing waters ofthe great deep, longing for a truce of God if only for an hour upon thiswinter morning?

[Illustration: "The world bows down to a Mother and her Child--and theMother herself is at the feet of the Child. "]

Yes, they all look into the manger as they look upon the cross and ifonly for an instant this war reddened planet comes to "_see andbelieve_. " What keen vision saw in the Baby the Son of God and the Sonof Man? What simple faith can see these things in Him now? "_Let us nowgo even unto Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass_. "

That birth is known as the Incarnation. Ye know not "_how the bones dogrow in the womb of her that is with child_. " Life itself isinsusceptible of any definition which satisfies, but we know that welive, nevertheless. Science points out a common origin in protoplasmiccells and is quite unable to explain so common a fact as sexdifferentiation. I care not what methods of accounting for life youpropose, you yet have to refer it to the Author of all life "_in whom welive and move and have our being_. " Why, therefore, should theIncarnation be thought incredible or impossible because it does not comewithin the limitations of our present understanding and it is nottaught by our limited human experience. The sweet reasonableness of theIncarnation, this conception by Divine power, this birth from the Virginmother, should appeal to all who think deeply on these subjects. 

And yet perhaps the manner, place, and circumstance of this birth mayawaken wonder. Possibly you would have the King come as other kingscome, in pomp and circumstance, glory and majesty, with heraldspreceding, music playing, blossoms strewn, and people cheering. Oh, no, that way did not seem the best way to the wisdom of God--a young girl, an old man, in the stable, no other tendance, no luxury, nocomfort--poverty, humility, absolute. 

Let us forget the Angel Chorus and the blazing star and go now even untoBethlehem and look into the manger at that Child, while theuncomprehending cattle stare resentful perhaps at their displacement. The King comes as a Child, as weak, as helpless, as vocal of its painsas any other child. Not a Child of luxury, not a Child of consequence, not a Child of comfort, but a Child of poverty; and in the eyes of theblind world, if they had been privy to it, without the glorious visionof the good man, Joseph, a Child of shame! If the world had known thatthe Babe was not the Child of Joseph and Mary how it would have mocked. What laughter, what jeers, what contempt, what obloquy, what scorn wouldhave been heaped upon the woman's head! Why the world would heap themthere now were it not that that portion of it which disbelieves in theIncarnation, says that Joseph was after all the father of the Child. 

Nor shall we go down to Bethlehem alone. The poor, ignorant shepherdscame to the cradle that night. They could understand. It did not seemstrange to them that their God was poor, for they themselves were poor. I wonder how much the shepherds reflected. Theirs is a profession whichgives rise to thought; they are much alone in the waste places with thegentlest of God's creatures. Their paths lead by green pastures andstill waters; they enjoy long, lonely hours for meditation. Did theysay:

"Ah! God has come to us as a poor man, not because there is anythingparticularly noble or desirable in poverty, but because so many of usare so very poor, and because the most of us have been poor all thetime, and because it is probable that most of us will be poor in thefuture!"

Many a poor man has looked up into the silent heavens and wonderedsometimes whether God understood or cared about his wretched lot. Ofcourse God always knew and cared, we cannot gainsay that, but in orderto make men know that He knew and to make them believe that He cared, He let them see that He did not disdain to be a poor man and humble;that He sought His followers and supporters in the great majority. _MyGod was a Carpenter_! That is why He came to the stable; that is why Hecame to the manger. And that is why the poor come to Him. 

And there came to that same cradle, a little while after, the Wise Men. They were professional wise men; they belonged to the learned, thecultured, the thoughtful class; but they were wise men as well in thesense in which we use wisdom to-day. That is, they looked beyond earthlyconditions and saw Divinity where the casual glance does not see it. Howmany a seamed, rugged face, how many a burden-bent back, how many afaltering footstep, how many a knotted, calloused hand is perhaps morenearly in the image of God than the fairer face, the straighter figure, the softer palm!

The shepherds were not only poor, but they laboured in their poverty;they were working men and they worshipped Him, the Working Man. The wisemen were not only wise, but they were rich. They brought the treasuresof the earth from the ends thereof and laid them before the Babe and themother. How fragrant the perfume of the frankincense and the myrrh, andhow rich the lustre of the gold and silver in the mean surroundings ofthe hovel. They took no thought of their costly apparel, they had nofear of contamination from their surroundings, no question of relativedegree entered their heads. As simply and as truly as the shepherds theyworshipped the Christ. The rich and the poor met together there, and theLord was the maker of them all. 

Was that baby-hand the shaper of destiny? Was that working-hand thedirector of events? Even so. The Lord's power is not less the Lord'spower though it be not exhibited in the stretched out arm of majesty. 

Some of you who read this and many more who can not are poor, perhapsvery poor, but you can stand beside that manger and look at that Baby'sface, you can reflect upon the Child, how He grew, what He said, what Hedid, until a cross casts its black shadow across your vision--the war israising many crosses and many there be that walk the _via dolorosa_ tothem to-day. You shall be counted blessed if you can gaze at that crossuntil it is transformed by the glory of the resurrection. And in it allyou can see your God--the poor man's God!--the rich man'sGod!--everybody's God!

You can know that your God was poor, that He was humble, that Hestruggled under adverse conditions, that He laboured, that He washungry, thirsty, tired, cold, that He was homeless, that He was deniedmany of the joys of human society and the solace of affection, that Hisbest friends went back on Him, that everybody deserted Him, and that thewhole world finally rose up and crushed Him down. That he suffered allthings. Only a very great God could so endure. Only one who was trulyGod could so manifest Himself in pain. 

You can understand how He can comprehend what your trouble is. Oh, yes, the poor and the bereaved have as great a right to look into that mangerand see their God there as have the rich and the care free. 

Now there is a kind of pernicious socialism which condemns riches asthings unholy and exalts poverty as a thing acceptable to God. That Babycame as well to the rich as to the poor. Do not forget that. It is notgenerally understood, but it is true. He accepted gladly thehospitality, the alms, the gifts, priceless in value, of those who hadgreat possessions and He loved them even as He loved those who hadnothing. The rich and wise also have a right to look into that cradle tosee their God, too. When we say He is the God of all classes we do notmean that He is only the God of the poor any more than we mean He isonly the God of the rich. 

He came to all the children of men and they can all stand by that cradlethis morning and claim Him as their own; ask, receive, and share in Hisblessing. The light that shone in the darkness lighted impartially theworld. Some of you are blessed with competences and some of thecompetences are greater than others. What of it? The poor man may serveGod acceptably in his poverty and the rich man may serve God acceptablyin his wealth. There is one God and though He is King of Kings and Lordof Lords, even though He may lie lowly in a manger, yet the kingdom ofHeaven is like a republic--it is a democracy in which all are equal, orif there be distinctions they are based on righteousness alone--savingonly the distinctions Divine. 

Now there is one other condition into which all men inevitably fall. Whether they be rich or whether they be poor, they are all bound to besorrowful. Sooner or later, we are certain to be troubled. And that ismore true today, doubtless, than in any other period in the long historyof this old world. 

These sorrowful ones can go unto Bethlehem and look into the cradle andclaim the Child as their God. For every sorrow that has been yours, Heexperienced; every grief that you have bowed before, He was forced tostruggle with. Very tender and compassionate is our Lord. I am quitesure that He notices your bowed head, that He puts His arms across yourshoulders, that He whispers words of comfort into your ear, or that Hegives you the silent sympathy of His presence, that He takes you by thehand; that whatever action most appeals to you and is best for you Hetakes if you wish Him to. 

There are many people belonging to you or your family who are far away, whom you would fain have with you this Christmas morning. Many of themare fighting manfully in His cause, too. Do not forget that our Lordcame to the family! that He made a family by coming. These far-off lovedones are doing what we are doing this morning. And there are some youlove who are still farther away. The sound of their earthly voices isstilled, we may not clasp their hands, we cannot see them any more. They are gone from the world, but not from our hearts. If they are nothere I think they are with Him. And we may be sure that it is verypleasant to them where He is. They are not unmindful of our humanregrets and longings, but I think we ought not to be unmindful of theirpeaceful joy in His presence. 

And so everybody has a right to come to that cradle, the poor, thehumble, the hard workers, the toilers, the wise, the learned, the easy, the rich, the joyous, the sad, the sorrowful, the bereaved. They may alllook into the manger and see their God. 

He came to a family; He made a family. We are all in that family, thechildren of the selfsame Father, the sons of the selfsame God, thebrethren of Him of the manger--German and French, English and Austrian, Italian and Bulgar, Russian and Turk! Ay, and above all and with allAmerican and Belgian. Sirs, we be, not twelve, but many brethren! Whatdoes that mean?

There is one musical word with, I think, perhaps the ugliest meaning inthe language. It is _rancour_. Let us do away with it, let us put itaside. If we are poor let us be brethren to the other poor, if we arerich let us be brethren to the other rich, if we are wise let us bebrethren to the other wise, if we are foolish let us be brethren to theother foolish. Ah, that is not difficult; it is an easy task. But thatis not enough. Brotherhood is broader, thank God! Let the poor bebrethren to the rich and the rich to the poor, the wise to the ignorant, the misguided to the well-directed, the ignorant to the wise, thefoolish to the discreet, the discreet to the foolish, the glad to thesorrowful, the sorrowful to the glad, the servants of the Lord to thesinners against Him!

 "Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers, In the brave days of old. "

Let us make out of the old pagan ideals present-day realities in ourhearts as we go even unto Bethlehem and look into the cradle of theKing; realities in His own nobler and better words:

 "_Jesus answered and said unto them, Go and shew John again those things which ye do hear and see: the blind receive their sight, and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, and the poor have the gospel preached to them. And blessed is he whosoever shall not be offended in Me_. "

Peace, goodwill toward men! Peace to men of goodwill! That is what theangels sang. But there is nothing on earth to prevent us from making itour human song as well. As we stand by the cradle of the Master and peerinto the manger at that which every human being loves, a baby, ourearthly differences of nationality, of rank, power, station, andinfluence--things that are but the guinea's stamp upon the gold ofcharacter and personality--fade into insignificance and become asnothing. The little child in life notices none of these distinctions, hemarks nothing of them. Let us come as little children before Him. We maybe war-battered, sin-marked, toil-stained, care-burdened. Let us forgetit all this Christmas morning. 

It was a poor place, that manger--the poorest place on earth--but it wasa place. It was somewhere. Let us give humanity even as little as amanger. Let us not take up the Christ Child as we see Him and throw Himout into the streets, or into no man's land. That is what we do when wemock Him, when we deny Him, when we laugh Him to scorn. Let us not shutHim out of His home place in our souls. Let us not refuse to open whenHis hand knocks upon the door. That is what we do when we areindifferent to Him. Let us take him out of the manger cradle, each oneof us, and enthrone Him in the most precious place we have, our inmosthearts. 

It all happened a very long time ago and much water has run in thebrooks of the world under the bridges thereof since that time, but themangers of the world are never empty. They are always full. In onesense, Christ is being born everywhere at this very hour and at allhours. 

Let us give the Child the best we have, the best we can. Let us even nowgo down unto Bethlehem, laden with what we have for the use of theKing, and let us see in every child of man that lacks anything thisChristmas morning the image of Him who in that manger lay in Bethlehemand let us minister to their needs in love. 

 "The little Christ is coming down[1] Across the fields of snow; The pine trees greet Him where they stand, The willows bend to kiss His hand, The mountain laurel is ablush In hidden nooks; the wind, ahush And tiptoe, lest the violets wake Before their time for His sweet sake; The stars, down dropping, form a crown Upon the waiting hills below--- The little Christ is coming down Across the fields of snow. 

 "The little Christ is coming down Across the city streets; The wind blows coldly from the north, His dimpled hands are stretching forth, And no one knows and no one cares, The priests are busy with their prayers, The jostling crowd hastes on apace, And no one sees the pleading face, None hears the cry as through the town He wanders with His small cold feet-- The little Christ is coming down Across the city streets. "

What welcome shall we have for Him, my friends?

[Illustration]

CHRISTMAS IN THE SNOWS

_Being Some Personal Adventures in the Far West_[2]

The love of Christmas is as strong in the West as it is in any sectionof the country--perhaps, indeed, stronger, for people who have fewpleasures cherish holidays more highly than those for whom many cheapamusements are provided. But when the manifestation of the Christmasspirit is considered, there is a great difference between the West andthe East. There are vast sections of country in which evergreens do notgrow and to which it would not pay to ship them; consequently Christmastrees are not common, and therefore they are the more prized when theymay be had. There are no great rows nor small clusters of inviting shopsfilled with suggestive and fascinating contents at attractive prices. The distances from centres of trade are so great that the things whichmay be purchased even in the smallest towns in more favourablelocalities for a few cents have there almost a prohibitive price putupon them. The efforts of the people to give their children a merryChristmas in the popular sense, however, are strong and sometimespitiful. 

It must not be forgotten that the West is settled by Eastern people, andthat no very great difference exists between them save for theadvantages presented by life in the West for the higher development ofcharacter. Western people are usually brighter, quicker, moreprogressive and less conservative, and more liberal than those from whomthey came. The survival of the fittest is the rule out there and thequalities of character necessary to that end are brought to the top bythe strenuous life necessitated by the hardships of the frontier. If thepeople are not any better than they were, it is because they are stillclinging to the obsolete ideas of the East. 

The Eastern point of view always reminds me of the reply of the bishopto the layman who was deploring the poor quality of the clergy. "Yes, "said the bishop, "some of them are poor; but consider the stock fromwhich they come. You see, we have nothing but laymen out of which tomake them. "

The East never understands the West--the real West that is, which liesbeyond the Mississippi, the Missouri, and the Rocky Mountains. They knownothing of its ideas, its capacities, its possibilities, itseducational facilities, its culture, its real power, in the East. Andthey do not wish to learn, apparently. The Easterners fatuously think, like Job, that they are the people, and wisdom will die with them. Someyears since an article in the "Forum" on the theme, "Kansas morecivilized than New York" conclusively proved the proposition to thesatisfaction of the present writer at least. 

Yet I know numberless dwellers in Gotham whose shibboleth is "nothingoutside of New York City but scenery, " and they are a little dubiousabout admitting that. When one describes the Grand Canyon or the RoyalGorge they point to Nassau or Wall Street, and the Woolworth towerchallenges Pike's Peak!

I sat at a dinner table one day when the salted almonds were handed mewith the remark: "I suppose you never saw anything like these out West. Try some. " And my wife has been quite gravely asked if we feared anyraids by the Indians and if they troubled us by their marauding inKansas. I have found it necessary to inform the curious that we did notlive in tepees or wigwams when in Nebraska or Colorado. 

Shortly after I came East to live I was talking with a man and a verystupid man at that, who informed me that he graduated from Harvard; towhich surprising statement he added the startling information, for thebenefit of my presumably untutored occidental mind, that it was acollege near Boston! They have everything in the West that the East hasso far as their sometimes limited means will provide them and when theyhave no money they have patience, endurance, grim determination, andcourage, which are better than money in the long run. 

The cities and smaller towns especially as a rule are cleaner, bettergoverned, more progressive, better provided with improvements andcomforts than corresponding places in the East. Scarcely a communityexists without its water works, electric light plant, telephone system, trolleys, paved streets, etc. Of course, this does not apply to theextreme frontier in which my field of work largely lay so many yearsago. The conditions were different there--the people too in that nowfar-distant time. 

But to return to Christmas. One Christmas day I left my family at oneo'clock in the morning. Christmas salutations were exchanged at thatvery sleepy hour and I took the fast express to a certain station whenceI could drive up country to a little church in a farming country inwhich there had never been a Christmas service. It was a bitter coldmorning, deep snow on the ground, and a furious north wind raging. 

The climate is variable indeed out West. I have spent Christmas days onwhich it rained all day and of all days in the year on which to have itrain, Christmas is the worst. Still, the farmers would be thankful. Itwas usually safe to be thankful out there whenever it rained. I knew aman once who said you could make a fortune by always betting two to onethat it would not rain, no matter what the present promise of theweather was. You were bound to win nine times out of ten. 

I hired a good sleigh and two horses, and drove to my destination. Thechurch was a little old brick building right out in the prairie. Therewas a smouldering fire in a miserable, worn-out stove which hardlyraised the temperature of the room a degree although it filled the placewith smoke. The wind had free entrance through the ill-fitting windowand door frames and a little pile of snow formed on the altar duringthe service. I think there were twelve people who had braved the fury ofthe storm. There was not an evergreen within a hundred miles of theplace and the only decoration was sage-brush. To wear vestments wasimpossible, and I conducted the service in a buffalo overcoat and a furcap and gloves as I have often done. It was short and the sermon wasshorter. Mem. : If you want short sermons give your Rector a cold churchor a hot one!

After service I went to dinner at the nearest farm-house. Such aChristmas dinner it was! There was no turkey, and they did not even havea chicken. The menu was corn-bread, ham, and potatoes, and mighty fewpotatoes at that. There were two children in the family, a girl of sixand a boy of five. They were glad enough to get the ham. Their usualbill of fare was composed of potatoes and corn-bread, and sometimescorn-bread alone. My wife had put up a lunch for me, fearing that Imight not be able to get anything to eat, in which there was a smallmince-pie turnover; and the children had slipped a small box of candy inmy bag as a Christmas gift. I produced the turnover which by commonconsent was divided between the astonished children. Such a glisteningof eyes and smacking of small lips you never saw!

"This pie makes it seem like Christmas, after all, " said the littlegirl, with her mouth full. 

"Yes, " said the boy, ditto, "that and the ham. "

"We didn't have any Christmas this year, " continued the small maiden. "Last year mother made us some potato men" (_i. E. _, little animal andsemi-human figures made out of potatoes and matches with buttons foreyes; they went into many stockings among the very poor out West then). 

"But this year, " interrupted the boy, "potatoes are so scarce that wecouldn't have 'em. Mother says that next year perhaps we will have somereal Christmas. "

They were so brave about it that my heart went out to them. Children andno Christmas gifts! Only the chill, bare room, the wretched, meagremeal. I ransacked my brain. Finally something occurred to me. Afterdinner I excused myself and hurried back to the church. There were twosmall wicker baskets there which were used for the collection--old butrather pretty. I selected the best one. Fortunately I had in my grip aneat little "housewife" which contained a pair of scissors, a hugethimble, needles, thread, a tiny little pin-cushion, an emery bag, buttons, etc. I am, like most ex-sailors, something of a needlemanmyself. I emptied the contents into the collection basket and garnishedthe dull little affair with the bright ribbon ties ripped off the"housewife" and went back to the house. 

To the boy I gave my penknife which happened to be nearly new, and tothe girl the church basket with the sewing things for a work-basket. Thejoy of those children was one of the finest things I have everwitnessed. The face of the little girl was positively filled with awe asshe lifted from the basket, one by one, the pretty and useful articlesthe "housewife" had supplied and when I added the small box of candythat my children had provided me, they looked at me with feelings ofreverence, as a visible incarnation of Santa Claus. They were thecheapest and most effective Christmas presents it was ever my pleasureto bestow. I hope to be forgiven for putting the church furniture tosuch a secular use. 

Another Christmas day I had a funeral. There was no snow, no rain. Theday was warm. The woman who died had been the wife of one of the largestfarmers in the diocese. He actually owned a continuous body of severalthousands of acres of fine land, much of it under cultivation. She hadbeen a fruitful mother and five stalwart sons, all married, and severaldaughters likewise, with numerous grandchildren represented hercontribution to the world's population. They were the people of the mostconsideration in the little community in which they lived. We had theservices in the morning in the Methodist church, which was big enough tohold about six hundred people. As it was a holiday, it was filled to thevery doors. One of my farmer friends remarked as we stood on the frontsteps watching the crowd assembling:

"My, doc, all of them wagons gatherin' here makes it seem more likecircus day than a funeral. "

I had been asked to preach a sermon, which I essayed to do. Theconfusion was terrific. In order to be present themselves the mothers inIsrael had been obliged to bring their children, and the most domesticof attentions were being bestowed upon them freely. They cried andwailed and expostulated with their parents in audible tones until I wasnearly frantic. I found myself shouting consoling platitudes to asobbing, grief-stricken band of relatives and endeavouring to drown thenoise of the children by roaring--the lion's part à la Bottom. It wasdistracting. I was a very young minister at the time and theperspiration fairly rained from me. That's what makes me remember it wasa warm day. 

When we got through the services after every one of the six hundred had, in the language of the local undertaker, "viewed the remains, " we wentto the cemetery. I rode behind a horse which was thirty-eight years old. I do not know what his original colour had been but at present he waswhite and hoary with age. 

"I always use him for funerals, " said the undertaker, "because henaturally sets the proper pace for a funeral procession. "

"Mercy, " said I, "I hope he won't die on the road. "

"Well, if he does, " continued the undertaker, "your services will comein handy. We can bury him proper. I am awful fond of that horse. Ishouldn't wonder if he hadn't been at as many as a thousand funerals inhis life. "

I thought that he had all the gravity of his grewsome experiences, especially in his gait. The Christmas dinners were all late on accountof the funeral but they were bountiful and good nevertheless and I muchenjoyed mine. 

Another Christmas I was snow-bound on one of the obscure branches of aWestern railroad. If the train had been on time I would have made aconnection and have reached home by Christmas Eve, but it was veryevident, as the day wore on, that it was not going to be on time. Indeedit was problematical whether it would get anywhere at all. It wassnowing hard outside. Our progress had become slower and slower. Finallyin a deep cut we stopped. There were four men, one woman, and two littlechildren in the car--no other passengers in the train. The train was ofthat variety known out West as a "plug" consisting of a combinationbaggage and smoker and one coach. 

One of the trainmen started on a lonely and somewhat dangerous tramp ofseveral miles up the road to the next station to call for thesnow-plough, and the rest of us settled down to spend the night. Certainly we could not hope to be extricated before the next evening, especially as the storm then gave no signs of abating. We all went up tothe front of the car and sat around the stove in which we kept up abright fire, --fortunately we had plenty of fuel--and in suchcircumstances we speedily got acquainted with each other. One of the menwas a "drummer, " a travelling man for a notion house; another was acow-boy; the third was a big cattle-man; and I was the last. We soonfound that the woman was a widow who had maintained herself and thechildren precariously since the death of her husband by sewing and otherfeminine odd jobs but had at last given up the unequal struggle and wasgoing back to live with her mother, also a widow who had some littleproperty. 

The poor little threadbare children had cherished anticipations of ajoyous Christmas with their grandmother. From their talk we could hearthat a Christmas tree had been promised them and all sorts of things. They were intensely disappointed at the blockade. They cried and sobbedand would not be comforted. Fortunately the woman had a great basketfilled with substantial provisions which, by the way, she generouslyshared with the rest of us, so we were none of us hungry. As the nightfell, we tipped up two of the seats, placed the bottoms sideways, andwith our overcoats made two good beds for the little folks. Just beforethey went to sleep the drummer said to me:

"Say, parson, we've got to give those children some Christmas. "

"That's what, " said the cow-boy. 

"I'm agreed, " added the cattle-man. 

"Madam, " said the drummer, addressing the woman with the easy assuranceof his class, after a brief consultation between us, "we are going togive your kids some Christmas. "

The woman beamed at him gratefully. 

"Yes, children, " said the now enthused drummer, as he turned to theopen-mouthed children, "Santa Claus is coming round to-night sure. Wewant you to hang up your stockings. "

"We ain't got none, " quivered the little girl, "'ceptin' those we've goton and ma says it's too cold to take 'em off. "

"I've got two new pair of woollen socks, " said the cattle-man eagerly, "which I ain't never wore, and you are welcome to 'em. "

There was a clapping of little hands in childish glee, and then the twofaces fell as the elder remarked. 

"But Santa Claus will know they are not our stockings and he will fillthem with things for you instead. "

"Lord love you, " said the burly cattle-man, roaring with infectiouslaughter, "he wont bring me nothin'. One of us will sit up anyway andtell him it's for you. You've got to hustle to bed right away because hemay be here any time now. "

Then came one of those spectacles which we sometimes meet once or twicein a lifetime. The children knelt down on the rough floor of the carbeside their improvised beds. Instinctively the hands of the men went totheir heads and at the first words of "Now I lay me down to sleep, " fourhats came off. The cow-boy stood twirling his hat and looking at thelittle kneeling figures; the cattle-man's vision seemed dimmed; while inthe eyes of the travelling man there shone a distant look--a look acrosssnow-filled prairies to a warmly lighted home. 

The children were soon asleep. Then the rest of us engaged in earnestconversation. What should we give them? was the question. 

"It don't seem to me that I've got anything to give 'em, " said thecow-boy mournfully, "unless the little kid might like my spurs, an' Iwould give my gun to the little girl, though on general principles Idon't like to give up a gun. You never know when you're goin' to needit, 'specially with strangers, " he added with a rather suspicious glanceat me. I would not have harmed him for the world. 

"I'm in much the same fix, " said the cattle-man. "I've got a flask ofprime old whiskey here, but it don't seem like it's very appropriate forthe occasion, though it's at the service of any of you gents. "

"Never seen no occasion in which whiskey wasn't appropriate, " said thecow-boy, mellowing at the sight of the flask. 

"I mean 'taint fit for kids, " explained the cattle-man handing it over. 

"I begun on't rather early, " remarked the puncher, taking a long drink, "an' I always use it when my feelin's is onsettled, like now. " He handedit back with a sigh. 

"Never mind, boys, " said the drummer. "You all come along with me to thebaggage car. "

So off we trooped. He opened his trunks, and spread before us such aglittering array of trash and trinkets as almost took away our breath. 

"There, " he said, "look at that. We'll just pick out the best thingsfrom the lot, and I'll donate them all. "

"No, you don't, " said the cow-boy. "My ante's in on this game, an' I'mgoin' to buy what chips I want, an' pay fer 'em too, else there ain'tgoing to be no Christmas around here. "

"That's my judgment, too, " said the cattle-man. 

"I think that will be fair, " said I. "The travelling man can donate whathe pleases, and we can each of us buy what we please, as well. "

I think we spent hours looking over the stock which the obliging manspread out all over the car for us. He was going home, he said, andeverything was at our service. The trainmen caught the infection, too, and all hands finally went back to the coach with such a load of stuffas you never saw before. We filled the socks and two seats besides withit. The grateful mother was simply dazed. 

As we all stood about, gleefully surveying our handiwork including thebulging socks, the engineer remarked:

"We've got to get some kind of a Christmas tree. "

So two of us ploughed off on the prairie--it had stopped snowing andwas bright moon-light--and wandered around until we found a good-sizedpiece of sage-brush, which we brought back and solemnly installed andthe woman decorated it with bunches of tissue paper from the notionstock and clean waste from the engine. We hung the train lanterns aroundit. 

We were so excited that we actually could not sleep. The contagion ofthe season was strong upon us, and I know not which were the moredelighted the next morning, the children or the amateur Santa Clauses, when they saw what the cow-boy called the "layout. "

Great goodness! Those children never did have, and probably never willhave, such a Christmas again. And to see the thin face of that motherflush with unusual colour when we handed her one of those monstrous redplush albums which we had purchased jointly and in which we had allwritten our names in lieu of our photographs, and between the leaves ofwhich the cattle-man had generously slipped a hundred dollar bill, wasworth being blockaded for a dozen Christmases. Her eyes filled withtears and she fairly sobbed before us. 

During the morning we had a little service in the car, in accordancewith the custom of the Church, and I am sure no more heartfelt body ofworshippers ever poured forth their thanks for the Incarnation thanthose men, that woman, and the little children. The woman sang "JesusLover of my Soul" from memory in her poor little voice and that smallbut reverent congregation--cow-boy, drummer, cattle-man, trainmen, andparson--solemnly joined in. 

"It feels just like church, " said the cow-boy gravely to the cattle-man. "Say I'm all broke up; let's go in the other car and try your flaskag'in. " It was his unfailing resource for "onsettled feelin's. "

The train-hand who had gone on to division headquarters returned withthe snow-plough early in the afternoon, but what was more to the purposehe brought a whole cooked turkey with him, so the children had turkey, aChristmas tree, and Santa Claus to their heart's content! I did not gethome until the day after Christmas. 

But, after all, what a Christmas I had enjoyed!

During a season of great privation we were much assisted by barrels ofclothing which were sent to us from the East. One day just beforeChristmas, I was distributing the contents of several barrels of wearingapparel and other necessities to the women and children at a littlemission. The delight of the women, as the good warm articles of clothingfor themselves and their children which they so sadly needed werehanded out to them was touching; but the children themselves did notenter into the joy of the occasion with the same spontaneity. Finallyjust as I got to the bottom of one box and before I had opened the otherone, a little boy sniffling to himself in the corner remarked, _sottovoce_:

"Ain't there no real Chris'mus gif's in there for us little fellers, too?"

I could quite enter into his feelings, for I could remember in myyouthful days when careful relatives had provided me with a "cardigan"jacket, three handkerchiefs, and a half-dozen pairs of socks forChristmas, that the season seemed to me like a hollow mockery and theattempt to palm off necessities as Christmas gifts filled my childishheart with disapproval. I am older now and can face a Christmasremembrance of a cookbook, a silver cake-basket, or an ice-cream freezer(some of which I have actually received) with philosophical equanimity, if not gratitude. 

I opened the second box, therefore, with a great longing, though butlittle hope. Heaven bless the woman who had packed that box, for, inaddition to the usual necessary articles, there were dolls, knives, books, games galore, so the small fry had some "real Chris'mus gif's" aswell as the others. 

After one of the blizzards a young ranchman who had gone into thenearest town some twenty miles away to get some Christmas things for hiswife and little ones, was found frozen to death on Christmas morning, his poor little packages of petty Christmas gifts tightly clasped in hiscold hands lying by his side. His horse was frozen too and when theyfound it, hanging to the horn of the saddle was a little piece of anevergreen tree--you would throw it away in contempt in the East, it wasso puny. There it meant something. The love of Christmas? It was therein his dead hands. The spirit of Christmas? It showed itself in that bitof verdant pine over the lariat at the saddle-bow of the poor bronco. 

Do they have Christmas out West? Well, they have it in their hearts ifno place else, and, after all, that is the place above all others whereit should be. 

A CHRISTMAS WISH

_For Everybody, Everywhere_

MAY peace and goodwill, prosperity and plenty, joy and satisfactionabound in your homes and in your hearts this day and all days. Mayopportunities for good work be many, and may you avail yourselves ofthem all. May your sorrows be lightened, may your griefs be assuaged. May your souls be fitted for what they must endure; may your backs bestrengthened for your burdens; may your responsibilities be met; mayyour obligations be discharged; may your duties be performed. May loveabound more and more until the perfect day breaks in your lives. Inshort, every wish that would be helpful, uplifting, and comforting, Iwish you at this hour and in all hours. 

In the words of Tiny Tim. 

"_God Bless us every one!_"

CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: These loving and appealing verses were written by HarrietF. Blodgett, of whom unfortunately I know absolutely nothing but hername. I am sure, however, that if they had been written today anotherverse, even more touching than those I have quoted, would have beeninspired by present conditions. And we should have seen "The LittleChrist" coming down between the lines in Flanders, on the BalkanFrontier, amid the snows of Russia and the deserts of Mesopotamia, andperhaps, as of old, even walking on the waters in the midst of the sea. ]

[Footnote 2: This bit of personal history is reprinted from my book_Recollections of a Missionary in the Great West_ by the courtesy ofMessrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, the publishers thereof. Incidentallythe reader will find much interesting matter in the way of reminiscenceand anecdote in that little volume, should he chance upon it. 

There are some amusing things connected with the publication in serialform of these episodes. The great magazine in which it appeared has verystrong views on certain subjects. Following out a policy which hasdeservedly won them perhaps the largest circulation of any magazine inthe world it seemed to the editors necessary and desirable to make somechanges in the story as originally written and as it appears hereafter. 

For instance the revised serial version made the cowboy lift the flaskof whiskey to his lips and then it declared that after a long look atthe sleeping children he put it down! I was quite agreeable to thechange. I remember remarking that the cowboy certainly did "put itdown. " It was a way cowboys had in those bygone days; so the editor andthe author were both satisfied. 

Another amusing thing I recall in connection with the serial publicationwas this: The art editor of the magazine wrote to the officials of therailroad, the name of which I gave in the first version but which I nowwithhold, saying that the magazine had a story of a snow-bound train onthe railroad in question and asking for pictures of snow-bound trains tohelp the artist illustrate it. By return mail came an indignantremonstrance almost threatening a lawsuit because the railroad inquestion, one of the southerly transcontinental roads, made a point inits appeal to travellers that its trains were never snow-bound! The arteditor who was not without a vein of humour wrote back and asked if theycould furnish him with pictures of snow-bound trains on competing roadsand they sent him a box full! C. T. B. ]