Christmas Traditions and Gift Ideas

Christmas filled the windows and Christmas stirred in mankind. Cheyenne, not over-zealous in doctrine or litanies, and with the opinion that a world in the hand is worth two in the bush,. Nevertheless was flocking together, neighbor to think of neighbor, and everyone to remember the children; a sacred assembly, after all, gathered to rehearse unwittingly the articles of its belief, the Creed and Doctrine of the Child. Lin saw them hurry and smile among the paper fairies; they questioned and hesitated, crowded and made decisions, failed utterly to find the right thing, forgot and hastened back, suffered all the various desperations of the eleventh hour, and turned homeward, dropping their parcels with that undimmed goodwill that once a year makes gracious the universal human face. This brotherhood swam and beamed before the cow-puncher’s brooding eyes, and in his ears the greeting of the season sang. Children escaped from their mothers and ran chirping behind the counters to touch and meddle in places forbidden. Friends dashed against each other with rabbits and magic lanterns, greeted in haste, and were gone, amid the sound of musical boxes.

Through this tinkle and bleating of little machinery the murmur of the human heart drifted in and out of McLean’s hearing; fragments of home talk, tendernesses, economies, intimate first names, and dinner hours; and whether it was joy or sadness, it was in common; the world seemed knit in a single skein of home ties. Two or three came by whose purses must have been slender, and whose purchases were humble and chosen after much nice adjustment; and when one plain man dropped a word about both ends meeting, and the woman with him laid a hand on his arm, saying that his children must not feel this year was different, Lin made a step towards them. There were hours and spots where he could readily have descended upon them at that, played the role of clinking affluence, waved thanks aside with competent blasphemy, and, tossing off some infamous whiskey, cantered away in the full, self-conscious strut of the frontier. But here was not the moment; the abashed cow - puncher could make no such parade in this place. The people brushed by him back and forth, busy upon their errands, and a ware of him scarcely more than if he had been a spirit looking on from the helpless dead; and so, while these weaving needs and kindnesses of man were within arm’s touch of him. he was locked outside with his impulses. Barker had. in the natural press of customers, long parted from him, to become immersed in choosing and rejecting; and now, with a fair part of his mission accomplished, he was ready to go on to the next place, and turned to beckon McLean. He found him obliterated in a corner beside a life-sized image of Santa Claus, standing as still as the frosty saint.

“He looks livelier than you do,” said the hearty Governor. “Fraid it’s been slow waiting.”

“No,” replied the cow-puncher, thoughtfully. “No, I guess not!”

This uncertainty was expressed with such gentleness that Barker roared. “You never did lie to me,” he said, “long as I’ve known you. Well, never mind. I’ve got some real advice to ask you now.”

At this Mr. McLean’s face grew more alert. “Say, Doc:’ said he, “what do yu’ want for Christmas that nobody’s likely to give yu’?”

“A big practice-big enough to interfere with my politics.”

“What else? Things and truck, I mean.”

“Oh-nothing I’ll get. People don’t give things much to fellows like me.”

“Don’t they? Don’t they?”

“Why, you and Santa Claus weren’t putting up any scheme on my stocking?”

“Well-”

“I believe you’re in earnest!” cried his Excellency. “That’s simply rich!” Here was a thing to relish! The Frontier comes to town “heeled for a big time,” finds that presents are all the rage, and must immediately give somebody something. Oh, childlike, miscellaneous Frontier! So thought the good-hearted Governor; and it seems a venial misconception. “My dear fellow,” he added, meaning as well as possible, “I don’t want you to spend your money on me.”

“I’ve got plenty all right,” said Lin, shortly.

“Plenty’s not the point. I’ll take as many drinks as you please with you. You didn’t expect anything from me?”

“That ain’t - that don’t -”

“There! Of course you didn’t. Then, what are you getting proud about? Here’s our shop.” They stepped in from the street to new crowds and counters. “Now,” pursued the Governor, “this is for a very particular friend of mine. Here they are. Now, which of those do you like best?”

They were sets of Tennyson in cases holding little volumes equal in number, but the binding various, and Mr. McLean reached his decision after one look. “That,” said he, and laid a large, muscular hand upon the Laureate. The young lady behind the counter spoke out acidly, and Lin pulled the abject hand away. His taste, however, happened to be sound, or, at least, it was at one with the Governor’s; but now they learned that there was a distressing variance in the matter of price.

The Governor stared at the delicate article of his choice. HI know that Tennyson is what she-is what’s wanted,” he muttered; and, feeling himself nudged, looked around and saw Lin’s extended fist. This gesture he took for a facetious sympathy, and, dolorously grasping the hand, found himself holding a lump of bills. Sheer amazement relaxed him, and the cow-puncher’s matted wealth tumbled on the floor in sight of all people. Barker picked it up and gave it back. “No, no, no!” he said, mirthful over his own inclination to be annoyed; “you can’t do that. I’m just as much obliged, Lin,” he added.

“Just as a loan, Doc - some of it. I’m grass-bellied with spot-cash.”

A giggle behind the counter disturbed them both, but the sharp young lady was only dusting. The Governor at once paid haughtily for Tennyson’s expensive works, and the cow-puncher pushed his discountenanced savings back into his clothes. Making haste to leave the book department of this shop, they regained a mutual ease, and the Governor became waggish over Lin’s concern at being too rich. He suggested to him the list of delinquent taxpayers and the latest census from which to select indigent persons. He had patients, too, whose inveterate pennilessness he could swear cheerfully to - “since you want to bolt from your own money,” he remarked.

“Yes, I’m a green horse,” assented Mr. McLean, gallantly; “ain’t used to the looks of a twenty-dollar bill, and I shy at ‘em.”

From his face-that jocular mask-one might have counted him the most serene and careless of vagrants, and in his words only the ordinary voice of banter spoke to the Governor. A good woman, it may well be, would have guessed before this the sensitive soul in the blundering body; but Barker saw just the familiar, whimsical, happy-go-lucky McLean of old days, and so he went gayly and innocently on, treading upon holy ground. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed; “give your wife something.”

The ruddy cow-puncher grinned. He had passed through the world of woman with but few delays, rejoicing in informal and transient entanglements, and he welcomed the turn which the conversation seemed now to be taking. “If you’ll give me her name and address,” said he, with the future entirely in his mind.

“Why, Laramie!” and the Governor feigned surprise.

“Say, Doc, ” said Lin, uneasily, “none of ‘em ‘ain’t married me since I saw you last.”

“Then she hasn’t written from Laramie?” said the hilarious Governor; and Mr. McLean understood and winced in his spirit deep down. “Gee whiz!” went on Barker, “I’ll never forget you and Lusk that day!”

But the mask felt now. “You’re talking of his wife, not mine,” said the cowpuncher, very quietly, and smiling no more; “and, Doc, I’ m going to say a word to yu’, for I know yu’ve always been my good friend. I’ll never forget that day myself - but I don’t want to be reminded of it.”

“I’m a fool, Lin,” said the Governor, generous instantly. “I never supposed -”

“I know yu’ didn’t, Doc. It ain’t you that’s the fool. And in a way - in a way -” Lin’s speech ended among his crowding memories, and Barker, seeing how wistful his face had turned, waited. “But I ain’t quite the same fool I was before that happened to me,” the cow-puncher resumed, “though maybe my actions don’t show to be wiser. I know that there was better luck than a man like me had any call to look for.”

The sobered Barker said, simply, “Yes, Lin.” He was set to thinking by these words from the unsuspected inner man.

Out in the Bow-Leg country Lin McLean had met a woman with thick, red cheeks, calling herself by a maiden name; and this was his whole knowledge of her when he put her one morning astride a Mexican saddle and took her fifty miles to a magistrate and made her his lawful wife to the best of his ability and belief. His sage-brush intimates were confident he would never have done it but for a rival. Racing the rival and beating him had swept Mr. McLean past his own intentions, and the marriage was an inadvertence. “He jest bumped into it before he could pull up,” they explained; and this casualty, resulting from Mr. McLean’s sporting blood, had entertained several hundred square miles of alkali. For the new-made husband the joke soon died. In the immediate weeks that came upon him he tasted a bitterness worse than in an his life before, and learned also how deep the woman, when once she begins, can sink beneath the man in baseness. That was a knowledge of which he had lived innocent until this time. But he carried his outward self serenely, so that citizens in Cheyenne who saw the cow-puncher with his bride argued shrewdly that men of that sort liked women of that sort; and before the strain had broken his endurance an unexpected first husband, named Lesk, had appeared one Sunday in the street, prosperous, forgiving, and exceedingly drunk. To the arms of Lesk she went back in the public street, deserting McLean in the presence of Cheyenne; and when Cheyenne saw this, and learned how she had been Mrs. Lesk for eight long, if intermittent, years, Cheyenne laughed loudly. Lin McLean laughed. too, and went about his business, ready to swagger at the necessary moment, and with the necessary kind of joke always ready to shield his hurt spirit. And soon, of course, the 0 matter grew stale, seldom raked up in the Bow-Leg country where Lin had been at work; so lately he had begun to remember other things besides the smouldering humiliation.

“Is she with him?” he asked Barker, and musingly listened while Barker told him. The Governor had thought to make it a racy story, with the moral that the joke was now on Lesk: but that inner man had spoken and revealed the cow-puncher to him in a new and complicated light; hence he quieted the proposed lively cadence and vocabulary of his anecdote about the house of Lesk, and instead of narrating how Mrs. beat Mr. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Mr. took his turn the odd days, thus getting one ahead of his lady, while the kid Lesk had outlined his opinion of the family by recently skipping to parts unknown, Barker detailed these incidents more gravely, adding that Laramie believed Mrs. Lesk addicted to opium.

“I don’t guess I’ll leave my card on ‘em,” said McLean, grimly, “if I strike Laramie.”

“You don’t mind my saying I think you’re well out of that scrape?” Barker ventured.

“Shucks, no! That’s all right, Doc.

Only-yu’ see now. A man gets tired pretending - once in a while.”

Time had gone while they were in talk, and it was now half after one. McLean late for that long - plotted first square meal. So the friends shook hands, wishing each other Merry Christmas, and the cow-puncher hastened towards his chosen companions through the stirring cheerfulness of the season. His play-hour had made a dull beginning among the toys. He had come upon people engaged in pleasant game, and waited, shy and well-disposed, for some bidding to join, but they had gone on playing with one another and left him out. And now he went along in a sort of hurry to escape from that loneliness where his human promptings had been lodged with him useless. Here was Cheyenne, fun of holiday for sale, and he with his pockets full of money to buy; and when he thought of Shorty and Chalkeye and Dollar Bill, those dandies to hit town with, he stepped out with a brisk, false hope. It was with a mental hurrah and a foretaste of a good time coming that he put on his town clothes, after shaving and admiring himself, and sat down to the square meal, He ate away and drank with a robust imitation of enjoyment that took in even himself at first. But the sorrowful process of his spirit went on, for all he could do. As he groped for the contentment which he saw around him he began to receive the jokes with counterfeit mirth. Memories took the place of anticipation, and through their moody shifting he began to feel a distaste for the company of his friends and a shrinking from their lively voices. He blamed them for this at once. He was surprised to think he had never recognized before how light a weight was Shorty, and here was Chalkeye, who knew better, talking religion after two glasses. Presently this attack of noticing his friends’ shortcomings mastered him, and his mind, according to its wont, changed at a stroke. “I’m celebrating no Christmas with this crowd:’ said the inner man; and when they had next remembered Lin McLean in their hilarity he was gone.

Governor Barker, finishing his purchases at half-past three, went to meet a friend come from Evanston. Mr. McLean was at the railway station buying a ticket for Denver.

“Denver I” exclaimed the amazed Governor.

“That’s what I said,” stated Mr. McLean, doggedly.

“Suffering Moses!” said his Excellency. “What are you going to do there?”

“Get good and drunk.”

“Can’t you find enough whiskey in Cheyenne?”

I’m drinking champagne this trip.”

The cow-puncher went out on the platform and got aboard, and the train moved off. Barker had walked out, too, in his surprise, and as he stared after the last car Mr. McLean waved his wide hat defiantly and went inside the door.

“And he says he’s got maturity,” Barker muttered. “I’ve known him since; seventy-nine, and he’s kept about eight years old right along.” The Governor was cross and sorry, and presently crosser. His jokes about Lin’s marriage came back to him and put him in a rage with the departed fool. “Yes, about eight. Or six,” said his Excellency, justifying himself by the past. For he had first known Lin, the boy of nineteen, supreme in length of limb and recklessness, breaking horses and feeling for an early mustache. Next, when the mustache was nearly accomplished, he had mended the boy’s badly broken thigh at Drvbone, His skill (and Lin’s spotless health) had wrought so swift a healing that the surgeon overflowed with the pride of science, and over the bandages would explain the human body technically to his wild-eyed and flattered patient. Thus young Lin heard all about tibia, and comminuted, and other glorious new words, and when sleepless would rehearse them. Then, with the bone so nearly knit that the patient might leave the ward on crutches to sit each morning in Barker’s room as a privilege, the disobedient child of twenty-one had slipped out of the hospital and hobbled hastily to the hog ranch, where whiskey and variety waited for a languishing convalescent. Here he grew gay, and was soon carried back with the leg refractured. Yet Barker’s surgical rage was disarmed, the patient was so forlorn over his doctor’s professional chagrin.

“I suppose it ain’t no better this morning, Doc?” he had said, humbly, after a new week of bed and weights.

“Your right leg’s going to be shorter. That’s all.”

“Oh, gosh! I’ve been and spoiled your comminuted fee-mur! Ain’t I a son-of-a-gun?”

You could not chide such a boy as this; and in time’s due course he had walked jauntily out into the world with legs of equal length, after an, and in his stride the slightest halt possible. And Doctor Barker had missed the child’s conversation. Today his mustache was a perfected thing, and he in the late end of his twenties.

“He’ll wake up about noon tomorrow in a dive, without a cent,” said Barker. “Then he’ll come back on a freight and begin over again.” Â

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Christmas night was frosty and sharp, and the fires in the houses burnt bright and warm. Just the sort of night it was in which to be happy and merry; and at Uncle Bob’s happiness, as he expressed it, was in great force. Mrs. Rogers was there with clean face and clean apron, doing something before the fire. The stove in the warehouse was also doing its very utmost to be all right. With radiant good humor it sent forth its flickering light on all around, but it especially favored a great white sheet, in front of which was a double-barreled thing like a new sort of cannon. But it also leaped into the rafters or vanished into the corners as if it were full of larks, in readiness for the twenty boys which it knew to be coming.

For those boys great preparations were going on in the house. Uncle Bob and Lizzie and Mrs. Rogers were all busy. The cake had to be cut up and piled high in several plates. When done, it looked most tempting. And after the cake came the cheese, placed in the middle of the plates of cake; none of your scaly Dutch cheese, but real
Cheshire, yellow as gold, and creamy and crumbly, and smelling as good as it looked.

‘Won’t their mouths water!’ exclaimed Mrs. Rogers, as she herself gazed on it with admiration, and with certain sniffs of pleasurable anticipation.

The good woman was doing her utmost to set the kettle to boil, intending to make the coffee as good as possible, her face red hot, encased in a frilled mob-cap, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, and her apron drawn tightly round her skirts. As she filled a large sieve-bag with the coffee, and put it into a very large coffee-pot, and then poured the hot water over it, such an aroma filled the room and flowed out under the door into the yard as might well serve to attract all the boys of the neighborhood.

“Twill warm t’ cockles o’ their hearts,’ she said sententiously, coupled with an emotion somewhat mysterious. But no doubt she was thinking of her son, her sailor lad, who ought to have got home for Christmas, but of whom she had latterly heard nothing. Yes, she thought of him as mothers will to whom all sorts of things suggest absent sons and daughters which would do so to no one but mothers. That beautiful spread raised before her imagination visions of famine and danger in which Tom was perishing, and she wished he were there. It was this which brought the tears to her eyes.

It was hard to keep them down, hard to suppress the good cry which would have been such a relief to her poor feelings; but she did, for the sake of all the lads who were coming.

It would never do to spoil sport. Such a heroic effort in humble self-sacrifice deserved to be richly rewarded.

It was drawing near six, the appointed hour, and expectation grew intense in the breasts of the three workers. At length voices were heard in the yard, and this was what penetrated within:

‘Ain’t this the place where old four-legs hangs out?’

Fancy little Lizzie’s flush of indignation! But when she looked up into U nc1e Bob’s face and saw a smile of amusement on it, she grew happier, and she felt also that one glance at all the wealth of good things provided would at once make the graceless ones ashamed of their thoughtless impudence. ‘But boys are so strange!’ she thought.

Out of the cold they came, breathing white breath, but with roses on their cheeks and some on their noses, and when they caught sight of all the cake and all the cheese, and all the oranges and nuts, and felt the full blast of the delicious coffee, they just looked as the Queen of Sheba must have looked when she saw all Solomon’s glory.

For a full minute they subsided into awe and wonder, underneath which, however, I am bound to say, rapidly generated huge anticipatory delight, which at length found vent in a subdued, but most expressive, ‘Oh my!’

‘Come in, come in, all you two-legs,’ cried Uncle Bob. ‘Come in; old four-legs is very glad to see you.’

It was amusing to watch the lads’ faces as this greeting fell on their ears. They looked as if unexpectedly caught in a place where they ought not to be, and didn’t know how to get out. However, the expression soon passed into a half-shamed hope that all was right when Uncle Bob smiled on them and made them welcome to all there was; but for all that, I think some of them were a little sorry about the rudeness of their joke.

One after another shoved themselves into the various corners and places provided, and made a sort of circle, starting from Uncle Bob’s sofa. But Jem, our old friend, had not yet arrived, and everybody was on the look-out for him. He was always such good fun, was Jem, that all were wishing to see him. Indeed, he had come to seem like the spirit of laughter. Some people chill and dull you, and some make you bright. Very excellent are the ‘chillers,’ no doubt; but for a Christmas night give me those that warm the heart.

When Jem came in he was much better ‘ got up,’ as he would say, than when we last saw him. He had a collar on, and his hair looked brushed, with even an attempt at a parting. The ridiculous fellow stood making grand bows towards Lizzie, and flourishing his hat, in quite an attitude, ‘Your servant, your humble servant, ladies and gemmem!’ he said. Then, cap in hand, with his left arm akimbo on his hip, he added, ‘All the complerments 0′ the season, guv’nor, and many 0′ them to the young lady. We all wish you’ (and here, in a stage whisper to the lads, he said, ‘Be quiet whiles I say some poetry,’ and then went on) - ‘We wish you a merry ChristmasAnd a happy New Year,With every blessing you desireAnd nowt to make you fear;’

…and having said, in another stage aside, I composed it all myself,’ he gracefully moved his hat to make an elegant finish and await applause.

There was a broad grin on the mouths and an expectant look in the eyes of the lads, which plainly said, ‘There! J em’s in fine form. Can Uncle Bob come up to that?’ I t seemed impossible, and they were quite excited as to what would follow. All eyes turned in Uncle Bob’s direction. Would he be indeed equal to the occasion? He himself felt it was a kind of crisis in which he must conquer or lose ground, and he nerved himself to conquer.

You are a Christmas poet, Jem, are you?

Well, little Lizzie and I thank you for your kind wish, which please allow me to return in kind,- To all in this our merry meetingI return you happy greeting,And may this our Christmas nightTo everyone prove glad and bright I’Of course it was doggerel, but nothing captivates boys so much as the power to reel off a few lines like these. I t fairly took them by storm, for Uncle Bob had an attractive voice, which made it sound more wonderful; and when he actually went on with another whole verse, as if verse-making were the merest trifling effort to him, and when he pointed to the laden tables, saying- ‘There’s rich coffee you may take,And bread and butter, buns and cakeAnd if you want a lump of cheese,Say, “Mrs. Rogers, if you please”‘-

…the situation was conquered, and he was quite triumphant. The boys burst out into a cheer, and little Lizzie’s face gleamed with delight. Was not Uncle Bob the most wonderful man in the world? She had not the slightest doubt of it.

As for Mrs. Rogers, coffee-pot in hand, which she flourished around as she spoke, she cried out,-

Hear, hear! Stop! Stop, whiles I say that never in all my born days did I hear such blessed po’try as this night. Hip! Hip! Hurrah! Oh, if only my poor Tom wor here!’

She was so excited and carried away by her feelings that she tried to wipe away her inevitable tear for Tom with the hot coffee-pot. However, when it burnt her, she came to herself, and in her confusion was going to sit down on nothing, in quite a natural way, only she found it out just in time, as if she had thought better of it, and thereupon became quite absorbed in pouring out, and, truth to say, for the moment looked a trifle foolish.

But what did it matter? Soon all were fully engaged in eating and drinking, in helping and talking, in joking and laughing, and enjoyment of the happiest kind was taking full possession of every heart.

Now, as we all know, Christmas is the time of wonders, when strange things happen, and stories come to their climax. Well, believe it or not, just when the fun was at its height, and Jem was chaffing one and another, and Uncle Bob was, as the poet says,-

‘Eyeing the general good with boundless love,’ and just when Mrs. Rogers was gazing anxiously into the coffee-pot to see how long it would meet the still pressing demands made on it; just whilst she was muttering, ‘They mun be as dry as the Desert 0′ Sarah, and she’s a dry ‘un, they say,’ and laughter and clatter of mugs and plates were uniting in one pleasant social din, and no one had any trouble save Mrs. Rogers-just then, I tell you truly, steps were heard in the yard, and then voices in converse, and then a knock was knocked at the door, and there fell a wondering silence of expectation in every ear. Something Christmassy was about to happen, something wonderful, surely for Mrs. Rogers, coffee-pot and all, was already at the door, before it could fully open, and when a head was put in, on that head she seized with joyful and tender ejaculations and it was drawn half through the door into her bosom, and she unwittingly the while was rubbing it behind with the coffee-pot, until its owner spoke, and then poor Mrs. Rogers fell back, and stood and gazed as if she couldn’t and wouldn’t believe her own eyes.

Nay, pardner,’ said the new-comer, ‘you’re wrong somehow, though with the best intentions, dootless but that coffee-pot wor rayther hot!

And there stood Juggling Joe, rubbing the back of his head with one hand, and wiping his face with the other, amazed at his reception.

But evidently also there was somebody else who wanted to come in, and dared not. It was this dark figure which now fascinated Mrs. Rogers, so that she took no further heed of Joe, but dashed out of doors, and was heard chasing somebody about the court, whom at last she succeeded in capturing, and with whom she finished the frustrated scene of affection.

Everybody felt the pathos, and some also felt a little of the fun of it, when the poor old mother, with radiant face, pushed in a sailor lad, and cried out behind him, ‘There, Uncle Bob, he’s come-bless ‘im!’

‘Hip! Hip! Hurrah!’ cried all the boys, relishing the sensation immensely between their eating and drinking.

As for Sailor Tom, never was a more stupid fellow, as well he might be, thus unexpectedly plunged into a dazzling publicity, which he had in vain endeavored to avoid. He stood blushing and ashamed, feeling that everyone there knew his mother had kissed him in the yard, and he kept looking over his shoulders in the intervals of hitching his trousers, evidently full of fear lest she should take him unawares, and be at it again before them all. He wanted a corner bad into which to subside and be out of harm’s way.

Uncle Bob came to the rescue. ‘Come in, my lad,’ he cried, ‘and make one of us. You are as welcome as flowers in May. And so is Joe there. Do you know, lads, that once when old four-legs wanted a young two legs to take him up three flights of stairs, Joe lent me them? He was a friend in need, I can tell you.

Happily it doesn’t take much to make lads forget themselves, and soon all was harmony and good comradeship in the little company.

The only anxious one was Mrs. Rogers, who had to work wonders with the coffee-pot. Once and again she replenished it with most determined looks. But it was not until all had vowed themselves quite satisfied that she uttered her thoughts.

‘Uncle Bob,’ she said solemnly, ‘it wor a miracle. How I did it is unbeknown-quite unbeknown. ‘

‘Mrs. Rogers,’ replied Uncle Bob, with equal solemnity, ‘it was love as did it, and that last can of hot water.

On this day in December, the pagani, the country people and farmers, called upon Faunus, beneficial Spirit of the Wild, the Kindly One, to bless the countryside and farms. On this joyful holiday, worshipers offered wine and sacrifice on smoking altars of earth throughout the countryside and danced wildly in the fields that they at other times worked so hard.

December 5, Faunus - Hymn To Faunus O Faunus, you who love to chase the fleet-footed nymphs, With kind intentions, may you walk the boundaries of my farm and cross over my sunny meadows. Guarantee me a fertile and bountiful year, and I will not fail in pouring a libation of wine to you. You, 0 friend of Venus, Goddess of the Garden, may the ancient altars smoke with incense in your honor. The flocks roam the grassy fields when December 5 comes around. The country people put on their festive clothes to celebrate your holiday. The wolf walks among the lambs that are not afraid. In your honor, Faunus, the forest sheds its foliage. The valley resonates with the beat of music and dancing feet in your honor.

December rituals celebrated the plentiful bounty, with Consus, the God of the Store Bin, and Ops, the Goddess of Plenty, honored this month. The “good life,” the life of plenty, when the wolf walks among the lambs that are not fearful- these ideal qualities are honored by ritual in December.

December 13, Tellus And Ceres

The temple to Tellus was dedicated on the Ides of December. The Senate met here on occasion and a large map of
Italy was painted on its walls. Ceres was also honored on these Ides with a banquet.

December 15, Consus

December 15 marks another festival to Consus, together with chariot races and games.

December 19, Opalia

The goddess Ops was honored in the midst of the Saturnalia. “The Best of Days, To Saturnalia!”

December is a cold dark month; its short period of daylight is overshadowed by the many hours of relentless dark. December is the month of the winter solstice and of transition, for the solstice marks a turning point in the course of the sun. In December, the sun reverses its course and the solar journey starts afresh toward longer hours of sunlight and decreasing hours of night. December is a pivotal month, marking the distinction between two very different solar paths. Different worlds and different paths is a theme of the December rituals to Saturn.

December 17-23, Saturn Alia

The Saturnalia festivities opened at the

temple of
Saturn with a sacrifice to the god, followed by a lavish banquet. At the sacrifice and offering, the Romans wore their best clothes (togas required), yet they changed for the banquet into more casual, comfortable clothes and soft woolen caps. The banquet ended with a communal shout of “10 Saturnalia.” Then came a week or more of parties, dinners, and social events. Shops were closed, official business stopped, and everyone celebrated the Saturnalia. Public gambling, drinking, and partying were condoned. The Roman author Pliny complained of the noise and shut himself up in a soundproof room while the rest of the household celebrated.

Yet for one ancient author and for most Romans, “It was the best of days.” This was a special time in the home when roles were reversed and masters waited upon their slaves. A “king of Saturnalia” was chosen in the household, and gifts were exchanged, including the traditional ceramic doll figures for children and wax candles for friends. Extra wine and food were set out for slave and master each night. The Saturnalia itself was celebrated into the fifth century c.t.

The weeklong Saturnalia, the ritual to Saturn, highlights differences and opposites, focusing on the master and the slave, the bound and unbound, the corrupt and the innocent, the bad and the good, the Age of Iron that we live in and the Age of Gold ruled by Saturn.

December 21, Divalia

The Divalia in honor of Angerona was a secret ritual, and another mystery ritethe statue even had her mouth bound shut. This goddess was associated with the disease of angina.

The most famous of Roman holidays, the Saturnalia shares a certain reputation for rowdiness and debauchery. It did have a serious component, not unlike our holiday season in December. We can understand the festive December season, when we put aside our normal daily routine of work and school is suspended. After all, this is the time of year to shop and exchange presents, to buy new holiday outfits, to plan special feasts and gatherings with friends and family, to drink, eat, and make merry. Underneath all the revelry, however, are the very solemn and joyous religious events of Christmas and Hanukkah. The ancient Romans did exactly the same thing in mid-December over two thousand years ago when they celebrated the Saturnalia.

The

temple of
Saturn was located at the base of the Capitol and dedicated on December 17. Standing inside was a statue of the god that was filled with oil and also bound with woolen binds. During his December ritual these were undone, and Saturn was freed. One ancient author suggests that this was similar to the seed or the human embryo, bound in the mother’s womb and bursting free in the tenth month. Thus, December would be the month the babe was born. Recall that the most ancient calendars began in March, hence December was, as the name states, the tenth month originally.

December 23, Larentina

This ritual involved the performance of funeral rites before the tomb of the goddess Larentina. Here priests made offering to the Di Manes. Larentina may have been the mother of the Lares, the protective deities of
Rome, yet her background is uncertain.

December 25, Sol Invictus - Bruma

This day was made sacred to Sol Invictus in 273 CE., though before that it had little significance. The ancient Romans called it Bruma, or winter solstice, the time when the year passed the shortest day.

A closer look at the Saturnalia suggests a nature-driven theme, when things are turned upside down and worlds are reversed for just a few days; for this is when the sun reverses its course and, having passed the shortest day, now begins to move toward the longest. In December it is appropriate to ritually switch things around a little bit. The Saturnalia represents in one respect an “inversion ritual.” For a limited time and within the context of a controlled religious rite, reality is altered and roles are reversed. The slave sat at the table and was waited on by the master, gambling was permitted in public when it was forbidden throughout the year, and informal clothes were worn for dinner instead of the formal toga. The hat of freedom, a felt cap called a pilleus worn by freed slaves, was worn by all people; a “Lord of Misrule” was chosen within each household to rule over the festivities; and slaves would wear their masters’ clothes.

This ritualized role reversal served a deeper purpose in breaking up, for just a few days, the established hierarchy and exposing the artificiality of customary fixed roles within a household-roles defined by societal expectation. The Saturnalia ritual, performed with mockery and jest, in fact provided a chance for greater compassion and empathy between master and slave. The ritual itself could lead to a loosening of expectations and perhaps an increased tolerance of those living under the same-roofed atrium.

Compassion and tolerance for other family members are qualities we all can strive for, especially during this holiday season. How easy it is to become locked into demanding and fixed roles within a household. “Mom, make me a sandwich!” “Is my new shirt clean for school?” “Pick me up at the station tonight.” “I need some money.” Cook, cleaner, chauffeur, nurturer, and general all-around provider is a role that falls to many women. Yet roles and expectations between family members can become unflinching and oppressive for everyone, eventually becoming a source of great anger. This month, we need to become conscious of those roles within our own family or among our friends. We need to determine what is expected of each person and whether we are comfortable with it or would prefer a change. Perhaps a change is due. December is the month for reversal.

By His Excellency Sir Alexander Bannerman, Knight, Governor and Commander-in-Chief in and over the Island of Newfoundland and its Dependencies.

Whereas it appears by the Verdict of the Jury on an Inquisition of the Coroner, held on the body of Isaac Mercer, late of Bay Roberts, Fisherman, that on the night of Friday, the 28th day of December last, at Bay Roberts aforesaid, the said Isaac Mercer was, by some person or persons at present unknown, murdered: And whereas it is no less especially necessary to the ends of Justice than essential to the protection and safety of the lives of all Her Majesty’s Subjects, that the perpetrators of such horrid crimes should be detected and brought to Justice; I do, therefore, call upon all Her Majesty’s faithful Subjects to aid and assist the Ministers of Justice in discovering and apprehending the person or persons concerned in committing the said murder: And for the speedy detection of whom I do hereby offer a Reward of One Hundred Pounds Sterling to be paid to such person or persons (except the person or persons who actually perpetrated the said murder) who will give such Information as will lead to the apprehension and conviction of the said murderer or murderers: And I do further promise to recommend unto Her Majesty, for Her Royal and Free Pardon, the person giving such Information, although he be an accomplice in the said murder, provided he be not an actual perpetrator of the aforesaid crime.

Given under my Hand and Seal at the Government House, at St. John’s, in the aforesaid Island, the Fourteenth day of January, in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Eight Hundred and Sixty-one, and in the Twenty-fourth Year of Her Majesty’s Reign.

By His Excellency’s Command,

John Kent Colonial Secretary  

The first thought in Rome is of St. Peter’s. We have, of course, often been there, for when there is nothing else immediately to occupy our attention, we can repair to this mighty temple, and find a subject for study which is inexhaustible. Instead, however, of vainly attempting a description - for every effort of this kind for centuries has proved that no words can give any idea of this unrivalled edifice - we would rather note down a few of the impressions left upon the mind.

The way which led to it was through a series of narrow winding streets, crowded with a miserable population, deeply demoralized, and crushed to the earth by indigence. At length we reached the

Castle of St. Angelo, and from this spot a broad avenue opened before us to the massive colonnades of St. Peter’s. Our first view of the exterior by day-light disappointed us, for when seen from this point it is certainly not imposing. The facade is allowed to be disproportioned to the building, and too much conceals the dome. We have since examined, in the library of the Vatican, a copy of Michael Angelo’s original plan, in which this defect is avoided, and the whole front appears more grand and striking. His drawing of the facade closely resembles the portico of the Pantheon.

In the open square in front stands an ancient obelisk, which points up to heaven, tapering away as if it seemed to lose itself in the air. Caligula brought it from” old hushed Egypt” to adorn his baths, and a Pope placed it in front of St. Peter’s. On each side of it is a fountain, which flings up its column of water, as if into the clouds, where it seems to pause for a moment, reflecting back the changing colors of the sky, and then falling into its porphyry basin, the thousand hues are lost in one dazzling sheet of foam. But who pauses to dwell on these when the temple itself is before them? We ascend the broad marble step8-put aside the heavy curtain which veils the entrance-and the sensations of the next few minutes are worth a year of common-place life.

The first effect on everyone must be bewildering.

He sees gathered before him treasures of art of which before he could scarcely have conceived, and all enshrined in a building which mocks any comparison with the gorgeous temple of Jerusalem, or those magnificent fanes which the worshippers of the old mythology raised to their fabled deities. For more than three centuries, the energies and wealth of thirty-fixe pontiffs were devoted to this work, and the aid of the whole Christian world was invoked to render it a temple worthy of the Most High. Eustace estimates that the building itself cost twelve millions sterling. Everywhere, indeed, we see marbles, bronzes, and precious materials, which were gathered in Rome during the luxurious days of the empire, but are nowhere else to be found in such profusion. We realize, indeed, that here man has exhausted the treasures of his genius and his worldly wealth.

Almost every traveler states that his first impressions were those of disappointment. The interior did not appear as vast as he expected. The reason of this undoubtedly is, because we have no received experience by which to judge its proportions. The eyes are “fools of the senses;” and here occurs a case in which they have not been trained to convey a correct estimate. But with me, I confess, this was not the case. Having been told so often that I should be disappointed, I was prepared for it, and therefore expected too little. Slowly we passed up the nave, until we found ourselves opposite to the High Altar. Above it rises a canopy, more than a hundred and thirty feet in height, its twisted columns of Corinthian brass covered with golden foliage, while beneath rests the body of St. Peter, around whose tomb a hundred lamps are burning day and night. We stand under the dome and look up, when an abyss seems to open above us. We can scarcely believe that its top is four hundred feet from the marble pavement. . The inscription on the frieze does not seem very large, yet each letter is six feet high, and the pen in the hand of St. Mark is of the same length, although from where we stand the whole figure of the saint does not appear to be much beyond the ordinary stature. The mighty dome expands above us like the firmament, and within are pictured in rich mosaic the saints and celestial spirits looking upward and worshipping towards the throne of the Eternal, which, encircled with radiance, crowns this dizzy height.  

* —–” Our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp - and as it is That what we have of feeling most intenseOutstrips our faint expression; even so thisOutshining and o’erwhelming edifice, Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great, Defies at first our nature’s littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate,” [Childe Harold.]

At our first visit we spent almost the whole day going over each part in detail, and every little while stopping, and vainly endeavoring by one effort of the mind to grasp the mighty proportions of the building. The figures which occasionally moved across the marble pavement seemed dwarfed into pigmies, and we could scarcely realize that this vast structure, with its gorgeous profusion of paintings, and marbles, and gilding, could have been erected by those who, in comparison, appeared so insignificant. This church has indeed a spirit within it, which is possessed by none other that we have ever entered. It is sufficient to preserve a faith in existence centuries after its life has gone.

The very temperature of the building is remarkable, being always uniform; mild and pleasant in winter, and cool in summer, when the heat of the sun is so intense above as almost to melt the lead. Professor Play fair accounts for it on the supposition that the immense edifice absorbs so much heat during the summer, that it never wholly discharges it throughout the winter. However this may be, the atmosphere is always delightful-no damp air is perceived - nothing but the slight perfume of the incense which is wafted from some side chapel where service is performing.

We passed around, and wandered from aisle to aisle, and from chapel to chapel, finding on all sides the same lavish magnificence. Every thing is in perfect keeping, the statues themselves being gigantic to harmonize with the building. Around us were the gorgeous monuments of the Popes, on which the ablest sculptors of the last three centuries had exhausted their skill - the masterpiece of Canova erected to the memory of Clement XIII., with its Genius of Death, holding the inverted torch, and the sleeping lion below, the finest efforts of the modern chisel- and the marble group of the Virgin supporting “the dead Christ,” a most touching work, which first established the fame of Michael Angelo. There was one, before which we particularly paused, because it bore, sculptured on the enduring marble, so plain a record of the high-handed oppression of the papal power during the middle ages. It was the tomb of the celebrated Countess Matilda, who, in the days of Hildebrand, was the powerful ally of the Church, bequeathing to it also at her death her valuable patrimony in Tuscany, a portion of which is still held by the papal see. Living in the very crisis of that conflict between the feudal system and the power of the Church, so well did she aid the latter in gaining its triumph, that she deserved her burial place in its noblest temple. Five centuries after her death, Urban VIII. removed her body from the Benedictine Monasterv, near Mantua; and deposited it beneath this stately monument. Does that statue, which Bernini has placed above her tomb, represent her as she was in her living day? \Ve may believe so, for it embodies our own idea of that stern woman, as she sits there frowning in the marble, holding in her hands the keys and the papal tiara. But it is on the sides of the sarcophagus below that we see portrayed the scene she aided to bring about, and which she considered her chief glory.

When Henry, the young emperor of Germany, had been excommunicated by Gregory VII., to obtain an interview with his rival, and rescue himself from the anathema, he was obliged to cross the Alps in the depth of winter, over fields and precipices of ice which could only be traversed on foot. His object was to throw himself at the pontiff’s feet and obtain absolution; but he found this spiritual autocrat in Matilda’s strong mountain fortress of Canossa in the Apennines, and for a time every avenue was barred against him. At length Gregory consented that the emperor should enter the fortress in the garb of a penitent to receive his sentence. Then was witnessed what we may well consider the most extraordinary scene in the annals of the papacy. It was on a morning in January, 1077, when the cold was intense, the mountain streams froz en, and the ground white with snow, that earth’s greatest monarch of that day was seen, bare-footed and clothed only in a thin linen penitential garment, toiling mournfully and alone up to the rocky castle of Canossa, He passed two gateways, but found the third closed against him. It was at sunrise that he appeared in this humiliating state, and there he remained hour after hour, cold and faint, the object of wonder to the crowds which had gathered to the spectacle. But the gates opened not; and at sunset he was forced to retire, the object of . his bitter penance still un accomplished. Again the dawning day found him at his post, bumbled and dispirited, while within the castle the proud pontiff, who was trampling him to the ground, held his regal court with princes gathered around him. Yet the second day passed like the first, and the third followed it, while the wretched king was suing in vain for admittance, and Gregory was prolonging, what has been well termed, “this profane and hollow parody on the real workings of the broken and contrite heart.” But human endurance could bear it no longer, and the monarch rushed from this scene of suffering to a neighboring chapel, to beseech on his knees the intercession of his kinswoman Matilda and the venerable abbot of Cluni, For several days all within tbe castle, even with tears, had entreated the pope to end this painful scene, and reproaches of wanton tyranny were heard from his own adherents; but he remained inexorable. At length, when Henry had reached the fourth day of his penance, Gregory consented that, still bare-footed and in his penitential garment, he should be brought into his presence.

This is the point of time which the artist has chosen. The youthful king-for he was only twenty-six - reduced at last to vassalage to the church - his fiery spirit utterly crushed by the misery of the last three days, and the shame that weighed him down - crouches abjectly at the feet of his oppressor, as if submitting his neck to be trodden on. The Italian court are around, the witnesses of his degradation, while above him stands Gregory, proud and haughty in his mien - the very incarnation of mitred tyranny. Matilda is there, rejoicing in her kinsman’s indignities - and Hugh, the abbot of Cluni, who had administered to Henry in his infancy the rite of baptism - and Azzo, marquis of Este - and Adelaide of Susa, and her son Amadeus - all calmly beholding these acts of spiritual despotism and relentless severity, performed by one claiming to be the vicar of Him who was” meek and lowly of heart.”

Is this a scene which it is well to perpetuate in the unchanging marble? On one occasion at least it would have been better for the papal power if this record of its triumph had not been quite so prominent. We are told that on the visit of the Emperor Joseph II. to St. Peter’s, when he came to this monument, he regarded it for a moment with fixed attention, and then turned away with a blush of indignation and a bitter smile. We all know the Kaiser’s future course; but might not the remembrance of that hour in St. Peter’s have strengthened his purpose of a philosophical reformation, to depress and curb, in his own dominions, a power which could become so tyrannous?

“There is but one painting in St. Peter’s: see if you can find it!” said a friend to me the day before our first visit. As we looked round the church his words recurred to us, and we wondered what he could have meant. There was an immense picture over every altar, and in every chapel, and we recognized copies of the noblest masterpieces on sacred subjects. It was not until we had been there some hours that we discovered, with one exception, they were mosaics, the colors and lights and shades being all so admirably imitated, that they rival the choicest works of the pencil. And probably centuries after the hues on the canvas have faded, these brilliant copies will preserve to the world a true record of the artist’s genius. Time has already wrought its changes in the Transfiguration of Raphael, yet here is a duplicate in the unchanging stone, which even now begins to convey a truer idea of that great painter’s conception than the much cherished original in the Vatican. How deeply is it to be regretted, that among them we have not Da Vinci’s Last Supper, which exists now only as a fresco at Milan, the damp fast obliterating its colors, so that to the next generation its beauty will be entirely gone! “How long will that picture last?” Napoleon once asked, as he was looking at a beautiful painting. “Perhaps five hundred years,” was the answer. “And such,” said the emperor, with a smile of scorn, “is a painter’s immortality!” The builders of this magnificent pile seem to have shared these feelings, and to have determined that nothing should be here which in the lapse of time might perish.

But in the wide Transepts is a sight which cannot but arrest the attention of everyone who is sighing for Catholic unity, and remind him of those days when every nation acknowledged the same faith, and with one voice professed the same creed. There, are arranged the boxes for the confessional in every language. Not only are those of Europe to be seen inscribed over these places, but also its various dialects, and the strange tongues of the East. Thus the wanderer from every land, who worships in these rites, beholds provision made for his spiritual wants. “There is one spot where the pilgrim always finds his home. We are aU one people when we come before the altar of the Lord.” ‘* Such are represented as the words of’ Marco Polo, in the thirteenth century, and here, to the member of the Church of Rome, they are realized. He comes to what he regards as the Mother Church of Christendom, and learns that he is not a stranger or an alien. He can unburden himself to a priest of his own land, and the consolations of his faith are doubly sweet when conveyed to him in the familiar words of “his own tongue, wherein he was born.” With the errors of Rome we have no sympathy; we feel and realize how much she has fallen from the simplicity of the faith; yet Catholic traits like this, none but the most prejudiced can refuse to admire. They show the far-reaching wisdom of that church-that, overlooking the distinctions of climate and country, and recognising her field of labor to extend wherever there is a degraded being to listen to her message, she is resolute to “inherit the earth.”

But this vast edifice is never filled, not even, we are told, upon the coronation of a Pope. It is only, indeed, on a few great festivals that service is performed in the body of the church, for ordinarily one of the side chapels is used, and the High Altar stands lonely and deserted. Even Eustace, though a priest of the Church, inquires, why “the Pontiff, surrounded by his clergy, does not himself perform evel’y Sunday the solemn duties of his station, presiding in person over the assembly, instructing his flock, like the Leos and Gregories of ancient times, with his own voice, and with his own hands administering to them the’ bread of life; and ‘the cup of salvation? ‘ ” Such a sight would indeed be one both affecting and sublime.

There is much, however, to detract from our pleasure in the survey of this unrivalled temple. The very inscription on the front, instead of dedi. eating it to Him who alone should be worshipped here, states that it is consecrated by Paul V. - IN HONOREM PRINCIPIS APOSTOLORUM. We pause to inspect the bas reliefs on the magnificent bronze doors, and are transported back to the days of heathenism. The artist drew his inspiration from no source more hallowed than the Metamorphoses of Ovid; and Ganymede and the Eagle, with Leda and the Swan-the latter group more spirited than chaste-figure on the doors of this Christian temple. Advance to the High Altar, and near it, on a pedestal about four feet high, stands an old bronze statue, which the sceptical antiquary will tell you was once a Jupiter, by a slight change transformed into an undoubted St. Peter. However this may be, it is now a mere instrument of superstition, and through the whole day crowds may be seen kneeling before it in earnest prayer. Their devotions ended, they approach, kiss the extended foot - which is almost worn off by this constant friction - press their foreheads to it, “and the process is ended. Has the Romanist any reason to laugh at the poor Mussulman, who performs a pilgrimage to Mecca, to kiss the black stone of the Caaba? On St. Peter’s day this image is clothed in magnificent robes - the jemmed tiara placed upon its head - the jeweled collar around its neck-soldiers are stationed by its side, and lighted candles burning about it. A clergyman of the Church of England, who was present on this occasion last year, told me, that the effect of the black image thus arrayed was perfectly ludicrous; and with the people all kneeling before it, had he not known he was in a Christian church, he should have supposed himself in a heathen temple, and that, the idol.

In the massive columns which support the dome, are preserved some holy relics, which are only shown with much ceremony from a high balcony, during Passion Week, A portion of the true Cross -the head of St. Andrew-the lance of St. Longinus (with which our Savior was pierced)-and the Sudarium. or handkerchief, containing the impression of our Lord’s features-form a part of this sacred treasury. Unfortunately, there are divers other lances of similar pretensions-one at Nuremberg, and another in Armenia. With the Sudarium, it is still worse, there being six rival ones shown in different places, viz.,
Turin. Milan, Cadoin in Perigort, Besancon, Compeign, and Aix-la-Chapollc ; while that at Cadoin has fourteen bulls to declare it genuine, and that at Turin, four. The learned, however, solve the difficulty by saying, that the handkerchief applied to our Lord’s face consisted of several folds, consequently the impression of the countenance went through them all, and they are all genuine! *

One more item, and I have done with this disagreeable portion of the subject. Pass the High Altar, and at the farther extremity of the Church is a magnificent throne of bronze and gilt, surmounted by a canopy, and supported by four colossal gilt figures of St. Augustine, St. Ambrose, St. Chrysostom, and St. Athanasius, Within is a chair, which tradition tells us is the identical one in which St. Peter sat when he officiated as Bishop of Rome. Some twenty years ago, Lady Morgan gave to the world another storv of this wonderful relic. She states that ‘when the French held Rome, their sacrilegious curiosity induced them to break through the splendid casket for the purpose of seeing the sacred chair. Upon its mouldering and dusty surface were traced carvings, which bore the appearance of letters. The chair was quickly brought into a better light, the dust and cobwebs removed, and the inscription faithfully copied. The writing is in Arabic characters, and is the well known confession of Maliometau faith - “There is but one God, and Mahomet is his prophet.” The story, she adds, has since been hushed up; the chair replaced, and none but the unhallowed remember the fact, and none but the audacious repeat it.” Dr. Wiseman takes miladi to task with great severity, and asserts that it is an ancient curule chair, evidently of Roman workmanship, and may therefore reasonably be supposed to have been used as an Episcopal throne when St. Peter was received into the house of the Senator Pudens at Rome. The truth probably is, that it was brought from the East among the spoils of the Crusaders- presented to St. Peter’s at a time when antiquarian research was not much in fashion - and now, its origin has been forgotten.

But to continue the account of our visit, The hours went by, and we could not leave this spot which had been thought and dreamed of for so many years. We realised the feelings of the imaginative author of Vathek, when he wrote, “I wish his Holiness would allow me to erect a little tabernacle within this glorious temple. I should desire no other prospect during the winter; no other sky than the vast arches glowing with golden ornaments, so lofty as to lose all glitter or gaudiness. We would take our evening walks on the field of marble; for is not the pavement vast enough for the extravagance of this appellation? Sometimes, instead of climbing a mountain, we should ascend the cupola, and look down on our little encampment below. At night I should wish for a constellation of lamps dispersed about in clusters, and so contrived as to diffuse a mild and equal light. Music should not be wanting; at one time to breathe in the subterranean chapels, at another to echo through the dome;”

But the melody which Beckford desired, we were soon to hear. A side door opened - forth came a procession, a cardinal and long array of priests and we followed them to see what service was at hand. They swept across the church, paused for a moment in the centre, and sunk upon their knees, with their faces turned to the High Altar, and then entered the chapel called the Capella del Cora. It was the hour for Vespers, which at once commenced. There were perhaps twenty in the choir, by whom the principal part of the service was performed, while nearly two hundred more, - prebendaries, canons, clerks, and choristers- were seated in the chapel and joined in the responsive parts. It was the first time we had heard the Pope’s choir, so celebrated throughout the world, and yet our expectations were more than realized. They still use those old austere chants of surpassing beauty, which have been handed down to them through centuries-the Lydian and Phrygian tunes, first introduced into the ‘Western Churches by St. Ambrose. St. Augustine listened to them in the church of Milan, when he represents himself as being melted to tears, and even expressed the fear lest such harmonious airs might be too tender for the manly spirit of Christian devotion.* Mingled with these were the richer Roman chants which were collected by Gregory the Great, and bear his name. They sang the Psalms for the evening, and I rejoice that I knew they were uttering inspired words, for the music, as it swept by us in a perfect flood of harmony, seemed too sweet and heavenly to be addressed to any but God alone. The organ mingled its rich mellow tones with the voices which were thus pouring out their melody, sweet incense filled the chapel as they flung high their golden censers, and we remained listening to the delicious sounds until the whole was over, and the procession once more took its way through the church.

As we followed them out, we found the sun “as setting, and we stayed to watch the effect of the gathering darkness. The church was untenanted, save by some solitary worshipper kneeling apart, and no sound was heard except now and then the light tread of a Sacristan as he crossed the marble pavement. Gradually the shadows deepened-the building appeared more vast and solemn - the hundred lights which are ever burning around the tomb of St. Peter seemed like distant twinkling stars -the statues on the monuments grew more wan and phantom-like-and we departed, repeating to ourselves those striking lines of the pilgrim poet-

“But thou, of temples old, or altars new,Standest alone - with nothing like to thee -Worthiest of God, the holy and the true;Since
Zion’s desolation, when that HeForsook his former city, what could be, Of earthly structures, in his honor pil’d, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, glory, strength, and beauty - all are aisledIn this eternal ark of worship undefil’d,”

Yesterday it rained, and the sun this morning rose with that cloudless beauty, which is so often seen when the atmosphere has just been cleared by a storm. The air was perfectly still and clear, and we determined to avail ourselves of the opportunity to ascend the dome of the church. Having procured the necessary permit from the cardinal secretary of state, we were admitted, and commenced the ascent by a broad stone staircase, so slightly inclined that mules walk up it with their loads. After a time it narrows, and winds around between the inner and outer domes, until passing through a door, we find ourselves on a light gallery in the interior, more. than three hundred feet above the pavement. The brain becomes dizzy as we look down, and see men appearing like insects crawling far below. The mosaic pictures which line the dome, and from the pavement looked so fair and beautifully shaded, here seem coarse, and the figures are gigantic. Nowhere else can we realize the unparalleled vastness of this edifice, and for a time we stood and looked down in silence, while from one of the side chapels there came faintly and fitfully the swell of voices and the music of the organ, as some priests were performing there the morning service.

From thence we ascended to the exterior gallery on the top of the dome. Here was spread out before us the same glorious prospect which we had already seen from the Senator’s tower on the Capitoline hill. The morning sun was pouring down Its beams, flooding the whole landscape with brightness. White, fleecy clouds still lingered about the distant Apennines, while a line of mist stretching far over the Campagna, showed the course of the Tiber. There, every thing spoke of repose and desolation, and the country spread out like a prairie with none to occupy it. We felt as did Rogers, when he asked-

“Have none appeared as tillers of the ground, None since they went - as tho’ it still were theirs,And they might come and claim their own again? Was the last plough a Roman’s?”

Below us were the formal gardens of the pope with their sparkling fountains, and orange groves loaded with fruit, while a palm tree growing near, and the stony pines, with their flat dark tops dispersed about, seemed to increase the oriental illusion of the scene. We walked over the stone roof of this mighty building, which covers an ex .. tent of several acres. How strange it seems to find at this dizzy height the habitations of human beings! Yet here are the houses of the workmen who are always employed in the repairs of the edifice, so that we seem to be in the midst of a little village. A fountain, too, is playing by our side, throwing its water into a marble basin, and while the lofty parapet cuts off all view beyond, we can scarcely realize that we are not treading on the ground. About us were traces of countless pilgrims, who during the last two centuries had climbed to the same lofty elevation, and left there their names and the dates of their visits. Among them was an Italian name carved deeply into one of the bronze balls of the railing around the gallery, with the date 1627. Perhaps this is the only trace the individual has left of his existence on the earth!

From this highest gallery, at the foot of the stem which supports the ball and cross, a small iron ladder enables visitors to ascend into the ball itself. It is of bronze gilt, seven and a half feet in diameter, and will accommodate a small party. There is something, however, in the idea of being enclosed in a ball four hundred and thirty feet from the ground, which gives the visitor an uneasy feeling. It seems to vibrate and tremble - he remembers how small is the metal stem which sustains it - and being, in addition, almost roasted by the rays of the sun on the thin copper, he is generally contented with a very short sojourn at this aerial height. Instead of a cross, the ball was once surmounted by a large pine of bronze, which had before ornamented the top of the tomb of Hadrian. Being thrown down from St. Peter’s by lightning, it was transferred to the gardens of the Vatican, where it now stands by the side of the great Corridor of Belvidere. It was here in the days of Dante, for when describing one of the monsters in the Inferno, he says-

“His visage seem’d In ler:gth and bulk, as doth the pine that tops St. Peter’s Roman fane.”

‘We descended again to the church, and finding one of the sacristans, proceeded to visit the crypts beneath it. He conducted us down a stairs under one of the side altars, and at its foot, fixed in the wall, is a marble slab, the inscription on which states that females are not permitted to descend into these vaults except on Whitsunday-on which day men are excluded-and if any infringe this regulation, they are anathematized. The reason of this absurd rule we could not discover. W e have here below us, probably, the most ancient church pavement in existence; for when the present sumptuous temple was erected over the first church, the pavement was left untouched. This spot indeed was chosen by Constantine for the first religious edifice he erected, because it was a part of the Circus of Nero, and consecrated by the blood of numberless martyrs who were slaughtered in its arena.

Immediately below the high altar is what is called the tomb of St. Peter. As we stood beside it, we thought what would be the feelings of the humble fisherman of Galilee, could he rise from his martyr-grave, wherever it may be, and behold the gorgeous ceremonies of the temple which is called by his name. The purity of the faith for which he died, perverted - the simplicity of ancient worship deformed by countless rites, partaking of the “pride and pomp and circumstance” of Pagan rituals - the Gospel mingled up with strange legends from the old mythology- his own name, which he only wished to be “written in heaven,” now exalted above all human fame, and made an argument for blinding superstition- how would his lofty rebuke startle the thousands kneeling here, and echo even through the halls of the Vatican, as he summoned all away from the “cunningly-devised fables” which are taught in this glorious shrine, to those changeless and immutable truths which are to last while” eternity grows grey!”

As we passed around, we beheld on all sides small chapels where lights are ever kept burning, and which are regarded as places of peculiar sanctity. Wherever we turned, we saw the tombs of those who for their services in the cause of the Church, or their extraordinary holiness, had been thought worthy of a resting-place in this unequalled temple. Here, covered with bas-reliefs, to illustrate Scripture history, is the rich sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, prefect of Rome, who died A.D. 359. Here lie buried, Otho II. of Germany; Charlotte, Queen of Jerusalem and
Cyprus; the last members of the royal family of Stuart, and many of the popes. Unlike most vaults of the kind, there is no dampness in the atmosphere, nor that chilliness which speaks so plainly of the grave, and it seemed as if the very balminess of the air took from us all thoughts of the tomb. When we again ascended, and dropped the fee into the hand of the smiling young priest, we found it difficult to realize that we had been treading on a spot where, for fifteen centuries, the great and noble had found their burial place.

At eight o’clock the whole company was ordered to move into the warehouse, for the grand feature of the evening. Jem was to work the lantern, and Joe was to keep order, and all were pledged to be as good as gold during Uncle Bob’s talk. But to speak the simple truth, I do not think that there was one boy-no, not the least boy there, who ever thought of any mischief, or of taking any advantage of the darkness. Lizzie was first carried in by Joe and Tom; and last of all Uncle Bob took his place before the sheet. Two oil lamps flickered their light “upon the rafters above and on the boys below, and the fire glowed a steady red at the back part of the place. Thus there was the mingled brightness and blackness which Rembrandt loved to paint, and which lent mysteriousness and a kind of awe to the scene. However, these lights had to be obscured for the sake of the lantern, and as the room grew dark and only the sheet was bright a hush fell on all, and when Uncle Bob, in rather a deep tone, said, ‘My lads,’ his audience felt almost startled.

‘My lads,’ he began, ‘in trying to make you happy this Christmas night, I want to take you back to the very first Christmas night of all, that you may see what Christmas really means. So, by j em’s help, with the lantern I am going to show it you! ‘

Uncle Bob’s voice was one of those which are full and clear and pleasant to listen to, and, indeed, he had a little of the natural gift of oratory which arrests and holds attention.

‘See, here is
Bethlehem running up this hillside, and looking over this plain to mountains far away. But what have we here? A beautiful young woman on a mule, and an elderly man leading it, and they are going to this place, which is an inn, to ask for lodgings. Alas! When they get to the door they find a crowd of people inside the yard, and the landlord tells them he is quite full. “There isn’t a single room to be had for love or money.”

“Oh, but,” cries the elderly man, “my wife is ill. Y au must take her in.” If I could tell you all, lads, you would see a great wonder in this. Jesus Christ was going to be born that night. Ages before it had been foretold he must be born there, in that place, and now his mother has come, and yet they couldn’t take her in. How little men know of what is really going on, and what God is doing! If that landlord had known, he would have gone to the man who had taken the best chamber, and he would have said, “Do give it up to this lady.” But, no; all he said was, “Well, there is only the cave in the hillside, which we use as a stable sometimes. I will send a mattress, and here’s a curtain you can hang up. This is all I can do for you.”

So to that stable they went, and there Jesus Christ the Son of God was born into this world. Remember always that He was born poor, to be one with all us poor folk, and every Christmas it seems all to happen over again, and He comes again to each one of us and says, “I was born in
Bethlehem; now I want to be born in your heart. Don’t turn me away. Let Me come in and be your own Savior.”

He paused for a moment, to let the appeal have time with them, and then he tinkled the bell, and there appeared the scene of the angels and the shepherds. ‘These beautiful creatures which you now see, you know, are angels, and this Christmas night they made themselves visible to the shepherds. They came from heaven on purpose to tell about the Babe in the stable. God sent them. Poor as He was born, Jesus was the Lord of these shining ones, and they felt it an honor to be His messengers. Thus they bear witness to the wonder of His lowly birth.

They were so dazzlingly bright in the dark of the night they frightened the shepherds. We should have been frightened too; and yet that is surely a strange thing. Why should beautiful angels, why should God, be so fearful to us? It is a deep question. Perhaps if our hearts were all pure, and we saw an angel, he would seem a sweet friend, and we should be glad, and not afraid. Wouldn’t it be splendid to feel at home with good angels? Just you try to be friends with God all your life, and keep pure in heart, and then when angels come for you in death you won’t be frightened. You will see them smile, and they will take you to heaven.

This angel who spoke smiled on these shepherds, and said “Fear not!” and then he told them about the birth of Jesus, the long-expected Messiah. “He lies in a manger,” he said. They expected a great king, but they hadn’t time to be surprised, what happened next was so wonderful. No sooner had the one angel spoken than a whole host of angels came into sight, and sang such music as the world never heard before nor since; and they sang and sang all the way as they went back to heaven, and at last their song died out amongst the stars.

‘There is a heaven, you see, and those angels went back there, to God who had sent them; but what I want you to understand is the glory of which these angels sang. “Glory to God in the highest!” …was their song. That glory was not their music, or their blaze of light. No, it was Jesus in the manger, and they who know that and believe it are the most blessed of all people. Jesus is God’s richest gift-the very glory of his love.

Now I want to ask you a question. The angels being gone, what do you think the shepherds had best do? Stop where they were?’

‘Go look at the baby,’ answered one of the boys.

‘But,’ said Uncle Bob, ‘what about the sheep? Should they be left?’

That puzzled them. I t did seem as if the sheep needed the shepherds.

‘Well, I will ask two more questions, which may let in a little light. First, did the angel tell them to go and see the baby?’

Yes; the angel said, “Ye shall find the Babe,” and so they had to go and seek,’ answered one sharp fellow.

Good! Good!’ Exclaimed Uncle Bob, ‘the very truth. Yes, there was a command to go. Now for the second question, and please think of it seriously: Were the sheep frightened at the angels?

No? That is my opinion too, and so I don’t believe the sheep would have objected to being left. If they could have spoken, my opinion is, they would have said, “You go as the angel told you: we shall be safe. No wild beasts will come our way to-night. That bright light will have scared them all away, and the God of the angels will take care of us.”

One more question before Jem shows us the shepherds in the stable: How would they know how to go to the inn as the right place? The angels had not mentioned the special place. What do you say?’

It was little Lizzie who timidly asked if it was the manger which made them think of the inn.

‘So it was, little one,’ said Uncle Bob; ‘for a manger is in a stable, and a stable is in an inn, and in a small place like Bethlehem there would be but one inn, and that is how they would work it out. Don’t you think so, boys? ‘

It was a sort of speculation they seemed to like, if one might judge from the buzz of assent which arose.

But,’ Uncle Bob went on, ‘the great thing after all is that they went there and looked on the Babe. I t is not enough to get a message, even from angels, about Jesus; we need to see Him each one for ourselves. Take that in as you look on this wonderful scene; and as you see these poor shepherds favored above all others, above even kings and priests, remember to believe always that Jesus is a Savior for the poor. Sometimes poor people think that He is only for the rich, because of fine churches and chapels; but no! Here is the truth. I know one poor lad who would have been miserable indeed if Jesus hadn’t been His Friend and Helper. He is speaking to you now. What could I have done if it hadn’t been for the comfort of believing that, though I am all crooked and helpless almost, yet the Good Father has given His dear Son to be my Friend and Savior, to stand by me always? It makes me quite certain that He can bless and use even me.

‘There is one thing more which strikes me about these shepherds. All the rest of their lives, however long they lived, they would never forget the angels and the Babe. I can’t help thinking that to their dying day they would from time to time seek each other out to talk over this grand event of the past, and wonder what had become of the Babe, and what He was going to do when He became a man and spoke to the people as “Christ the Lord.”

But there is another lesson I think we ought to learn from these shepherds. Suppose they had not gone to see the Baby. Wouldn’t you say in that case that they would have been people who were not worthy of such a message? Yes, and you would be right; but then, what of us? Haven’t we seen and heard the same, and must we not do something? Yes, indeed. What can you do? I’ll tell you what you should do. You should just try to be like Jesus in that manger. Don’t swear, don’t cheat, don’t be impure, and don’t be selfish. He gave up all for our sakes, and do you be kind to others; yes, even to your donkeys and dogs and cats, let alone your little brothers and sisters. You like to be happy-go then and try to make others happy. That was His way, and oh! What a grand man He grew!

‘Let me show you something,’-and here Uncle Bob’s voice grew broken and husky with emotion, and quite a hush in consequence fell on his audience. ‘I will show you His face,’ he cried, ‘as He suffered for us. I didn’t mean to show it just now; but put it in, Jem,-the “Ecce Homo”-when they see it they cannot help loving Him. There! There! Behold the man! Behold the Babe of the manger grown into the Man of Calvary’ He was poor in the manger, He suffered on the cross, and never, never in any heart beat such deep pure love as His even for those who scorned Him. A mother’s love is wonderful. I know a little of it, and so does Joe there. And Mrs. Rogers there, she knows about it, for she has it, and her heart has been glad to-night because Tom has come home as it hasn’t been glad since he went away.’

Those who were near Mrs. Rogers could dimly see that she was wiping her eyes; and they heard her say, ‘Bless ‘im! E’es a hangel’; and I don’t think she meant Tom either; though just then, to her great joy, the sheepish fellow, taking advantage of the darkness, put his hand into hers and squeezed it.

‘Yes, a mother’s love is wonderful; but it does not come near the love of Christ. Look at that face; what is this? It is a crown of thorns-and see how the blood flows! It was put on Him in cruel mockery; but He was a King, you know-the King of angels, and now a King of sorrow. Did you ever see such eyes, so pure, so forgiving? They seem to say, “I was the Babe of the manger; I came to save you. I was the Babe over whom the angels sang, and this is what I came for-to die for love of you. There is no room for me yet in the world, but there will be one day. I wait for that. I shall be known then as Savior.”

‘But see, here is another scene. We have gone back to the Babe; and now who are these? The wise men from a far country? Yes; and what is this star? It is the light which has led them to Jesus, and in its light they kneel and worship. They feel He is a wonderful Child, that He is indeed some great King, to whom glory belongs.

‘Well, I have shown you His grand face of suffering-now I will show you His face of glory.’

Tinkling the bell, there was thrown on the sheet a picture of the Ascension, with the disciples kneeling in a circle and gazing up to Jesus with looks of loving reverence as He ascends.

It is the Babe of the star grown into the Man of glory. No crown of thorns now; there is one of light, you see, and a smile of triumphant love. He is going back to heaven, risen from the dead, alive for evermore. And the angels who sang at
Bethlehem are here again to welcome His return as soon as He has finished saying “Farewell” to these people. Do you know what He is saying? “Go, tell everyone on earth about Me, and let them know that I the Son of God have died to save them all, and want all to love me.”

‘So He went to heaven, and has shown us the way to get there too. There He waits to share His glory with all who love Him. And what do you think will happen when we see Him? We shall grow like Him. We shall be as beautiful as those angels, and we shall sing like them. No more crooked legs and broken backs then; no more sorrow and sin; no more unkindness; no more heart-break; no more drunkenness and dark homes. No; all is light there, and Jesus will walk with us and talk with us, and we shall be good.

‘Oh, my lads,’ he wound up, and there was an appeal in his voice which held them spellbound, ‘don’t miss it all j don’t miss it. Take Jesus from to-night as Savior and Master; walk with Him here, and then you shall walk with Him there. Don’t be ashamed of Him, but tell everybody about Him. There’s Tom, who will be going to sea again soon. It will be a grand thing, Tom, to sail with Jesus as Captain, with His star of love overhead, guiding into port. Your mother would be easy at night. She would say, ” It’s all right with my T am. He is trusting Jesus, and Jesus is with him.” And so with you all, whatever you have to face and go through,-and you will have a good deal,-yet it will be all right, lads; nothing can harm you if you have Jesus with you, and His angels ministering help to you. After earth comes heaven. ‘He is gone-but we once moreShall behold Him as before;In the heaven of heavens the same,As on earth He went and came.In the many mansions therePlace for us He will prepare,In that world unseen, unknown,He and we may yet be one.’

This was the finish, and there was quite a stillness for a moment, as of deep feeling.

Then the scene changed back from the warehouse to the house, and the end soon came. The great secret-the Christmas tree-was unveiled, and its fruit was distributed to each boy by little Lizzie. How her face flushed with joy as the lads came up to receive their gifts! And after all these had been duly handed to them there still remained the oranges and the rest of the buns and cake and cheese, which Uncle Bob told them to take to any little brothers or sisters at their homes. ‘For,’ said he, ‘we must think of others, as Jesus did.’

Never was such a Christmas! How their faces, one and all, shone with happiness, and not the least happy were little Lizzie and Uncle Bob. I think there were angels hovering round, who would have liked to show themselves, had it been wise to do so.

But now an unexpected thing happened. Jem actually stepped out to make a speech.

‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I shouldn’t like to go without thanking Uncle Bob, and I think you would like to thank him too; and so for us all, not presuming, but only feeling, I say, Thank you for the fine grand treat we have had; not forgetting your Christmas tree, miss, nor Mrs. Rogers’ coffee-pot, nor all the good talk we’ve had. We all liked it, and we’ll never forget it. To think the likes 0′ us should have such a night as this-so happy from fust to last! It’s been real good 0′ Uncle Bob to think of us so kindly, lads, and we mun do as he has told us. An’ seein’ as I’m not used to public speakin’, 1 just finish off, saying we all believe you’re a real good friend, and we all wish you long life and happiness.’

You should have seen one sweet child’s face as these words were being spoken. Instinctively a little hand went seeking the hand of Uncle Bob, which quietly clasped it in answering pressure, and all the while, so to speak, shadows of changeful feeling went and came upon the face. I t smiled and flushed with pleasure, and then went nearly pale with excess of loving pride. To little Lizzie it was as good as if the universe were finding out the real worth of Uncle Bob and paying him true honor. And so her face was good to see: it spoke volumes.

All were ready to cheer, but before even a murmur of assent could be made, to the surprise of everyone, Mrs. Rogers, who afterwards explained that’ she had been that full 0′ feeling as Jem was talking that she must either speak or burst,’ jumped up from the hearth, and instinctively seizing the coffee-pot, which stood conveniently at hand, she proceeded to flourish it aloft with a majestic expression on her face, whilst she cried out, “Ear!’Ear! I second that. Bless ‘im! Ee’s a hangel!’

It was enough-a splendid climax. Such a cheer went up in that house from twenty strong pairs of lungs as was good to hear. The cheer got out into the yard before it could be stopped, and rushed all down the dark entry into the street, and made two policemen passing by wonder what was going on, and brought them to listen at the door, and to look in at the window, and then go away wondering still more at all the happy faces of which they caught a glimpse.

And here we will end our story, and let Mrs. Rogers, as her faithful devotion deserves, have the last word. Her opinion shall stand for what it is worth. It is the opinion of a humble and very ignorant poor woman whose life had many hardships; but it was her own opinion. She knew what she knew, and she would not have said it unless she had had some ground for saying it, nor would the boys have cheered as they did if they hadn’t fully agreed with her.

And, believe me, it is something even here, and may mean a very great deal hereafter, when all lives are reckoned up, not in earthly, but in heavenly values, that one poor neighbor and twenty neighbors’ children in a poor court and street should have come to feel as these felt about a poor crippled man. Was it the triumph of mind over matter? Nay, it was the triumph of Jesus the Redeemer, who filled the soul of this strange hero with His own noble, true, redeeming love, and glorified weakness.

Let none think they are useless, let none despair. I t is possible, even though life be obscure, the back crooked, the legs crippled, to be loving and good, to do good and to win love, to be full of noble desire and noble deeds, and to be akin in faith and spirit to Jesus the Son of God and the Lord of angels.

When I was a young girl I spent several Christmases with my grandparents, away from the city.

On one occasion I remember my grandmother reminding my grandfather to harness the horse and sleigh and go to Aunt Sarah’s and Uncle Timothy’s with crocks of jam and a fat-pork cake for Christmas. Of course Aunt Sarah and Uncle Timothy weren’t related to us, but because they’d lived many years in the place and everybody knew them, they were aunt and uncle to the whole community.

And so one cold, clear, moonlit night my grandfather got up from the supper table and announced that he was going to make the trip and that I could go with him.

Soon we were ready to set out. My grandfather tucked a rug over my lap and around my feet as I sat on the side bench of the sleigh while he took the raised single seat at the back.

How can I describe the pleasure of driving along to the ringing of the sleigh’s runners on the frozen snow, the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hoofs, the jingle of the harness bells, to the sight of the fir trees and ponds silvered in moonlight, to the feel of the cold purity of the air that brushed against our cheeks? Somehow I felt part of an existence greater than I was normally aware of. I seemed to be somebody less mundane than my ordinary everyday self, while my grandfather, erect and large in his winter coat, his firm gloved hands holding the reins that guided us on our way, seemed like a king.

Before long we had covered the three miles or so of our journey and found ourselves in Aunt Sarah’s and Uncle Timothy’s kitchen, warm in the glow of a kerosene lamp, with the smell of the burning wood in the stove, and the sound of the kettle burbling on top of it. Aunt Sarah clasped me in her arms, and Uncle Timothy placed his rough, rheumatic hand gently against my face.

We were given tea and newly-made bread - for me a thick crusty bit spread with molasses. There was talk of the weather, and of daily chores, and news about friends and neighbors, and an expression of concern for each other’s health. And then it was time to go. In a quiet voice Uncle Timothy said, “We must have a word of prayer before you leave” and before I could feel embarrassment at the idea, we were kneeling on the kitchen floor, with heads bowed, while Uncle Timothy thanked God for our visit and for the blessings of Christmas.

As we stepped out into the cold it seemed that for a moment there stayed with us the coziness of the kitchen, and such a shared warmth of feeling that before I had time to silently question the rightness of my request, I found myself asking my grandfather if I, and not he, could be the driver on our return home.

Smiling and without speaking my grandfather placed the reins in my hands. Then he settled himself on the side seat of the sleigh while I climbed onto the one at the back. Raised on high I could see beyond the horse to the road stretching grandly ahead. I slapped the reins on the horse’s back and called “giddap, giddap” to urge him on.

The snow shimmered in the moonlight, the bells danced and sang, and the strong pure air bore us on into the calm untroubled night.  

Another Christmas is upon us, and with it comes the reminiscences of the past - the far-off happy days when the wish of “peace on earth, good will to men” was no mere phrase - no empty expression. It is characteristic of the Christmas Festival that one’s thoughts turn melancholy to the absent friends, and that the warmth and glow of the Yule-log fire furnish vivid pictures of bygone incidents.

I remember distinctly Christmas Day in 1916! We were then serving in France, and the fortunes of war had favored us, in that our Division had been relieved from the trenches about a week before, and we had shaken the mud of the
Somme off our feet for a period.

We were billeted in a quaint little French village, that had never seen Colonial soldiers before, and the peasantry looked askance as we marched along the poplar-bordered road, but the cheerful, honest smiles of the Newfoundlanders soon reassured them, and a few hours later I saw several groups of the boys in various kitchens having “cafe au lait,” while gray-haired dames and gesticulating “mademoiselles” hovered around in feverish hospitality.

The announcement that we would be out of the line for Christmas was gladsome tidings, and immediately arrangements commenced for celebrating the Festival in right good spirit. Major Bernard rode into a town several kilometers distant, and secured a large number of turkeys, and Captain Nangle undertook the management of a joint officers’ dinner - the first and only occasion that the Battalion Officers were enabled to dine together. The Christmas festivities of the Newfoundlanders in
France looked promising!

A keen crisp air and a dull sky greeted the eye on Christmas morning!

Services were held and the beautiful story of Noel extolled from the pulpit of the old village church, while a sympathetic representation of quiet peasantry gazed in religious awe at the impassive figures of the khakiclad worshippers. Several “Poilu” on leave, in their French-blue uniforms, lent a tinge of color to an impressive scene.

At twelve-thirty dinner-calls went, and the men lined the broken-down houses where the “cookers” were located. There was a generous ration of real English ale for each soldier, oranges and chocolates, and cake besides. All the officers were present with their companies, and later they repaired to the billets where the turkeys were carved and the vegetables issued. Never have I seen such a cheery scene out of the line - there was a realization of the Christmas spirit predominating, and these well-kept barns, with their carpet of straw, had never before held such a merry throng, or a braver body of men. The good cheer, the hearty laughter, the buzz of conversation, the applause that greeted the arrival of the Xmas mail - a happy finale to an excellent meal - is present with me as I write!

At seven-thirty in the evening the officers began to gather at headquarters mess for dinner. A warm blaze of light flashed from the windows of the Chateau and brightened the pathway leading through the plots of dead and withered plants to the leaf-covered portico. A huge fire blazed in the big open grate that formed a conspicuous object in the long, oak-stained room. Candles in profusion were burning everywhere. Captain Raley’s gram-o-phone whirred tunefully in a corner and the light flashed on cut glass and silver, produced from some secret recess in this ancient French home. There was a hearty welcome for each officer as he arrived, and his particular friends chipped him merrily until it was time to sit to the table.

The menu showed excellent taste, and a variety of dishes that was truly remarkable for active service. The environment was delightful; all military formalities were dropped for the occasion, the Colonel exchanged jests with the youngest subaltern, and the “Padres” became “boys” in the real sense of the word. “Noel” had struck the right note, and the snow white streets of St. John’s and the joy-bells with their merry peal did not seem so far away!

The toast of “The King” was loyally honored, and seldom has it been drunk with greater dignity or deeper feeling. The impromptu speeches that accompanied the port showed a great depth of thought, and a stern realization of the duties of the Regiment, and they brought out a surprising array of eloquence and humor.

At midnight the National Anthem concluded proceedings, and the happy gathering left to take up the duties of the morrow. Overhead a clear cold moon bathed the village roads with a pale blue light, and the thought crossed our minds that just such a heavenly orb rode in the sky over the homes of our dear ones many hundreds of miles away, and we knew that the Yule-tide wish that we sent across the divide from our inmost souls had found a responsive chord in every loved one on the rock-bound coast!

It was, if I mistake not, in 1855, the very year of the first election here under our present system of Responsible Government, that the thrilling incident on which this story is based really took place. Few of my readers will now remember it, because there are not so very many people alive today who were then old enough to be lastingly impressed with the details as they appeared in the newspapers of that time.

The marine disaster to which I refer occurred at the entrance of a small harbor on the Northern coast which was then called Indian Beach. I understand this name was taken from the long bank of sand that stretches around the head of the harbor, where, according to tradition, the last of “the noble Red Men” of New foundland used to meet every year at “the falling of the leaves”, and hold a council before going into winter quarters. And there appears to be some ground for the tradition, because a few years ago, accompanied by one of the oldest inhabitants, I visited the Beach and examined the very spot where, while digging out some sand, the previous spring, he found two stone arrow-heads and a drinking bowl in a good state of preservation.

The fall of 1855 was an unusually backward one, and having been preceded by a wet summer, the fish crop was not harvested till the season was well advanced. As a result, the fishermen were late in getting “fixed up” and home for the winter. Only two schooners had “fitted out” from Indian Beach that year for the Labrador fishery, the resident population, for the most part, finding it more advantageous to look after “the ground”, and at the same time prosecute the voyage during the caplin school.

One of those schooners had already arrived; the other, the Sea Nymph, was still absent, but hourly expected from St. John’s, where she had landed her fish and taken on board a cargo of goods for the festive season; almost every family at the Beach having had something shipped by her. Eager eyes had been looking out for the Nymph for several days, and now Christmas Eve had come and still she did not put in an appearance.

It was generally believed that the schooner had left St. John’s for home some days before (there was no telegraphic communication at that time), and as the wind had veered round from the southeast and risen to a severe gale, with snow-squalls and heavy sea, much anxiety was felt for her safety. The Sea Nymph was a staunch little vessel of fifty-two tons, and had a crew of five all told. These were handsome Harry Brewer - a young giant in appearance - captain; William Jones, second hand, John Eliott, Peter Goff and Eli Moores, seamen.

There was one passenger on board - a young Englishman named Ralph Wilson, - nephew of the only prominent business man at
Indian Beach - Mr. Andrew LeSage, of Jersey. Ralph had been in St. John’s for some time, waiting for an opportunity to get north, and when the Sea Nymph was ready to sail, he gladly availed of Harry Brewer’s offer of a passage. Ralph was engaged to his pretty cousin, Helen, Mr. LeSage’s only daughter; and, although they had not seen each other since they were children, yet it was understood by the parents of both that they were to be married the following June, and that Helen would shortly return to Jersey with Ralph and her father for that purpose.

But when Ralph and his uncle made this arrangement they were apparently blissfully ignorant of the fact that an altogether different understanding had already been arrived at between Captain Brewer and Helen. Such, however, was the case. They had often met, and what more natural than that they should become attached to each other. Both were young and impressionable; and so it happened that one night, only a week before the Sea Nymph had left for St. John’s, as they sat in the shadow of the big fir trees behind the Beach and looked out over the moonlit harbor, Harry and Helen decided to unite their fortunes without consulting anybody.

Thus the matter stood on the eventful afternoon alluded to, when the schoolmaster of the settlement rushed into Mr. LeSage’s house with the startling intelligence that the Sea Nymph had been driven ashore at Shoal Point, near the entrance to the harbor, and, it was feared, all hands would be lost. Hurriedly putting on his coat and hat, Mr. LeSage ran out and over to the high ground above the Point, and, sure enough, there was the ill-fated schooner pounding on the rocks, with the sea making a clean breach over her. Already both masts had gone by the board, and it now seemed as if the hull itself must go to pieces in a few minutes.

It appears that trying to make the harbor in the snowstorm, and believing his course to be all right, Captain Brewer suddenly, just at the entrance, discovered that the Nymph was too far to leeward to weather Shoal Point. She was running under close-reefed foresail, and therefore would not stay, even with much less wind, and it was impossible to wear her in time to escape the rocks; so he let go both anchors, as the only remaining hope of saving vessel and crew. But in that heavy sea the chains snapped like whip-cord, and, without any check whatever, the unfortunate Sea Nymph rushed on to her doom.

Shortly after she struck the snow ceased to fall, and then Captain Brewer and his crew could be seen hatless and huddled together on the forecastle deck. They were clinging to whatever they could lay hold of, the great waves at intervals going clean over the battered hull and drenching them to the skin. It was impossible to render any assistance from the land, as no boat available, no matter how well manned, and would have the slightest chance in that raging sea. For a time it seemed as if all hope of rescue had been abandoned by those on shore as well as on board.

Some of the former knelt and prayed to Heaven for help, while others wrung their hands in despair and sobbed audibly enough to be heard amidst the tempest. But there was one brave man among that crew of sturdy New foundland fishermen who had often faced “death in the tempest” and escaped, and who, in spite of the odds against him, hoped to escape again, and that man was Captain Harry Brewer. As the watchers on the shore stood there, expecting every moment to see the battered hull go to pieces, or roll over and disappear with its living freight, they suddenly saw a stalwart figure poise for a second on the weather bow of the wreck and then plunge into the angry waves as they seethed and foamed around him. The form was that of Harry Brewer!

Fastening a line about his waist, and hastily giving instructions to his shipmates as to what they should do in the event of his efforts proving successful, he made the heroic attempt to reach the shore by swimming. The struggle that ensued was one that taxed all his powers of endurance, great as they were. At times he disappeared from view for several seconds and then appeared again on the crest of some mighty wave, eliciting frantic shouts of encouragement from the overwrought crowd on shore, which, by this time, included almost every man, woman and child in the settlement. But Harry Brewer’s brave heart and sinewy arms buoyed him up until a huge wave flung him against the shore, when some of those who would willingly risk their lives to save him, rushed into the sea, seized him with their strong hands, pulled him out of the receding water, and carried him to a place of safety, from which, exhausted as he was, he continued to superintend the work of rescue.

The crew on the wrecked vessel then fastened a stronger rope to the line brought ashore by their captain and, when this was hauled in, the task of getting the other men on shore was commenced. The end of the line on board was securely tied to the stump of the foremast; about ten feet above the deck, and then the men were pulled through the boiling sea to the shore, most of them being badly bruised and scarcely able to stand when lifted out of the water. The last to leave the schooner was Ralph Wilson, the passenger. Although a rather frail-looking man, as compared with the others, yet he won the admiration of all on board by his pluck and unselfishness during the trying ordeal through which they had passed. He might have been the first to be rescued, but he persistently refused till all the others had been landed. But brave as he was, the strain and exposure proved too much far him.

He was unconscious when kind hands and sympathetic hearts gently conveyed him to the hospitable home of his uncle. Here, under the careful nursing of Helen, he soon recovered consciousness; but next day, when the doctor called, he appeared to be suffering from a severe chill and great nervous prostration. He rallied, however, and was able to get about during the winter; but, with the approach of spring, he developed symptoms of tubercular disease, and in May returned to his home in England, where he died six months after his arrival there.

On the following Christmas Eve Captain Harry Brewer and Helen LeSage were married in the little school-chapel at Indian
Beach. In the fall of 1857 Mr. LeSage retired from business here and returned to Jersey, taking Harry and Helen with him.

The following year Ralph Wilson’s father died, leaving most of his money and property to his niece, Helen. In the spring of 1893, the writer, whilst on board the outward bound Allan steamer, at Shea’s wharf here, seeing some friends off, had an introduction to a gentleman named Brewer who was then on his way from Liverpool to New Yark. He appeared to be a good deal interested in Newfoundland affairs, and, in the course of our conversation, I ascertained from him that he was a son of Captain Harry Brewer, the hero of this eventful little Christmas story.  

It was getting quite dark in the short winter’s day when Mrs. Jones and Uncle Bob had made an end of their preparation of the old store-room. Then the little maid, long expectant, heard with pleasure the thud of the crutches which announced his approach. Now she would have him all to herself, and -he would tell her what he meant the tree for. She had made the hearth clean as best she could, and the fire was burning brightly; for the night was frosty, and in the fire and candle-light the room seemed cozy indeed, and a smile of pleasure stole over Uncle Bob’s face as he sat down to enjoy it.

Pushing the table back and bringing the fir-bush forward, he said, ‘Come, little woman, now for the secret’; and reaching up for the parcels, he displayed their contents upon the table before her admiring eyes. There was a great variety of all kinds of toys, some colored, some glittering, some useful, some ornamental.

‘This is fruit,’ he said, ‘to be hung on the tree in inviting clusters. Isn’t it nice work for Christmas?’ he asked.

“Oh yes,’ she cried; ‘but what is it for?’ ‘Supposing,’ he answered, with provoking slowness, ’supposing it is for a dear little girl to have for her own, from which she can hand to twenty boys just before they go home, at the very moment when they think all is over, a nice bunch of this fruit for their sister or brother; what would you say to that? Eh, little one?’

‘It will be splendid!’ she exclaimed, and clasped her hands in great delight, for she didn’t doubt for one moment but that she was the little girl he meant.

However, she fell into a fit of musing, from which she awoke as he watched her face, to shyly ask the question which had been slowly forming in her mind ‘Unc1e,’ she said, ‘are you so good because God is the Good Father?’

‘Dear child,’ he said, with a smile, ‘to think me good! But let us put it in a better way. Do I like to make the boys happy this Christmas, because I know God is the Good Father? To that I say “Yes.” Didn’t He give us H is Great Gift at Christmas to make us all happy? ‘

‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘I know He gave us Jesus, who loved us so much.’

‘Well, child, the more I think of that, the more my heart warms to others. Is it not so always? These lads, how happy they will be! And I love to think Jesus will be very pleased.’

‘But, Uncle Bob, did you always like to do such things? Tell me how it was that you came to feel so. I should so like to know, because I want to be like you, and to feel as you feel. I t seems so strange to me that you can love God.’

There was a deeper perplexity in her mind than she could express. It was the old, ever-recurring difficulty which asks, I How can God be good, and yet allow His creatures to suffer?’ To her loving heart it came in the personal, yet unselfish form of I How could God be the Good Father, as Uncle Bob always called Him, and yet have let Uncle Bob be such a poor cripple? ‘She didn’t think of her own case. Uncle Bob’s love for her and his constant care over her seemed to make that all right.

Unconsciously, no doubt, but yet very really, she felt that her weakness drew out Uncle Bob’s love, and that that, somehow, was better than to be strong and have no Uncle Bob’s love. But she wasn’t old enough to apply her own case to Uncle Bob and God’s love for him.

All this Uncle Bob saw to be at the bottom of her heart, for love is full of insight. He remained silent for a moment, casting about in his mind what it would be best to tell her, so as to get her over her difficulty.

‘You are wondering, little one,’ he said at length, ‘how I came to be a cripple, and how I came to love God. Well, I will try to tell you. It’s a sad story in one way, but a blessed one in another.

‘It wasn’t God made me a cripple: it was some one else. I was born all right, and straight, and strong. Perhaps I should have been a tall man if I’d been left as God made me; but it wasn’t to be.’

‘Oh, Uncle Bob, how was it? Who did it?’ And little Lizzie put her thin hand upon his and stroked it. ‘I had rather not tell you, child, if I could help it; but I cannot bear you should think wrong things about the Good Father. It was my poor earthly father did it, one night when he was not sober. It was the drink in him did it. Drink was the devil in him, and made him bad and cruel; and one night he pulled me out of my mother’s arms when I was crying for fear of him, and threw me on the floor, and my back hit hard against the fender, I think, and my spine was injured, and I became the cripple I am. But, you see, it wasn’t God who did it. No; He watched over me, and now I can see that He has been working ever since to turn the evil into good. He has made it a blessing to me.’ ‘Dear Uncle Bob,’ said the little maid, ‘tell me how He did it.’ , I will try; but it isn’t always easy to make another see what we can see ourselves. But whether I can make it plain or not, I know it is so. I think it came about in this way. Being made into such a helpless little fellow (I was about four years old when it happened), I found out how sweet and precious love is, and that somehow made me ready for the love of God. My mother was such a dear, good mother! I must have been a great trouble, being so helpless and always crying, 1 dare say, because so suffering; but she seemed only to love me more. How much she must have gone through to rear me! For my father wouldn’t give up the drink, and therefore he could scarcely bear the sight of me: my pale face and broken body showed him his sin in a dreadful light.’

‘I see now,’ murmured the little maid, ‘why you always call God your” good” Father!’

‘Ah! Little one,’ he said, ‘let us be thankful with all our hearts to being his children. He won’t let us be unloving and unkind. I thank Him that He made even poor father ashamed of his sin, and deeply repentant. But it took many years and many hardships.

‘Father kept on being unkind to mother; and she did all that in her lay to turn his attention from me, and to make things go comfortably; but I couldn’t help being afraid of him, and she used to take me to my cot upstairs when it was his time to come home from his work. Poor mother! I shall never forget the tears that have fallen from her on to my face as she has placed me there. The world little knows what many hearts suffer; but be comforted, dear one-the Good Father knows. Mother found out that at last, and she told me all about it, though I was too young to understand much; and she and I used to pray to God to help us, and to help father. Such different help God has to find for us. Poor mother wanted one sort of help, and poor father quite another.

‘I think it was her prayers which made me begin to long that father would love me. It seemed to me that if he could love me he would get free of the drink, and make mother happy. But it wasn’t to be; though, when she lay sick and dying, he was deeply miserable, and sat for hours at home moody and sad, and every now and then a great sigh would break from him. God was working at his conscience in answer to our prayers, and trying to open his heart to repentance; but it was not until he lay on his own death-bed that he was really a changed man. At least, I think he did really change then, for he wept bitterly, and called out my mother’s name in such pitiful tones!

‘Yes, dear mother died. She was worn out and heart-broken; and I was left in my weakness all alone with my father when I was about twelve years old. I had no brothers or sisters. All that I possessed was the memory of my mother’s love, and the hope of seeing her again in heaven. And this I see now to have been very precious. Perhaps if I had been all right and strong I should have gone out with other boys and in their games and sports have forgotten her love, or lost its feeling of heavenly influence. But being a cripple, all I could do was to sit and think.

I can remember being very sad. Often have I wondered, like you, whether God was good; but the thought of my mother always came to my aid, and I knew that what she trusted was true. All the same, it did not comfort me, and I was a lonely, sad-hearted boy who looked out from the doorway in summer on the boys as they played about in the street, or in winter from the window on the passers-by, and only wished I were with my mother.

‘No one seemed to care for me. At first, after my mother’s death, a few neighbor women would come in and do things for me; but they dropped off one by one, having, no doubt, much to do at home. Sometimes a boy or girl would come and stare wonderingly at me, as if I were not human like them, but something quite different, and this made me vexed and bitter and shy. Sometimes even they made faces at me as they went away. Worst of all, my father’s old feeling seemed to grow on him again. He would place a loaf and knife on the table with some milk when he went out to his work in the morning, and a neighbor would get me a little tea in the evening, and then I crept to my cot as best I could, to be out of his sight when he returned.’

‘Poor uncle!’ almost sobbed little Lizzie. ‘But the Good Father,’ Uncle Bob went on, ‘was watching over me and arranging for me. Two things happened by-and-by which changed my life. The first seems a very simple thing; but I see it did wonders for me. One of the neighbors, who had to go out to earn her own living, had a little baby, and not knowing what better to do with it, she brought it to me in its cradle, and made me its nurse. At first I felt rather sad, because it somehow reminded me of dear mother; but at last the sadness formed itself into a thought of pity. “Poor little thing! II I said, as I ventured to stroke its soft cheeks and tiny hands; “you are helpless, like I am. I must be a good nurse.” Something opened in my heart, and I learnt to love that baby more than I can tell; and as I loved it life grew so different, so much happier. It taught me a lesson I have never forgotten. It taught me that if we can love we can be happy, in spite of everything. It is not anything fine about us which makes us happy, it is love within us, filling our hearts. That baby, I am sure, was sent by the Good Father to poor me to teach me that.’

‘Oh, Uncle Bob, was I that baby?’ Lizzie asked, with eager voice.

‘No, Miss Conceit, it wasn’t you. If you had been that baby, you would have been quite a woman by this time; and yet it is true that you grew out of that baby. Perhaps if I hadn’t loved that baby, I should never have loved you. It may be the Good Father was getting my heart ready for my little girl. Let us think so, dear one, and praise Him for it this Christmas Eve.’

‘I will, dear uncle, I will; I begin to see a little more clearly. But what was the second thing which happened?’ ‘It was this. One fine afternoon some time after-on a day when baby was gone home early-I was sitting in the doorway, looking, I have no doubt, a poor object, when a beautiful young lady passed by. She stopped to speak to me, and soon learnt all about me. She had such sweet smiles I couldn’t help telling her all. I saw tears in her eyes as I told her about mother and how much I missed her; and then she asked if I would like her to come and see me once a week and teach me to read. I said, “Oh yes; because your eyes are so like mother’s,” whereupon she stroked my head and went away.

‘She was so good to me for many weeks, and not only did she teach me how to read a little, but she talked to me a good deal. One day she said, “Have you heard, Bob, about the dear Savior Jesus?” and when I told her I didn’t know anything to speak of, she was so sorry. “Why, Bob,” she said,” Jesus is the very best Friend we’ve got. I know He sent me to you, and told me to help you. Listen and I’ll tell you about Him.” And then she read such nice stories in the Gospels, and explained them, so that it seemed as if I could see Jesus healing the sick and looking kindly on me. I know my heart ached to think He wasn’t with us now.

“But,” said the lady, “He loves us just as much now as when He died for us on the cross; yes, and is just as much with us.”

“What!” I said, “is Jesus with us now?

Does He see me and know that I am a cripple?”

“He does indeed, Bob; because He is God as well as man; and if you just talk to Him, He hears.”

‘It was very difficult to understand, but somehow I couldn’t help believing her, she was’ so good, and I loved her so. Love is the best teacher, and that is why the Good Father sent His own Son to teach us, I think.’

Little Lizzie looked up into his face with a quick, sympathetic glance, as much as to say, ‘Oh yes, I understand that!’

‘But I must get on faster with my story, or the tree will be in full bloom long before I’ve done. You must know, the young lady was a visitor at the vicarage, and one day, before she left, she said to me, “Bob, if I can get you into a place in London where they might do your back good, would you be willing to come?”I said, “Yes,” of course; it was so nice to be cared for and to have a little hope given to one’s heart; and the up shot of it was that after she had gone a letter came to the vicarage which said that all was arranged, and I was to come up. Then the people at the parsonage took me in hand. I was such a lot of trouble, but they never seemed to mind either trouble or expense. They got me nice clothes and took me to the station in their carriage, and sent a servant with me who made me lie down in the railway carriage on soft rugs, and gave me nice things to eat, and spoke kindly to me, and so did several people who got into the carriage, and were told all about me. One woman made me cry. She kissed me very tenderly, and wished me God’s blessing. It brought back my mother so clearly. I shall never forget that journey; it made the world seem so full of kind, good people.

‘That was how I got to London, little one. Doesn’t it seem as if the Good Father had arranged it all specially for me, through these kind people? That is what my beautiful young lady said, and what I came to think, and now nothing could make me doubt that the good Spirit of God is working here below. He works in all hearts which will let Him. Do you see, dearie?

‘The young lady met me and took me to the hospital, and there I had such kindness shown me as I cannot describe. If I had been a little prince instead of a little cripple, I could not have been better treated. The old doctors came every day to look at me, and the young doctors did something almost every day to help me, and they would make fun, to make me laugh and be cheerful. And the nurse, oh, she was so nice both day and night! It was so comfortable to be tucked up in bed as she tucked me up; and she just knew where to put my poor crooked back so as to make it easy. God bless that hospital! It was a little bit of heaven. I go to see it occasionally, and some day I will take you to see it.

But it was the young lady I used to look for most. She came regularly once a week to see me. Things seemed all right always after she had been to see me. ‘She would comfort me so sweetly if I was sad, and she told me such nice things about the world outside that I began to feel quite an interest in life. She brought me books, too-picture books mostly. One was a book about animals in the Zoological Gardens, and one was a book about Jesus, and how He went about doing good. How naturally she talked about Jesus! She used to say, “Just open your eyes inside your heart, and see Him close by you, smiling on you, ready to put your head on His bosom, or to take your hand in His.”

‘I think it was after I took this home, and believed it, that I began to really pray. I began to talk to Jesus, and simply tell Him everything in my heart, all I needed and felt, and especially I asked Him to help me to be brave and good when the kind doctors came, because, you know, they had often to hurt me in order to make me better. That is a thing we have to learn in this world; we have to be hurt sometimes in order to grow good. Growing good is like being made well, and as the doctor has to hurt us in some sore place to get us better, so the Good Father has often to de the same; but all in love, all in love.

‘As time went on I grew a little stronger, and began to be able to use my hands. One day the lady said, “See, Bob, I’ve brought you a knife! Would you like it?” “Oh yes,” I said, quite eager; for it was such a fine one, and all boys like a knife. She opened one bright blade, and said smilingly, “But you will cut yourself.” I vowed and protested I wouldn’t, and that I would be so careful. Then she showed me another blade, and a rasp, and a blade which was hollowed, and had a sort of spoon at the end, and at last she said, “I thought, Bob, it would do to carve with. Would you like to learn whilst you lie here in bed? Do you think, if you had some soft wood, you could manage to carve a toy like this?” showing me a little wooden plate.

‘I felt quite frightened at the idea. At the same time I was excited by the thought of using that splendid knife, and when Miss Constance took out of her bag (for she had come fully prepared) a square piece of wood marked out in the centre with blue lines into the shape of a plate, my fingers began to fidget to be at work, and I paid very close attention to the directions she gave me.

‘That was another great turning-point in my life. It gave me something to do, and took my thoughts off myself. The less we think about self the better, I find. But what was still better, I began to feel that I could do something - I, the poor cripple, could really do something. For one day Miss Constance praised a little house I had done, and then I felt that feeling which made a little man of me, and courage and hope came into my heart. God was ordering all things kindly for me. For all my new courage and hope were more than needed to bear a blow which had to come. I t was such a blow at the time, but now I feel ashamed that I thought so much about myself, instead of thinking only about Miss Constance.

“Bob,” she said one day, soon after I was fairly launched into carving, “Bob, our Good Father has been arranging things for me as well as you, and He has given me great happiness. I want you also to be very good to me.”

I smiled at this, for what would I not do, I thought, to be good to her; only what could I do? Carve her some toy? I could perhaps do that, but that wouldn’t be anything she could care for; and so I was perplexed. What did she mean? For I saw she meant something serious.

“I am going to be married, dear Bob,” she went on; “and my husband has to go out to Africa as a missionary, and therefore you know I must, of course, go with him. I t is the Good Father who is sending us, and so you, dear Bob, must be good to me also, and let me go.”

You see, she knew how hard I should feel it, and this was her nice way of putting it.

‘I think I shall never forgive myself for the way I took it. Instead of trying to smile a life - time of thanks for all she had done for me, I only thought for myself, and burst into tears, because it seemed that I was going to lose the light out of my life. She had come to me in the depth of my misery and helped me, and now she was going to leave me, and all would be dark again. So selfish was I.’

‘But, dear Uncle Bob, it was hard to have to lose your beautiful lady.’

The little voice which thus tried to comfort spoke as if very conscious that the owner would feel just as Uncle Bob did if Uncle Bob were to have to leave her. So much alike is one heart to another in life’s experience.

Ah! But little one, wouldn’t it have been a whole world better to have been able to smile, and thank her, and tell her I would let her go, with all my love? Wasn’t she feeling for me all the while, and ought I not to have felt for her? Wasn’t she asking me to be noble and unselfish for both our sakes, and oughtn’t I to have swallowed down all my sorrow, and just been what she wanted? Wasn’t she just acting Christ-like, and oughtn’t I to have said, “Dear Lord Jesus, make me also like Thee; she is beautiful with Thy love-let me be beautiful too”? Besides, did I not forget to look to the Lord Jesus? I ought to have turned to Him at once; if I had, He would have made me feel right. As it “vas, I only burst into a passion of tears, though I did try to keep them down. What brought me to after a while was that I happened to catch sight of tears silently rolling down the cheeks of Miss Constance, whilst she was trying to soothe me, and wipe away mine.

This really horrified me. It seemed so bad of me to let her cry for me. What was I thinking of to be causing her such pain and grief-me, only a little cripple, and she so beautiful and good? At sight of those tears I did try to be all right, and to smile into her face, and then she called me her little “brave man”; but all the while she smiled and talked the tears filled her eyes, and every now and then one would overflow and roll quietly down her cheek. She said she could be quite happy, now that I could let her go, and she began to tell me of all she and her husband hoped to do as the missionaries of Jesus amongst the dark, ignorant Negroes. She was going to get little black children into a school, and teach them, and he was going to get the men and women, and tell them of the love of God, of which they had never yet heard. ”

And you see, Bob,” she said, “you will be helping too if you just give me to these poor heathen with all your heart.” So she put it, the sweet angel. I see now that she just wanted to bless me with her own sacrifice, and let me have a share in it, and in the love of Jesus.’

‘Oh, Uncle Bob, she was good. Do you think she will ever come back and see us?’

It was some time before Uncle Bob could speak to answer this question. Something seemed to stick in his throat which had to be cleared away before he could answer.

‘She will never come back, little one,’ he said at length; ‘but I hope we shall both see her one day. She has gone to heaven, to be with Jesus. The climate of Africa, they say, killed her. I t is so hot, and damp, and full of fever, and she was so weak that she couldn’t stand it, and so my dear Miss Constance is now in heaven, and we must both follow her there, little one, must we not? Jesus will let us do so, if we ask Him.’

‘Uncle Bob,’ said the child, ‘is it because of Miss Constance that you put money into that box on the mantel-piece every Sunday, and that you like to go to missionary meetings?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think it is little one. She had a great deal to do with it. I owe that blessing also to her. Because she went to the Africans, and because I loved her so, and because she died for them, it came into my heart to think of them; and then, you see, I couldn’t help going on to think that some one better and greater than even Miss Constance died for them first. I t was because Jesus died for us all that Miss Constance herself was willing to die for the Africans; and when I saw that clearly, I saw that God had been leading me, through her love and example, to think of those whom Jesus came to seek and to save.

‘But I haven’t yet told you all she did for me. It was she who gave me my start in business. Actually even in the midst of all her preparations to be married and to go such a long journey, she still thought of me and my future; and she left it in her will that if she died I was to have 50 given to me, to put me in the way of earning my living. It was this sum, she said, she had set apart to give me herself if she was alive when I left the hospital sufficiently strong.

‘Well, by the goodness of God, my back did get stronger, and as time went on I began to move about on a pair of crutches. It was a proud day when I could first walk alone, and felt that I was independent. It perhaps seems a strange pride, considering what I am; but after all there is a vast difference between a little ’strength and no strength, a little sight and no sight. I once knew a man who had been blind for six months, and who then recovered a glimmer of sight, enough to enable him to get about without help, and I have heard him say that that little sight made all the difference in the world to him, and that he thanked God for it more gratefully than ever he did for the perfect sight of his early days. And just so I thank God for my independence, though it IS only on crutches.

‘And yet what should I have done without the friends who came to my help? It is wonderful how kind people were! One and another thought for me and planned for me, and at last, when I was about eighteen, I began the work I do now, and as years went on I got a little business together, and settled down in this court. And so here I am, a monument of God’s love and mercy, with a dear little niece to love me and look after me, eh? Now has not God been “Good Father” to help me through all that, and bring me here and let you come to me?’

“Oh, Uncle Bob! It was good: it is so nice!

‘What the ‘ little one’ precisely meant is not so clear, but Uncle Bob seemed to understand, and he did not attempt to interrupt a rather long silence with Lizzie. She fell a-thinking. Both went on with the work of fastening the articles to the branches of the Christmas tree.

She was musing over Uncle Bob’s concluding question, and he was glad to see it working so deeply in her mind. It is good to let thoughts sink down into the heart quietly. We often spoil lessons hurrying the work too quickly.