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T was a storm;
Christmas Eve, and
_ the little town of
Tromsoe was com
P'Ptel>’ enveloped
man
winter.
“i Snow had been fall
ing all day, and as
■ ? ■ the night ap
proached, large flakes were still be
ing driven hither and thither by the
furious wind, wliloh howled and roared
In the Ohlmneys, shook the carefully
closed windows, -and died away In the
distance like the last despairing wail
of a lost soul.
In one of the most miserable houses
of a wretched street, In the worst quar
ter of the town, a woman by the dim
light of a flickering candle watched be
side the sick-bed of her last remaining
child. She was weeping bitterly, but
atrove to stifle her sobs for fear of dis
turbing the fitful slumbers of the suf
ferer. As the furious tempest shook
the dilapidated tenement, she trembled
as if she already felt the dread presence
of the Angel of Death. No Christmas
fagot biased on the miserable hearth,
the happy voices of laughing children
and kind friends had for her long been
atllled, and the cold, sorrow, and pov
erty which reigned within seemed b-'t
a counterpart of the desolation without.
Behind the lowered curtains of the bed
could be heard from time to time the
ahort cough and labored breathing of
the child, who at last, suddenly awak
ing, raised herself on her elbow, and
t\ looked across the room, where, as in a
vision, she again beheld the Christmas
trees of her earlier years, with their
accompaniments of tapers, bon-bons,
toys and.golden stars, gleaming amid
the darkness of that somber room. She
was a young girl of twelve or fourteen
years of age, and the sweet, pale face,
although In the last stage of emacia
tion. stMl retained traces of delicate
youthful beauty. \
With,her dying voice she still con
i' Unued to talk of the fete-days of long
when she was a rosy, healthy little
\ child, and her brothers and sisters,
.1, Eric, John, Anton, Hilda and Bertha,
crowded around her with their pretty
Christman offerings; when her father
danced her on hts knee, and her mother
Bang sweet lullabys by her cradle.
Those days seemed far away. Eric and
; her father had perished In a shipwreck;
s f then, one by one, the others had fol
5 lowed, till death had left behind only
th<» grim slaters, sickness and misery,
£ hs the sole companions of the widow and
?•' ' her fehlld.
The vivid remembrance of past hap
- Plness had brought a strange light into
t Greta's’eyes,- and soon these childish
reminiscences gave place to hope. She
* y spoke of the spring which would bring
< ■ hack, the birds and flowers, and In giv
ing life to all else would surely not en
* tlrftly forget herself.
;You know, mother, the doctor said
that, when the roses came, my sufier
£ Inga would be over. Will the rws
boon be In bloom f”
f - Thw# seen some already,” replied
1J- the mother; "the governor's wife and
r-' *idaughter had them la their hair when
I saw them get into the carriage, but
Jhose roses, I think, only grow in the
o «,t hot-hopses of the rich.”
1; , T%ere was silence, broken only by
r Oyota’s short cough. AU at once, carried
away by one solitary fixed Idea, such
jt * as co often haunts the brain of the alck,
" ehe began to talk again about the roses,
to pine sorrowfully tor their posses
- ‘ aioa, sad by alternate beseeching, coax
Ing and commanding she at last in*
duced her mother to go out In search of
some for her.
The poor woman left the bedBide pos
sessed with the one desire of pacifying
her child, and traversed the streets with
weary steps, debating in her mind what
excuse she would make on her return
for not having procured that which she
felt was entirely beyond her reach.
With bowed head and sorrowful heart
she kept repeating to herself the words
of the physician, so full of hope for
Greta: “At the coming of the first
roses she would suffer no more;” and
wel! as she guessed the mournful mean
ing of the prophecy, she could not help
being inspired for an Instant by that
spirit of hopo which buoyed up her
child. Quickening her steps, she took
the road as if by a sudden inspiration
toward the governors house, hesitated
as she reached the brilliantly lighted
mansion, but at last, taking courage,
knocked timidly at the door, which was
immediately opened by a man-servant.
“What do you want, my good wo
man!”
"To speak to Madame Paterson."
“I cannot disturb madame at such an
hour of the night.”
‘‘Oh! I Implore you, let me see her!”
Tho servant repulsed the poor
mother, and was about to shut the door
In her face when Madame Paterson and
her daughter, with roses in their hair
and on their bosoms, crossed the hall,
paused to question the servant, and
then approached the widow, who briefly
and tearfully to!d her pathetic story.
“O, madame! O, mademoiselle! I
implore yon to give me one rose, only
one, for my dying child! God, who gave
His son for the redemption of the
world, will reward you.”
Madame Paterson shrugged her
shoulders with a mocking laugh, and
passed on. Her daughter, the brilliant
Edele, remarked that her father did not
buy roses for their weight in gold, to
throw them away upon street beggars.
The door closed, and tho woman
turned toward her home. On passing
the Church of Salnte-Brltta, she per
ceived the clergyman’s wife laying
large bouquets of roses on the altar, fnll
blown blooms of rich red, as well as
branches of exquisite buds of blush,
orange and pink.
The lady formed a sweet picture as
she bent over and arranged the floral
treasures sent her by a rich parishioner
of her husband’s. Her blue eyes spar
kled with delight, and her voice was
soft and silvery. She was the mother of
six lovely children, and the widow felt
that she would surely pity her in her
bitter grief. Pull of these hopeful
thoughts, she entered the church, ap
proached the altar, ar 1 preferred her
'modest request for ono rose wherewith
to gladden the eyes of her dying child.
Madame Nells, although by no means
devoid of kindly feeling, was proud in
her own way, and had determined that
Sainto-Brltta should be the best deco
rated church In the town. In what she
mistook for pious enthusiasm, she for
got that the only true temple of God 1b
the human heart—that a charitable
action Is more proclous in his sight than
the cost!lest earthy offerings which can
be laid on his material altar. In the
ardor of her outward devotion, she for
got that Christ had himself declared,‘‘In
asmuch as ye‘have done it unto one of
the least of these my brethren, ye have
done It unto me,” and in her mistaken
aoal she avowed that it would be little
loss than sacrilege to rob the altar of
God of even one fair blossom. Upon so
;k'"
CHRISTMAS MEMORIES.
! great and joyful a festival as Chvitt
| mas, It showed, she added, a lamentable
lack of religious feeling to prefer such
a request. She pointed out that pov
erty, sickness and death were sent by
God himself, and that the true Chris
tian should submit to them, not merely
without a murmur, but joyfully, kissing
the rod in remembrance of the gracious
declaration, “As many as I love I re
buke and chasten.” She offered to
call on the following day for the pur
pose of exhorting Greta to submit to
the will of God with entire resignation.
The mother had now lost all hope,
and was returning to her home in a
still more desponding frame of mind
than that in which she had quitted it.
She walked on as in a dream, scarcely
noticing the fast falling snow, while
longing with an intensity*bordering on
agony that she might have been able
to procure even a few common flowers
for her Greta. But none were to be
found. Even the snowdrops hid them
selves in the bosom of the earth, and no
primrose nor violet would be seen for
months. Thus sorrowfully musing,
she continued her walk, and in a few
minutes would have reached her mis
erable home, when by the light of her
lantern khe saw a few green leaves
peeping from the foot of a hedge which
enclosed a garden in the neighborhood.
Stooping down, she scraped away the
snow with her hand. Yes, there were
leaves, large and lustrous, under which
she found a few green blossoms, some
full blown, others in bud, but all pale,
small and without color, perfume or
beauty.
“Ah!” though she, "as there were no
roses to be procured, these little flowers
have been sent that my child may be
spared the pain of knowing that there
are hearts so cold and hard that no
woes of others can soften them, and
who care for no sorrows except their
own!”
As she hastened onward, the deep
toned bell struck the hour of midnight
and the joyous Christmas chimes broke
XMAS DECORATIONS.
W* U'at» Copied the Custom* of Non
Christian Countries.
Among the votaries of the early
Druids there was a superstition that
the houses should be decorated with
evergreens in December, in order that
the Sylvan spirits might enter them
and thus be kept freo from the blast
of the cold North wind and the frost,
until a milder season renew the foliage
of their usual haunts. The Christmas
tree is really from Egypt, where the
palm tree puts forth a branch every
month, and where a spray of this tree
with twelve shoots on it, was used in
Egypt at the time of the Winter sol
stice, as a symbol of the year com
pleted.
Who does not know the poem bo
ginning
The mistletoe hung in the castle hall.
The holly branch shone on the old oak
wall.
Years ago over every man’s door in
England hung a sprig of mistletoe at
this season. There still hovers a mys
tic charm about the mistletoe, and
many a girl now, with a thrill of ex
pectancy, places a branch of it under
the chandelier or over the door. Ac
cording to a former belief, when a
girl is caught and kissed under' a
mistletoe a berry must be picked off
with each kiss, and when the berries
have all been plucked the privilege
ceases.
Among the ancient Britons the
mistletoe that grows on the oak tree
was the kind held in favor. Because of
its heathen origin it is not used often
in church decorations, a fact which is
referred to by Washington Irving in his
“Bracebridge Hall,” where he has the
learned parson rebuke the unlearned
clerk for this very thing.
In Germany and Scandinavia the
holly or holy tree is called Christ’s
thorn, because it puts forth its berries
at Christmas time, and therefore is es
pecially fitted for church decorations.
I
I
•differ
HI? I? THE M°NTH,/\/nID THI5 THE
, happy A\orN ? n
WHEREIN THE 5®H op HEAVEN’S
ETERNAL KING. . u-us
2f.«!.?RPD MA,D aND^VIRGIN MOTHER BoRN,
OUR GREAT REDEMPTION FR°M ABoVE DID
1 BRING ;-*%v J
For 50 THE H%^#&Es8§NC!
v did siNg.
I^THAT NE.OOR DefcDLY^,,™
Forfeit shouldrelease^*
AND WITMNl? FATHER WOR0
\U?A PERPETUAL PEACE.^’^'
MILToN.
on her ear. Kneeling reverently on the
snowy ground, tho mother’s heart went
up In gratitude, and she prayed the All
Merciful One to look with pitying eyes
on her sweet and cherished Greta,
pressing the humble flowers to her
bosom. In another moment, she had
risen and passed onward with her
treasure.
As she drew back the curtain to offer
the dark leaves and little green bios- j
soms to her darling, she made a discov- ]
ery which startled her. They had
given place to large, exquisite white
blooms tinged with a delicate pink.
“Roses! roses!” cried Greta, “O,
mother, who gave them to you?”
“It was a Christmas present,” replied
the astonished mother.
At the sight of these lovely Christmas
roses, the dying girl bowed her head,
and softly kissed each preclous'blos
som. Then she fell back on her pillow
with a sigh. “The light that was never
on land or sea” came into the beauti
ful blue eyes, and her lips half-opened
with a radiant smile. The prophecy of
the doctor was fulfilled. The roses had
appeared, and her sufferings were
ended. Her pure young spirit had
passed upward In one ecstatic burst of
love and thanksgiving.
Since that time (long ago) the plant
which grows under the hedges, beneath
the snows of winter, has continued to
produce beautiful white blossoms and
retained the name of “The Christmas
Rose,” which was given to it by the
good women of Tromsoe.
Tho Fata of a Gift.
On Christmas morning I gave her,
With a reckless impulse, my heart.
The gift had a loving savor,
And she took it in kindly part.
But It was a present and, therefore.
I’m afraid it lies on the shelf;
I' It was something she didn’t care for.
And something I wanted myself.
With its glossy, dark leaves and bright,
red berries, it is an attractive decora
tion for the house.
The Jews used to decorate at their
Feast ol Tabernacles with evergreens
and flowers.
The laurel was used at the earliest
times of the Romans as a decoration for
all joyful occasions, and Is significant
of peace and victory.
In some places it is customary to
throw branches of laurel on the Christ
mas fire and watch for omens while the
leaves curl and crackle in the heat and
flame.
The evergreen tree is a symbol used
as the Revival of Nature, which as
tronomically signifies the return of the
Sun. Hung with lights and offerings,
the tree has for centuries been one of
the principal characteristics of Chrlst
mastide.
The Tramp's ChrUtma*.
"Silas,” said Mrs. Ulogue, wiping her
tear-dimmed eye with the corner of her
, gingham apron, “this is the anniversary
of the day our son William disappeared
from home after you reprimanded him
for staying but late o’ nights playing
pool or something.”
“Yes,” assented her husband, sharp
ening the carver preparatory to dis
secting a nicely browned turkey. “It is
exactly ten years since he went away,
and without just cause, too.”
“But don’t youi think you were a
little hard on him, Silas? It was only
3 o'clock in the morning when he came
home, and boys will be boys.”
“He made a mistake in goln’ away,”
replied Silas, clipping off a wing: “an'
I guess no one knows that better than
William by this time.”
“Maybe so, but I had a strange dream
about our absent boy last night, and
something tell3 me that he is coming
home, like the prodigal son, and I have
put an extra plate on the table, at the
place where he always «a-. But
Aunt—So Xmas Day Is your birthday, Harold. What are you going to have? '
Harold Well, mamma said I can have either a party or a Xmas-tree.
Aunt—And which did you choose?
Harold Oh, a party, of course—because I can’t hang girls on a tree.
hark! Some one has entered the gate.
It is—it Is our son Wi liam! A mother’s
instinct is never wrong. Yes—I recog
nize 'his footsteps. Oh, we shall have a
real merry Christmas once more!”
And Mrs. TJlogue, trembling like an
aspen, sprang from her seat and quickly
opened the door. A rough-bearded
seedy-looking man stood on the thresh
old.
“Oh, William, my son,” cried Mrs.
Ulogue, throwing her arms around the
stranger and almost dragging him into
the house, “you have come home at la3t.
I knew you would. Tils is indeed a
merry Christmas.”
“ ’Scuse me, ma’am,” returned the
stranger, struggling to free himself
from the affectionate embrace of the
woman. ""Me name’s not William, an’
I ain’t nobody’s son. My parents passed
in their checks afore I had time to get
on spealtin’ terms with ’em, an’ I’m a
wanderin’ horphan.
“Me name’s Henry Tennyson Naggs,
but me pards call me ‘Skinny the
Tramp’ fer short. But I sees how
you’ve got a vacant cheer at the festive
board, an’ I don’t mind bein’ your son
pro tem, as the Latin sharps sez, spe
cially as I left home without dinin’."
“Here, Tige!” called Silas, opening a
door leading into the kitchen; and as a
dog as large as a new-born calf sprang
into the room, Skinny the Tramp made
a hasty exit. As he passed through the
yard he absent-mindedly picked up a
new hatchet, which he sold at the next
village for the price of five beers.
So the tramp had a merry Christmas
after all.
Tabbr'n Chrlntraa*.
It was early Christmas morning, and
the streets were empty. A boy with a
big turkey knocked at the kitchen door
of a large, pleasant house, and while
he was talking with the cook, cold,
homeless little Tabby Tiptoes slipped in
between his heels so softly that nobody
saw her. “Good!” she thought. “Now
I can get warm!”
She patted lightly up-stairs on her lit
tle velvet paws, and found herself In a
snug and Cozy room. A bright fire
snapped in the grate, and beside it hung
a small stocking, crammed full from
tQp to toe.
Tabby was so pleased with her warm
quarters that she turned a somersault
on the soft rug. Then she played that
the toe of the stocking was a mouse.
She caught it with her sharp claws, and
gave it a little pull.
But the stocking was overloaded al
ready, and down it came on the hearth.
The checkers and dominoes and sugar
plums rolled to every-side.
Poor Tabby Just had time to hide in
the empty stocking before Neddy
rushed into the room.
“Why, mamma!” he called, “Santa
Claus must have dropped my stocking!”
Then he put his hand into it. “A live
kitten!” he shouted again. “Oh, how
did Santa Claus know! That was Just
what I wanted!”
And Indeed, of all his pretty presents,
Neddy liked little pussy best.
A Hint.
I wish you a merry Christmas!
Let’s try while we’re repeating .
The dear old-fashioned greeting,
To add a kind, unselfish act,
And make the wish a blessed fact.
The Stars.
Upon the night’s black stem, behold
A million shining buds unfold
And light her garden’s azure lawn
Where walks the moon from dusk to
dawn.
The Christmas Tree.
Only a star! a shining star!
More glorious than our planets are,
But watched by wistful eyes and bright,
And longing hearts, that wondrous
night. i
Only a manger, shadow-thronged,
That to some public inn belonged,
Where sweet breathed cattle quietly
For midnight slumber bent the knee.
Only the light of tapers small.
That on two tender faces fall.
Two tender faces—one divine—
That still through all the centuries
shine
From palace walls, from thrones ot
gold,
From churches, shrines, cathedrals old.
Where the grand masters of their art
Wrought faithfully with- hand and
heart. ,
Only a babe! in whose small hand
Is seen no sceptre of command.
But at whose name, with Freedom’s
sword,
Move the great armies of the Lord.
Only a cross! but oh, what light
Shines from God’s throne on Calvary’s
height!
His birth, His, life, the angels see,
Written on every Christmas tree.
—M. A. Denison.
a The Tale Log.
A custom at one time prevalent in
England, and still observed in some of
the northern districts of the old coun
try, is that of placing an immense log
of wood—sometimes the root of a great
tree—in the wide chimney-place. This
log is often called the yule log, and it
was on Christmas Eve that it was put
on the wide hearth. Around it would
gather the entire family, and its en
trance was the occasion of a great deal
of ceremony. There was music and re
joicing, while the one authorized to
light it was obliged to have clean
•hands.
It was always lighted with Vbrand
left over from the log of the previous
year, which had been carefully pre
served for the purpose. A poet sings of
it in this way:
With the last yeere’s brand
Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending.
On your psaltries play.
That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a teending.
The Yule log was supposed to be a
protection against evil spirits, and it
was considered a bad omen if the fire
went out before the evening was over.
The family and guests used to seat
themselves in front of the brightly
burning fire, and many a story and mer
ry jest went round the happy group.
Merry Christmas.
Christmas ought to be the merriest
day of the year. From the busy man to
the little child, let the cheerful greet
ing, “Merry Christmas,” ring out gladly
to all. Christmas is the time when,
after weeks of expectancy, Santa Claus
appears to the dear children. The time
has come for the hanging up of stock
ings, and many bright eyes will look
on Christmas morn up the chimney for
a glimpse of Santa Claus ‘*and his eight
tiny reindeer.” The days will come
when belief in the beautiful myth of
Santa Claus will disappear, but let it
last so long as it can and gladden the
hearts of happy childhood.
SOME CHRISTMAS WAITS,
MZrZTZZr? TT7I V'..
