Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 December 1898 — Page 2

Beneath the star-strewn Heaven The shepherds vigil kept; . While hushed to rest about them The world in silence slept. Then burst the anthem Holy, While Heaven's gates Hung wide, Flooded the earth with glory On that first Chrlstmastlde. With holy exultation The angels sang the birth Of Christ, the King of Glory, Who came a babe to earth. Peace, peace* on earth forever. And sweet good will to men! While all adown the ages Still rings the Joyous strain. Oh. Holy Babe, King Jesus! The long years come and go Bike sunlight's checkered shadows, With real mingled woe, Into our hearts, we pray Thee, Come Thou, and there abide. In royal measure grant, us Thy peace this Chrlstmastlde. —Mrs. George Pauli.

IN THE PHILIPPINES.

*im or audible to him fail to arouse either interest or response. He is thinking of home, is Pierce Grinnell, this sturdy, hardy soldier boy who had gone to Aguinaldo’s land to uphold the flag and help retain the glories which Dewey had won—home aud the approaching Christmas. It is the harder to bear the memory of the olden Yuletide, because there is absent in camp as in the nearby Philippine cap'ital all that preparation, anticipation ensemble that in the poorest village of his native land blossoms forth at holiday time —once a year only, maybe, but once a year— magically, mightily— Merry -Christmas! | He came off duty looking more bored 'than wearied, and lingers for a moment where an animated group are piling up 'boxes, logs, refuse. “A year ago,” a grizzled plainsman is •aying, ‘‘there was ten feet of snow at iKort Custer, and ” “You didn't belong to the army of occupation then!” breaks in a suggestive voice. “Occupation? I call this gentlemanly leisure!” was retorted tartly. “Only—say, fellows! • I’d give a week’s rations to have a chill—just to remind me of home, and ■now, and real Christmas weather! Pile those boxes straight, boys; now then, eriss-crosß the logs.” i “What are you about here, anyway?” [inquired young Grinnell a little curiously. “What are we about? Why!” stares

[?]RINNELL’S HEART THUMPED MIGHTILY.

the Westerner, as if affronted, “Christ■sas preparations, of course!” The young soldier smiles, half sadly. “I don’t see any Christmas trees, or My, or wax candles, or ” “Nor won’t!” comes the terse interruption “Still, we’re going to make the best ■iay nt it we know how when the date arrives. ” “And that is ” “Tobsild a roaring campfire first.” “Isn’t the climate naturally warm enough for you ?” “Keter you mind! We’re going to build ■ regular scorcher—wrap blankets around ■s, huddle up as if we were frozen to death, imagine we're out on those gl-lori-ens plains where a fellow can always feel Christmas, if he don’t see much of it—and tell stories about last year, and the year before, and the years when the regulars*ad some kind of a holiday, even if * was a ragged one.” • The Officer Of the day smiles indulgently an the turbnteat infraction of camp rules, sand thewotnridl an< l Btaff appear to hand la their rent i Um lion - a box, not a box of ssgars. ThettMare pineapples, cocoanuts, banaMB awroranges, bnt more than one wry

lIRISTMAB, 1898, is near. The American sentry on patrol duty before the long row of tents and frame quarters just outside of ' Manila paces the .monotonous round in a lazy, languid way—even the jests of groups gathered here and there directed at

face shows that a juicy red pippin, a pan of hickerynuts. would have been more acceptable than “all these smothering fallals!” as the Westerner dabs the ample tropical fare. “If our Christinas ship had only come in!” he remarked, and with a fixed stare at a comrade who had just come from town —a stare with a wink in it—be observes: "Steamer probably delayed, you told me, Perkins?” “That’s what,” is nodded. All hands look savage at this. Christmas cheer, was on its way to them—of that they had been advised by way of Hong Kong a week since—but the steamer was overdue, probably delayed by a storm, and their holiday cheer from home might not arrive till New Year s day. Still, as Grinnell watches the Westerner and observes him more than once gaze covertly in the direction of the corduroy camp road, he wonders if he is not nursing some spirited surprise that he will spring later on. The stories begin, and soon all are engrossed. One man tells of a Christmas at a far Western Indian-beleaguered fort, where the event of the day was the stealing of the only wild turkey in knowledge from a sportsman savage. Another had seen 'B4 in Alaska, where a keg of frozen cider was the only reminder of home. A third described the best Christmas dinner he had ever eaten, and all mouths watered, and here there is an uproar. The sound of cumbersome Wheels echoes —there is the snap of a whip. and. waving his whip and yelling to his mules, into camp bursts the negro driver of the commissary wagon. “Hi, dab!” he grins, “am dis Camp Jawge Columbus Christopher Washington?” “You know it is. you rascal!” roared the Westerner, springing to his feet, aglow. “Out with it! the steamer is in?” “She am, sah. I waited, sah, as yo’m dareckted. Dah’s a pahcel foh de camp —dat Chris’mas consignment hab arriven!” “Whoop!” Pandemonium breaks loose. Over the camp spreads the news. Half-dressed men, riotous runners, make for the campfire, as up to it, straining mightily under the heavy load of crates and boxes and barrels, puff and pant the mules with their Christmas store of remembrance**. Even the camp dogs rally to the call of the tumult. Then, surrounded by a pressing, eager crowd, the Westerner mounts the load, hatchet in hand. He pries open those “pahcels,” he liegins to deliver them. Hearts gladden, lips quiver, eyes sparkle-even in the faraway Philippines’ Christmas had come! “Pierce Grinnell”—with tremulous hands the young soldier receives his package. and steps back a bit from the crush to inspect it. Ah! it is glorious to be remembered! There is a Bible from mother, a watch from father, a dozen handkerchiefs from IG-year-old. sister Sue, a cookie, ribbontied. caraway-dotted, from G-year-old Nell—“all cooked by my own self—and—another parcel. The soldier boy’s heart thumps mightily. Well does he know who sent this last. It is a response to a question that the loneliness of the camp, time to think over how dear pretty, winsome Claire Rushton at home is to him —a homely, blunt, “Claire, when this ‘Spanish war is over, will you ‘have me? ”

.Grinnell opens the package—a pair of dainty home-knit mitts. What in the world does he want of mitts in the broiling Filipino country! Still, the good intent is there. Then his finger tips tingle and tremble so as he feels a tiny note in one of the mitts, that he drops everything to the ground. Nell's cookie must have caught the sniff of a hungry camp dog. It makes a bolt, misses the cookie, and gratis up and runs off with—the mitts with the note in them. ‘‘Stop him—sto-o-op him!” “What is it?” “Hi, the robber!” A crowd “catches on” to the appalling mishap. There is pursuit. They corner the canine, but not until he has torn up one mitt. “Why, there’s a note in here!” torments the rescuer of half one mitt, and Grinnell devours a torn fragment of dainty, scented letter paper. “I won’t have ” That is what his blurred sight reads, and his heart falls. “Hey, Grinnell—here’s the other half!” The poor fellow puts the two pieces of paper together. “I won't have anybody but you!” There is the sentence, complete. Despite himself, the happy soldier boy uttered a fervent, relieved yell of delight. “What’s bit you—a tarantula?” demands a staring comrade. “No!” shrewdly guesses the jolly Westerner, reading between the lines—“Sant* Claus!”

Satisfying Him.

“I have called,” said the captions critic, “to find out what reason you can give for representing the New Year as a nude small boy.” “That is done,” responded the art editor, “because the year does not get its close till the 31st of December.” Then the captious critic went out and broke his nice new pledge.—lndianapolis Journal.

At Bethlchem.

The children at Bethlehem are told by their mothers thst on Christmas Ewe a choir of angels always sings above the place where Christ was born. Travelers say that ou this evening scores and sometimes hundreds of children may Be seen in the open air looking up to the sky, waiting to hear the angels sing.

Yule Cakes.

Yule dough, a kind of baby or little image intended to represent the child Jesus, made of paste, was formerly baked at Christmas and presented by bakers to their customers “in the same manner as the chandlers gave candles.” They are still called Yule cakes in the county of Durham, England.

An Unusual Honor.

“Do you expect to have a good time on Christmas?” “You bet! My wife has invited me to take dinner at her club.” —New York Herald.

The Young Idea.

Bobbie—Papa says Santa Claus leaves more things at the big houses. Freddie—Of course he does. They’ve got bigger chimneys.—Judge.

Pleasure and Pain.

When we go to a Christmas party. And corns are the worst of our woes. We object not to “rings on our finger*," But we do to the “belles on oar toea**

A FARM CHRISTMAS.

STORY OF THE DAY'S CELEBRATION IS TRULY TOLD. Moaeatau PraqaiwHawi for tfoc Dißaer of Diaaera—Aad Fiaally the Forty at Faraier Hawkiae* oa That Memorable Christcaaa tve.

Two stalwart fellows in jean trousers, ducking coats and woolen comforters follow the wagon, keeping up a enuinuons fire of ears of corn into the box. With gathering thoughts of Christmas trees, play partie*, dances and taffy pullings, the husking grows furious, and twice before noon the wagon bed is filled. Thumb stalls and husking pegs are much in demand. The boys ail around the kitchen fire at night nursing bfistervd thumbs and awkwardly sewing finger stalls of drilling, double in thickness and fastened on the handsssecurely with leather strings. “ ’Clare ter goodness hits nuff ter p'voke er saint, hit is dat.” declares the old colored auntie. “Da's dem cookies, hunt to a plum crisp an’ me can’t git to de oven ’dont trompin on somebody's corns. Da’s

dem pigs’ feet in de ashes need scrapin’ deee two houahs! Git oat o’ beab! Es yo’ des tek yosefs off. soon's I get er minnit’s peace, I mek yo’ fawty 'leven fingah Stalls.” As this is what the boys have all been waiting to hear they troop out instantly, making a mental memorandum of “neckerchers” and bandana “head han*kerchers” which Aunt Maria wants for Christmas. By 5 o'clock the next morning, while the stars are still shining, the wagons rattle off to the fields. The jolly face of the country sun lights up myriads of frost diamonds hung on the sparse spears of yellow grass. Along the roads wagons pass in the distance, noiselessly, silhouetted against the sky like toy vehicles, drawn by toy horses. Inside the farmhouse everything is in bustling confusion. The blinds of the spire room have been drawn up to let in • flood of bright winter sunshine. District school has closed for the holidays. The children are in the kitchen stoning raisins, helping pare apples, slyly stealing cake dough, and watching the sansage as it is ground out from the sausage mill in strings. “Ho, hoF the youngsters suddenly shout in chorus. “Yonder comes Tom Hawkins, riding up the lane on Die Sorrel,’ full tilt.” Tom dismounts by putting his arms

HE week. before Christmas. Hog killing is over, ill the turkeys are dressed and sent to town. Suppressed excitement rules inside the house and out. Extra hands are busy over the last bit of cornhashing. Bump, bump, bum pet y bump, the wagon move* slowly over the frozen ground.

WHEN SANTA CLAUS IS PRESIDENT.

BRINGING HOME THE TREE.

around “Ole Sorrel’s” neck and sliding down her forelegs to the ground. He is riding bareback. “Oar folks is goin’ to give a party?’ he announced. “When?” about Bob and the others, in great excitement. “Night ’fore Chris’mas: ’n I'm goin’ 'round to tell erer’body, right this morninT “Play party?” “Yep! Pa says he don’t care fer ’em dancin', bat ma says ’at you have to take up the carpets, er have ’em ruint. An’ then, ma says she don’t know as it’s right fer church members.” Tom's invitation, delivered with many issnranees that “You must be sure to

NO FIDDLER LIKE HIM.

come; we'll all be a lookin’ for you,” creates no small commotion at the house. Before the day is over it is known that the party will be a big affair. Christmas eve finally comes. The whole neighborhood is agog. In the course of

the afternoon the girls in the various homes lay out every bit of finery to be worn to the party. The boys are not forgotten by their sisters. Their coats and trousers, white satin ties, boiled shirts, axe all put out on the bed in easy reach. Aunt Maria shines the shoes until you can see yourself on their polished surfaces. The boys, in a home-made sleigh, are off for the girls, sometimes five or six miles away. The girls at the house wait for their beaux, who come likewise from the neighboring houses or from the little towns near by. “Zip, sip. ha, ha, hurrah,” and up comes a sled with a dozen young folks bound for the party. The sled is a long one, with a wagon box mounted on the cross-beams. Three or four wagons have been stripped of their spring seats to equip the sleigh. The bed of the box is filled with hay, which keeps everybody’s feet warm. Away the sled whirls, taking a short cut across the bottoms, running counter to rocks and logs under the snow, and almost spilling the whole party out. Out in the open road another sleigh turns in at the crossing ahead. This is the signal for a race. The horses know it, and give a bound that brings the two wagon boxes abreast of each other. The party iS in full swing by 8 o’clock, and supper is served by 10. Old Uncle Ben furnishes the music for “snap,” “Weevilly Wheat,” and all the other rollicking games. Unde Ben begins to “tune

up,” while everybody shoves his ch<!f back against the side of the wall to clear the center of the floor. “Twa-ang, scr-a-ape, tweedle, leedle, leedle, le-e,” goes the fiddle, while Uncle Ben screws his face into a thousand wrinkles. Sometimes, of late, the Hills boys hive furnished the music for the parties, much to the disgust of Uncle Ben. He declares that “wen dem boys gits hole o’ one o’ dem new tangle gityars an’ anodder one on ’em goes slap-e-ty bang on Miss Hawkins’ pianner, hit ’em jis’ nuff ter mek yo' har stun’ on en’. ’Tain no mo lak music dan heatin’ on er dish pan.” As 12 o’clock approaches everybody is alert to get everybody else’s Christmas gift. This ceremony being over, the party breaks up, the young folks race home, and big and little hang up their stockings in front of the fireplace.

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS GIFT.

Make Your Gift a Pure One, and Give It with Love. “If you had the wealth of the world you could not equal that first Christinas gift,” writes Ruth Ashmore in an article on “Girls and Their Christmas-Giving,” in the Ladies’ Home Journal, “And you can only imitate it by making your gift a pure one, and giving it with love. You want to share, this Christmastide, your faith, your hope and your charity with those you love. You want to make your very ‘goodmorning’ tell of that good morning that came so many hundred years ago when the little Child first wakened on this earth. You want to think of the gifts that were brought to Him and what they typified. You want to have your heart full of joy. and love, and hope —so full that it will brim over and the rest of the world share it with you. Y’ou want to tell, in your speech and in your eyes, and from your heart, of the gladness of the time. You want to make this gladness go out to some one who is in grief. These are the days when you must needs give of your good

things, and among all your possessions there is nothing so good as a belief in God and a hope for the future. That was what the little Child came to tell about. Surely the Christmastide is the feast of all others that appeals to women, and as the story is told' again and again by the bells as they ring, by the carols as they are sung, by the preacher from the pulpit, we know that ‘Unto us a Child was born,’ and peace and good will reign all over the land. Let peace and good will be in your heart, and from you they will go and spread all over the land. It is to the women, thank God, that the happiness of the Christmastide specially comes. And women are generous, else one of them never would have given her Son to die that all might live. She gave to all the world her only Son—the gift that meant eternal life.”

Lord of Misrule.

Down to the reign of Henry VIII., and occasionally since, a “Lord of Misrule” was appointed to direct the amusements of the English court during the holidays. He presided over the festivities, prepared the games, directed the sports, and saw that the court was kept properly amused during Christmas week. The office was considered highly honorable, and the “Lord of Misrule” was generally some wealthy nobleman who was willing to spend money lavishly in promoting the gaieties of the court. It is of record that during the Yeign of Elizabeth, Essex, as “Lord of Misrule,” spent in one Christmas season £3,000 of his own money on the court games.

His Sad Fate.

“Kind sir,” said the beggar, “will you aid me? Once I was worth $50,000, and now I am penniless, sir.” “What ruined you?’ asked Hojack. “Buying Christmas presents, sir,” Thereupon Hojack gave the man a dollar, for he knew how it was himself.

A Feast in Prospect.

Wiggles—How are you fixed for Chris’mas? 1 Waggles—Right in clover. I made a play dat I was de champion all-’round eater in de northwes’ and dey’s got up a match fnr me. She—l wish Christmas really was a season of general peace and good will. He— Well, it might be if sothebody hadtft introduced the custom of giving Christmas presents.—Pack.

CHRISTMAS TROTH.

~mas, Christmas everywhere. Let’s hie away to the church, my lad. To the dear, gray church where the candles shine. I’d breathe a prayer while my heart’s so glad— I’d catch a prayer from those lips of thine! Love, love, love—and it’s Christmas day, And you and I in the church to pray! Sweet the bowing, and blest the prayer. For it’s Christmas, Christmas everywhere! Dear Lord, what gift thou hast sent us twain— To pledge our troth on thy natnl day? Oh joy that is almost keen as pain, Oh love more sacred than lips eau say! Here where the candles buru so white, Here where the holly glistens bright, Make the heart of the love we bear Christ-llke always and everywhere! —James Buckham.

NEW YEAR'S IN EUROPE.

The Day Holds a Prominent Place in the Popular Calendar. In Europe New Year’s day holds a prominent place in the popular calendar. For many centuries past it has been the custom of northern nations to watch the going out of the old year and the coming in of the new with demonstrations of merriment and conviviality. It is a rare case that an English family fails to sit up on the last night of the old year with a few intimate friends, awaiting the stroke of the midnight hour. The day is observed by a few visits among nearest relatives and intimate friends, but most particularly by festive family gatherings in the evenings. The custom of making presents on New Year’s day has become almost obsolete in England. That is now almost entirely confined to Christmas day. The observance of New Year’s day as a holiday fell almost into oblivion, with the exception of the few simple remembrances mentioned above. In business life the day is observed as a legal holiday—“bank holiday,” as they call it—but even that is confined almost exclusively to large wholesale houses. The retail trade is carried on as briskly as on every other day of the year. The first day of the year is observed in France in a very different way, particularly in Paris, where to this day the custom of giving presents is kept up with surprising vigor. The streets of the beautiful capital present a very lively and picturesque appearance. Innumerable carriages, from the humble one horse cab to the elegant landau, with liveried servants, drawn by fiery steeds, crowd every thoroughfare. They are filled with well-dress-ed men and loaded with fragrant flowers. Large social gatherings, balls and receptions, public and private, bring the auspicious day to a festive conclusion. In Germany calls are made among relatives and intimate friends only, except that in the ponderous bureaucratic system of Germany every Government officer is expected to call on sonielwdy above him in rank. Presents are not exchanged on New Year's day—that is exclusively confined to Christmas day. As Rome gave the name to the first month in the calendar year, so Rome also gave the custom of making presents on the first day of the year. A very innocent little pastime it was in the beginning, but in these days of modern ideas it has expanded and is expanding until now the most valuable and elaborate gifts are used as an exchange of friendly sentiment.

Mistletoe and Christinas.

The connection of mistletoe with Christmas is a very curious one, and far from being a general one. Literature js, perhaps, mainly responsible for it, in that allusions to a custom—in a great degree purely local—have made a large number of persons interested in the plant. It, moreover, seems that the custom of using it in Christmas decorations depends on two considerations—first, its evergreen habit; and second, the veneration in which it was held by the Druids. The reasons mentioned have no doubt done much to secure for the mistletoe the place which in recent times it has held in Christmas festivities, but it is not so universally honored at Yuletide as the holly. You may have a very merry Christmas without any mistletoe at all. but to the majority of the people a Christmas without a ypyig or two of holly would scarcely seem to be Christmas at all.

Disappointment.

She—l hear you got a little brother for a New Year’s present. Ain’t yer glad ? He—Naw! She—Did yer want a sister? He—Naw. I didn’t want no brudder nor no sister neider. 1 wanted a fightin* dorg an’ a pair o’ skates!—Life. 1

An Aid to Merriment.

“My dear,” said Mr. Darley to his wife, I have decided to have a merry Christmas this year.” “* a “ glad to hear that, love.” With that purpose in view,” Mr. Darley went on, “I have decided not to go ™ . ? ou at w ldle you are doing your Christmas shopping.”

HE old gray bell In the old gray >- tower Is ringing so gladly across the town, And the red, red dawn, like a shaken flower, Scatters the Christmas glory down. Oh, the light of the aacred morn Of the day when the dear Lord Christ was born! Oh. the sweet of the winter air, When it’s Christ-