People's Pilot, Volume 5, Number 27-25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 January 1896 — Page 26

24

A NEW SANTA CLAUS. Without the wind was wailing, The night was cold and drear; Within the red logs crackling Proclaimed the Christmas cheer. “If Santa Claus would only,” Said little Bertha, “now Come down the jet black chimney With painted doll and cow, “With elephant and zebra And scarlet cockatoo, Rhinoceros and camel „ And frog and kangaroo, “I should be very happy To see his features sweet.” Her father said, with laughter, “The logs would burn his feet.” He sent them to the kitchen And told them that no doubt Santa’d come down the chimney When he saw the logs put out. Then up stairs went the father A-laughing with delight, Put on a great fur ulster And hair and whiskers white. He brought the toys down with him, And when they flocked about He gave them fruit and candies And laughed to hear them shout. He gave them toys and kissed them And sent them up to bed, That he might join the reindeer And speed upon the sled. “Tho children all aro happy,” ' Unto his wife said he, “And wo shan’t have the bother Of dressing up that tree. “Hurrah for all the blessings That light our cozy ken! Hurrah for Merry Christmas And peace unto all men!” R. K. Munkittrick.

TWO CHRISTMAS EVES

[Copyright, 1895, by American Press Association. ] CHAPTER I. HOW THE FIKST ONE CAME. “Nob another word, sir,” said old Ebon Withers in his usual decisive manner. “I know nothing about the girl, and I don’t desire to, bub I do not intend you to marry for some years, and then you aro not to choose a penniless'bride. You are to build up tho family fortune, sir, not scatter it. No; I will not listen.” And ho turned to his morning paper again. Young Eben said more than his prayers sometimes, and it would not do to set down all ho said to himself as ho left the room. Ho was as plucky a lad as there was in seven counties around, but he bad always been obedient, partly from a sense of duty and partly because of the genuine love that existed between father and son. But even young Eben, after he met Miss Mildred, saw things a little differently and would perhaps have used another word than love in speaking of his father. Certainly it did not seem as if his filial love was very strong when he came to tell her what his father had said. In thoso days he told her everything. Afterward he grew older and learned a good many things. Miss Mildred did not take it well. Young Eben was dissatisfied witli the promptness with which she said that she

“LET US PART IN KINDNESS”

would never forgivo herself if sho should be tho cause of a quarrel between him and his father. Young Eben looked at her attentively beforo spoaking again, and that was a thing calculated to bewilder a man. You couldn’t fully appreciate tho beauty of her brown hair with its odd gleams of red and of gold before you would bw admiring her bread low forehead, full in the temples, rounded and symmetrical as it was. Then a flash from her deep, large, hazel eyes would fasten your gaze for a moment,' till the perfect complexion and chiseled, classic features would coax it away, and the sweet glory of her face would perplex you so with its multiplicity of charms, that you would fall to wondering which of thorn was most to bo desired. All this beauty, which his father had undertaken to deny to him, without even seeing it, made young Ebon desperate. “Then you want mo to marry some other woman,” he said. “No, no! Never!” sho exclaimed almost wildly as she throw her perfect arms around his neck and began to sob at the thought. Her quick emotions were not the least of her charms. And that is why she did not take it well® She would, and she wouldn’t listen to either side of tho question. Young Eben must obey his father, and ho must never cease to love her, nor ever marry any ono else. And nothing was ever to induce her to waver in any respect. It was delightful —and somewhat perplexing. “If you won’t settle tho matter,” ho said finally, “I will.” This, by the way, was what he had intended from tho first. “Settle it, how?” she asked in some alarm. | “By marrying you,” ho said firmly, “but not just now. I will do nothing rashly.” It must be said that tho next few months were pretty hard ones for tho boy. He had set himself to wait till ho should be of age, the next December, not with the thought of defying his father even then, but because he would render his service loyally to the last day. So time went on. His duty was done at his desk in the counting room so well that his father could not complain, rigid taskmaster though he was. Ilis sweetheart was not neglected, and yet he found time, or made it, to keep np bis studies faithfully. Of ootirse, the birthday came in due time. Birthdays do. In the morning old Bben met him with something liko emotion. “I have looked forward to this day,” he •aid, “as anxiously as you. You have boon • good son and I believe you always will .JmT lam proud of you, and I bellevo you

will live to be proud of yourself. Now that you are a man I want to start you with this. It is yours to do with as you like.” “This” was a check for a small fortune. He took it from his pocket as he spoke and banded it to the young man, who flushed with surprise and perfectly natural,pleasure as he looked at it. “It would be idle, sir, to try to thank you in words for this, or for all your kindness to me all my life, ” ho said. “But I have something else to ask. Even this princely gift of money seems small compared to that.” Old Ebeu’s face darkened. He did not like to hear money spoken of lightly, and It seemed an ungracious speech. However, he spoke kindly and with all sincerity. “What is it, my son? You are not likely to ask anything that I could refuse today.” “I want you, sir, to reconsider what you said about my marrying. Lot me introduce you to the woman”— The dark face grew rigid. “Lot us understand this now,” said the father interrupting. “I insist upon your obedience so long as I play the part of a father. I have ho legal claim, I know”— “Don’t talk of a legal claim, father,” said the son, interrupting in his turn. “Very well. It is not a claim, but lam still your father, and so long as you continue in my home you aro my son. Let me hear no moro of this folly. I will never consent to this marriage. Do you understand?”

“I do, God help me!” exclaimed young Ebon. “And you must understand mo also. I shall certainly marry the girl I love, and I do not change, sir, any more than you. I will obey you in all else, but not in that.” “Then wo may as well part now,” said old Eben, stung beyond endurance by the first defiant words lie had ever listened to. “You can havo no claim on mo hencoforth.” “If wo part,” said tho lad, his voice breaking, “let us part in kindness at least. I ask for nothing more.” And ho stepped forward with his hands outstretched. But.the other drew back. “I said you had no claim on niif My kindness was for my son, not for an ingrate. Obey mo and everything shall bens it was. If not, go now.” With a despairing gesture the young man turned away, but his father spoke again. “Stop a moment,” he said. “You have forgotten your check.” And he pointed to where young Eben had dropped it on tho table. “I gave you that, sir, beforo you had defied me. It is still yours.” “I cannot take it, father,” said young Eben, with some spirit, though not defiantly. “ You would not give it to me now, and I cannot receive what docs not come from your hearty good will.” “As you choose.” said his father. “I certainly would not give it to you now.” And after the young man left tho room he picked up the slip of paper and toro it in Li.ts before throwing it into tho fire. Then, seating himself at the tablo, he rang for his breakfast. When it was brought, however, he sat for an hour looking straight before him and finally, leaving it untouched, lie arose and wentto his office. “God help your poor father,” said Mildred as she nestled in young Ebon’s arms in tho shelter of their new home the night before Christmas. “Amen!” said young Eben. “He is poor indeed in liis loneliness, but I never can cease loving him.”

CHAPTER 11. lIOW THE SECOND ONE WENT. It Was a bright, happy year for ’ tho youngsters, Cont rary to the laws of fiction, for they had love and hope and hard work to fill the time and good common sense to guido them, but old Eben had never relented, and there was a shadow over the little home, happy as it was. One evening late in tho year young Eben had como homo from his work and settled himself, as his habit was, to study, when ho was suddenly interrupted. “1 want lo talk a little while,” said Mildred, pulling his book away and seating herself on bis knee. “Good,” said young Eben, smiling, “but you mustNpay for my time.” But after she had dono that very satisfactorily with a kiss sho sat for a long time with her head on his shoulder, saying nothing till at length ho said, “I thought you wanted to talk to me, dear?” Still she was silent a moment, as if it were hard to begin. Then sho said, “What would you like best for a Christmas bres cut?” Young Ebon laughed. “It’s some time to Christmas yet,” lie said. “I hadn’t thought. Besides you gave me the most precious gift in tho world last Christmas. Anything elso would seem very small after that.” “How lovely to say that!” she exclaimed, kissing him again. “And to say it as if you meant it. But that is* just wliat I am afraid of.” This was bewildering. “What aro you afraid of?” asked young Ebon. “I think”—she faltered, “that the angels are going to bring you—about Christmas time—a blessed gift, straight from heaven, and I’m afraid you’ll love it moro than you dome.” Then camo a flood of tears—happy ones that young Eben was too wise to try to stop. Old Eben might havo softened a bit if ho had known about this, but, of course, he didn t. He kept himself well informed about the lad he loved, but proud as ho was to see that his son could make his way in tlie world without help, lie was sensi-

“FOOL!” SHE BEGAN.

tive enough to feel it an injury to his own importance and unreasonable enough to feel his anger increasing week by week. One day when ho was more incensed than , usual ho made a will leaving all his fortune to a distant cousin, Alice Withers, who had coine to keep house for him. When he told her about it that night, a gleam of triumph came in her narrow eyes. It was what sho had hoped and schemed for, but her face was gravo, and her voice steady, as she spoke in reply: “You are doing too much for me, Cous-

THE PEOPLE’S PILOT, RENSSELAER, IND., THURSDAY, JAN. 2, 1896.

In Eben,” she said. “I have done nothing *o deserve such kindness, and, pardon me for saying it, you are doing a cruel injustice to your son.” It was a crafty speech, for she knew that the old man would resent the charge of injustice, and her eyes hashed again when he said harshly, “I have no son. I had one, but he left me. Never mention him again.” And so the breach seemed hopeless, but Christmas was coming again, and strange magic is working everywhere in the Christmas season, softening men’s hearts and quickening all impulses to peace and good will. As tho year drew to a close old Eben grew weaker and more infirm. Day after day he sat alone, careless of his business, thinking always of his ruined hopes and eating his heart. On young Eben’-s birthday 1m shut himself in his room and would see no one, but ho was harder than evir next day. moved him till that strange magic of Christmastide came. Here, there and everywhere it worked, penetrating

HE LOOKED TO SEE WHAT IT MIGHT BE.

even old Ebon's mansion, despite the barred doors, and reaching his stony heart as he sat thinking of his well beloved son, and of the wife of his youth, so long dead. It was another stormy Christmas eve. Suddenly ho rang for a servant and sent for his lawyer in haste and within an hour he sat alone again, looking with a happy smile at tho new will ho had made. “I will go to my son in the morning, ” he said to himself, “and wo will have a happy Christmas once more.” Smiling tenderly, he fell asleep in his armchair in front of the great open fireplace, whero tho flames wore roaring up the chimney. After a time he awoko with a start. Between him and the fire stood Alice, reading the will ho had just made. She was furious with rage as he saw at a glance, and just as he started she was about to tear tho document in two. With an angry cry lie leaped forward, his indignation giving him a strength ho had not felt for months. His cry startled her, and with a quick movement sho cast tho paper into the flames before he could reach her. Thou with a mocking laugh sho turned toward him. “Fool!” sho began. “Do you think”— And then she stopped. The shock had boon too much for the old man, and ho fell on tho floor before her insensible. ° That night in young Ebeu’s cottago there camo a feeble wail, telling that a new horn soul had flown in through the storm to the warm shelter of a happy mother’s arms. All was well, the nurse said as sho brought the lusty man child out, for Eben to see,, and tho young father’s heart was moved with a great yearning. It must not be, lio thought, that tliero should be any anger or hatred any more in tho world. Whatever lay in his power ho would do to bring peace. So, when the first excitement was over and ho was told that Mildred was asleep and must not bo disturbed, he buttoned himself in his greatcoat and set out in the storm to seek his father’s house and ask once moro for his love. The wind buffeted him, and he laughed. jTho driving snow beat upon him, and he shook it off lightly. Suddenly a paper fluttered along on tho gale and struck him in tho face, and he instinctively reached up and caught it. Then, stepping undey a light, ho looked to see what it might bo. Here was magic, if you please. Tho will that Alice had thrown into the flames had boon caught in tho roaring draft of the old fashioned chimney and had been carried by tho spirit of Christmas straight to the hands of tho heir. It was scorched a little, but not injured. Young Eben glanced through it and then noted tho date, and with a glad shout sprang" forward again. At his father’s door Alice met and would have stopped him, but ho pushed her aside with a laugh and went straight to tho old man’s room. There lay old Eben, weak from liis fainting fit, but little tho worse for it. “My son! M-y son!” he cried out eagerly. “Now I can die In peace.” “Die nothing!” exclaimed young Eben, with a cheery laugh. “Gbd has sont you a grandson and a son tonight. You’ll havo many a merry Chirstmas yet with me and mine.” And so it was. DAVID A. Cuims.

Post-Christmas “Lines.”

[After Stephen Crane. 1 It was the morning after Christmas and the boy was breaking toys. I begged him to desist and come out into the sunshine, But he —he wrinkled his face. And he cried, “No, I will not come!” And he continued his work of destruction.

Mrs. Youngbryde—What are you going to give your husband for Christmas? Mrs. Longwed—l think I shall give him a new mahogany tea table—l’ve wanted one a long time.

CHRISTMAS IN LIBBY.

MAJOR A. R. CALHOUN RECOUNTS HIS OWN EXPERIENCE. Christmas of tho Awful Battle Tear of 1863—A Touching Incident of the War. Tho Captain’s Death at Midnight—Momentous Times Recalled. [Copyright, 1895, by American Press Association.] The James river, at the back of the prison, was locked with ieo, and the snow, falling steadily outside and swept in by the cutting wind through the iron barred,glassloss windows, did not lighten the gloom in the six long, black rooms, where the ragged prisoners tramped to keep warm, and thought as they tramped of the dear ones in homes far beyond the battle lines—dear ones whose Christmas season would bo rendered joyless by thoughts of the imprisoned soldier. “We mustn't give way to despair,” said young Lieutenant Watson of tho Twentythird Wisconsin, as he took my arm and* led nio down tho crowded length of the upper Ghickamauga room, so called because most of the prisoners occupying It had been captured in that disastrous battle. “ Turner has agreed to let us have the cookroom for a show tonight, and Ed Maas, God bless the brave fellow, is getting up a troop in tho Potomac room, and they will sing the old homo songs and tho war songs, too, and so we’ll forget tho hunger and the cold. After all, old fellow, happiness is largely a matter of imagination, and if a man can’t get his imagination going on Christmas time—why he hasn’t any, that’s all.” Watson, lie is now colonel of tho Thirteenth Brooklyn, or Now York State guard, was, and still is, one of those brave, cheerful spirits that look ever on the bright side of things itail have the power to communicate their feelings to thoso of more somber cast, like myself. We had reached tho head of the broad damp steps loading to the lower middle room when, Instead of going back in tho sanio way, I led my friend across to tho other. “What for?” ho asked. “I want to see Bohannon, captain of tho Third Middle Tennessee cavalry. You remember he came in about ten days ago.” “Yes, yes. He's a quiet sort of a chap, but looks like a good soldier. What of him?”

“Well, he’s under the weather and in bad shape. Ho was captured in a cavalry fight near Knoxville and was pretty badly hurt by the fall of his horse. The horse was killed. You can bet on that. Then the captain got a severe cold, but he has a horror of the prison hospital and refuses to report himself on the sick list,” I said. Captain Bohannon was half reclining, with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out on the damp floor. Ho was a tall, slender man of five and thirty, with long brown hair and curly board of the same color. Tho strong face must have been handsomo before the sun had bronzed it to au Indian hue, and care had cut deep lines down the cheeks and between tho fearless gray eyes. Now, thero was a flush on tho cheeks and a light in tho eyes which experience had taught us wore due.to prison fever instead of to health. This impression was increased as Watson and myself knelt beside the captain and pressed tho strong brown hands and felt their abnormal heat. Before this I had again and again urgod tho captain to go to tho prison hospital. Dr. Sabal, tho Confederate surgeon in charge, was one of the best and kindliest men that over administered to the ailments of friend or foe, but the Tennesseean always shook liis head and said: “I know you’re my friend, old pard, and you aro dead right, but I’vo never been in a hospital, and I somehow feel that it would kill mo if I went there. No, if I’ve got to bo buried in a blanket, let them carry me away from here. What’s the difference?” Tho captain had evidently lost his grip on things was not that be was a prisoner tiiat depressed him; ho was too much of a man for that, but tliero aro heart Wounds more killing than those made by ’bullet or saber, and the captain was suffering from one of these. Bohannon’s father had been a well to do planter in middle Tennessee, but mistaken speculations impoverished him and ended in his death a few years before the war. George, the only child, with characteristic

“WE WILL BE MARRIED ON CHRISTMAS DAY.”

pluck and energy, started for California to regain the lost fortune, but beforo doing so ho becaino betrothed to Edna Crawford, tho beautiful daughter of a neighbor. “Win or lose, Edna, I’ll bo back at the old home, and we’ll be married on Christmas day, 18(53.” That is what Goorge Bohannon said to his sweetheart when he kissed her goodby in the suinmor of 1869. Like the hero that ho was, tho young Tennesseean went to work in the Golden state, and never a mail passed that the dear girl in the old home did not hear of her lover’s brightening prospects. But “man proposes and God disposes.” In tho midst of his growing prosperity young Bohannon, in the mines of Calaveras, heard Lincoln’s call for men to come to the defense of the Union, and for the time the old spirit of patriotism boat the long roll in his heart. His forefathers had fought in every war for tho Union, and, thrilling with these memories, hoi dropped his pick, abandoned tho prospect of certain wealth and hastened back. Tennessee was in the hands of tho enemy, so that it was only by stealth that Bohannon could reach his homo near Murfreesboro. He found noarly all his old noighboVs oh the side of the south. Edna Crawford’s father and her two brothers were in the Confederate army, and all the sympathies of his betrothed woro on tho same side. 1 —But the changed relations Alid not

change theii iove. “I would not have you fight against your convictions, ” said Edna. “But go to the side where your heart calls yon. It is yet two years, George; the war cannot last till Christmas, 1863. Come back to me then, and whether the Union fails or wins, our union can be staid only by death.” And so they parted again, Edna Crawford helping her lover to escape into Kentucky, where he met Buell’s army and secured a commission iu the Third Middle Tennessee cavalry. Then the young captain began to count the Christinas days. That of 1861 was spent on tho banks of the Ohio; that of 1862 was passed in the terrific series of battles that ended in Bragg’s defeat at Murfreesboro. Before the victorious Union legions, Edna Crawford and her mother, braving the inclemency of that most inclement weather, fled for safety to Chattanooga. They might have remained at home in security, for not only the captain, who at once sought them out, but every Union soldier worthy the uniform he wore, would have protected them, but in those days tho invading Yankee was regarded ns a cruel monster. The privation brought on a cold. Consumption followed, and a monster more inexorably cruel than the war god had an irredeemable lien on Edna Crawford’s life. Roseerans advanced on Chattanooga and Mrs. Crawford took up her dying daughter and fled to Knoxville. Burnside came down through east Tennessee and seized Knoxvillo, and Bohannon’s troop was tho first to enter tho city with the stars and stripes. Edna was dying when the captain found her and gave her every care. “Christmas, 1863, will soon bo hore, my darling,” he whispered at their last meeting. But she did not hear him. The little hand grew colder in his grasp, and with her life gone all life became indifferent to him. When George Bohannon left Edna Crawford’s grave a change camo over him. He who had been the life of the camp and the soul of hope became despondent and morose. There was no

HE WHISPERED, “ALL’S WELL.”

change in the performance of his duties, but the men, who adored him, noticed that he had become reckless, and those who know his secret saw that he wanted to die. “It’s hero at last, boys! Tomorrow will bo Christmas day, 1803. It was a blamed long time to wait in tho mines and in tho war, but knowing she’d bo true has cheered mo up. You’ll all come to the wedding.” That is what the captain said as wo knelt beside him holding his hands. My companion and I exchanged glances. The fever was in tho brain “as well as in the hands. Ho had no idea of his position. Ho was a free man and not a prisoner of war. Men were talking about Christmas on all sides, and it was this that brought tho controlling impulse of his life into such prominence that it dominated all his thoughts. Christmas day, 1863, was at hand, and the yearning of years was to be consummated in his union to Edna Crawford. I saw the danger and rose to my feet. “Don’t leave me, old parcl,” said the captain, clinging to my hand. “Remember you aro to bo my best man.” “You can depend on me, captain,” I said soothingly. “I’ve often dreamed about tins wedding,” ho went on, “and for awhilo 1 did not think we could have music and flowers and lots of folks present. You can smell the clover and the magnolia blossoms. There! Hark! to the music! They’re rehearsing!” And ho raised a hot hand to command attention, while from tho Potomac room beyond tho wall there came the refrain of the old plantation melody: “In do mawnin, in do mawnin by de bright light— De Christmas bells’ll toll out in de mawnin!” We left him with a rapt expression on his face, while he swayed his head as if beating time to the singing in tho next room. “I’m afraid the captain’s called,” sighed Wat sou. “Called” was a form used when wo felt sure a comrado was about to dio. “But we must save him if we can. Come, let us get word to Dr. Sabal and havo the captain taken to tho hospital,” I urged, and my heart was in my throat, for I loved Bohannon like a brother. It was nearly dark when, after somo trouble, we succeeded in getting word to Dr. Sabal. He came, and after examining the captain shook his head. I had explained to him tho case, so that he was not surprised when tho captain invited him to tho wedding which was set for midnight, “wlion Christmas eve, ” as the expectant man expressed it, “gives place to Christmas day. ’ ’ “Yes. It is to prepare for tho wedding,” I said, whon, holding Bohannon’s hand, I led him to the head of tho stairs. Ho insisted that I should go with him, and tho kindly doctor consented. Tho hospital on tho ground floor and on the eastern side of tho prison was dimly lit with swinging lamps, but the light was dazzling compared with tho gloom in the rogular rooms. The captain was prevailed on to lie down on one of the cots. Tho doctor loft somo medicine, but there was that In his handsome face as he turned to go that convinced me he had no faith in the power of his drugs to help this case. “A marriage is a trying matter. Yes, I’ll fool the better for a rest, ” spoke the cimtain, whilo I sat beside him with my otfld fingers pressed to his hot loaping pulse. “There’s a great crowd gathered and the lights—l was always fond of light.” And so ho wandered on. To him the imprisonment and the death of Edna Crawford had become as a torturing dream, and tho joyous hallucination was a glowing reality. Ragged men on crutches, ghastly faced men with the fever marks on their cracked lips and In their hollow eyes were about the cot, but if the captain saw them his wild fancy transformed thorn into wedding guests, and their whisperings of pity for one more wretched than themselves Were tc him congratulations on thp great

event that was to unite him to Edna Crawford. It was a bitterly cold night, and the voices of the guards calling out the passing half hours about the prison were muffled and hoarse. The approaching Christmas day had no pleasures In reserve for them. A thin brick wall separated the hospital from the cookroom to the west, where Maas and his minstrels began to sing about 8 o’clock. The music was in honor of the approaching wedding. All the pain lines melted from the bronzed face. Once he tried'to join in the chorus when “My Old Kentucky Home, Good Night!” was sung, but the effort died out in a rattle in l»is throat. At length tho concert was over, and the lights in the dreary hospital were turned down. But the captain still heard music that was not for our ears, and lights burned before his closed eyes that were not for our vision. From Carey street on the west a hoarse voice shouted at length, “Twelve o’clock! Post No. 1, and all’s well!” “Twelve o’clock! Post No. 2, and all’s well!” and so from post to post about the prison went up the same cry, the last man adding, “And a merry Christmas to all!” The captain had been so still and his hands sO cold fer the past hour that I thought him dead, but like an echo he whispered, “All’s well!” From the Richmond ch arches the bells clanged out their salutation to the Christmas day just born, but the captain heard them not. True to his pledge he had joined Edna. “Christmas, 1863.”

ALFRED R. CALHOUN.

CHRISTMASISMS.

Junius Henri Browne’s Helps to Digest the Dinner. Although Christmas comes but once a year, we need not wait till Christmas for an opportunity to do good. Wo can make a Christmas for the poor and unfortunate whenever our hearts are touched with pity and our hands tingle with generosity. There are persons who do not so much censure Judas Iscariot for betraying Jesus as for betraying him for so small a sum (30 pieces of silver, valued at $22), when he might have got a much larger one. Their horror of the crime is forgotten in the moagerness of the payment. Judas betrayed his Master with a kiss. Many a man nowadays betrays his mistress in the same way, but has not, like the faithless apostle, compunction of conscience afterward to go and hang himself. It is generally believed now by biblical scholars that Judas was not a vulgar traitor, as indeed his tragic end proves, but that he betrayed Jesus in order to compel him, in sheer self defense, to proclaim himself Messiah, the expected deliverer and king, and to overcomo his fate by his supernatural power. His fellow disciples had the same faith and expectations, but did not act on them. Thus Judas would seem to have had simply the courage of his convictions, for which men are, in these days, so highly commended. The best sauce for a Christmas dinner is a good conscience, and the finest dessert is the memory of kind acts done in honor of the day.

Tho host test of the excellence, the nobleness, the beauty of tho life of Jesus, is that no man, however skeptical about theologic tenets, however doubtful of the truth of revelation, has ever criticised or sought to disparago tho completeness of his character, the perfection of his nature. Thousands of persons who call themselves Christians have so far departed from the precepts and practices of Christ that tho true Christianswould be justified in taking tho name Jesusitcs. The widest toleration in religious or theological matters, toward which tho churches aro steadily striving, but which they have not yet compassed, may be learned from the words and acts of Jesus. Many a man who has been and is denounced as a unpardonable blasphemer, an enemy of all religion, would bo acceptable in the eyes of the good Jesus. Tho best way to celebrate Christinas is to practice self denial, to assist tho needy, to succor the distressed, to chase away little tears with joyous smiles. If we can bring on Christmas, or on any other day, sympathy and love, along with food, to the hungry, or raiment to the naked, we work the same kind of miracle that Jesus wrought in Galilee when ho fed 5,000 persons with five loaves and two small fishes.

When Jesus, at the pool of Bothesda, healed on Sunday tho poor man of a lifelong affliction ho gave a powerful rebuke to Sabbatarianism, to all hypocrisy, especially to tho holier than thou assumptions so characteristic of tho Pharisees of the present, no less than of the past. In pronouncing judgment on tho woman taken in adultery, Jesus showed how infinitely ho preferred religion to theology, which depends on dogma, while religion depends on charity. Junius Henri Browne.

Christmas and Sentiment.

A, T A period like / \ tho present, when / jfc* \ tho commercial r ITO 4 \ SBir it prevails and \W I people are devoted ft 1w I to material interests almost to the M H, exclusion of everything else, they r—M are very liable to | relogate sentiment | into tho backLjjJ j... ground. TJiis tenIj dency is oven noticoablo in the u <*~r. , celebration of parly. tioular events, such as the birth

of Christ, when young and old are too generally inclined to regard tho observances characteristic of the occasion without thinking of their significance or the sentiment underlying them. If this decay of sentiment only affected the external aspects of our lives, our businoss, and the ordinary affairs and events of our everyday existence it wore a matter of no great importance, but when it adversely influences our views on religion, on society, art, the love of naturo, etc., we must admit that tho matter is one of grave importance. Religion is largely a matter of sentiment, and he who regards society merely from the standpoint of tho utilitarian, while ho may be a fairly good citizen, will most assuredly bo an unsympathetic, unsocial and not very amiablo man. Art, the love of natural beauty and thoso graces and elegancies which give such an ideal charm to life, aro almost exclusively dependent for their very existence upon sentiment. How sordid and moan would our lives bo if di vested Of nil those finer feelings, romantic notions and idealizations which keep alive the spiritual flaing within us? NTM.