People's Pilot, Volume 5, Number 27-25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 January 1896 — The Tramp's Christmas. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Tramp's Christmas.

“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 out late o’ nights playing pool or something.” “Yes,” assented her husband, sharpening the carver preparatory to dissecting a nicely browned turkey. “It is exactly ten years since he went away, and without just cause, too.” “But don,’t you; 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 goin’ 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 ai strange dream about our absent boy last night, and something tells 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 sa-—. Bui

hark! Some one has entered the gate. It is—it is our sou Wi li m! A mother’s instinct is never wrong. Yes—l recognize his footsteps. Oh, we shall have a real merry Christmas once more!” And Mrs. Ulogue, trembling like an aspen, sprang from her seat and quickly opened the door. A rough-bearded seedy-looking man stood on the threshold. “Oh, William, my son,” cried Mrs. Ulogue, throwing her arms around the strapger and almost dragging him into the house, “you have come home at last. I knew you would. This 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 speakin’ 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, specially as I left home without dinin’.” “Here ; Tige!” calied 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.

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.