People's Pilot, Volume 5, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 May 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 dlsappeargd from home after you reprimanded iHm 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 mfstake in goin’ away,’ replied Silas, clipping off a wing; “an’ I guess no one knows tliat better than William by this time.” “Maybe so, but I had a strange dream about our absent boy last night, and something tells me that he is coming home, like the prcdigal son, and I have put ah extra plai? on the table, at the place where he always sa . Eul.

hark! Some one has entered the gate. It is—it is our son William! 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 stranger'and almost dragging him into the house, “you have come home at last, f “knew you would. This is indeed a merry Christmas.” “ ’Scuse me, ma’am,” returned the stranger, struggling to free himself from the affectionate embrace 4f tfie woman. “Me name’s not William, an’ I ain’t nobody’s son. My phrents 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!” 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.

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.