Rensselaer Republican, Volume 26, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 December 1893 — PETIT'S CHRISTMAS. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

PETIT'S CHRISTMAS.

HEN Petit Pierrq was six years old . his father, who had riost nearly everything he had in the world during the terrible Franco-

war, decided to leave the sunny land of France and seek bis fortune anew in that mysterous new world far, far across the sea. It almost broke the little fellow's heart. Papa Charles had been so good, so kind to him. How often, at bedtime, h;.d the dear father lifted him on his shoulders and carried him up four flights of stairs, to the cozy little room under the roof where Petit Pierre was accustomed to sleep,

and after the child’s fervent prayer of the “Notre Pere” and ‘'Je vous saluer, Marie” had been said, and he had been snugly tucked away in his little bed —the linen of which was as pure and unspotted as Petit Pierre’s innocent soul —the dear good father would always stop long enough to tell a story of old-time heroes, gal-1 lant and chivalrous, ever ready to succor the helpless and assist the weak, who invariably did some noble act of courage and never boasted of it. There was one story which Petit Pierre never tired of hearing. It told of an old chieftain whose; only child had been stolen from him. Neither his gray hairs nor his years had been spared. The barbarians had dragged her away, fainting —a bruised, broken lily. But the old chief, heeding not his years nor his gray hairs,.had immediately rushed to the rescue of the beloved child. And as the dear father recited: Voyez passer ce c-avaliir farouche bur suu cheval aussi prompt que le vent, C’est le vttux chef malheur a quat le touche 11 va venger l’honneur de son enfant, Petit Pierre would stand bolt upright in his little bed, eyes aflame and lips quivering. “Oh, papa!” Petit Pierre would exclaim, “he will save, her, will he not?” „ And now the good father had gone. To America! How far was that? Had you asked Pierre he would have shrugged his shoulders and said: “Ah, very, very far, monsieur; almost where the sun sets and goes to bed every night.” No more stories, no more climbing upon the broad shoulders of Papa Charles. During the first few days after papa’s departure Petit Pierre sobbed continuously. He could not be comforted. One morning, however, Pettit Pierre came downstairs much earlU than was his wont. When he enterred mamma’s room he found her kneeling at the foot of the cross near the bed in which she slept. He walked toward her very quietly and stopped. Then he listened. Poor, dear mamma, she was sobbing. And between her sobs Petit Pierre made out the burden of her prayer. “Send him back, dear Lord, send him back soon. Make him prosper, so he may come quickly to his wife and little son.” At first Petit Pierre wanted to

9 ’ cry, too But he didn’t. He waited until mamma's prayer was ended, and as she lingered a little longer, placed his chubby little arms around her neck, and said: “Mustn’t cry, petit mere. Papa loves you and loves his little boy. He will come back again soon, but he must work first and make'some money." . Mamma grabbed Petit Pierre, hugged him tightly to her breast, Mid kissed him passionately Pgtit Pierre never cried after that. At least not when there might be a possibility that mamma would see him. Weeks passed into months. Papa Charles had long since reached the

new world. His frequent letters always told of success in that far-away foreign land. He made many new friends,—to —whom he often—spoke about the dear wife and little boy he had left on the other side of the big ocean. Soon he wonld come for them and bring them to their new home. But the distance was great and it took much, much money to make the journey. It was now nearly two years since the dear father had One afternoon, late in the fall, when Petit Pierre returned from school he found mamma reading a letter. “It is from papa, Pierre, and next year, he says, he’s coming back for,his little boy.” “Petit Pierre almost cried with jov. , “Next year! Why next year?” That night when mamma took him up to his little room under the too* a thought flashed through the boy’s brain. Since the father had gone to America Pierre had become a choir boy in the big stone church near his home. Time and again he had served mass to the old cure at the littla altar consecrated to the Holy Virgin and l’enfant Jesus. Many prayers he knew had been said by petitioners for favors, and they had been answered. L’enfant Jesus was so good, and he was the son of God. Pierre had faith. Why not, he thought to himself, ask the good Go<J, for the sake of l’enfant Jesus, to send back his papa, and at Christmas, the time for all good cheer. Would God hear his petition? Yes, Petit Pierre felt sure he would. And send papa back for Christmas? Petit Pierre had faith, and faith works miracles. Therefore that night Petit Pierre pretended to be asleep. A little after he had been put to bed, and mamma had softly kissed him goodnight and left him, Petit Pierre got up. Falling to his knees he began to pray: “I am only a little child, dear Saviour, but I know you see me. And oh! you know how much I want my little papa to come home. I love him so, and, O God, do send him to me and to mamma. And please let him come for Christmas and Christ’s sake. Amen.” Then Petit Pierre went back to

bed and never awoke till mamma called him for breakfast. Thenceforth every night Petit Pierre would pretend to go to sleep almost as soon as he touched the pillow. And mamma, not suspecting anything, would wonder, as she leaned to kiss him softly, why the child fell to sleep so quickly. ‘ ‘He plays so hard,” she thought, “that at night he is all tired out, the darling.” But after she had left Petit Pierre crawled out of bed and prayed earnestly the good God to send back to him at Christmas time the dear father who was thousands of miles away from his loved ones at home. * ****** Christmas day was fast drawing nigh. The place d’Armes was already crowded with booths where venders of holiday toys, macarons, and tropical fruits were vying with each other in crying out their goods. The night before Christmas eve Petit Pierre went to bed earlier than usual. Mamma had left bind and he had crawled back into his snow white little bed, when suddenly he thought he heard footsteps ascending the stairway. He raised himself up on his elbow and listened. Yes, somebody wa3 coming up the stairs, sure enough. And all at once a great flood of light seemed to poor into his soul. “Yes, yes," he cried to himself, “he has come; it is papa; it,is he.” His heart was all a-flutter like that of a frightened bird. The steps had now reached the upper landing. Through a crack in the door a ray of light filtered. A moment later the door opened, and there in the doorway, big as life, and smiling, stood Papa Charles. “Papa, oh, my papa!” -.• Petit Pierre bounded out of bed. The father lifted him up and kissed him again and again. “Oh papa, I knew you would come. I asked God to send you—-to-night—l knew be would send you —I prayed for you-—Mamina, don't cry—see! bow big papa is! I knew he would send you. Oh, papa." The childish v*ice trembled. He leaned his head on the broad shoulders of the dear father and sobbed, as if the poor, dear, faithful heart would break. Oh, he had wanted that good cry so long l For two years he had kept it down Now, it was mamma's turn to do something consoling. But somehow she didn't succeed very well, and for some reason Papa Charles also had to wipe his face oftener than he could remember

ever having done bet-re. Then ail at once Papa Charles said: “Mamma, better dress our see how big he has grown! heV a-man already, and see—yes, I do verily believe he’s growing a mustache.” Themnamma and Pierre laughed and they all went downstairs to look at what the Santa Claus of America had brought for Petit Pierre. 1 ****** The next day at la messede minuit the good Cure Violette averred that Petit Pierre’s singing of the Noel carol was the sweetest song he had ever heard. The Cure probably did not think of it, but Pierre knew there was good reason for such great cheer in his heart.

AUGUSTE C. BABIZE.

Mr. O’Brion, the younger —Don’t stir fer de loife ave ye, Patsy! Santa Claus is fillin’ de stockin’s. I, see de woolly coat over him wid me own eyes.—Syd. B. Griffin.