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OLMSTEAD & CO., PUBLISHERS.
AFTER THE HOLIDAYS,
«: The holidays were over. Yet their memories
clung to us all, Philip, Dora, and I; and we loved
to go back in the long winter evenings and talk
them over together, and we would see the old
church lighted again, and the great Christmas tree
before the pulpit, and the crowd of small, shining
heads in the front seats, all turned, eager and
breathless, towards it. .
“There it stood, the small tapers burning like
stars thick among the dark green branches, the
great oranges glowing like crimson globes among
* the boughs, and festoons of red swamp and cran-
berries blazing like coral and carbuncles amid all.
There it stood, the great tree, now every branch
burdened with its Christmas gifts for many chil-
dren; some hiding among the thick’ leaves, some
shining out bright with gold and silver adorn-
ments; gifts beautiful, and rare, and varied, to
make the eyes leap, and the hearts beat for joy, as
the little children’s hands closed over them.
.. And as I said, Philip, and Dora and I loved to
talk all this over as we sat together in the long
winter evenings which followed the holidays.
But whenever we talked of the eager crowd of faces
which thronged the church and bent down from the
galleries, as one after another the gifts were taken
down from the branches, and the names of the re-
cipients thereof read out loud and clear, and the
little eager hands stretched out, the memory of
somewhat I had seen and overheard in the old
church came like a little shadow, creeping through
all the brightness of that Christmas evening.
There sat in the seat before me a small boy and
girl; the girl the smaller of the two. They. were
~ pretty children, dressed very plainly, perhaps I had
better say, poorly. The girl had blue eyes, and
hair of yellow gold, with lights in. both, and the
boy’s eyes and hair were like hers, only a shade
darker, and they looked with faces brimful of inter-
est and eagerness on the Christmas tree ; and their
young voices mingled sweetly with the other young
voices which sang that night their hymns of thanks-
giving and jubilee. .
~ But, after the little, strange children had watched
for along time, as one and another happy child
went up to receive the gift of the Christmas tree,
the little girl put up her lips to her brother’s and I
heard her soft whisper—
“Don’t you believe, Tommy, somebody will call
our names? ' I want us to have a present too.”
“We can't, Mary. You see nobody knows us in
all the great church.” .
saw the little faee falter and fall, and as I held
my box with its pretty parlor furniture in one hand,
and my doll in the other, my heart ached for the
little boy and girl sitting there all unknown and
uncared for in the seat before me. I thought how
sad and desolate they must feel, just as I should in
their places; and I wondered if they hadn’t hung
their stockings by their bed-sides, and risen up
when the faint gray dawn was bfeaking up the long
darkness of the night, and searched with hearts
that fairly stood still for wonder and joy, for the
gifts that loving hands had placed inside. Ah me!
-what a strange, sad, lonely day Christmas must
seem without these things!
At last the gifts were all distributed ; the last
name was called; the glad children were bending
glad faces over their new/ pretty toys; and the lit-
tle girl drew up hers to her brother, and amid the
general joy hers was sorrowful. .
“OQ, Tommy, they’ve all got something pretty
but us!” she whispered.
~ “But, Mary, we don’t know anybody here, you
see,” trying to comfort the Kittle grieved thing,
though he was not more than two or three years her
senior, and his face was sad_ too. “We couldn’t
expect they’d give us anything.”
C, The great tears ran over the little face.
~ “But they've all got something pretty—all but
us, I wanted a Christmas gift too, Tommy!” Oo
dear! the times that little, tearful face has arisen
and stood before me—the,times that grieved little
voice has rung in my ears since that Christmas night.
At last I told Philip and Dora about it. They
both listened intently, and though Phili > is
years older than I, the tears were in his great
brown eyes, as they were on Dora’s cheeks when I
concluded.
certain,” said Dora, “or they wouldn't have been at
the church on Christmas night.”
“There’s a family moved into the little white
cottage just beyond the turnpike,” said Philip. “I
heard Mr. Ramsdell asking the doctor to call there,
for the mother was ill, and the father had gone to
the war; and they had two children too young to
help themselves—a boy and a girl.”
“Tt must be the yery one. O, Philip, I’m sorry
for them.”
“I wish we could do something for them,” said
Dora, my little brown-eyed sister, and her bright
face was thoughtful.
“We could carry them some of our toys.. They
are younger than we, and we could spare them well
enough,” added Philip.
That's a capital idea. O, Philip, it would do my
heart good to make that little girl’s face glad,” I
cried. .
And then we told the story to dear mamma, and
obtained her full consent to give-just what we
liked and Alice offered her last year’s doll and
wicker cradle, as good as new, and Phil his. regi-
ment of soldiers, and I my pretty set of china; and
mamma added to these a handsome tippet for the
boy and a scarf for the girl; and after our lessons
and dinner were over, we started—Phil, and Dora
and I—for the little white house near the turnpike.
The little girl came to the door. Her blue eyes
opened wide with wonder and pleasure when she
saw us; and she asked us into the little, plain, but
pleasant parlor, saying that mamma was able to sit
up now, and we could go to her room in a minute.
“We haven't come to see her, but you and your
brother Thomas,” said Philip.
‘And the child’s eyes grew wider for wonder, as
she ran and summoned her brother. Philip was,
by virtue of his age and general fitness, chief speak-
er on this occasion, and Dora and I thought be
accomplished the matter with marvellous skill. *
When Thomas Hughes entered the room with
his little sister’s hand in his, my brother stated
briefly that»we had learned of the sad omission
which had taken place on Christmas night, because of
the little strangers amongst us, and we had come
now, late as it was, to do all in our power to mend
the matter, and had brought our Christmas offer-
ings, and he laid on the table the great bundle, and
cut the string, and the pretty gifts were before the
wondering eyes of the children.
What they said I cannot well remember, perhaps
it was not so much, after all; but O! if you could
have scen their faces—if you could have looked on
- “They must live somewhere in Woodlesf, I'm
little Mary Hughes, as she bowed her head, bright
in A ~ . 2
‘ ? CARELESS PANAH,.”, we
/
jwith yellow curls, over the pretty gifts, and sobbed
| for joy; if you could have seen her lift up her face
| to her brother, and heard her words, “O, Tommy,
| we've got our Christmas gifts after all!” it would
| have melted your heart, if it ts not hard as a stone.
| And when the pale, gentle mother learned all,
| and feebly made her way into the room, and laid
| her thin hand on our heads and blessed us, we—| °
| Philip, Dora and I—wondered if there was any joy
| deeper and sweeter than that which came “after the
| holidays ;” and we who had thanked God so many
| times for ourselves, now thanked Him for others!
| —Arthur's Magazine.
+r
DILIGENCE REWARDED, .
In the middle of the last century there lived in
the little town of Montdidier, France, an apothe-
cary, by name Master Lombard, and by report a
miser,
Everybody said Master Lombard was rich, and
though what everybody says is not always true, it
was true in this instance. Lombard was rich, but
he lived like a beggar. Ie spent very little, and
he gave away nothing. Ile lent money on good
security, but he never lent any of it to the Lord by
giving it to the pobr,—never accepted the security
of that Bible assurance that those who do so shall
be amply repaid. No: Master Lombard cared
only for money; lent only that he might make
more money. For this he denied himself decent
clothes, or wholesome food, or comfortable lodging.
It was meat and drink, he said, to him, to look at
his golden louis, to hear their true ring of metal,
to count them up as if they were so many friends
or children, and to relish the thought of what he
could do with his money if he chose. He never
read—or reading, only scorned—the solemn words,
“Your riches are corrupted. . . Your gold and sil-
ver is cankered; and the rust of them shall. bea
witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as it
were fire. Yehave heaped treasure together for
the last days.” .
One snowy night, when Lombard had closed his
shop, and was sitting in his back parlor over the
smallest scrap of fire, eating a dry crust, there was
a knocking at the outer door.
Old Lombard kept no servant, and had neither
friend nor child beneath his roof; no one came to
see him except on business; for, as you may im-
agine, he was not a man given to hospitality,
When the knock was heard at the door, therefore,
he knew very well it must be ejther an idle trick
of some foolish boy to annoy him, or a customer;
and being economical of his own trouble as well as
22 SCHOOL STREET, BOSTON.
| :
of everything else,-he waited for the stranger to
knock again. :
“If it is only a mischievous boy,” he said, “he'll
not venture to knock twice; if it is a customer he
is sure to do 80.” ,
The knock was repeated, and old Lombard rose,
and: passing through his shop, unbarred and un-
bolted the outer door, and looked out straight be-
fore him into the snowy street. He saw nothing,
and was abbut to shut the door again, with an ane+-.
gry word, when a child’s voice arrested his
tion. wee ”e
“Please you, good Master Lombard, it is me,”. ;
“Me!” said old Lombard, suddenly darting upon
a small boy, who ‘stood shivering on the snowy
doorstep ; “and who is me, that he dare disturb a
quiet trader? Who says I never give to those
who want?- Tell them they speak false; you
wanted a thrashing, and I gave you that. Come
here!” He seized the boy by the ear, but the Jad
struggled and released himself, saying,—
“I did not come to play a trick on you, Master
Lombard, but to ask you to make up some medi-
cine for my mother.” .
“Medicine for my mother !”, Lombard repeated,
in a mocking voice. ‘And is my mother ill?
High living is too much for her; let her try meagre
soup, or no soup at all!”
“Please you, Master Lombard, my mother is dy-
ing, partly for want of food,—you know she is very
poor,—partly for want of medicine ; but this paper
tells us what is sure to do for her all that medicine
can do, It is in Latin, but you know all about it.”
“Come in,” said Lombard, and the boy followed
him, He closed the door, went behind the counter,
put on’ his spectacles, dnd “stooping down over a
bit of lighted vandle, read the paper which the boy
had givenhim, | *
The boy watched the old man’s face anxiously as
he read, and when he ceased, asked was it a good
remedy for such and such complaints, detailing his
mother’s ailments, —"
“Yes,” said old Lombard, “the remedy is excel-
lent, Lut it is dear; it would cost a golden piece.” ”
“A golden piece !” criéd the poor child, in alarm,
“O, what shall Ido? I have but seven sous.”
“I don’t know what you are to do, except take
yourself out of my shop as quickly as may be.”
“O, Master Lombard, you know that ever since
my father's death, sickness and distress have been
in our house, and now my mother is dying !”
“That is no affair of mine,” old Lombard an-
swered ; “people who have no money are best out
of the world.” ~
“I implore you,” cried the boy, “send me not
without the medicine. For God's sake, do this
charity, and God will reward you!”
“TI tell you,” said old Lombard, “I will do no
such thing. Money will buy medicine in this shop.
Nothing for nothing; those are my terms.”
“Give me the medicine,” said the distracted boy,
as the thought of his poor, suffering mother pressed
itself on him, and almost broke his heart. “O,
good Master Lombard, I will be your servant—
your slave. I will eat little, I will work much. I
will do anything, suffer anything, if you will help
me now!”
Old Lombard seemed to hesitate; he was rather
surprised at the boy’s vehemence ; he knew him to
be sharp and honest, and it occurred to him that it
might not bea bad speculation to close with the
boy’s bargain. Therefore he felt a little inclined
to listen, and see if it would not, after all, be more
to his purpose to take the boy's services in pay-
ment for the medicine than hard cash. The boy
was not slow to perceive a slight change in his fa~
vor, and lost no time to urge his request for the
supply of the medicine on any terms, to save a dy~
ing mother. And so earnestly did he plead for
medicine, and offer his services as payment, that
even old Lombard felt he spoke the truth. He
made up the prescription, said he would come
round and look at the patient, and that he would
take the boy into his service. With warm grati-
tude the boy thanked him, and hastened to the
bedside of his mother; while old Lombard re~
turned to his scrap of fire, and thought over his
bargain. “I must have a boy to help me,” so he
said. “Ican hire this boy for a tenth of what I
must give to another; I can feed him sparely, work
him hard: Umph! I might have done worse.” So
Or,
—_—
