it ever can get warm with all these cracks in the roof"-and she wrapped a coarse but bright garment about his shoulders. He pushed it uneasily away—no anger in his manner now; no kindness either. "I am not cold; go home." "Very soon I will," said the child, cheerily, running out for the pitcher of water and breaking its thin film of ice as she came in again, the ruddy gleam of the fire playing upon her face. "Oh, you haven't any rag here, have you? Well, my apron will do." And she dipped a corner into the water. "Now you must let me wash away that ugly blood." Either the wound was smarting sorely, or Old Pop was stupefied by his fall, for he made no resistance. Softly and tenderly as snow-flakes fell the touches of Elsie's hands upon that bowed head. "It is not much," she said, when at last the blood was all carefully washed away; "you should hold cold water to the bump-that's what mother always does for me; and now, if I only had a cobweb!" This humble aspiration was easily met in the rickety hut, almost by the reaching of her hand, for spiders had woven there unmolested for many a day. The blood was soon stanched to Elsie's full content. "Now I'll go," said the child, quietly, as with nimble hands she placed fresh sticks upon the fire. "Do you feel any better, Sir?" "Hey?"-very gruffly. "Why it is Christ's birthday—and was He not a good, a holy child?" A gleam like something from the past shot across the furrowed face, and Elsie read her answer. "Oh, He was so pure, so noble! Never did He hold one harsh or wicked thought-mother has told me this often. He could not, you know; never had the slightest quarrel; never did any thing the least bit wrong, and was always making every body about him happy-just completely good and wise. Oh! He was a blessed, blessed child I am sure, and his days must have been like pure sunshine, with none of the dreadful trials that came to him afterward. You've heard all about it, haven't you?-how they persecuted and tortured him, and all for no harm He had done whatever." The gleam of memory again, as with troubled eyes he gazed into that tearful, upturned face. "But it is all over now," resumed Elsie, brightening. "The saints in heaven are never sad, and surely He is gladdest of all; and whenever his birthday comes, oh! I am certain all his childish thoughts must come back to him. Then He visits earth as the Christ-child-comes to see all of us little children. We can not see him, but I know He comes and He blesses us, and makes us, oh! so happy. Mother says He enters every body's heart and whispers, 'Love the children for my sake,' and He makes them feel just like giving all the boys and girls a holi "You feel better, I hope? Does your head day, and having lovely green trees for them hurt you now, Sir?" "No; go home." Elsie moved sadly toward the door, and then -child that she was-a sudden impulse caused her to go back to him. hung with toys and all kinds of beautiful things; and the rich give to one another and to the poor, and the poor are loving and gentle to each other, for He tells them how He loves them and every body. Yes, I am sure He does," cried "Poor old man!" she almost whispered, Elsie, clasping her hands. "your heart has been broken." His start frightened her. She believed he would strike her on the spot; but he only lifted his head and looked wearily into her face. "Why, child?" "Because--because you are so very cross; and you can not be cheered even in these merry Christmas times. Why, it comes day after tomorrow! You surely will not be the only person in the whole world who does not keep Christmas?" And Elsie stared at him in innocent dis may. "No, He does not-not always," sighed the old man. "He has not crept into my heart, little girl; I am lonely, lonely." "Ah, but He will though," insisted Elsie, looking brightly into his eyes and shaking her sunny curls against his breast. "He will; it is not too late yet." The old man shook his head, gazing wistfully into her upturned face. "Yes, He will; I am sure of it. Why, the wood has nearly burned away. Poor old man! how many, many cold days you must sit here "Christmas!" echoed Old Pop, gloomily; "I shivering, while we are warm and comfortable have almost forgotten what that is." "Forgotten Christmas! Why, I think if I were to grow twice as old as you are I could never forget that! It's the dear Christ's birthday, you know; and every one, even the most miserable, can not help being happier on that day." 66 "Happy?" whispered Old Pop under his breath, and looking absently at Elsie as she seated herself at his feet-" Happy? happy?" down in the village. Why don't you come and live there, and get nice clothes and-" The hermit glared at her so wildly that, in very fear, Elsie moved toward the door. Standing outside, she looked in to say, "Good-by! Be sure to keep that bump wet. May some of us children come soon and gather wood for you?" "No, no, little girl. Here, wait a moment." And with a half-troubled, half-pleased expression on his worn face, Old Pop picked a large dry maple leaf from the floor and proceeded to take The old man nodded, never taking his eyes something from a rough box in the corner of his from hers. "Yes, happy," repeated Elsie, gently. "Shall I tell you all about it ?" cabin. Elsie was only a child, and a girl-child too; | his bosom, he could not force it away. Resting who can blame her that she raised on tip-toe with curiosity? "Here, child, take this." A leaf full of coarse maple sugar. Elsie felt disappointed, scarcely knowing why, but no there softly, it lingered even while in his dream he slept a sweet, peaceful slumber, smiling upon him, when he awoke, with an angelic lustre in its loving, human eyes. "Do not be lonely," said the child; "the. duchess could have received it with a truer in-world is rich for thee even now. Why not do stinct of politeness than she. "Thank you, Sir." The mute figure, as it stood watching Elsie tripping back over the hills, was different in its aspect from that which two hours before had forbidden her approach. The same form and face, but with no anger in its gesture, no fierceness in its look. The noonday sun lay warmly upon the ground, shining through a net-work of shadows, the pines seemed whispering softly among themselves, and the icicles upon the hemlock branches were melting slowly away. thy part?" Clasping the little one closer and closer, while his tears fell upon its golden hair, "What can I do?" he whispered. "Love us, love all little children," answered the sweet voice. "Bless those that come to thee, make them happier for my sake." "I will! I will!" he cried, joyfully, and he awoke-to find himself alone in the silent hut, the undried tears still coursing down his cheek. Gleams of gold and crimson were flashing through the openings of the roof, and the pines were silent in the pure morning air. With an almost boyish leap the hermit rose from his couch, busy thoughts crowding upon him, long-buried memories springing into a confused life within his heart. Turning at last with a long sigh, the old man moved toward his cabin, but, instead of entering, walked around it to where his donkey stood in a rough boarded-up shed, filled at one end with poor hay mingled thickly with dried leaves, and in its remaining portion with a provident supply of fagots. These latter were generally sacred to stormy days; but the hermit seemed anxious not to let Elsie's fire-light die away, and he felt scarcely strong enough to collect wood, as usual, from the hills. Lifting an arm-lor breakfast. Next the donkey was permitted ful from his store, he moved slowly into the hut. After an hour of busy preparation, during which Old Pop was forced to stand still many times to collect his ideas, a bright fire blazed upon the hearth, lighting the face of the old man as he sat enjoying his very singular bache to indulge in his own peculiar repast, turning his head as he ate in sheer surprise at the gentle strokes falling upon his lean sides. "We are going to town to-day, my friend, and you shall have oats for Christmas." The donkey, notwithstanding his superfluity of ear, did not seem to hear the remark, but crunched away as unconcerned as possible. It was strange to see the old man draw from a dusty box something that had once been a handsome fur-trimmed cloak, faded and motheaten now, and throw it with old-time grace about his shoulders; very strange to mark him, after looking warily from his cabin door, lift a plank from the broken flooring and take from beneath it a pouch well-filled with silver pieces; and stranger still to see him, soon afterward, mounted upon his donkey, a long, empty sack How the wind moaned among the pines! The old man had often before shaped whimsical thoughts from their weird whisperings, but now they seemed to respond with almost human anguish. He raised his head and listened. The rush of mingled voices settled into a cry-hung across the time-stained saddle, his cloak "Alone! Alone!" He could hear the words distinctly, though he knew it was but the pines that spoke; yet there was comfort in them for him-a something akin to sympathy in their despairing cry-in its very truthfulness-and he fell asleep listening to their plaintive wail growing fainter and fainter as it floated off into the night: "Alone! Alone!" Of all the tender, beautiful dreams stealing by myriads into the souls of God's children on that glorious night none were more tender, more beautiful, than that sent to the lonely sleeper among the pines. He thought there came to him, as he lay upon his bed, a gentle child, radiant with light. In his misery he would have repulsed it; but the little one clung to him so closely, and nestled its head so lovingly upon flapping in the keen morning air, and a smile of something like joy upon his face. Was it really Old Pop, or was it the shade of Santa Claus bound on an errand for the Christ-child? "What did she say?" he muttered to himself as he rode along toward the distant city. "Ah yes, that was it-lovely green Christmas-trees hung with toys and all kinds of beautiful things.': Jog-jog went the donkey, shambling on a little more quickly, for habit's sake, whenever a stray team or wagon (and there were more of them that morning than usual) passed along the road. Into the bustling city at last, and straight, in spite of contrary jerks from the seat of government, to the shabby corner where, at long intervals, the hermit's supplies were generally procured. "Not here, old friend,” pleaded his master, with a gentle application of the stick; "g'long!" Glad to stop any where after this outrage to his better judgment, the donkey obeyed with sullen grace when his rider "pulled up" at a showy store, whose windows had within a day or two blossomed into a very paradise of toys for the Christ-child's sake. "Here they are," said Old Pop, "toys and all kinds of beautiful things.' And, sack in hand, he slid down from his sullen friend, and hastened through the gayly-decked doorway. It was a sight worth seeing-the light in Old Pop's eye as, with trembling hands, toy after toy was dropped tenderly into the sack. Such news as this was not long in flying through the village. The children, whose hearts had danced to the tune of "Merry Christmas" since before daylight, were half wild with expectation. "Why, what can it mean ?" they asked each other, with wondering eyes. "His friends, the children'-why that's the queerest part of it!" Even the grown people were filled with astonishment and vague uneasiness. In fact, they would have put their fiat against proceeding in the affair at all, but for the open sanction and approval of the schoolmaster; though how they would have "pacified" the children under a denial I can not imagine. At last the familiar dingdong from the schoolhouse roof-sweeter to the expectant ears than "Give me what the boys like. Now give all other Christmas bells-sounded forth its me something for girls," he repeated over and welcome summons. The children, wrapped over again, until he had nearly as much as the in their thick coats and warm shawls, poured donkey could carry. After paying for his treas- forth from every lane in the village-some in ures with the scrupulous care of one unused to laughing groups, some alone, and some with spending, the old man went into an adjoining arms lovingly entwined; while the schoolmascandy-shop. He soon came out, chuckling soft-ter trudged on in their midst, intending to form ly to himself. Spying a book-store directly opposite, he hurried across the street, heedless of the staring eyes bent from every quarter upon him. The bookseller stared no less when he saw an outlandish-looking old man enter his "Three cheers for Old Pop!" cried half a store, and, settling a huge sack upon the count-dozen voices, as his familiar form, arrayed in er, accost him withthe unfamiliar cloak, advanced to meet them. them into line at the foot of the hermit's hill. This tremendous feat of drill-sergeantry finally accomplished, the procession commenced its ascent. "Give me picture-books for the babies-blue A startled, half-way response was the result. pictures, red pictures. 'Hey diddle-diddle, the Most of the children were too surprised, too exCats and the Fiddle'-'Old Mother in a Shoe'-pectant, to take up a new idea suddenly; but here, put them in this sack; I'll pay for them-when the top was fairly reached, and their host 'Bean-stalks and Giant-killers-"" Was Memory taking him back to his own boyhood, or was she busy with later years? That night-it was Christmas-eve-the Christchild sought the sleeper again, still with the same holy radiance, the same human love beaming from its eyes. received them with a hearty welcome and extended arms; and when, above all, they saw what had been prepared for them, shout after shout rent the air. "Oh what a beautiful tree! Hurrah! Three cheers for Old Pop! Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" Dozens of the frantic little creatures rushed up to where Old Pop had seated himself, and threw "I have come to play with thee," said the their arms about his neck. Elsie was foremost silvery voice. The old man felt his infirmities fall away as, with a bounding heart, he sported with the child, and, in a shower of golden light, chased it round and round the hemlock-tree before his door. When at last he clasped it in his arms the little one nestled in his bosom, saying: among them. "Poor Old Pop! dear Old Pop!" she whispered, pressing her rosy cheek close to his sunken face, "why, you're crying, and there you've made us all so happy!" After a moment the old man walked forward, trembling with newly-found happiness. "Thou knowest me now-peace be thine!" With these sweet words still lingering in his ear the sleeper awoke, a new life flowing in his veins, and the glorious Christmas dawn flood-tree in Old Pop's name?" ing the eastern sky with splendor. "Mr. Schoolmaster," said he, "you know the wants of these little creatures better than I do; will you give them each something from the It was to be a busy day with Old Pop; for he had much to do at home (yes, home now, since love hallowed it), and he must be in the village betimes to confer with his only male acquaintance, the schoolmaster. A notice, in great, dazzling letters, was stuck upon the school-room door: It was beautiful to see the merry crowd sobered in a moment by their new friend's emotion, and the almost reverence with which they regarded him as he stood there holding Elsie's hand. As the schoolmaster approached the tree all eyes were turned upon it with renewed interest; and well they might be, for never was Christmastree more generously laden. It was the same CHILDREN, ONE AND ALL, TO VISIT HIM TO-DAY, ON THE hemlock that had stood, phantom-like, in the RINGING OF THE SCHOOL-HOUSE BELL, AT NOON." "THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS INVITES HIS FRIENDS, THE early dawn like the shadow in the old man's He stopped short, glaring wildly upon them. "Oh!" cried Elsie, shuddering, "do not look Speak to me-speak to me--for the dear Christ-child's sake do not look so!" so. heart. Now, in the pure daylight, every deli- | "she died; died alone and uncared for; no friend, cate fibre quivered with its fullness of life even not one to-" in the frost of mid-winter, and from Heaven's own fountain the riched sunshine poured upon it, tipping every branch with molten light. No need of waxen candles there. Glowing and sparkling in the sunlight hung "toys and all kinds of beautiful things" in abundance; not a color of the rainbow but peeped out from the labyrinth of green. Not a branch but was heavy with "things that boys or girls would like;" and I do believe that, with clearer than mortal eyes, all might have seen a sweet image of the Christchild hovering above the tree. The silence was broken by the schoolmaster, who, true to his calling, shouted in a brave, class-day tone, "Take your places! Boys on this side of the open space, girls on the other!" It is useless to dwell further upon the scene, or to attempt to describe the delight of each young heart when, in the name of Old Pop, the gifts were distributed one by one. We must hasten to the moment when, after many a hearty "Thank you, Sir!" and round after round of "Cheers for Old Pop!" shouted in every possible treble note, the joyous little folk ran down the hill laughing, chatting, congratulating each other upon their pretty gifts and the blessed change in Old Pop; while the trembling old man stood near the hemlock, between Elsie and the schoolmaster, watching them until fairly out of sight. "We must go now, my friend," said the schoolmaster, extending his hand; "for I promised this little girl's mother to take her home before sundown." Elsie clung to Old Pop's hand. "Come with us," she urged; "do come: we can not go and leave you here alone on these cold hills." "But I am not alone any more, my child," said the old man, gently, stroking Elsie's curls as he spoke. "Oh! I am so glad. I shall love the dear Christ-child more than ever now!" cried Elsie. "I knew he would come to you on Christmas eve. But you won't surely stay here by yourself now that every body will love you?" "Every body, child?" "Yes, every body; why not? But why do you always call me 'child?' My name is Elsie." The hermit gave a sharp cry, and would have fallen had not the schoolmaster held him with his strong arm. "Elsie," he repeated, in a whining voice, as they led him into the warm hut, "I-I had a little girl called Elsie once; where is she? Oh! she is gone, gone!" The schoolmaster bent over him soothingly. "My friend, God is good: there is some balm for this trouble if you will wait his time. Come with us; come!" The old man bowed his head upon Elsie's shoulder, sobbing like a little child. "Poor Old Pop!" she murmured, patting his arm softly. "There now, you will come; I know you will. Mother will be so good, so kind to you-she is to every body, though she has never seen you. Say you'll come: it's too lone." "Elsie!" shouted the schoolmaster, who had walked to the door for an instant, "there is your mother coming up the hill; your long absence has alarmed her." Elsie gave a joyous cry. "Oh! I am glad she is coming. Now you will see mother," she whis pered to the old man, in a tone that implied that "seeing mother" was a balm for every earthly ill. "Come in," said the schoolmaster, holding wide the door. "Elsie is here, safe with her friends; forgive me for not taking her to you long ago. But how did you find us?" "The village boys showed me the way," panted the mother as, flushed with her rapid walk over the hills, she walked up to Elsie, throwing a quick look of curiosity upon the old man as she spoke. He raised his head suddenly at the voice. "Elsie!" screamed the mother, "who is this?" "Who? mother. Why Old Pop that used to chase us children you know, but he's real good now. I love him ever so m-" Even while she was speaking the old man, after staring fixedly at the comely woman like one in a puzzled dream, staggered toward her with outstretched arms. "Elsie! Elsie!" "Father!" Locked in each other's arms, laughing and crying by turns, they could not see the look of wonderment in the child's eyes, or even hear the schoolmaster's solemn ejaculation, "God is good!" That night father, daughter, and grandchild sat together by a cheerful hearth in the village -Elsie's home, where for the past four months she had lived alone with her mother. It would require a volume to detail all the circumstances that had caused the long separation and final meeting of father and daughter. Raising his head, he looked yearningly into It must suffice to say that Old Pop's real name the child's face. He shook his head. "No, no-not like my Elsie-she was taller -her eyes were darker-black hair-she was all I had-but she left me. She did come back once, but I drove her away; and then, then," he continued, raising his voice almost to a scream, was Robert Hall; that, years ago, his wife had died, soon after the birth of their only child, Elsie, who had grown up a motherless girl, willful, but warm-hearted and generous. In time she had loved and married against her father's wishes, and was forbidden to enter his doors again. Once after her marriage she had tried to win his forgiveness, and was repulsed in bitterness. This was her last attempt. All the pride of her nature aroused, her married life but a mockery of the love that had been promised her, she went forth into the world with her husband, without an anchorage in the old home where she had passed her happy girlhood. New interests had led her uncongenial husband hundreds of miles away into the Western country; and when, in a few years, he died, leaving his young widow alone with her infant, she had drifted about, lifted above want, yet feeling that not a spot on earth was her rightful home. Meanwhile the poor father, with that blindness which sometimes falls upon noble natures, had resolutely closed his heart against his child. When, at last, he tried to learn her fate, all he could gather were vague accounts tending to show that she had died childless in the Far West, in sorrow and in want. The rest may be readily conjectured. "Well, Elsie, I'll tell you a fine compliment Henry has paid me. "A compliment!" clapping her hands. "What was it, grandfather?" "He says I am looking twenty years younger than I did last winter. What do you say to that-hey?" "I say it's no compliment at all," returned the petted child, with a pretty pout. "You were just right always.” "No, no, not always; not before you came to me, darling, in my desolation and sinfulness came to cheer a lonely, cross old man. What blessed Providence, my little girl, brought us together?" "It was the Christ-child, grandfather," cried Elsie, earnestly. "Oh, it was the Christchild!" DRIFTING APART. UT of sight of the heated land, “Good-evening, Mr. Hall,” said the school-Over the breezy sen, master, walking into Dame Elsie's cozy parlor with the air of a privileged friend. "Why, how well you are looking! and so spruce too! Why, I declare you are twenty years younger than you were last winter." "Yes, yes; younger, stronger in every way. There is nothing like happiness for working these changes, my friend," replied the glad-eyed old man, shaking his neighbor's hand warmly while he was speaking. "Ha! ha! and Elsie too-she does not look very miserable either, if I see aright." Dame Elsie laughed and blushed at this direct assault, while the schoolmaster answered the mischievous twinkle in the father's eye with, "No, indeed, Sir; and she never shall be miserable if you and I can help it." There seemed more to be said upon this point; but as the schoolmaster whispered it rather softly, and did not say it either to us or to our old friend, perhaps it does not concern us. Grandfather might possibly have fallen into a doze by the open window if a sunny-haired little lassie had not run into the room just then, and taken her accustomed seat upon his footstool. “Oh, grandfather!" she began, "such a time as the boys had to find him! But they caught him at last; and where do you think he had strayed to?" "I'm sure I don't know, my dear; but I felt sure enough of him, with every boy in the village on the look-out." "Well, grandfather, you'll never guess. Why, they found him on the top of Hemlock Hill, where the dear old hut is, you know (I gave it that name, grandfather). Yes, there he was, browsing away, just as happy as you please.” "You must thank the boys for me, Elsie― God bless them!" "I will," she answered. father, tell me something." "And now, grand Into the reach of the solemn mist, The sky was blue as a baby's eye When it falleth apart in sleep, Hovered all day in our sluggish wake Like the love of a human thing. The day crept out at the purple west, To startle the dreamy air. The mist behind and the mist before, And drift to its haunted rest. But the mist was behind; and the mist before And we turned our faces toward the dark, So, with foreheads fronting the far-off south, For the sea and the sky met every where, Thou art in the royal, radiant land That stretcheth across the sea, |