Chapter III: BEN (4)

As soon as the people and the chickens and donkeys and wasps and cows and all the others were seated, side by side, in two long rows, the magician gave out the first word. It was "Roe-dough-mon-taide"--at least that was the way he pronounced it. The king and the queen were at the heads of the two lines, and it was their duty to begin,--first the king, and then the queen, if he missed.

But neither of them had ever heard of the word, and so they didn't try. Then one of the wasps tried, and afterward a ram, a rabbit, and the head ninny-hammer; but they made sad work of it. Then each one of the company made an effort and did his, her or its very best, but it was of no use; they could not spell the word.

Uprose then the little chicken that had stood on his mother's back and tried to crow in tune with his father, and he cried out: "Give it up!"

"Wrong!" said the magician. "That's not it. You are all now under the influence of a powerful spell. Here you will remain until some one can correctly answer my question."

They are all there yet. How long would you, my reader, have to sit on the grass before you could spell that word?

SCRUBBY'S BEAUTIFUL TREE.

BY J.C. PURDY.

I.

"Papa!"

"Well, dear!"

"Wont to-morrow be Kissmuss?"

"Why, no, darling! We had Christmas-day long ago. Don't you remember?"

"Yes; but you said we'd have another Kissmuss in a year, and then I'd have such a pitty tree. I'm sure it's a year. It _is_ a year, papa; and it takes so awful long to wait for some time--it's jess a noosance. I fink ole Kriss was drefful mean not to let me have a tree only cos we'd got poor. Wasn't we ever poor before, papa? Don't he give trees to _any_ poor little girls? I _do_ want a tree--sech a pitty one, like I used to have!"

It was little Scrubby said all that. She was only four years old, but she could say what she had to say in her own fashion. When she saw her father's sorrowful face, she thought she had said rather too much this time; so she gave him a hug and put up her mouth for a kiss.

"I dess I can wait, papa," she said. "But he will bring me a tree _next_ Kissmuss, wont he? Jess like I used to have? And then wont that be nice! There's my baby waked up. She'll be cryin' in a minute, I s'pose."

Old Lucy, the dearest baby of all in this little girl's large family, was taken up and quieted; and then something happened that was really wonderful. Scrubby, with her poor torn and tangled doll in her arms, sat very still for at least five minutes. The little maid was thinking all that time. She did not think very straight, perhaps, but she thought over a great deal of ground, and settled a good many things in that busy little head of hers; then she sang them all over to good old Lucy.

"Hush, my dear!" she sang. "Don't stay long, for it beats my heart when the winds blow; and come back soon to your own chickabiddy, and then Kissmuss'll be here. S'umber on, baby dear. Kriss is coming with such a booful tree; then wont you be s'prised? She went to the hatter's to get him a coffin, and when she come back he was fixin' my Kissmuss-tree!"

The little singer grew so enthusiastic when she came to the tree that she could not wait to sing any more; so she just danced Lucy up and down and chattered to her as fast as her tongue could go.

"It'll be for me and for you, Lucy, and for all the babies, and then wont you be glad! And for mamma too, and for papa, cos we's all good little chillen, if we _is_ poor. Yes, indeed, Ole Kriss is coming with his reindeer. And he'll bring me a horse with pink shoes on; and you'll have a piano--a _really_ piano, ye know; and mamma, she'll have two little glass s'ippers, and--and--"

Little Scrubby stopped chattering just there, and laid her head down on poor old Lucy's kind bosom.

"Oh dear!" she sighed, "I do _wish_ ole Kriss'd come with that pitty tree!"

The kitten curled up on the hearth, and the little broken dog that lay tipped over in the corner, and good old Lucy, and the three dolls tucked up in mamma's basket, all heard the wish of the poor little disappointed child.

II.

Everybody has noticed that the kittens and the dogs take a great many naps in the day-time, and that the dolls and toy-animals let the children do the most of the playing. That is because the pets and the toys are tired out and sleepy after their doings the night before, when the children were asleep and the grown people out of the way. They have rare sprees all by themselves, but just as soon as any person comes about, the fun stops,--the cat and the dog are sound asleep, the dolls drop down anywhere still as a wood-pile, and the rocking-horse don't even switch the ten hairs left in his tail.

As for talking, though, they might chatter all the time and nobody be the wiser. People hear them, but not a soul knows what it is. Mamma sticks paper into the key-hole to keep out the wind that whistles so, papa takes medicine for the cold that makes such a ringing in his head, and Bridget sets a trap to catch the mouse that "squales and scrabbles about so, a body can't slape at all, 'most;" and all the while it is the dolls and pets laughing and talking among themselves.

The bird in the cage and the bird out-of-doors know what it is. Very tame squirrels and rabbits understand it; and the poor little late chicken, which was brought into the kitchen for fear of freezing, soon spoke the language like a native.

Scrubby understood all that any of them said, and they all understood her and liked her immensely. Even the plants in the window would nod and wink and shake out their leaves whenever she came about.

After little Scrubby and everybody else in the house had gone to bed that night, Minx, the kitten, came out from behind the broom, and prancing up to the little pasteboard and wool dog that lay tipped over in the corner, pawed him about until he was as full of fun as herself. Then she jumped upon the table and clawed the three dolls out of mamma's work-basket, sending them all sprawling on the floor.

They were a sad-looking lot of babies, anyway. There was Peg, knit out of blue, red and yellow worsted, and with black beads for eyes. She was a good deal raveled out, but there was plenty of fun in her yet, after all.

Then there was Francaise. She was a French girl, who had been brought from Paris for Scrubby before that bad time when papa "got poor." She had been very elegant, but now her laces were torn, her hair would never curl again, one arm swung loose, and her head wobbled badly; but, for all that, she was still full of lively French airs. Lyd was the last of the lot. Poor thing! She had been such a lovely wax blonde: but now the wax had all melted off her cheeks, she was as bald as a squash, one eye had been knocked out, and, worst of all, she had not a stitch of clothes on. Scrubby had brought her to this plight; but, for all that, Lyd loved the very ground Scrubby tumbled over; and so did all the rest of them, for that matter, never caring how much she abused them in her happy, loving way.

Very soon high fun was going on in that room, and it is a wonder the neighbors did not come in to see what the uproar meant; but nobody heard it.

Yes, Ned, the bird, heard it, took his head out from under his wing, and laughed at the fun until he almost tumbled out of his cage. The lively dog, Spot, heard it out in his shed, too, and whined at the door until Jumping Jack contrived to undo the latch and let him in. The little late chicken heard it also, hopped out of his snug basket, and was soon enjoying himself as much as if they were all chickens and it was a warm spring day.

Lucy heard it, too; but Scrubby had taken Lucy to bed with her, and had her hugged up so tightly that the kind old baby couldn't get away, and had to lie there and listen and wait.

They were having a good time in that room. The rocking-horse had been hitched to the little wagon, and Jumping Jack was driver; Miss Francaise had climbed into the wagon, and was sitting there as gracefully as she could, trying to hold her head steady; she had the pasteboard dog for a lap-dog, while Peg and Lyd sprawled on the wagon-bottom, and Minx stood upon the horse's back like a circus-rider.

And so they went tearing around the room in fine style, Spot racing with them and wagging his tail till it looked like a fan. Ned fairly shouted in his cage, and the chicken jumped on a chair and tried his best to crow.

After a while, Spot grabbed up a piece of paper from one corner, and began to worry it. The fine Francaise saw that and tumbled out of the wagon in a minute, as if she were only a very quick-tempered little girl. She snatched the paper away from Spot and snapped out: "You sha'n't spoil that! It's Scrubby's letter!"

The horse had stopped now, Jumping Jack jerked himself up to the astonished dog, and said, very severely: "Spot, aint you ashamed to worry anything that belongs to our Scrubby? I'll put you out if there's any more of it."

"It's too bad, so it is," said Peg.

Lyd began to cry with her one eye, while Ned stopped laughing and went to scolding; the chicken put his claw before his face, as if ashamed of such a dog, and even the horse shook his head.

Poor Spot was under a cloud.

"I didn't know it was anything Scrubby cared for, and I don't believe it is, either," he snapped.

"I saw Scrubby write it," said Minx, "and she stuck the pencil in my ear when she'd finished."

"She was sitting on us when she wrote it," said Peg and Lyd together.

"Yes, and she held me on her lap and read it to me when it was done," put in Francaise.

"Of course it's her letter," spoke up the rocking-horse. "Don't you remember, Fran, she hitched it to my bridle and told you to ride right off and give it to old Kriss when he came around?"

"You're a nice crowd!" growled Spot. "Every one of you knew all about this, and left it kicking around on the floor! You _are_ a nice crowd! I'll take charge of it myself now, and see that old Kriss gets it. He can't read it, of course. Nobody could read that; but it shows how much _you_ all think of Scrubby."

Spot had the best of it now; but the French lady spoke up in a way that put the others in good spirits right off, and made honest Spot feel as if he had been sat down upon.

"Perhaps some people can read, if you cant," she said, "_I_ can read that letter for you, and for old Kriss too, if he wants me to."

She could not read a word, but she opened out the scribbled sheet in fine style, and just repeated what she had heard Scrubby say. And this is what Scrubby tried to put in the letter:

OLE KRISS: I want a tree, please, ole Kriss, _right away_. And lots
of pitty things. And glass s'ippers for mamma. And moss under it,
and animals, jess like I used to have. And a pink coat for papa,
and not wait for some time, cos that's a noosance.

It was very queer how they all acted when they heard the letter. There was not another cross word said--or a word of any kind for that matter. Not one of them even looked at the others, and it was not until poor Spot gave a big snuff that each of them found out that the rest were crying.

"Well, I know what _I'm_ going to do," said Minx, at last. "I'm just going to get that child a tree; that's what I'm going to do."

"And I'm going to help you," Francaise said, as heartily as if she were not a fine lady at all. "She ruined my dress, and tore my lace, and put my hair in such a state as never was; but I don't care. She wants a tree, and she's going to have it."

"You ought to have heard how she talked to her papa and old Luce to-night," sobbed the one-eyed baby. "It was enough to break a body's heart."

"We did hear her," they all snuffled.

Then they wiped their eyes, and a minute afterward, with much chatter, they began to make preparations for getting the tree.

All but Spot. Scrubby had used him the worst of all, she loved him so. She had pulled every hair on him loose, and had twisted his tail until it hung crooked; and yet Spot could not speak or do anything for crying over little Scrubby's grief.

III.

Pretty soon, Lucy, who had listened to as much of this talk as she could, heard the whole party go out of the back door and start off somewhere. She was in a great state of mind about it. Not for anything in the world would she waken Scrubby; but oh! how she longed to tumble down-stairs and rush off after the rest!

What a party it was that did go out of that back door! And in what style they went! Ned, the canary, was the only one left behind; and those who couldn't walk, rode. For they had hitched the horse to Scrubby's little battered sled, and made a grand sleighing party of it.

Jumping Jack drove, of course. The French lady had the seat of honor on the sled, and much trouble she had to keep it, for there was nothing to hold on by, and her head was so loose that it nearly threw her over.

Lyd had wrapped a dish-towel about her, and felt very comfortable and well-dressed; while Peg had come just as she was, and they both rolled about on the sled in a very dangerous fashion.

The late chicken held on with his claws to the curl of the runner, and flapped his wings and squawked every time the sled plunged a little in the snow. Minx rode horseback as before, while Spot went afoot, jumping and barking, and snapping up a mouthful of snow every few minutes.

But not one of them knew where they were going, or what they were going to do. They meant to get Scrubby a tree somehow, and that was all they knew about it.

At last, Peg said (Peg was a very sensible baby, if she _was_ raveled out):

"What are we going to do, anyhow?"

"Why, we're going to get a tree for Scrubby," they all answered.

"Well, what kind of a tree?--and where?"

That was a poser. None of them had thought so far as that. At last, Minx said:

"Why, any kind--somewhere."

"There are plenty of trees in France," said Francaise.

"Then that's the place for us to go," said Jumping Jack; and at once they raced off to the end of the garden, on their way to France.

"This aint the way, after all," Minx said, when they got to the fence. "The world comes to an end just over there. I got up on the fence one day, and there was nothing beyond but a great, deep hole."

"There's no use going off this other way," Spot put in, "for there's nothing over there but a big lot of water with a mill standing by it. I was over there one day."

"Then that is our way," said the French lady, decisively. "That is the ocean. I know they brought me across the ocean, and I was awfully sick all the way."

That last rather discouraged them, for nobody wanted to get awfully sick if there was any other way to find Scrubby's tree; so they concluded not to go to France.

"Well, let's go somewhere, for I'm getting cold," peeped the chicken; and then there was a great discussion. At last, Spot said:

"We _are_ a stupid lot! There's that sparrow comes about the door every day--he could tell us all about trees in a minute if we could find him."

Minx knew where the sparrow kept himself, for she always watched him with an eye to business.

"But," she said, "some of the rest of you will have to talk to him, for he'll never let me come near him."

So then the chicken called to the sparrow, and the sparrow answered. The matter was explained to him, and the bird fluttered down among them as much excited as anybody.

"It's for little Scrubby, eh?" he said. "What in the world does she want a tree for? I know. It's because she is half bird herself--bless her heart!--and she likes trees just like any other bird. And don't she come to the door every morning and give me crumbs and talk to me so friendly? Of course, I'll help find a tree for her."

But he had not found one yet, and so the chicken told him.

"I don't know," he said. "Suppose I call Mrs. Squirrel. She can tell." And off he flew, and had the gray squirrel there in a minute, cold as it was.

Then they had to tell the story over again to Mrs. Squirrel and to Mr. Rabbit, who had also hopped along to see what the fuss was all about.

"Scrubby's got to have a tree, and that's all about it," chattered Mrs. Squirrel, as she whisked about in a state of great excitement. "I didn't know old Kriss could be so mean as that. Call _him_ a saint! And all because Scrubby's poor! Humph! Don't seem to _me_ she is so very poor. Didn't I give her those eyes she has? And didn't the robin give her his own throat? And hasn't she a sunbeam inside, that shines all through? And didn't Miss June roll up all the flowers she had, and a dozen birds beside, and wrap the whole bundle up in Scrubby's brown skin? I don't call that being so very poor, do you? Anyhow, she is not so poor but that she could make me feel jolly every time she came out-doors last summer to run after me and chatter to me."

The rabbit had been standing all this time with one cold foot wrapped up in his ear. He unfolded his ear now, and wiped his eyes with it.

"She almost cried," he said. "Just think of one of my little bunnies wanting anything she couldn't get, and crying about it! It just breaks my heart."

"Tree!" chirped the chicken.

"Yes," said Mrs. Squirrel, "why don't you go and get a tree for Scrubby? What do you all stand here for, chattering and doing nothing? I'd give her mine, only that great beech couldn't be got into the house."

"We wanted your advice," the sparrow suggested.

"Advice! You don't need any advice. Why don't you give her your own tree? That little Norway spruce is just the thing. Come along, and don't be so selfish!"

"I'm not selfish; but really Norway is not fit, and, besides, I don't believe he'll go."

"Nonsense! He's a beautiful tree, only there isn't much green on him; and of course he'll go, for we'll make him go," answered the very decided Mrs. Squirrel.

So they all whisked away to the sparrow's roosting-place. Norway was not in good health, that was evident. He was very thin, and his temper was in bad condition too; for when the sparrow asked him if he would please step out and come with them, he answered:

"Not much I wont! It's bad enough standing here in the ground, poorly as I am, without coming out there in the snow; and I'll not do it for anybody."

"Oh dear! Scrubby will be _so_ disappointed! What will she do?" they all cried out at once.

"What's that about Scrubby? What has Scrubby got to do with my catching my death-cold, anyhow?" asked Norway.

And then they told him the whole story. He hardly waited for them to get through before he broke out talking very fast.

"Why didn't you say so? How should I know it was for Scrubby? Of course, I'll go! I'd do anything for her. She did enough for me, I should think,"--and, as quickly as he could, he pulled his one foot out of the ground and hopped into the snow beside the horse. Then he went on talking. "You see if it hadn't been for Scrubby I wouldn't be alive at all. She heard somebody say that I needed to have the dirt loosened about my roots, and to have plenty of water. So she dug around me at a great rate, and watered me until I was almost drowned. She cut off a good many of my roots, and once she threw hot water all down this side of me; but she didn't know. I'm not much of a tree, I confess; but Scrubby did what _she_ could, and if she wants me she shall have me."

"Come on, then," said the chicken, "for I'm so cold my bill chatters." And they went.

It was a very funny procession they made going back to the house,--the horse prancing along with the sled, the three dolls taking a sleigh-ride in their queer way, Spot racing about everywhere with Minx on his back, and the tree hopping along after the sled as fast as his one foot could go. The chicken rode back on one of Norway's branches, and fluttered and squawked more than ever.

When they started, they looked about and called for the sparrow, Mrs. Squirrel, and Mr. Rabbit, but they had all disappeared; so the rest went back without them, shouting, laughing and singing.

IV.

It was a brave sight they saw when Jumping Jack opened the door to let the party in.

Luce had got away from her little bedfellow at last without waking her. She knew that the others had gone to get a tree for little Scrub, and she knew that a tree was just no tree at all without plenty of things to hang upon it. So she went to work, and by the time Jack opened the door she had a great deal done. It was astonishing how many things she had found to put on that tree; but then she had been rummaging among Scrubby's old playthings up in the garret.

There were old dolls, little and big; there were old toys of all sorts; there were pretty little pictures, and quantities of flowers made of bright paper. A great many of the things Scrubby had thrown aside so long ago they would be new to her now; and some of them mamma had put away very carefully, so that the little girl should not altogether spoil them.

Lucy had found them all and had brought them down-stairs; and now she had them in a heap on the floor, trying to keep them in order, for they were all very lively at being brought out again.

"Well, Luce, you _have_ done it!" Jack said.

"Of course, I have," answered Lucy. "Do keep that horse away, Jack, and not let him run over these babies."

"Oh dear!" squawked the chicken, and fluttered under the table, for these new-comers were all strangers to him.

Spot tried not to bark his astonishment and delight; Minx began to claw all the old dolls and toys about; the French lady walked away into a corner and waited to be introduced, while Lyd and Peg shook hands with their old cronies until it seemed as though they never would stop.

The tree had hopped into the room and stood there, not knowing what to do with himself. Lucy did not see him at first, being so busy with the rest; but as soon as she did see him, she gave him such a hug as nearly pulled him over.

"Oh, you dear old Norway! Did _you_ come? You're so good, and I'm so glad! Come up to the fire and get warm. Here, Jack, and Lyd, and Francaise, help me get this big foot-stool into the corner. It's getting awful late."

Lucy flew about in a ragged kind of way until she had all the rest flying about too, doing an amount of work nobody would have believed possible. They were all glad enough to do the work, but they needed just such a driving, thoughtful old body as Lucy to show them what to do and keep them at it.

The big foot-stool was put where Lucy wanted it, and Norway warmed his foot and hopped upon the stool, pushing himself as far back in the corner as he could get, to make sure that he would not fall.

Then Lucy climbed upon a chair in front of him, ready for business. She took Francaise up on the chair beside her to help arrange the things, for the French girl had excellent taste, and nobody could deny it. Lyd and Peg, and Minx and Spot, and even the chicken, brought the things to go on the tree, and faster, too, than they could possibly be used, while Ned shouted all manner of directions.

Poor Norway fairly bowed his head under the weight of all the things that were hung upon him. And it was astonishing how pretty those battered old dolls, broken toys, and torn flowers looked when upon the tree. There were so many, and they had been arranged so nicely, that they really did make a splendid show.

"But, oh dear!" Lucy sighed, when it was all done. "It's not your fault I know, Norway, and you are just as good as you can be; but if you only were not quite so thin, and were just a little bit greener! And then we've no moss to put under you. But we haven't any nice little animals to put on the moss, if we had it."

Just then, Jumping Jack heard a queer kind of noise outside, and opened the door to see what it was. In whisked Mrs. Squirrel; the sparrow hopped in close beside her, and Mr. Rabbit jumped along right after them.

"How are you getting on?" asked the gray lady. "I brought this along because I thought it might come handy. We laid in a great deal more than we needed for our nest last fall, and we could just as well spare it as not."

It was a big bundle of beautiful green moss she had brought, enough to spread all around under the tree and make a fine carpet.

"Oh, you dear, good old thing!" said Luce. "That is just exactly what we wanted. Here, Lyd! Peg! Help me spread this down."

"Chick," said the sparrow, "will you please take charge of this?"

And there was a great long vine of shining green ivy which the sparrow had dragged in with him from some place in the woods. Lucy was so delighted that she fairly clapped her brown leather hands.

"Quick, Francaise!" she cried. "Take this and twist it around the tree. Just the thing to hide poor old Norway's bare places. Oh, it's just lovely!"

All this time Mr. Rabbit had been holding his ears very straight up, and now he shook a couple of button-balls and some acorn-cups out of one, and a lot of mountain-ash berries out of the other.

"Do to hang around on the tree. Look kind of odd and nice," he said.

"Well, I should think so!" Luce answered. "I never did see such good creatures as you are; and we all thought you had gone home to bed."

Speaking of bed made the chicken gape a little, and they all remembered how late it was. They never stopped chattering and laughing for a minute; but they went to work harder than ever, and soon had all the moss spread down, the ivy twined over the tree, and the button-balls, acorn-cups, and berries hung up where they would show best.

Then Mr. Rabbit got up on the stool and nearly covered himself with moss; Mrs. Squirrel got under the tree and stood up on her hind-feet, with an acorn in her paws; Minx curled herself up in the funniest way on the moss; the sparrow flew up into the tree and began pecking at the mountain-ash berries; Francaise and Lyd and Peg all sat down as well as they could near the squirrel and the rabbit; Jumping Jack mounted the horse and rode around beside the tree, to stand guard; Spot stood up on his hind-legs just in front of the stool, with Scrubby's letter in his mouth, and the chicken hopped up on Spot's head.

Then good old Lucy started to go upstairs after Scrubby, but she got no further than the door. Scrubby had waked up and missed her dear old doll, so she had come down to look for her, and there she stood now, just inside the door, with her bright brown eyes wide open.

A minute before there had been only the scraggy little tree she had taken care of, the battered old toys, the torn dolls and the little pets she had played with and loved so well, the bird and the wild creatures she had fed and chattered to, and a little bit of ivy and green moss. But just as soon as she looked at them all, there was the most beautiful Christmas-tree that ever was seen.

It was very curious; but it was the light that did it--the light of her own happy eyes. It dies out of eyes that are older.

THE MINSTREL'S CAROL.

A CHRISTMAS COLLOQUY.

MR. and MRS. BURTON. TOMMY, _aged seven._ MAY, _aged five._ LUCY, _aged eighteen._

MR. and MRS. REMSEN. HARRY, } _Twins, aged_ SADIE, } _six._ PATRICK, _a hired man_.

_Scene: The Burtons' parlor on Christmas Eve_.

_Mr. B_. Tommy! stop making such a noise.

_Tommy._ Oh, I can't have any fun at all!

_Mr. B_. Why, yes you can. Look at all your toys scattered about. Play something quietly.

_Tommy_. Nobody to play with.

_Mr. B_. Play with your little sister.

_Tommy_. She's sitting in mamma's lap; besides, she's a girl. Oh, papa _[running to his father_] I wish the Remsens would come! I want to play with Harry.

_Mr. B._ [_hastily_]. Never mind, never mind! The Remsens will not come.

_May_. Why wont the Remsens come?

_Tommy_. Oh, dear me, there isn't anything nice to do!

_Mr. B_. Tommy, stop your whining. Don't say another word. May, don't speak of the Remsens again. They are not coming, and that's an end of it.

[_Enter_ LUCY.]

_Lucy_. What! tears on Christmas Eve, little May! And Tommy pouting! Oh, that'll never do! Come, cheer up! You'll have plenty of fun soon with Harry and Sadie.--It must be nearly time to send for the Remsens, father.

_Mr. B._ [_vexed_]. Don't speak of them again. They're not coming, and I don't want them. Why _will_ every one keep talking about them?

[_Enter_ PATRICK.]

_Mrs. B._ [_aside to Lucy_]. Mr. Remsen and your father have quarreled about a piece of land; so the Remsens are not to come this year.

_Mr. B_. Well, Patrick, what is it?

_Patrick_. Shure, the horse is ready, sir.

_Mr. B_. Horse ready? What for?

_Patrick_. To be goin' for the Rimsins, shure!

_Mr. B._ [_angrily_]. We are not going for the Remsens! What do you mean by acting without orders? Take the horse out at once!

_Patrick_. Widout orthers, is it? An' it's mesilf, thin, that hitched up the crather every Christmas Ave I've lived wid yous for to go for them same.

_Mr. B_. Don't answer, sir; do as I bid you.

_Patrick_ [_aside_]. It's plain the masther's rin his nose forninst something harrud. [_Exit._]

_Mrs. B._ [_going to Mr. B. and putting her arm about him, he sitting_]. Dear John, send for the Remsens, please. See how everything conspires to ask it of you, from the prattle of the children to old Patrick himself. It is Christmas Eve, dear! How can we teach the dear chicks to be kind to each other unless we set the example? Send for our old friends, John. They've been with us every Christmas Eve these many years. You'll settle your affair with Mr. Remsen all the better, afterward.

_Mr. B_. Why, Mary, would you have me crawl at the feet of a man who tries to overreach me?

_Mrs. B_. No, John! But stand on your own feet, and say: "Come, neighbor, let us do something better and wiser than hate each other."

_Mr. B_. I'll not do it. He has--

_Lucy_. Hark! What's that?

[_Music outside--the sound of a harp, or of a concealed piano played very softly. Then, to its accompaniment, is sung the following carol:_]

"Be merry all, be merry all!
With holly dress the festive hall,
Prepare the song, the feast, the ball,
To welcome Merry Christmas.

"And, oh! remember, gentles gay,
To you who bask in fortune's ray
The year is all a holiday:--
The poor have only Christmas.

"When you the costly banquet deal
To guests who never famine feel,
Oh spare one morsel from your meal
To cheer the poor at Christmas.

"So shall each note of mirth appear
More sweet to heaven than praise or prayer,
And angels, in their carols there,
Shall bless the poor at Christmas."

_Lucy_. Oh, what a beautiful carol! I'll call in the minstrel.

_Mrs. B_. Yes, run Lucy! [_Exit_ LUCY.]

_Mr. B_. Set a chair by the fire, Tommy.

[_Enter_ LUCY, _with old minstrel carrying harp_.]

_Minstrel_. Good even, gentle folks, and a merry Christmas to you all!

_Mrs. B_. Come sit by the fire. Tommy placed the chair for you. It is cold outside.

_Minstrel_. Thank you kindly, ma'am. So Tommy set the chair for the old man? Where is Master Tommy? Ah, there's my little man! Come here, Tommy. That's right. So, up, on my knee. Why, that's a bright face now! And it ought to be bright, too; for this is Christmas Eve, merry Christmas Eve, the children's happy time. Tommy, I remember when I was as young as you are. I had a little sister.

_Tommy_. I have a little sister, too.

_Minstrel_. Oh, you have a little sister, eh! Where is she, then?

_Tommy [pointing]._ Over there, in the corner.

_Minstrel_. Bless my old eyes, so she is! Run and bring her, Tommy.

[TOMMY _runs, and returns leading and coaxing_ MAY.]

_Minstrel_ [_setting one on each knee_]. Now, good folks, if you'll let me, I'll tell these little people a story of Jesus when he was a little boy. It is called "The Holy Well."

[_They group themselves about the minstrel_.]

Early one bright May morning, Jesus, then a little boy of ten or twelve years, awoke, and at once remembered that it was a holiday. His eyes, bright with the morning light, sparkled yet more brightly at the thought. There would be no school, no work. All the people would keep the feast. He knew, too, that on that day, the boys of his age would assemble betimes to play together at The Holy Well. So, brimful of joyful expectation, he ran to ask his mother's leave to go and join in the merry games. Soon he was on his way, and he quickened his steps when he came in sight of the troops of happy children running hither and thither in their sports. Drawing nearer, he stood still a little while, watching the games with pleased and eager eyes. Then he called out: "Little children, shall I play with you, and will you play with me?" Now, these boys and girls were the children of rich parents, and lived in much finer houses than the one Jesus had for a home. They had handsome clothes, too, and everything of the best. So they looked on the plainly dressed stranger, the son of a poor carpenter, and bade him begone, saying: "We will not play with you, or with any such as you!" What a rebuff was that! The poor, sensitive little lad had not expected it, and his tender feelings were hurt. His eyes filled with tears; and running home as fast as he could, he laid his head in his mother's lap, and sobbed out to her the whole story. Then Mary was angry with the ill-natured children, and told her son to go back and destroy them all by his word; for she believed that her beautiful boy could do such things. But, surely, if he could have harbored that thought, he would not have been beautiful; and so, when his mother spoke, her words drew away his thoughts from himself to the children who had grieved him. He knew that they had never really known him, and so could not have understood what they were doing. Therefore he said to his mother that he must be helpful and gentle to people, and not destroy them. And that was the way with him to the very end. For when, years after, the people (perhaps among them some of those same children grown-up) were putting him to death on a cross, he bethought him again that they did not really know him, and prayed: "Father, forgive them; they know not what they do." And, even before then, he had told all people to love their enemies, and forgive and be good to one another. If he had not done all that, Christmas would not be so happy a time for us.

_Mrs. B._ [_approaching her husband and laying her hand on his shoulder_]. John, is not he right?

_Mr. B._ [_who has been lost in thought, starting and abruptly walking aside_]. He is right! So are they all. [_Turning about_.] Dear wife, Lucy, Tommy, May, you shall be happy! We'll have the Remsens! I say, we'll have our dear old friends. Patrick shall harness the horse at once, and--[_The Minstrel suddenly strips off his disguise and reveals himself as_ MR. REMSEN.] What! Remsen! Is that you?

_Mr. R_. No need to harness up, old friend. Here I am! Ah! I knew how it would be.

_Tommy_ [_capering about_]. Hi! Hi! Ho! Isn't it great, May? I shall have Harry to play with.

_May_ [_clapping_]. And I shall have Sadie.

_Lucy_. Oh, what a delightful surprise! Oh, Mr. Remsen, I am glad, so very glad, that you have come. We will send for the others at once.

_Mr. R_. Why, they're all here, too. You may be sure we all came together. [_Opening the door._] Come! come in! It's all right, as we knew it would be.

[_Enter_ MRS. REMSEN _and her children_, HARRY _and_ SADIE, _who immediately run to_ TOMMY _and_ MAY.]

_Mrs. B. [to Mrs. R_.] Welcome, welcome, dear friend! This _is_ kind.

_Lucy_. Now Christmas Eve is what it ought to be.

_Mrs. R_. Oh, Mrs. Burton, I am happy again now. I was afraid that Christmas would not bring love and joy for us this year. We could not help coming. Old memories were too strong for us.

_Mr. R. to Mr. B_. Ah! neighbor, it's a sad thing to interrupt that "peace on earth" of which the angels sung. There's my hand; take it kindly.

_Mr. B_. And there's mine, with all my heart. We'll not let a bit of land divide old friends.

_Mr. R_. Aye, aye! We'd better divide the land.

_Mr. B_. It seems easy to settle now. But no more of that to-night. Come, let us sing our Christmas carol. It will be sweeter than ever. Take your harp, friend, and turn minstrel again for the occasion.

With wond'ring awe,
Tho wise men saw
The star in Heaven springing,
And with delight
In peaceful night,
They heard the angels singing,
Hosanna, Hosanna
Hosanna to His name!

By light of star,
They traveled far
To seek the lowly manger;
A humble bed
Wherein was laid
The wondrous little stranger.
Hosanna, hosanna,
Hosanna to His name!

And still is found,
The world around,
The old and hallowed story;
And still is sung
In every tongue
The angels' song of glory:
Hosanna, hosanna,
Hosanna to His name!

The heavenly star
Its ray afar
On every land is throwing
And shall not cease
Till holy peace,
In all the earth is glowing.
Hosanna, hosanna,
Hosanna to His name!

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

A MERRY CHRISTMAS to you, my darlings! It's cold weather--too cold for any but a Scribner Jack-in-the-Pulpit to be out-of-doors--but our hearts are green, and there's a fine bracing air.

Christmas will not be here when you first get the December magazine, I know, but ST. NICHOLAS likes to get a good start. He has Dutch blood in his veins, and he knows well that in Holland St. Nicholas' Day comes on the 6th of December.

So, just think of the dear Dutch youngsters, and what a happy holiday they keep on the 6th,--for that is their season of gift-giving,--and when the 25th comes to you, with its holy, beautiful light, and its home joys, you'll be all the more ready to give it welcome.

Now for

A WINDFALL.

Here is a copy of a printed scrap thrown to me by a high wind the other day. It isn't of very much use to a Jack-in-the-Pulpit; so I hand it over to you, my chicks. It strikes me that it has the gist of some of Deacon Green's remarks, and that somehow it doesn't come under the head of what is called "pernicious reading":

"GOOD ADVICE FOR THE YOUNG.--Avoid all boastings and exaggerations,
backbiting, abuse, and evil speaking; slang phrases and oaths in
conversation; depreciate no man's qualities, and accept
hospitalities of the humblest kind in a hearty and appreciative
manner; avoid giving offense, and if you do offend, have the
manliness to apologize; infuse as much elegance as possible into
your thoughts as well as your actions; and, as you avoid
vulgarities, you will increase the enjoyment of life, and grow in
the respect of others."

KING ALFRED AND THE CAKES.

Here is a story which I heard a girl tell her little sister the other day, but I don't believe the girl told it altogether right. Can any of my youngsters straighten it out? This is the story:

King Alfred, after his fatal defeat at Marston Moor, having taken refuge in an oak-tree, was so absorbed in watching a spider which had tried to weave its web eleven times and succeeded on the twelfth, that he allowed the cakes to burn; whereupon, the herdsman's wife, rushing in, exclaimed:

"Oh, Diamond! Diamond! what mischief hast thou done?"

To which he meekly replied: "I cannot tell a lie; I did it with my little hatchet."

"Take away," cried she, "that bauble!"

"I have done my duty, thank heaven!" said he, but he never smiled again.

A LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I should like to tell the Little
Schoolma'am about _our_ little schoolma'am.

She is a young lady of about twenty-one years, and looks too
delicate to govern such a school. But she does it; and though as
fond of fun as any of us at the right time, yet in school she
insists on attention to business, and will not tolerate idleness or
disobedience. She is very kind and gentle, but firm and decided,
and we all know that she means what she says, and must be obeyed
implicitly. She says she wants us to love and trust her as a
friend, and we do. Out of school she seems as young as we do, for
she is full of fun and likes us to have a good time. She tries to
make school pleasant to us, and a while ago she put a box on her
desk, and said, when we had any questions to ask, or complaints to
make, we might write them on a slip of paper and put it in that
box, which was locked and had a hole in the top. Sometimes she
answers the questions publicly, and sometimes she writes them and
puts them in the "letter-box." The scholar who has the best record
for a month keeps the key the next month, and once a week opens the
box and distributes the contents. It is quite an honor to be
"postmistress," but no one can have it two months at a time. She
lets us make suggestions if we think of any improvements in the
school, and sometimes adopts them. Another of her plans is to allow
five minutes at the end of each hour when we may whisper, but not
talk out loud. If we wish to speak to any one we can leave our seat
and walk to them, if they are not near to us. But any one who
whispers, or communicates in any way at any other time, forfeits
this chance. I forgot to say that we put notes to each other in the
letter-box. We do like our little schoolma'am so much!--Yours
truly,

ALLIE BERTRAM.

AS IDLE AS A BIRD.

It is not so very long since I heard a little girl say that she "wished she could only be as idle as a bird."

Now, this was not a very lazy sort of wish, if she had but known it. There are very few little girls, or boys,--or grown-ups either, for the matter of that,--who are as industrious as the birds. How many people would be willing to begin their daily labors as early as the birds begin theirs--at half-past three o'clock in the morning--and keep on toiling away until after eight in the evening?

Think of it, my youngsters,--almost eighteen hours of constant work!

And the birds do it willingly, too; for it is a labor of love to bring dainty bits to their hungry little ones and keep the home-nest snug and warm.

One pair of birds that had been patiently watched from the first to the last of their long, long day, made no less than four hundred and seventy-five trips, of about one hundred and fifty yards each, in search of food for their darling chicks!

As idle as a bird, indeed!--with all that hunting, and fetching, and carrying, and feeding to do!

"OWN FIRST COUSINS."

Talking of birds, would you ever have thought it? The lovely and brilliant Bird of Paradise, I'm told, is "own first cousin" to the--Crows. And the Crows are not one bit ashamed to own the relationship! Very condescending of them, isn't it?

ORANGE GROVES ON ST. JOHN'S RIVER.

Ocala, Marion County, Fla., 1877.

DEAR JACK: I was on the St. John's River at work with my father
about three years ago. There were real wild-orange groves there,
and the trees bore sour and bitter-sweet fruit. I will now tell you
what I was doing on that river. I was pressing out the juice of the
sour oranges and boiling it, for making citric acid. We used a
cider press for pressing out the juice, and a copper cauldron for
boiling it. We shipped the acid to Philadelphia, and I do not know
what was done with it next.

These groves were inhabited by wild beasts, such as opossums, wild
cats, raccoons, deer, and, occasionally, bears and panthers.

The groves were situated on high mounds, made ages and ages ago, by
people of an ancient race known as "mound-builders." There were
always shells on the mounds, which in some instances appeared to be
made entirely of shells. Some mounds were fifty feet, or more,
above the surrounding country, and from two hundred to four hundred
yards in length.

Now, I dare say, you would like me to say of what kind these shells
were; but, as I never could find out for myself, I cannot tell you
what kind they were. They are unlike any that I have seen
elsewhere, and I think they do not belong to any living species of
to-day. Farewell, dear Jack!--Yours truly,

TROPIC.

THE BLIND CLERK.

DEAR JACK: Ever so many millions of letters are dropped into the
London Post-Office every year, but some are so badly addressed that
they never get out again. When a direction is so ill-written that
the sorters can't make it out, the letter is taken to a man they
call the "Blind Clerk," and he generally deciphers it. Why they
call him "blind" I don't know, for few addresses are beyond the
power of his sharp eyes to make out. Here is one that did not give
him much trouble; but can any of your young folks tell what it
means?

Sarvingle
Num for te Quins prade
Lunon.

I'll send you the "blind" man's solution next month. Meantime, here
is a puzzle for your merry crowd. You shall have an answer in that
same postscript; but I should like to have the Little Schoolma'am
and the rest work it out for themselves:

"I am constrained to plant a grove
To satisfy the girl I love;
And in this grove I must compose
Just nineteen trees in nine straight rows,
And in each row five trees must place,
Or never more behold her face.

Ye sons of art, lend me your aid
To please this most exacting maid."

This puzzle is so old that it probably will be new to thousands of
your young folks.--Yours truly,

M. B. T.

BIRDS CAUGHT BY SALT.

Yes. It's so; though I must say I felt inclined to laugh the first time I heard one boy tell another to put salt on a bird's tail by way of catching it. Now, however, word comes, all the way from California, that there is a lake there, called "Deep Spring Lake," whose waters are very salt; and that during certain conditions of the weather the water-fowl of the lake become so encrusted with salt that they cannot fly, and the Indians wade into the water and simply catch the birds with their hands. The coating taken from one duck weighed six pounds,--enough to have drowned it, even if its eyes and bill had not been so covered as to blind and choke it. When the weather is favorable for the formation of this crust upon the birds, the Indians do their best with fires and noise to keep them away from the few fresh-water streams where the poor things would be safe from the salt. Besides this, the savages imitate the cries and calls of the birds, so as to entice them to the dangerous part of the lake.

It seems to me that men must be very mean as well as very hungry to take advantage of the birds in that way. However, "circumstances alter cases," as the school-boy said when he had been "punished for his good" by mistake.

A SPELL UPON KEROSENE.

Bridgeport, Conn.

Dear Little Schoolma'am: One would think that the word "kerosene"
could not be a very difficult one for the average inhabitant to
write correctly; but it is. From the New York _Independent_ I learn
that the following versions of the word have actually been received
by the Portland Kerosene Oil Company in its correspondence:

Caracine, carecane, caroziene, carocine, cursene, carozyne,
coriseen, carosyne, caricien, carsine, caresene, carozine,
carocene, carosean, carycene, caresien, caraseen, caroscene,
crosen, carecene, carizoein, keriscene, karosin, kerocine,
keressean, keriseene, kerasene, kerosen, kereseen, kerison,
kerriseen, kerricene, keroseen, kerosine, karosina, keresene,
kerrsein, keroscene, kerose, kerasseen, kereson kerocene, kerozene,
kerrisene, kerryseen, kerissien, kersien, kerossein, keriscene.

Now isn't that astonishing?--Yours sincerely,

MARY N.G.

THE EYEBROW WORD.

What do you think this is? It is neither more nor less than the word "supercilious," which is derived from _supercilium_, the Latin for "eyebrow," as I heard the Little Schoolma'am tell the children not long ago.

When she had said this, one of the little girls, in a rather scornful, superior way, said, "I don't see any sense in that." Whereat the Little Schoolma'am and two or three of the bigger girls laughed, for the little girl had raised her eyebrow in a most "supercilious" expression, giving the best possible proof of the appropriateness of the word. For, certainly, it is hard for one's face to express a supercilious feeling without raising the eyebrow, or at least changing that part of the countenance which is over the eyelid.

SINCERE.

Here's one more derivation, while we are about it. I heard the other day that the bees, with the aid of Latin, have given us a beautiful word: "Sincere"--which is made of the words _sine-cera_, meaning "honey without wax."

Remember this, my chicks, and let your kind words and good actions be truly sincere,--pure honey, _sine cera_.

THE AUTHOR OF "HOME, SWEET HOME."