text: ;<■" ? vx\ w" ik\\\ /j / \ // ' '■ X<* *x iF< «•/■ //?/ Jill \ A\W * Mh&tr'" .-••• $%?-• '¥ f . 4^JI \\\S / / / \\\W *® - ; i -* aw WW. \’■\ V V BSs. A.«• Ths-~. WJw W& Anglr/ CXAVwCf.' ’ f ///Q \Mv'wKBk •'U 1 r%77 v - " i r IMbyb FnirgKl (CThLmstemm \\\ IIS ( Jt AT * Copyright Sy Underwood A Underwood SANTA’S II LIGHT I ! I By BERTHA E. BUSH. (Copyright, UU,4>y Wright A. Patterson.) 445J1 UT, mamma, Santa Claus can M go anywhere where there is snow. He has his sleigh, you know. And there is snow here, plenty of snow.” The sick woman, lying on the bed In the little pioneer cabin, looked at the white whirl of flakes that shut out all but the gray daylight from the little windows and shuddered. Yes, there was plenty of snow. You could not see even the dimmest outline of anything that was ten feet away. And n*7S3 MS 1's 8 OR B=S2 But Even Mark's Ghost was Welcome, somewhere out in the snow—she knew not where—her husband was traveling. Three weeks ago he had started to the nearest town 60 miles away for supplies. He had been sure that he would return in a week. Was he lying now under one of those huge white drifts? Was he out in this dreadful blizzard, perhaps freezing to death at this very A minute. She turned away from the window and moaned. She could not bear to answer the child. But Hattie, the hired girl, who never seemed to lose heart, answered cheerfully: “Land sakes, yes, there is plenty of snow, little. But you know Santa Claus is getting old. He can drive in the snow of course, but a howling blizzard like this might freeze him stiff. You’d better make up your mind not to get any Christmas presents this year, Lillie. You wouldn’t want dear old Santa Claus frozen to death.” “No, of course not. But papa goes out on the prairie. Why shouldn’t Santa Claus? Don’t you think he could get here with a light load? You know, when we came, we got stuck in the Roughs’ lots of times and papa unloaded the wagon and got it across empty. Don’t you think Santa Claus could do that?” “Yes, he shall,” said Hattie, with determination. She was only the hired girl who had come in friendly pioneer fashion to help the settler’s wife through her sickness; but to the inmates of the little cabin, she was a ministering angel. Strong and faithful and efficient, an angel could hardly have done more in that prairie home. Yet she did not look in the least like an angel as she put on the pioneer's old cap and coat, tied a red woolen scarf around her neck, drew old stockings over her shoes and floundered out through the drifts, stout and rosy in the wind, to do the chores for the night. Not a glimpse of the nearby barn could be obtained from the cabin door. Hattie tied a long rope to the door knob and carefully held the other end as she walked toward it. She pulled down hay and fed the stock and milked. She brought out pails full of the snow water she had melted in the big wash boiler for them to drink. She brought in a great supply of fuel and made everything outdoors and in as snug and cheery as possible. Then she cooked the supper—that did not take long for there was little to cook—and washed up the dishes and cared for the sick woman and the little babe. She put Lillie to bed in the queer little trundle-bed—the child chattering about Santa Claps every minute—and tucked her in as happy as if there were no fear or anxiety in the world; oh, what would the pioneer families have done without the “girls” of that time? The mercury ranged 4 and 5 degrees below zero. The storm outside howled with the fury of a legion of demons. In some drift out there in the Whiteness John Carver might be sinking to death now. The baby cried and the sick woman moaned. There was no lack of occupation for the young helper. Hattie’s strong arms held the child till it was quieted and at the same time heated flannels, brought water, smoothed pillows, and did everything that could be done for the anxious young mother. “Hattie, you haven’t anything to worry you,” cried the sick woman, enviously. “Not a thing except what worries other people,” answered Hattie. But she knew that all the time she carried beneath her songs and cheery words, a heartache that was as hard to bear as the young wife’s own. It was dark for whom her heartached. A year ago she had that by this time she and Mark had settled in a pioneer cabin. Her quilts were all quilted, her store of household goods was ready. But a coldness had come between them, and Mark had gone away— “back east where girls were plenty.” Since then she had been learning to live without him and it was a bitter Lesson. True she did not speak of it, not even to her best friends, but the ache was always there. Her work was done at last. She had time to look at little Lillie slumbering in her low trundle-bed with her stocking spread out trustingly on the pillow beside her. Now was the time for Santa Claus to come. But the sick mother was too ill and broken with anxiety to be bothered. There was nobody to fill that stocking but Hattie, and nothing to fill it with except what her girl’s wit might devise. She was very tired. All day she had been battling against storm and sickness, doing a woman's work and a man's too. Now she must do Santa Claus’ work. Was ever a Santa Claus so sleepy? Oh, what would she not give to throw herself on the bed, dressed as she was, and sleep? But there was no time for that. Santa Claus must come to the waiting child. She knew that in a little while the sick woman would rouse again and need her. Softly and wearily she lifted the one little drop-leaf table over the window farthest from the sick mother and placed the lamp upon it. Then she got out her precious, diminishing store of letter paper that had to be brought to her from 6 miles away, like the rest of the supplies, and the clumsy shears, and began to make paper dolls. Clip, clip, went the big shears. That and the rustle of the paper were the only sounds to be heard. Gradually she realized that the howling of the wind had ceased and the blizzard had gone down. Lillie’s words kept repeating themselves sleepily in her tired brain. “A light load.” Surely this Christmas gift would be light enough for Santa Claus to take anywhere. Clip, clip, went the shears, and wonderful creations fell from Hattie’s hands. There was a father with a miniature newspaper spread out before him. There was a mother with a miniature newspaper spread out before him. There were brothers and sisters. Snip—snip—Her hands went slower and slower until the last of the paper family trailed off into aimless cutting. Then Hattie's weary head sank down on the table and Hattie was asleep. Asleep and dreaming of Mark. In the daytime, she could keep the thought of him away from her with fierce determination. In the night, it would come. She was dreaming and she knew it. She had dreamed of him too often not to know. And in her dream, the door burst open and Mark stood before her. Of course, it could not be real. Or, rather, it was a dream of Mark’s ghost all deathly white. But even Mark’s ghost was welcome. There could not be any harm in embracing a ghost in a dream. She threw her arms around his neck— But this was no dream. It was too solid and it was too cold, it was a real man who stood before her, benumbed with cold, and covered with snow from head to foot. In a flash, she came out of her dream. It was well for Mark that she was just what she was, and that she knew what to do. She brought the great tub of melting snow-water, cut off the frozen footwear and mittens and plunged his feet and hands in it. She rubbed his face with snow. She made hot coffee—blessing the forethought that had kept the kettle filled with boiling water for the sick woman’s use—and forced him to drink it. Little by little life and strength came back to him and incoherent words. “Started—with Craver. He wanted—to see—his wife. I wanted—to see—you. Blizzard came up. Lost our way. Dug a hole in the snow and stayed two night. Went a long while—and came to Smith’s farm. Craver—too badly frozen—to go on. Will be all Right after awhile, but couldn't go on then. Wanted to like fury. Smith had to hold him back. Good thing. He couldn’t have come on his frozen feet. I—came on—alone. Got lost again. Been lost all day. Pretty near—gave out. Thought I'd have—to give up. So dark and cold. Saw—your light when wind went down. Came to—you.” The words might be jerky and disjointed, but Hattie understood it and never words sounded sweeter. “Santa Claus did come in the night,” chirruped Lillie. “I saw him. He was all white. And he brought me this.” She held up the precious paper doll family, “Aren’t they lubbly, I fought he could get from with a light load.” Then another thought came to her. “But he didn’t bring anything to you. Hattie. That’s too bad.” “No, no, it’s as good as it could be.” Hattie laughed out in pure joy. “He brought me the one thing. I wanted most in the world. And I shall be thankful to him every day I live; for if I had not kept my lamp burning in the window while I was working— I mean waiting for him—Mark would not have found the way.” Christmas Night. BY W. H. L. CHRISTMAS, crowned with mirth and cheer, Sweet magnet-night of all the year, From field and city, camp and foam, Where’er our loved ones absent. Crowd, Thy subtle spell from far and near Can draw them home. Gathered round thy friendly fire. Sisters, mother, sons, and sire Once more in fond affection meet, To love-set time their bosoms beat, And every hearth’s a happy quire Of singers sweet Copyright, iMt Brief Christmas It Was a Sure Proof of Lunacy. Rufus L. Griswold, the cieve land educator who holds that it is wrong to let children believe in Santa Claus, was arguing about his strange views at a dinner. “Why lie to children?” he asked. “Why let them believe in a myth? Whenever I hear mention of that loathed name of Santa Claus, I think of a lunatic. Some years ago I attended a trial. A witness was being examined as to the sanity of one of the inmates. “ ‘You hold that this inmate is insane, do you?’ a lawyer asked. “ ‘I do,’ was the firm reply. “ ‘Why are you so sure?' “ ‘The man,’ the witness said, ‘goes about asserting that he is Santa Claus.’ “ ‘And,’ said the lawyer, ‘you hold, do you, that when a man goes about asserting that he is Santa Claus, it’s a clear proof of his insanity?’ “ ‘I do.’ “‘Why?’ “ ‘Because,’ said the witness, in a loud, indignant voice, ‘I happen to be Santa Claus myself.’ ” Sample of American Christmas Push. SIR THOMAS LIPTON had been complimented by a New York reporter on the cup he had just offered. “I ought to offer a cup,” said the genial Briton, “to the retail shopkeeper who does the biggest Christmas trade. The size of your Christmas trade amazes me — its size. and the dexterity with which it is handled. “I heard the other day of a great Christmas bargain sale in Quincy. To one of the bargain counters a man was rash enough to venture. He struggled heroically a little while among the press, then, with a loud cry, he sank. “Help, help!” he shouted from the floor. "Help! My leg is broken.” The clerk, dextrous in the handling of Christmas crowds, got him. “And you'll find our Christmas splints and curthes, sir,” he said, “on the third floor back, fifth aisle to left.” In the interest of Peace on Earth.” ALFRED H. LOVE, the president of Universal Peace Union, told one day in Philadelphia a peace story. “At this Christmas season,” he said, “men talk sincerely about loving one another, about the universal brotherhood of man, and in the same breath they assert that it is right to burn and maim and kill in war. They are not so logical as a young colored recruit who served in the Philippines. This young man, at the end of his initial engagement, was haled before his captain. “So you ran at the first fire, did you?” said the captain, scornfully. “Yes, sah; and I’d have run sooner, sah, if I’d known it was coming.” “Have you no regard for your reputation, Calhoun?” “The reputation hasn't mincemeat to mincemeat, sah, ‘londside of my life.' The captain smiled and twirled his musk ache. “‘Even if you should lose your life, Calhoun,’ he said, ‘you’d have the satisfaction of knowing that you had died for your country.’ “‘What satisfaction could that be to me, sah, when the power of feeling it was gone?’ "Then patriotism means nothing to you?" "Nullifying, sah. I wouldn't put my life in the scales against any government that ever existed, for no government could replace the loss of me." "Calhoun, if all soldiers were like you, the world's governments would all go to pieces." "On the contrary, sah, they'd last forever; for if all soldiers were like me, then there couldn't never be no fighting." Sam Small's Hypnotism Didn't Work. “The late Sam Small had his faults,” said an Atlanta, “but he did not dodge the penalty of them. When he went wrong, he owned up like a man, and if punishment was due, he took it. That was the doctrine Sam Small preached. He hated dodgers. He used to laugh bitterly at the plea of ‘hypnotic influence’ that used to be put up by nearly every murderer. “I once heard him ridiculing hypnotism. He said that he bought pretty heavily one year for Christmas, and when the bin came in for turkey and mince meat, candy, ducks, chickens, plum pudding, fruit cake and so on, he thought to himself that here was a case for hypnotism to be tried. "He went first to hypnotize the grocer. Approaching the man, he looked him squarely in the eye, at the same time repeating, slowly and impressively: " 'My bill is paid.' "A change came over the grocer’s face. His color faded, his eyes grew dull, his expression blank. And in a strange, mechanical voice he muttered: " 'You’re a liar.' " Had Earned Her Christmas Gift. "THERE are Christmas gifts and Christmas gifts," said Bishop Foss, "but the only acceptable ones are those given with a pure motive. In a crockery shop, during the holidays, I once saw the proprietor hand a plainly-dressed young woman, a two-dollar bill. She looked at the bill, and said bitterly: "Is that all? And during the past year ain’t I broken 35 tumblers, 26 cups, nine meat platters, four saucers, 72 plates and 13 of the mistress’ best tureens?" "There, there," said the shopman, soothingly; "here’s another dollar for you. And don’t forget me, you know," he ended with a wink. Christmas Is a Good Day for a Cold. BISHOP OLMSTED of Colorado was making a Christmas address to some Denver children. "But heartily on Christmas day," the bishop said, smiling. "Do you think justice to turkey, to cranberry sauce, to plum pudding, to all the good things?" But don't give way to gluttony. Don't gloat over your Christmas dainties like a Bala boy I used to know. This boy said one Christmas morning: “ ‘My, I wish I had a cold!’ “ ‘Why?’ asked his brother. “ ‘Cause mother says to feed a mule and if I had one today, wouldn’t I feed it, thought.’ 