In his, who (from his dream of fame awakened long ago) Now wrote for bread. "I must rejoice, since thou wilt have it so," He said, "but what can life present whence I a joy may claim?" Quoth Christmas, "This, although to thee has come nor wealth nor fame, Is't nought that for thy thoughts, thy truths,-small seeds in darkness sown, Thy fellow-man, made wiser, better, blesses thee unknown?" "I am Christmas!" At his labor the toiler heard the sound; It seemed a very mockery when his moist eye glanced around, When it met that wife so patient, those children wan and pale, And that one loaf-why, Christmas was a thing of fairy tale! An instant paused the Spirit, and then tenderly it said, "Hard is this fare-O gentle ones!-this Christmas feast of bread! But happiness is less with those whom luxuries surround Than with the few whose daily wants their daily wishes bound." "Rejoice!" To age, half-deafened with the roar of life, "rejoice!" Brought sudden joy; but mournfully replied the faltering voice: "Let youth obey the summons, let youth enjoyment crave, The world is cast behind us, our face is to the grave, All soberly, all sadly, it is meet henceforth we go." "No!" shouted Christmas gaily, "Age should not fare it so; Life's cup is sweet unto the dregs, so those who drain it see The joy of this world but preludes the bliss of that to be." "I am Christmas! I am Christmas! Heed my greeting, and rejoice!" Thus above the boisterous winter rang out the cheering voice, Thus on his lonely minist'ring the pilgrim Spirit went, Love in its Christian semblance to a cold world eloquent; Thus every gentle spirit and every noble breast Found soothing word, and kindly glance, and balm for hope depressed; And thus this hour at every hearth, in every heart sincere, Is Christmas gladly welcomed, as he is welcomed here. A WHITE LILY.-MARY L. WRIGHT. was The season of music was closing. Parepa Rosa stepping from the private entrance of "The Grand about to enter her carriage when her attention was arrested by "Please, mi ladi—” It was only the shrunken, misshapen figure of little Elfin, the Italian street singer, with his old violin under his arm, but the face upturned in the gaslight, though pale and pinched, was as delicately cut as a cameo, while the eager, wistful light in the great, brilliant eyes, the quiver of entreaty in the soft Italian voice, held her for a moment against her escort's endeavor to save her the annoyance of hearing a beggar's plea. The slender brown hands of the dwarf held up a fragrant white lily with a crystal drop in its golden heart. "Would mi ladi, please?” "Do you mean this lovely flower for me?" 66 'Yes, mi ladi." "You heard me sing?" "Mi ladi, I hid under the stairs-'twas yesterday I heard the voice. Oh! mi ladi, I could die!" The loud plaudits of the world she had just left had never shown Parepa Rosa the power of her grand voice as she saw it now in those soft dark eyes aflame, and in those sobbing, broken words. "Child, meet me here to-morrow at five o'clock." And holding the lily caressingly and stepping into her carriage, she was driven away. It was Parepa Rosa's last night. In a box near the stage sat little Elfin like a child entranced. Grandly the clear voice swelled its triumphant chords and ran amid the arches with unearthly power and sweetness. The slight frame of the boy swayed and shook, and a look, so rapt, so intense, came on his face, you knew his very heart was stilled. Now the wondrous notes thrilled softly like the faint sound of bugles in early morn, and again its sweetness stole over you like the distant chimes of vesper bella Encore after encore followed. The curtain rolled up for the last time, and the manager related the incident of the previous night, and announced that Parepa Rosa's farewell would be the ballad warbled many a bitter day through the city streets by little Elfin,the Italian musician. Loud and prolonged was the applause, and at the first pause, sweeping in with regal grace, with the white lily on her breast came our queen of song. Queen, too, by right of her beautiful, unstained womanhood, she stood a moment, and than sang clearly and softly the ballad with the refrain, "Farewell, sweet land." Accompanying her came the low, tender wail of little Elfin's violin. There was silence in that great house at the close. Then a shout went up that shook the very pillars. Parepa Rosa, God called thee in thy perfect womanhood, but thy voice lives in our hearts, and at the last great day it shall be written in shining letters on thy name, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me." FOURTH OF JULY AT RIPTON.*-EUGENE J. HALL. Old Ripton is a Yankee town, amid the fair green mountains, Where woodland streams come leaping down from sparkling springs and fountains; Where seldom with the world outside her rustic genius mingles; Where men are mostly occupied in making staves and shingles. It is a patriotic place, though in an obscure corner; The grandsire talks, with radiant face, of Allen, Stark and Warner. The glorious Fourth of each July is made a grand occasion; Each patriot puts his business by to swell the "celebration." The three selectmen of the town, Old Elder Dean, the preacher, Young 'Squire Epaminondas Brown, and Hiram Todd, the teacher, *From "AWAY DOWN EAST," by permission. Met at the store of Levi Lunds-no patriots could be prouder To "lay the plans" and "raise the funds" for fireworks, flags and powder. Old Elder Dean sat on a keg of New Orleans molasses, And, hitching up his trousers leg, put on his big bowed glasses, Then said: "I ruther think 'twill pay, an' save us some confusion To pass the box nex' Sabba'-day, an' take a contribution." We shall not break the Sabba'-day, nor get it by taxation, I'll go myself about the town an' raise it by subscription. My part I'll never try to shirk!" As might have been expected, The man who wants to do the work is sure to be elected. The work was done, the money found, the cost was closely counted, The cannon dug up from the ground and on two cartwheels mounted; A flag-pole raised upon the green, the old church decorated, Boom, boom, boom! in the early morning gray; A sudden hush on the hollow falls- "The cannon's bu'st, an' Issachar Drom What is a thumb or a finger or two To the soul of the patriot tried and true, Or the loss of a limb, of an arm or a head, R-r-rub, r-r-rub, r-r-rub-dub-dub! R-r-rub, r-r-rub, r-r-rub-dub-dub! The sun is high, The proud procession is passing by; A thousand come. A r-r-rub-a-dub, dub-a dub, bum, bum, bum! Rides Captain Rand, On bob-tail bay, with his sword in hand, The home brigade He marshals on to the dress parade; A chariot bright, And thirty-eight girls in gowns of white; A mile of teams; A cloud of dust in the roadway gleams; A r-r-rub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, bum, bum, bum ! "HALT!" Along the line the captain flies, his charger snorts and prances, The object of a thousand eyes as onward he advances. He waves his sword, then stops his nag and shouts in tones of thunder: "Break ranks! break ranks to raise the flag! hip, hip, hurrah-out yonder!” With faces stained by sweat and soil, upon the green all cluster, But patriotism lends to toil a most delightful luster. They sing: "My Country, 'tis of Thee," with clear and tune ful voices, For every soul loves liberty and every heart rejoices. A maiden by the flag-pole stands, of charming grace and manner, Who, with her brown, but handsome hands, runs up the starry banner. |