Judge — December 1889 — page 26: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A CHRISTMAS PHANTASY. 1 CHRISTMAS SONG is singing in my heart Of love and life and sweet good-will to all, And though a rose is blooming at my throat, With fancy’s eyes I see the snow-flakes fall, n A carol swells upon my list'ning ear And chimes sound sweet from the old turret high ; The holly-branches bend about the walls, And bells ring out across the frosty sky. m, The little children gather at my knee ‘And beg to have the Christmas legend told, While soft brown eyes look pleading into mine And deepen as they hear the story old, Iv. Ah! misty fancies cluster round my brain, Just as the children gather at my knee ; These Christmas thoughts make summer in my heart, And memory’s roses bloom again for me. v. Why am I writing thus of frost and snows, Here at my casement wide in gauzy dress? Because I've got to get this songlet in Before the Christmas number goes to press, KATE MASTERSON. HIS MAIDEN VICTORY. Dare-pevit, JAKE—"'T aint no coward, but when Black Bess whinnies three times, she smells Tnjuns! Scoot, you ole pelt 1" A CHRISTMAS CAROL, HE WIND was bitter cold. A few snow-flakes fell slowly from time to time like soft drifted petals from some white rose far up in heaven. The little slender twigs of the bare maple-tree looked black against the fine gray air, and a robin swayed to and fro on atiny bough near the close-shut window. Poor robin! who could tell what sad, strange freak of fate had kept him here, behind his happy mates flown long ago to sunny southern lands? But here he was, swinging lonely on the leafless spray, chilled and songless, in the still Christmas morning. Presently he drew more near to the clear window-pane. A strange bright glow of color from within warmed his heart and gave him a quick new thrill of life. Inside the crystal wall a great bunch of flowers was blooming; he could not tell their names, but he knew all the sweet, soft faces and gently welcom- ing eyes. How wonderful it was to see them all again, and to dream of the long green meadows and quiet clover-fields and the glad rushing of wings along the sunny air. He forgot the piercing cold and the little wandering snow-flakes that dropped and melted on his ruffled feathers. It was summer again, and he was near his nest. But a sudden stir and movement within the room broke through his dreaming and he hopped back in fear. At first it seemed as if more flowers were pressing near the window. He Waugh! APPROPRIATE PROVENDER. Guest—"I'm very hungry, and I want a good, square, satisfying meal Warrrer—"* Fried eel fer one, jer, an’ (aside) fer heaven's sake git on to his nibs’s neck an dish der eel up whole!" could see a tender flush as of wild roses, the blue gleam of violets, and a shimmer like the pale gold of the laburnum. No, not flowers! two beautiful child-faces were looking through the glass, and they {2 were looking pityingly at him. Very gently the heavy sash was raised and little dimpled hands pushed off the coverlet of snow from the windew-ledge and scattered crumbs and seeds thickly on the clear space. When poor robin’s breakfast had been spread the flower- bright faces quietly withdrew. Then how quickly he came down, yet shyly and with trembling, from quivering stem to stem! How hungry he was, and how strange | that food should be sent to him when all the world about had seemed | so hopeless and forlorn! He was only a robin and did not know of the Father's loving care, that follows not only man’s footstep but the bird's wild, restless wing. As he hopped about, picking cagerly at the scattered crumbs, he saw far within the room the children’s happy eyes still watching him with anxious tenderness. It was so long since he had had enough to eat and he felt so strengthened and refreshed » that a sweet little song of thankfulness bubbled up in his throat, and he sat singing it over and over again on the bare maple-tree, which now seemed to him full of rustling leaves and warm with sunshine. The children had come back to the window and raised it softly, listen- ing as they stood behind the curtain. The little song rang clearly, gayly through the freezing air. “That is a Christmas carol,” said their mother, smiling gently as she too paused to listen—but somehow her eyes were full of tears. MARY AINGE DE VERE, SMALL-MAN-ALWAYS-APRAID-OF-THE-DARK—"' Me getting heap big chief! Scare white man bald-headed. comicbooks.com