and many a man has been saved from actual sin, by the thought that some good woman loved and trusted him, believing him to be gentle, and pure, and good.

As I have an engagement this evening, I must close my letter. Your Uncle and cousins send kindly greetings, and were disappointed in not seeing you this summer, but hope to have that pleasure at some future day. With a sincere desire for your future happiness and usefulness,

Your affectionate aunt,

KATHERINE.

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

Verses suggested by Prang's Chromo of Whittier's "Barefoot Boy."

There hangs on the wall before me,
Where the sunshine loves to dwell,

A picture, a sweet little picture,
That holds me in a spell,-

A boy with sun-browned features,

All dimpled in childish joy;

And I gaze, through the tears that blind me,
On this little "Barefoot Boy."

The eyes are full of brightness,
And the cheeks so rosily red,
That it hardly seems a picture,
But a living child instead,-

A child, with his brown hands hidden
In the pockets where lurks each toy
Which I know brought childish pleasure
To this little "Barefoot Boy."

And I think, while my tears are dropping
Like rain on my open book,

Of my little barefooted darling

That the summoning angels took;
And I sigh for the vanished brightness,
As I see each unused toy

That once belonged to my darling,
To my little "Barefoot Boy."

And I think of one sad June evening,
When the mournful robins sang,
And up from the gathering shadows
The cry of the whippoorwill rang;
And I think of the gloomy shadow
That fell on life's brightest joy,
When the angels came in the twilight
For my little "Barefoot Boy."

I see by some shadowless hearthstones

Glad children at merry play;

And I think of my life's broad shadow,
And I weep, and turn away;
And I look at my little picture,
And the face so bright with joy,
And think that a sinless angel
Was once my "Barefoot Boy."

S. V. STORM.

AN OLD-TIME CHRISTMAS, IN A COUNTRY HOME.

BY THE EDITOR.

"The Christmas sights, the Christmas lights,
The Christmas nights, how grand,
To us who walked the glittering lanes
Of boyhood's fairy lands!

Remote among its spangled bowers
Old memories parade,

And watch the gorgeous bubbling hours
All rise, and burst, and fade.

What welcome shall we ever have,

Till this long journey ends,
Like that which marked the merry time
From sisters and from friends?
When presents given and received
Brought heart to heart in view,
And every day was golden leaved
With wonders rich and new."

The home was a short half hour's walk from an inland town in Pennsylvania. Hither the parents came every Lord's day to church, bringing their children with them. The town had its share of poor folk, widows and orphans, living in small huts, in back alleys, and along the outskirts of the place. In summer-time they gleaned in the harvest fields around this home. In corn-husking time they gleaned again. Full well I remember these godly widows, some of them bowed down with age and care; with little knapsacks, slung to their shoulders, wherein to carry their harvest. Early in the morning, before the sun had melted the white October frost from the fields, I met them in busy quest of the gleaners share. Now and then a kind-hearted husker would intentionally leave an ear or two hanging in the way of Christ's poor ones, knowing well that the owner of the field would be pleased to see her bag filling rapidly. The old gleaners were told to house their gather

ings in the wood-shed. Afterwards each one's share was sent to her door with horse and cart. One of the boys took it thither for the sake of the infirm widows, and for his own sake. For hereby he was taught a lesson of practical charity. "Fill the cart with wood and unload it at Granny Weber's door. She will need it this coming winter." Thus ordered the farmer. Usually there was such an outgush of gratitude, when the poor souls saw the unloading of the gifts; such a heartsome blessing of the boy and his parents, as to set him happily musing all the way home, over the blessedness of doing good.

The livelong winter these widows plied their old spinning wheels, from morning till night; spinning the hemp, flax and wool of their country friends, and knitting stockings for the children. Many a time I listened to the hum of the wheel, and wondered how their old tired feet could work one way, and their cautious hands at the spool, spindle and thread another way.

It was the week before Christmas. A busy week in the country home; for then "the butchering" had to be done. An ox and four hogs were slaughtered. The second day before Christmas the cakebaking was done. Large tables in the bake-house were covered with cakes, in all manner of forms-birds, horses, hearts, lambs, stars, all carefully spread out on " paddy-pans." We children, meanwhile, watched the progress of events, burdening the bakers with many curious questions. A great mystery to my child-mind was the large bake-oven, which for a season seemed to devour all put into it. I peered into its glowing cavern, and watched with watering mouth the nut-brown cakes which it brought forth.

The day before Christmas was the "preparation day." The turkey had to be killed, and many other things provided for the Christmas dinner. The boys were again sent in various directions, to practice "pure and undefiled religion." One wagon was closely packed with numerous baskets and packages, each containing a nicely arranged variety of gifts-meat, sausages, apples, cakes, and, perhaps, articles of clothing. Ere the boy started, the loving heart that had devised all these pleasure-giving packages, standing aside of the wagon, repeated her instructions: "Be careful that you make no mistakes-this is for Mrs. Snow; yonder long basket for Mrs. Harris; that bag for Mrs. Weber, and this round basket for Mr. Noble, &c." Mr. Noble was the pastor, whose basket contained, among other things, a large turkey. From house to house drove the boy, leaving the appropriate gift at each, and receiving in return, such a blessing from the fatherless and widows, as are worth more than gold and silver. The little old widow Weber rubbed her hands, and laughed like an overjoyed child. Indeed, she had reached her second childhood. The pastor-well, of course he had

expected all, but was none the less grateful. Half the thankful messages sent to the parents by the receivers, the boy could not remember. Only this much, that they were made very happy.

Scarcely had this wagon left the home, when another of the boys, mounted a grey pony, with large saddle-bags and a basket, tightly packed, and was started on a visiting tour among country widows in the neighborhood. No less thankful were these than their poor sisters of the town. Indeed, to their dying day they remembered and blessed the boys that brought them gifts-which blessings some of the said boys, now that they are men, do greatly prize.

One of these Christmas visits to our pastor I distinctly remember. After the baskets had been emptied, the pastor invited the awkward country boy into the parlor. To my consternation, he introduced me to a gay-looking young gentleman, with a heavy gold chain at his vest, just arrived from Germany, whom he called Dr. Schaff. He took me kindly by the hand, and expressed himself pleased with my way of visiting my pastor. His face was fresh like a blushing spring rose. He was then on his way to Mercersburg for the first

time.

It was a stormy Christmas Eve. The sleet rattled against the windows. Around the large "ten-plate" stove, filled with hickory logs, sat the family. The boys repeating their reports of their mercifül errands to the widows; the parents telling the children how these pious poor people, would, on this stormy night, pray the dear Christ-Child to bless them in their little beds. Then followed many questions from the little ones-whether Mrs. Weber had always been poor, whether Mrs. Harris had any little children, and whether the Christkindel would bring them anything that night.

There was no Christmas-tree. Then, as now, this tree was more of a town than country growth. The smaller children were still allowed to believe in a real bodily Christkindel. It would surely come that night. Where will mother set the baskets this time? In a dark front room-the parlor becomes the reception room of the kind heavenly visitor. Two bread baskets, with a clean white cloth spread in them, are placed on chairs. The little innocents, half-frightened, hold on to the mother's dress, as they follow her into the parlor, and watch the arranging of the baskets. Many puzzling little troubles they have. When will it come? Where will it get in? Ought not the front door be left open? Will the baskets be large enough? How heavenly this unsuspecting confiding trust!

What a fearful fuss the dogs are making! Watch runs barking about the house, as if he would tear some one to pieces.

Hist! Somebody's knocking.

"Come in," says father. And in they come; such as they are. A half dozen jovial fellows, led by a so-called Belsnickel.

"O ma!" scream a group of us smaller children, and seize hold of her dress, like an affrighted brood rush under the wings of the mother hen, when the hawk is after them. Beltznickel may either mean a fur-clad Nicholas, or a flogging Nicholas. In the wintry Christmas nights, he is usually robed in furs, and carries his whip with him.

Our Belsnickel, is most likely, some well-known neighbor friend. Under his ugly mask (Schnarraffelsge sicht), and an outlandish dress, such as no child ever saw mortal wear before, no one can tell who he is. We children tremble as in the presence of an unearthly being. Really, the Nickel tries to be pleasant, jabbers in some unknown tongue, and takes a few chestnuts and candies out of his vast bundle on his back, and throws them on the floor for the larger boys. One after another shyly picks up a gift. Among these older boys is a self-willed fellow, who sometimes behaves rudely. Whenever he picks up something, Nickel thwacks a long whip across his back-across his only. Whereupon the little ones scream and hold on to their mamma with a firm grip; and the older ones laugh aloud. The guilty boy puts his hand where the whip has made an impression. Again the unknown being puts his large working hand into the bag and scatters gifts, and again cracks his whip on the bad boy. How does this ugly man know who has been naughty?

Many years ago a certain country boy used to enjoy these oldtime Christmas Eves, and the visits of the Belsnickel, whose chestnuts and cutting jokes he remembered through later life. Hear what he says of this fun-loving flogging friend, in a language that the most of our readers can understand:

O Kennscht du den wieschte, den gaschtige Mann ?
Hu-derf m'r den. Kerl e Mensch heese?

Ja, dass er en Mensch is mag glaawe wer kann,
Er gukt mir zu viel wie der Beese?

Seh juscht 'mol sei' Aage, sei Naas-alle Welt !—
Er dhut 's Maul uf un zu wie die Scheere;

'N Schwanz wie 'n Ochs, ja, des hot er, gelt?
Un en horiger Belz wie die Bäre.

Kummt der in dei' Haus, dann gebt's Lärme genunk,
Er sucht die nixnutzige Kinder!

Un find 'r eens. geht er uf eemol zum Punkt,
Un dengelt gar bumm'risch die Sinder.

Er schtellt sich do hi' mit d'r forchtbare Rudh,

Un brummelt sei' drohende Rede;

Do werre die Kinner uf eemol arch gut
Un fange recht heftig a' bete!