3

cumstances. These are to be purchased of all qualities
and prices, and those sent by friends and lovers, generally
appear on New Year's Day, and are signed or not, as
suits the purpose of the sender.

and having hung up the stockings that he may fill them with gifts. Here he sits, smoking his pipe, and delighting himself with the thought of what he ahall leave morning. But we will now let an American writer for the children, and of the delight and surprise in the speak after his own fashion of the good Santa Claus.

After the New Year's wishes have been read, a game of very old standing on this occasion is introduced, a game known to most people in England acquainted with old fashions; that of the flour, the water, and the keys. Three plates are set on a round table in the middle of the room. In one is flour, in another water, in the third a bunch of keys. The young unmarried people are by turns blindfolded, and, walking round the table, pitch upon one of the plates. These have, of course, been shifted while the person about to try his or her chance, has been under the operation of blind-folding, so as to occupy quite different relative positions to what they did before; or are sometimes shifted and then replaced, so that the person, naturally supposing that they have been changed, shall try to avoid the un-prepared to be very lavish upon those who live in exlucky ones, by aiming at a new point, and thus shall actually have a greater chance of passing the lucky The lucky one is that containing the keys. Whoever gets that, is to be married to the person of his own choice; he who pushes his finger into the flour. is to marry a widow, or vice versa, and he who dips into the water, shall not be married at all. This simple lottery occasions its share of merriment, and then the dancing goes on again.

one.

With the punch and the glee-wine, come in also one of those large ornamented and nice cakes, for which the Germans are so famous, and large cakes of gingerbread, in the shape of hearts, with almonds stuck in them. These make an indispensible part of the enter tainment of New Year's-Eve; and accordingly you see them reared in and before the bakers' windows, and on stalls, in thousands; some of them at least half-a-yard tall, and a foot wide. On this eve, the servants of house, by right of ancient custom, have their feasts of every punch, and their great gingerbread hearts, each servant

one.

The Catholics, according to their custom, close the old year, and open the new one in the churches. They have a sermon as midnight approaches; in many places the lights are extinguished, leaving alone conspicuous, a huge cross reaching from bottom to near the top of the church, illuminated with lamps. When twelve has struck, an anthem of thanksgiving strikes up, and mass is celebrated.

In Germany, the servants of tradesmen come for New-Year's gifts, as they do for Christmas-boxes with us; and your baker sends you a large cake, like a couple of great serpents wreathed into two connected circles, perhaps originally intended to represent the old year and the new.

The Dutch, a kindred nation, carried over their national custom to America; but singular enough, one of the chief features of their New Year's-Eve is the arrival of Santa Claus, with gifts for the children, and whose figure as represented by an American artist, and which has been handed to us by an indefatigable American friend we present to our readers at the head of this article.

Santa Claus is no other than the Pelz Nickel of Germany and the North; he is in fact, the good Saint Nicholas of Russia, the patron-saint of children; he arrives in Germany about a fortnight before Christmas, but as may be supposed from all the visits he has to pay there, and the length of his voyage, he does not arrive in America, until this eve. Here he is, sitting before the empty fire-place of an American house, with his foot on the old fashioned dog, a little after midnight, all the family having retired to bed to be out of his way,

one in union with the weather. The sign of the saint "Santa Claus has doffed his cocked-hat and assumes is stamped on his forehead as the genuine impress of mantle, which are the very same with which he jourheaven. He wears his snow-boots and fur-trimmed neyed over the hills of Holland. The artist has represented him about the midnight hour, on his last call; and, from the position of the saint, we should judge that he had heard, or thought he heard, the cock crow; or the rats, which are the great antipathy of the Dutch. Saint Nicholas is smothered with gooderies, and is pectancy of presents. The family has retired, the litings, which they have hung so as to attract the attention of the saint. We fancy ourselves looking upon the tle ones are dreaming most intensely of crammed stocklittle, short limbs, on tip-toes, straining to place their hose out of the way of rats. Jane can scarcely reach higher than one of these animals; the larger boys an girls have obtained a better position; and one appears to tower above the rest, who, no doubt, has received the friendly aid of grandfather.

usual, and has saved a ration of gingerbread. Neither
"The mother has coaxed them off to bed earlier than
tears, words, sobs, nor petulance disturb them now;
they know that the saint visits only good childre::; and
Bob, Sally, and Peter find it difficult to hold their tongues.
Their mother promises them, even though they have
for one night's peace, she will bribe the saint for them.
been violent transgressors throughout the year, that,
They fancy they hear the sound of whistles, penny-
trumpets, and drums; the cries of dolls, the singing
then boxes of tools are already at work repairing
of wooden birds, and the ticking of pewter watches;
houses built in air; and they fairly stagger under the
inheritance of a new year.
blems of innocence and the kingdom of heaven, they
When sound asleep, cm-
are blessed with a profusion of presents; the morning
dawns, and the family are disturbed by their up-risings.
On other mornings it may have been difficult to arouse
them down, scarcely half awake. John (who is ad-
them, but, on the New-Year's, trumpets and drums bring
vauced to the age of small boots) takes the lead; he
misses his way, or runs against the door. Sally and
Mary, aided by the bannisters, come down crying with
impatience. The little ones seize their stockings with
eagerness, Sally substituting a chair for her grandfa-
sparkle with delight, and the faces of all beam with
ther. The day is consumed with eomments, eyes
happiness.

from one year's end to the other! They are as necessary
What would men do if there were no holidays
as landmarks or resting-places for travellers; and, as
custom-a good custom, one to be established and per-
this in our way, let us cling to it until the short journey
petuated, a sociable and an endearing one-has thrown
of life is ended.

CHRISTMAS STORMS AND SUNSHINE.

BY COTTON MATHER MILLS.

little Angel's supper.) And now, having matched Greek with Greek, I must proceed to the tug of war. It was the day before Christmas; such a cold east wind! such an inky sky! such a blue-black look in people's faces, as they were driven out more than usual, to complete their purchases for the next day's festival.

Before leaving home that morning, Jenkins' had given some money to his wife to buy the next day's dinner.

IN THE town of (no matter where,) there circulated two local newspapers, (no matter when.) Now the "Flying Post" was long-established, and respectable; alias bigoted, and Tory; the "Examiner" a weakness, but I own I am partial to sausages. "My dear, I wish for turkey and sausages. It may be was spirited and intelligent, alias new-fangled, and deceased mother was. My Democratic. Every week these newspapers contained to the sweets-whether plum-pudding or mince piesSuch tastes are hereditary. As articles abusing each other; as cross and peppery as I leave such considerations to you; I only beg you not articles could be, and evidently the production of irri-to mind expense. Christmas comes but once a year." tated minds, although they seemed to have one stereotyped commencement,-"Though the article appearing in last week's "Post," (or " Examiner,") is below contempt, yet we have been induced etc., etc." and every Saturday the Radical shopkeepers shook hands together, and agreed that the "Post" was done for, by the slash-mon, Mary," said Hodgson, as they too made their "I should have liked to have had something above coming clever "Examiner"; while the more dignified plans for the next day, "but I think roast beef must do Tories began by regretting that Johnson should think that low paper, only read by a few of the vulgar, worth You see, love, we've a family." wasting his wit upon. However, the "Examiner" was at its last gasp.

first flight of stairs, just close to the Hodgson's door, And again he had called out from the bottom of the ("Such ostentatiousness" as Mrs. Hodgson observed,) "You will not forget the sausages, my dear?"

for us.

66

Only one, Jem! I don't want more than roast beef, though, I'm sure. Before I went to service, mother and me would have thought roast beef a very fine dinner."

pudding; and now good bye. Mind and take care of "Well, let's settle it then, roast-beef, and a plumlittle Tom. I thought he was a bit hoarse this morning."

And off he went to his work. Hodgson had spoken to each other, although they were Now, it was a good while since Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. and opinions as though they did. Mary knew that Mrs. quite as much in possession of the knowledge of events Jenkins despised her for not having a real lace cap, which Mrs. Jenkins had; and for having been a servant, which Mrs. Jenkins had not; and the little occasional pinchings which the Hodgsons were obliged to resort to,

It was not though. It lived and flourished; at least it paid its way, as one of the heroes of my story could tell. He was chief compositor, or whatever title may be given to the head man of the mechanical part of a newspaper. He hardly confined himself to that department. Once or twice, unknown to the editor, when the manuscript had fallen short, he had filled up the vacant space by compositions of his own; announcements of a forthcoming crop of green peas in December; a grey thrush having been seen, or a white hare, or such interesting phenomena; invented for the occasion I must confess; but what of that? His wife always knew when to expect a little specimen of her husband's literary talent by a peculiar cough, which to make both ends meet, would have been very paserved as prelude; and, judging from this encouraging sign, and the high-pitched and emphatic voice in which tiently endured by Mary, if she had not winced under Mrs. Jenkins's knowledge of such economy. But she he read them, she was inclined to think, that an had her revenge. to an early Rose-bud." in the corner devoted to ori-had none. To have had a child, even such a ̈puny baby She had a child, and Mrs. Jenkins ginal poetry, and a letter in the correspondence department, signed "Pro Bono Publico" were her husband's monest caps, and cleaned grates, and drudged her finas little Tom, Mrs. Jenkins would have worn comwriting, and to hold up her head accordingly. of her life soured her temper, and turned her thoughts gers to the bone. The great unspoken disappointment inward, and made her morbid and selfish.

66 Ode

I never could find out what it was that occasioned the Hodgsons to lodge in the same house as the Jenkinses. Jenkins held the same office in the Tory paper, as Hodgson did in the "Examiner," and, as I said before, I Hang that cat! he's been stealing again! he's leave you to give it a name. But Jenkins had a proper gnawed the cold mutton in his nasty mouth till it's not sense of his position, and a proper reverence for all in fit to set before a Christians and I've nothing else for authority, from the king down to the editor, and sub-Jem's dinner. But I'll give it him now I've caught editor. He would as soon have thought of borrowing him, that I will! " the king's crown for a night-cap, or the king's sceptre for a walking stick, as he would have thought of filling up any spare corner with any production of his own; and I think it would have even added to his contempt of Hodgson (if that were possible,) had he known of the 'productions of his brain" as the latter fondly alluded to the paragraphs he inserted, when speaking to his wife.

Jenkins had his wife too. Wives were wanting to finish the completeness of the quarrel, which existed one memorable Christmas week, some dozen years ago, between the two neighbours, the two compositors. And with wives it was a very pretty, a very complete quarrel. To make the opposing parties still more equal, still more well-matched, if the Hodgsons had a baby, (such a baby!-a poor puny little thing,) Mrs. Jenkins had a cat, (such a cat! a great, nasty miowling tom-cat, that was always stealing the milk put by for

Sunday cane, and despite pussy's cries and scratches, So saying Mary Hodgson caught up her husband's she gave him such a beating as she hoped might cure him of his thievish propensities; when lo! and behold, Mrs. Jenkins stood at the door with a face of bitter

wrath.

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Ma'am, to abuse a poor dumb animal, Ma'am, as knows no better than to nature which God has given, Ma'am; and it's a pity take food when he sees it, Ma'am. He only follows the your nature, Ma'am, which I've heard, is of the stingy saving species, does not make you shut your cupboard door a little closer. There is such a thing as law for brute animals. I'll ask Mr. Jenkins, but I don't think them Radicals has done away with that law yet, for all their Reform Bill, Ma'am. My poor precious love of a Tommy, is he hurt? and is his leg broke for taking a mouthful of scraps, as most people would give away to a beggar,—if he'd take 'em," wound up Mrs. Jenkins,

casting a contemptuous look on the remnant of a scrag end of mutton.

Mary felt very angry and very guilty. For she really pitied the poor limping animal as he crept up to his mistress, and there lay down to bemoan himself; she wished she had not beaten him so hard, for it certainly was her own careless way of never shutting the cupboard door that had tempted him to his fault. But the sneer at her little bit of mutton turned her penitence to fresh wrath, and she shut the door in Mrs. Jenkins's face, as she stood caressing her cat in the lobby, with such a bang, that it wakened little Tom, and he began to cry.

Everything was to go wrong with Mary to day. Now baby was awake, who was to take her husband's dinner to the office? She took the child in her arms; and tried to hush him off to sleep again, and as she sung she cried, she could hardly tell why,--a sort of reaction from her violent angry feelings. She wished she had never beaten the poor cat; she wondered if his leg was really broken. What would her mother say if she knew how cross and cruel her little Mary was getting? If she should live to beat her child in one of her angry fits? It was of no use lullabying while she sobbed so; it must be given up, and she must just carry her baby in her arms, and take him with her to the office, for it was long past dinner time. So she pared the mutton carefully, although by so doing she reduced the meat to an infinitesimal quantity. and taking the baked potatoes out of the oven, she popped them piping hot into her basket with the etceteras of plate, butter, salt, and knife and fork.

because his father and mother did, and because he was so little of his age, but I rather think he was eighteen months old,) had fallen asleep sometime before among his play-things; an uneasy, restless sleep; but of which Mary had been thankful, as his morning's nap had been too short, and as she was so busy. But now he began to make such a strange crowing noise, just like a chair drawn heavily and gratingly along a kitchen floor. His eyes were open, but expressive of nothing but pain.

"Mother's darling!" said Mary, in terror, lifting him up. "Baby try not to make that noise. Hushhush-darling; what hurts him ?" But the noise came worse and worse.

66

Fanny! Fanny!" Mary called in mortal fright, for her baby was almost black with his gasping breath, and she had no one to ask for aid or sympathy but her landlady's daughter, a little girl of twelve or thirteen, who attended to the house in her mother's absence, as daily cook in gentlemen's families. Fanny was more especially considered the attendant of the up-stairs lodgers (who paid for the use of the kitchen, Jenkins could not abide the smell of meat cooking,") but just now she was fortunately sitting at her afternoon's work of darning stockings, and hearing Mrs. Hodgson's cry of terror, she ran to her sitting-room, and understood the case at a glance.

"for

"He's got the croup! Oh, Mrs. Hodgson, he'll die as sure as fate. Little brother had it, and he died in no time. The doctor said he could do nothing for him, it had gone too far; he said if we'd put him in a warm bath at first, it might have saved him; but, bless you! he was never half so bad as your baby." Unconsciously there mingled in her statement some of a child's love of producing an effect; but the increasing danger was clear enough.

Oh, my baby! my baby. Oh, love! love! don't look so ill; I cannot bear it. And my fire so low! There, I was thinking of home, and picking currants, and never minding the fire. Oh, Fanny! what is the fire like in the kitchen? speak."

"Mother told me to screw it up, and throw some slack on as soon as Mrs. Jenkins had done with it, and so I did; it's very low and black. But, oh, Mrs. Hodgson! let me run for the doctor--I cannot abear to hear him, it's so like little brother."

It was, indeed, a bitter wind. She bent against it as she ran, and the flakes of snow were sharp and cutting as ice. Baby cried all the way, though she cuddled him up in her shawl. Then her husband had made his appetite up for a potatoe pie, and (literary man as he was) his body got so much the better of his mind, that he looked rather black at the cold mutton. Mary had no appetite for her own dinner when she arrived at home again. So, after she had tried to feed baby, and he had fretfully refused to take his bread and milk, she laid him down as usual on his quilt, surrounded by playthings, while she sided away and chopped suet for the next day's pudding. Early in the afternoon a parcel came, done up first in brown paper, then in such a white, grass-bleached, sweet smelling towel, and a note from her dear, dear mother; in which quaint writing she endeavoured to tell her daughter that she was not forgotten at Christmas time; but that learning that Farmer Burton was killing his pig, she had made interest for some of his famous pork, out of which she had manufactured some sausages, and flavoured them just as Mary used to like when she lived at home. "Dear, dear mother!" said Mary to herself. "Theresausages, and turkey, and mincepies, which her husnever was any one like her for remembering other folk. What rare sausages she used to make! Home-things have a smack with 'em, no bought things can ever have. Set them up with their sausages! I've a notion, if Mrs. Jenkins had ever tasted mother's, she'd have no fancy for them town-made things Fanny took in just now.'

Through her streaming tears Mary motioned her to go; and trembling, sinking, sick at heart, she laid her boy in his cradle, and ran to fill her kettle.

Mrs. Jenkins having cooked her husband's snug little dinner, to which he came home; having told him her story of pussy's beating, at which he was justly and dignifiedly (?) indignant, saying it was all of a piece with that abusive "Examiner;" having received the

band had ordered; and cleaned up the room, and prepared everything for tea, and coaxed and duly bemoaned her cat (who had pretty nearly forgotten his beating, but very much enjoyed the petting), having done all these, and many other things, Mrs. Jenkins sate down to get up the real lace cap. Every thread was pulled out separately and carefully stretched: when, what And so she went on thinking about home, till the was that? Outside, in the street, a chorus of piping smiles and the dimples came out again at the remem-children's voices sang the old carol she had heard a brance of that pretty cottage, which would look green hundred times in the days of her youth. even now in the depth of winter, with its pyracanthus, and its holly-bushes, and the great Portugal laurel that was her mother's pride. And the back path through the orchard to Farmer Burton's; how well she remembered it. The bushels of unripe apples she had picked up there, and distributed among his pigs, till he had scolded her for giving them so much green trash.

She was interrupted-her baby (I call him a baby,

"As Joseph was a walking he heard an angel sing,
This night shall be born our heavenly king.

He neither shall be born in housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise, but in an ox's stall.
He neither shall be clothed in purple nor in pall,
But all in fair linen, as were babies all:
He neither shall be rocked in silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden cradle that rocks on the mould,'" etc.

It began to smart while they still kept silence; and The room had become chilly while she had been he looked up to his mother as if seeking courage counting out and throwing down her money, so she from her looks to bear the stinging pain, but she was stirred her already glowing fire, and sat down right softly crying, to see him suffer, and her want of coubefore it--but not to stretch her lace,-like Mary Hodg-rage re-acted upon him, and he began to sob aloud. Inson, she began to think over long-past days-on soft-stantly Mrs. Jenkins's apron was up, hiding her face; ening remembrances of the dead and gone-on words Peep bo, baby," said she, as merrily as she could. long forgotten-on holy stories heard at her mother's His little face brightened, and his mother having once got the cue, the two women kept the little fellow amused, until his plaister had effect.