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liant action, for the sufficient reason that, though there were seven young gentlemen (connected with the Primary School) on the field as war correspondents, their accounts of the engagement are so contradictory as to be utterly worthless. On one point they all agree — that the contest was sharp, short, and decisive. The truth is, the General is a quick, wiry, experienced old hero; and it did n't take him long to rout the Barnabee Boy, who was in reality a coward, as all bullies and tyrants ever have been, and always will be.
I don't approve of boys fighting; I don't defend Johnny; but if the General wants an extra ration or two of preserved pear, he shall have it!
I am well aware that, socially speaking, Johnny is a Black Sheep. I know that I have brought him up badly, and that there is not an unmarried man or woman in the United States who would n't have brought him up very differently. It's a great pity that the only people who know how to manage children never have any! At the same time, Johnny is not a black sheep all over. He has some white spots. His sins — if wiser folks had no greater! — are the result of too much animal life. They belong to his evanescent youth, and will pass away; but his honesty, his generosity, his bravery, belong to his character, and are enduring qualities. The quickly crowding years will tame him. A good large pane of glass, or a seductive bell-knob, ceases in time to have attractions for the most reckless spirit. And I am quite confident that Johnny will be a great statesman, or a valorous soldier, or, at all events, a good citizen, after he has got over being A Young Desperado.
A GROUP OF CHRISTMAS POEMS
AT THE MANGER
BY JOHN B. TABB
When first, her Christmas watch to keep,
With snowy sandals shod,
She swathed the Son of God.
Then, skilled in mysteries of Night,
She wreathed his resting-place,
He saw his mother's face.
THE LITTLE CHRIST
BY LAURA SPENCER PORTOR
MOTHER, I am thy little Son
Why weepest thou?
Hush! for I see a crown of thorns,
A bleeding brow.
Mother, I am thy little Son
Why dost thou sigh?
Hush! for the shadow of the years
Stoopeth more nigh!
Mother, I am thy little Son
Oh, smile on me.
The leaf laughs on the tree.
Oh, hush thee! The leaves do shiver sore;
That tree whereon they grow,
The weight of human woe!
Mother, I am thy little Son
The Night comes on apace
On me in thy embrace.
Oh, hush thee! I see black starless night!
Oh, could'st thou slip away
And get to God by Day!
BY WILLIS BOYD ALLEN
Two sorrie Thynges there be
A Lambe forsaken,
Of gladde Thynges there be more —
A Wilde Rose clinging
PARABLES IN MOTORS
THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB
The other day I was escorting an elderly philanthropist across a crowded street. She is a lady of vigorous opinions and free speech, gems of which I herewith string together without exhibiting the thread of my own colorless rejoinders.
“Did you ever see anything so outrageous as these motors!” she exclaimed in righteous wrath, as we just escaped being crushed between a taxi-cab and a huge touring-car. “Automobiles are such insolent advertisements of wealth! I don't see how their owners can endure being either hated or envied by that portion of the world that has not yet lost the use of its legs. For every human being automobiles kill, they create a socialist. They are vulgar, hideous, death-dealing machines, put in the ignorant hands of the fools who own them and the knaves who run them. Now look at those little children trying to cross the street — and that poor old lady! I declare the chauffeur is simply chasing her for his own cruel sport — hunting her as he would a fox, and blowing his horn.” Then, — in italics,
in italics, — “I can't see how a self-respecting person with any love or regard for humanity can own a motor.”
The next time I saw my vindictive friend she was tucked up in borrowed plumage, and comfortably installed in the limousine of an acquaintance who had
kindly placed her car at our disposal to visit some distant charitable institution of which we were both directors. It was my friend's maiden trip in an automobile, and as we bowled gayly along she seemed to have forgotten entirely our last meeting and conversation.
“I must say the motion of these cars is delightful," she said, sinking back among the cushions with an air of perfect ease and familiarity. “How safe we seem! I really think it would do no harm if the chauffeur should go a little faster. Do look at those stupid women rushing across the street like frightened hens! I should think they'd see that we're not going to run into them. Now look at those children! It's outrageous that they should make it so hard for the chauffeur to avoid running over them. If we killed one of those foolhardy little idiots, people would blame us, and it would n't be our fault at all - it would be simply a case of suicide."
I acquiesced in her views, as I had done once before.
“After all, there is a great deal to be said for these motors,” she continued judicially. “They are not only perfectly delightful to ride in, but they make all kinds of difficult things easy, and really, most of the people who own them are apt to be very considerate to those who are less fortunate. There are certainly two sides to automobiling.”
There you have the chief function of the motor. There is nothing else I can think of which changes one's point of view so completely and so suddenly. A logical mind must therefore ask itself, “If by simply stepping into an automobile I can see motors and motoring from an entirely different point of view, cannot I believe that the same metamorphosis would take place if I could jump