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Show TO THE MOTHER OF THE BABE OF BETHF.LEHEM. . Rosy dawn, tlip oiient flushing", IK-ws or purple flower that flow. Crimson vinps of niartyrs. blushing Like thf Mood yt- s--h-j below: Yot in Iii;ht -cli-li;l slow inn .Jt-nis that iav .Ichnvuh's hall. Jvh n-.streams in nu'sUr llowirg-. Rills o'or opal rocks that 1'ali; Lambs of Gu'l, caroorinjr o'er up. Roln-d in more than rtpal sheen, Sing: aloud in pealing chorus. "Jlail, Holy yiu-en"' "While s-hc clasp:- th? pretty LIsper To her holy vinrin hrcast. ... AYhite-wingerl ctviubs round her whisper, An pel armies o'er her rest. 'Tis the lip that now on Mary Sweetly sheds seraphic smiles. Bills the tid'- of ocean vary; 1-iltrhts on hli:li the starry isles. Yr who from his sun's dominions Iaze upon that heavenly scene. SiiiK to harps, with quivering- pinions, "Hail. Holy Queen!'' All tho spheres behold with wonder .Sleeping on thy bosom lie. Him. whose word is cloud or thunder. Hurled them flaming- through the sky, Mary: Sacred Star ot Ocean, Rise thou o'er, the stormy brine, Quell the passions' wild commotion. Cheer ami save us. Mother mine! Round us while the tempest rages. Be thy guikiing- lustre seen. And our song. tfi rough endless ages, "Hail, Holy Queen!" A CHRISTMAS GATHERING. - I- The Christmas time has come again, the gladsome Christmas time; The evergreens are berried bright, the houghs are bright with rime; I'rom fvcry steeple, far and near, the joy-helLs pea;ing ring The voice of man's good will ' to man speaks forth in everything. H. "Warm glow the lights by cottage hearth, in lardly mansion high. And many a taie of love is told 'neath frosty sturlit sky. As merrily the sleigh bells ring and sil-vt-ry laughter sweet Blends with the crunching of the snow-beneath snow-beneath the ponies' feet. HI. Hark! strains of joyous music come from yonder crowded hail. And sounds of mirth and twirling feet proclaim 4he Christmas ball;. I And glowing cheeks and gleaming- gems i and brighter eyes are there The tones of manhood, chil l hood's grace t and maiden's blushes lair. i w The mistletoe hangs coy aloft, its poiish'd beads of while Mixd with the laurel and the bay and scarlet berries bright Of glistening holly, whilst the yew peeps graceful from beneath The glowing mass and ofcr all is twined t he ivy wreath. A", The. little ten-year cavalier assumes a mannish air. Tim six-year flirt throws, conscious, back her wialth of golden hair: A riper beauty sheds her smiles a white- hair'd knight upon. Whilst younger manhood, envying, turns and looks half jealous on. VI. So "Winter once again made young, bethinks be-thinks him of his Spring: And Spring looks up in Winter's face whilst youth is on the wing. i Forgetting, even as she smiles. Old Time I another pace . . j Hath uavel'd forward and hath touch'd unseen her winsome face. VII. Ring on. ring on. O Christmas bells, peal out upon the air; ;ris hands, O stalwart bearded men; smile on. O maidens fair: Iaugh. darling bright-hair'd little ones, iJi your white blossom'd prime; Ray loyal homage, one and all, to happv Christmas time" VIII. I The time of mutual good will, the season to forgive. i Forgft we bygone injuries, but kindnesses ! let live; L t Rove strew flowers o'er the voting. ! wl.il.-t Friendship elvers ihe"oid. j Era so the black lines of the Fast the Fu- lure write in gold! I LETTE3 TO AUNT BUSY. I "Eureka, Utah. Dec. S, ISM. I Intermoantain Catholic: 1 Hear Aunt Husy 1 wii! write this f : ct k so can have a start to get ac- 'itiairtcii with you. -I see that your iiii e and nephews are very active in writing- to you, yo 1 will be very glad ! correspond. I am 13 years old; I ;;m ;;oing to Saint Joseph's school, and 1 take music lessons from Sister IMyra. 1 vm;li write more, but 1 am afraid U W"ulu take too much space up in the paper. 1 will write again next 'week. I remain your affectionate niece, NELLIE SHEA. Washington Avenue. ' j Salt Lake City, Dec. V. 1S99. My Dear Aunt Uusy I am a little boy. I go to j-chool every day. I have no brothers or sisters to play with, so 1 play with my rabbits. I have three, two white and one brown. They are "very nice. One fell down the cellar the other day and broke his nose. I cried all night. There is a boy from Montana Mho live? in our house, and ho has a pigeon. Hut I don't like pigeons, they bite! I only like my rabbits. I give them hard bread and cabbage to eat. I will write to you again and tell you how they are. Your loving nephew, . HERMAN SEIGEL. Denver. Coll., Dec. 11, 1S99. Dear Aunt limy 1 think you are very nice, and your little stories are very sweet. Me and another girl reads them all the time, and I thought I would write you and tell you that you are so good to your little nieces and nephews. Me and the other girl send you our love, MARY ANN M'GINNIS. --- Don't forget the "Good morning" at the early morning meal. Well bred j boys and girls, on entering- the breakfast break-fast room, generally give a salutation, which is a rule in good form. Don't laugh continually when talking. Many young people do it to hide "ba-sh-fulnetss: others acquire this habit; but in either case it is a breach of good Don't rise out of sorts; but if you do. j don't vent your humors on the home j circle. A boy or girl always morose, cross and seemingly preoccupied, shows but little consideration for others. Don't let your politeness be always for the visitor. An agreeable speech, a tender word, a compliment now and then, is much appreciated, even by your j own family, softening the rough roads j in life, and making an encouragement when needed. The New York Times calls the 'attention 'atten-tion of growing girls and bovs to the fact that while they are growing they are forming their figures for life. Drooping the shoulders a little, 'drooping 'droop-ing the head as one walks, standing unevenly, eo that cne hip .sinks more than the other, do not tend to form a straight figure, or a graceful, easy carriage. car-riage. An easy way to practice t alking well is to start out right. Just before vou leave the house walk up to the wall, and see that your toes, chest and nose touch it at once, then in that ottitude walk away. Keep your head up and your chest out, and your shoulders and' back wiil take care of themselves. A southern school teacher used to instruct in-struct her pupils to walk always as if trying to look over the top an imaginary imag-inary carriage just in front of them. It was good advice, for it kept the head well raised. CORA JANE'S MUSIC. "One and, two and. three and, four and; one and, two and, three and, four and," counted Cora Jane's happy voice, while Cora Jane's stiff, nervous fingers pressed the wheeey keys of the little cottage organ. Cora Jane's, mother, out on the side porch, picking over red raspberries for Mrs. Downing, heard it, and her tired face brightened. They were- only five finger exercisss that Cora Jane was practicing, but her mother did not know that. She- and father had saved for yeurs to buy that cottage organ, and now that the dream was realized at last all her days seemed set to music; the fragrant red berries slipping through her fingers might have been the visible notes of her song of joy. The monotonous exercises in the front room kept on for half an hour. Then Cora Janr looked out of the-porch the-porch door. The gladness singing through her heart was part cf the-music, that her mother lived by these days. "Are the berries ready?" she asked, i '.'I'll take them over now if they are." Her mother looked ur at her . lov ingly. "1 can take them just as well as not," she ansn.vered. "Go and play smie more, i child." " Hut Cora Jane shook her head positively. posi-tively. "I'm not going to let the music make me selfish," she cried. "The idea J j of your walking clear over there in the I heat, after all you've been doing today! to-day! I'll be down foe. them as soon as I've changed my drer'3." . Five minutes later Cora Jane was on her way to the village, a pail of berries, ber-ries, covered with fresvi green leaves, swinging in ech hand. Mrs. Downing took- summer Iwardprs nnrl tViA prftator i yart of the precious organ money had ieen earned by the fruit and vegetables vegeta-bles that she had bought. Cora Jane, stepping swiftly through the sunny places and loitering in the shadows, remembered how she had stood under i the big elm one afternoon, and joyfully reckoned that only five dollars more were needed, and how she had run ac-j ac-j tualiy run all the way home the day I that she held in her hand the sixty cents that completed the needful sum. She wondered if girls who had had pianos pi-anos all their lives; loved them as she loved her organ. She wondered if they could. .. . Mrs. Downing lifted her flushed face as Cora Jane pushed open the kitchen door. "Well, there, Cora Jane. I don't know what I would do without you and j "ycur ma to depend on!" site exclaimed in hearty welcome. "The cook's- gone i and burned her wrist, and the baker hasn't come, and 1 was just in despair when I remembered that your ma had promised the first red raspberries today. to-day. I guffis with those and plenty of cream I can make out all right. Folks can't get berries liko that' in the city! Sit down and rest awhile, child: , 'taint any fun coming all that distance a day like this." Hut Cora Jane scarcely heard " her. "On, Mrs. Downing!" she cried, "who is that playing? Could I go and listen a few minutes? Nobody would notice if I stood out in the hall, would they?" Mrs. Downing stared at her in amazement. amaze-ment. "Land sakes, child, you ns'3d not look that way, as. if you were asking ask-ing a favor of a queen," she responded. "Go along, if vou want to. It's Mis3 Sidney KedniQi-there ain't anybody j round this afternoon but her. She does play pretty, that's a fact. I'd forgotten how you doted on music." Cora Jane slipped silently through into the long hall. The parlor door was I ni,?n. pnd she caught a glimnse of a i slender, girlish figure at the piano. ! Cora Jau? hurried by the door and sat i down on the- stairs. In the parlor the music ran on rippling rip-pling and singing under .the girl's fingers. fin-gers. Cora Jan3 listened spellbound; it made her think of the first spring buds and the wind in the treetops on sum-! sum-! mer rights, and the laughter of little brown brooks leaping from shadow- to sunlight. Then the music changed; it grew soft and wistful and charged with gers. Cora Jane listened spellbound; it hands tightly together, and her eyes were full of a pain deeper than tears. I She know now in the joy songs she had not thought of herself, but now she knew, and she never could-forget it again. And she had thought that she was learning to play. She wished that sh5 had never bought the organ. If only she had not heard this girl. It was so terrible to know. And site had been so hapy an hour before. The tender, haunting strains in the parlor ianged again. It was martial music now, brave and inspiriting. But Cora Jane did not bear she had thrust her fingers In her ears and was hurrying hurry-ing home across the fied. She didn't care if it was hot she didn't care for anything any more; she wanted only to get up to her room, w here- she could be alone. -.-" ' . . ' Late that afternoon Sidney was again at the piano. Her friends had not yet returned, and she- was waiting for them. As she waited" she touched the keys absently; she was not so ab- i . sorbed but that a sound in the doorway door-way made her turn. A woman stood there a plain, tired-faced tired-faced country woman such as she saw-in saw-in her walks every day. But this woman was in trouble; her pale lips were trembling and her faded eyes full of tears. Sidney went across to her impulsively. im-pulsively. She did not know who she was, but it was not the first time that the tiny silver cross she wore at her throat had given the girl silent introductions. intro-ductions. "I'm so sorry." she cried with tender wistfulncc-s. "I wish I wasn't a stranger, and that I could help." The woman shook her head wearily. "It's too late now," she answered heavily. heav-ily. "Cora Jane never was one to take things easy. I don't expo;t she'll ever get over it. And she has been so happy till she heard you play." The girl's eyes widened with surprise. sur-prise. "I don't understand," she paid. "Who is Cora Jane? I've never played play-ed for any one I didn't know, and I don't know any one of that name. Will you not tell me. please, if I have anything any-thing to do with it.'! earnestness; before Cora Jane's mother realized what had happened, she was telling the story of Cora Jane's love for music, and the buying of the little cabinet organ. Sidney listened with pitiful sympathy; . the whole, poor, pathetic little story was written so plainly on the worn face before her! But though the sobs climbed up in the girl's throat more than once, there was no trace of dismay in her face when the story was ended. . . "I am coming to see Cora Jane in the morning," she announced . in a sweet, decisive voice. "I've ever ' so many things to tell her. Why, I've I been taking lessons all my life! If she had as many as I have had, she'd be playing Just as well. There isn't the least bit of reason for being dis- couraged. You must tell her' so. Mrs. I Hill. And tell her surely to expect me tomorrow, for she'll have to have a j visitor ' whether she wants to or not only I don't like to be unwelcome!" The woman looked up admiringly j into the earnest young face, and a I gleam of hope shons through the shadows in her eyes. "It'3 real good of you to take so much interest," she said, gratefully. "I guess you could help if anybody could." Sidney was unusually thoughtful that evening. Her friends often teased her about her experiences, but she never had found one in the least like mib. ora jane must oe comforted, there was no doubt about that, but I she kept wondering what Cora Jane was like, and whether it would be hard to talk to her. She wished that she didn't have to go, only there was no use wishing that. Then her fingers touched her little cross and a brave resolution routed her fears. But when the next morning she wan in the little stiff "front room" of the Hill cottage, and Cora Jane stole shyly in and lifted her big, sad gray eyes to the face of this other fortunate girl, Sidney's dread all vanished. "Oh, you poor child," she cried; "do you care like that?" Cora Jane said nothing. There was a little quiver about her lips, but she steadied them resolutely. reso-lutely. Sidney put out her hand and derw the girl down on the sofa beside her and began talking eagerb'. The plan that had been dimly lnauueu in ner mma tne night be? I fore took rapid form. . Cora Jane, in her bewilderment, did not grasp it. at first; when she did, Sidney's voice was I full of pleading. "It's just the lessons, you know, I dear," she was saying. "I've taken them ever since I was 5 years old, and ! you haven't had any, your mother says, j Nobody could expect to play " without taking lessons. And I don't know what to do with all my. time here I don't, truly. It would be a r.eal charity to let me help you twice a week. 0J course, two months isn't very long, but it would make a beginning, anyway. If you knew how I wanted to, you couldn't refuse me!". Cora Jane drew a long breath. "But I couldn't ever pay it to you," she faltered. "But you could to some one else," Sidney said. "Some other iriri wWn ! ; wanted to play. Don't you think you ought, so that you can help others even if you wouldn't for j'ourself?" "Oh, I wish I dared!" Cora Jane cried. Sidney sprang up and danced lightly about the room. "I couldn't help it." ! she apologized, breathlessly. "It's so good to be of a little bit of use somewhere! some-where! You sit right down at that or, gan and take your first lesson this minute, min-ute, Cora Jane." Cora Jane obeyed. Her fingers trembled trem-bled vso that she made many blunders; but Sidney laughed away her nervousness. nervous-ness. When Mrs. Hill stepped softly to the door half an hour later the two girlish faces were bent over the organ, and Cora Jane's was as bright as Sidney's. Sid-ney's. . . , . The lessons went on regularly for a month. Cora Jane was unflagging , in her purpose: she would have worn her-i self out with her practicing had not Sidney interfered. ."Every, evening she played for her father; he listened delightfully de-lightfully to anything, even exercises, but he liked best a few old songs. Cora Jane always ended with "The Old Oaken Bucket." Years before her father and mother had sung in in sinjrine school. Cora Jane, faithfully playing the familiar air, and secretly wondering wonder-ing how anybody could care most for that, little knew how, under its spell, the years slipped away and the man and woman traveled back to the fields of youth togeher. One afternoon Cora Jane went over to Mrs. Downing's with some early apples. ap-ples. Mrs. Downing was not in the kitchen, so. leaving her load there, the ' girl went through to the parlor. If Sidney Sid-ney was alone she would play for her she had done it many times. But the parlor was dim and deserted. Cora Jane was turning away disappointed when a clear, amused voice floated in to her from the niazza. "How's your pupil getting on. Sidney? Sid-ney? I was passing the house the other day when she was practicing, an well. I-thought I appreciated your virtues be-, fore, but to spend two hours a week over such stupidity as that! Why. she never could learn to play if she liver! ' to be as-old as Methuselah! Why don' 1 you tell her so and not bother with her any longer?" Cora Jane.- in the middle of the parlor par-lor d:or, stocd rap!yzc.;I: th'ngrs seemed reeling about her and she grasped a chair for support. She was not conscious con-scious that she was listening; she only felt that all her happiness something beneath happiness something that was really life itself depended upon Sidney's Sid-ney's answer. Sidney's voice sounded as if some one had hurt her. " "Don't, Effie," she cried, pleadingly; "don't I can't bear it! She is so happy in her music and sj faithful I never saw any one so faithful faith-ful 5n my life. She will do something with it she must, with such love and such perseverance." "Oh, hymns and things, perhaps," laughed- the careless girl voice, "but not music, and you know it, Sidney Raymond!" "I guess," Sidney answered slowly; "I think often that if we could hear as God does, Cora Jane's music would put: ours to shame." . . , There was-an embarrassed silence on the piazza. In the silence Cora Jane slipped softly away;" She did not run across the fields as on that other day she crept silently ... home like soma wounded creature." "J She could not eat any supper that night, and the organ was untouched. She was not sick, she said, only tired; she guessed she'd go up stairs. Cora Jane's father wandered restlessly. "It don't seem right without the music," he said to his wife. "No, it don't," she agreed, with a troubled glance' toward the front room. They were both very silent that evening. even-ing. . . . The next morning Cora Jane went about her work as usual, but she did not practice.' She sent a note to Sidney Sid-ney by a neighbor. Promptly after dinner din-ner Sidney came over, the note in her hand. "I want to know what this means, Cora Jane?" she. cried. "The idea of giving up lessons when you've been doing do-ing so well. ' It's just nonsense!" Cora Jane turned her hopeless face to the window. "It isn't nonsense," she answered, dully. "I was in the parlor yesterday and I heard what you said on the piazza. I didn't mean to listen I didn't think anything, about the listening listen-ing part till afterward. But I heard, and I know now it ain't no use. You said so yourself." Eidney's eyes filled with tears. "Cora Jane, dear!" she cried pityingly. Cora Jane did not move. "Yu don't know anything about it," she answered. answer-ed. "Y'ou can't!" There was silence a moment. When Sidney spoke it was with an evident effort.- "You think I don't, dear, but I do. I'll tell you about it, and how I was helped. I loved music always, but I wanted to sing the way you want to play, Cora Jane. I hadn't any voice, but I thought it would grow strong through training and I took lessons for two years. Then finally the professor told me that it wasn't any use, that I was just wasting money and strength and time over something that I never could have. I felt so badly bad-ly over it and I was proud, too, and felt mortified. I vowed that I'd never sing another note as Jong a I lived. Mother -missed it, I knew. She didn't care If my singing was poor, she loved to hear me, but she was too good - to urge me to what she knew would hurt. So it went on for months. Then I heard ' a sermon.- I enn't tell you 1 about it. Well, I've forgotten all the words, only the tthought was that our life here was just the beginning of ; life, that it, all the real and true of it, was going on forever, and that in the I 'forever' would come the satisfaction , in some sweet, unknown way, of all ' our desires; the answer to all our longings. And then it was foolish of me, for T know it-would have been j the same of any other thing that 1 wasn't spoken of but I remembered how much the Bible says of song, and ( I knew that my music would be given me there and I could wait. I went ( down and sang to mother that night. When I saw her face I realized how ( selfish I had been. I've sung for her t ever since. I'm going to use my little ' here, and not worry because it isn't t more. That will all be made right, bye-and-bye." . Cora Jane was looking at her now, . I pleaded, as Sidney hesitated. ... c I "It's this way, dear. Perhaps you cannot ever play some cf my music, but many people don't care for that . i kind at all; it's the musician heart in 5 I you 'that makes you love it and under- a stand. But there must be ever so . many people in the village here who love hymns and songs and variations, aren't there?" C "Yes," Cora Jano answered. She i was thinking of her father and "The Old Oaken Bucket." t "And you can give them sa much pleasure, Cora Jane,- if you are not" ( "Selfish," finished Cora Jane, with a J faint smile, and she adtled, quietly, "1' be ready for my lesson tomorrow; and A thank you." ! She went resolutely to the organ when (S Sidney left. That evening slie played j while her father and mother listened. Her father sat with his head leaned $ j closed; when she clayed . "The Old i Oaken Bucket" he- looked ur content- jedly. C "Folks can play all the new-fangled things they want," he remarked, "but that's good enough music fcr me any t I time eh, mother?" I And' mother answered with a tender I smile, "There ain't anything prettier i to me, father." fe The next winter Sidney received a f note from Cora Jane. It was nearly n all about her music. "I'm playing in g the Sunday school now," she wrote. "I i can't be glad enough that you didn't let me give up. When Miss Elkins left there didn't seem to be anyone- else .to V play there, and there wouldn't have been if you hadn't made me. And I j play for father every night, and I'm teaching little Sadie Morris something 3 to surprise her mother. I don't feel badJy over it any more; I don't, truly. jj i ve round out some tnings about peo- pie that' I never guessed before, and ft one is that nearly everybody has some wish put away like mine: When I 6 found out that, I was ashamed to be f blue over mine any more. That was;V when I really began to try to use my music all I could. And after all, I guess' I'm as happy when people like it I using it so for them, I mean as I would have been for myself. I can wait i for my time in the 'forever.' " Sidney folded the letter with tender fingers and tucked the envelope in a r corner of her mirror. "That's to help A me to be brave," she said, with quick self-reproach. And Cora Jane, playing over faith- S fully the simple airs that were all that f5 were within her' reach, never guessed IS the message that her poor music was Q carrying to other hearts. That will be one of the joys of Cora Jane's "for-ever." "for-ever." Mabel Nelson Thurston, in Forward. ' i |