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Show III! Ml mil IIHIM "Cofi!, ""whispers Tmi, "I'm cold, too, Mother." "An' the king, himself, walked into the snow an' brought the poor fella into in-to the warm Yule light," I wint on. "Vis, Mother, the light. It's all right, now, an' Mother darlin', how beautiful you are!" lUit while I was talkin' to him, won-derin' won-derin' if it was th' last story he'd be hem-in", t lie room began to misbehave strange, an' nobody but Black Fella Joe knows what else happened. The next I knew, the three nv us was in a canoe slidin' down the black Congo an' I remember wonderin' what had come over Black Fella Joe, fer he had always rayfused to pilot us down before, afraid av the tribe on the banks. An' after that, I forget again until I found Tim an' me in white beds with nurses watchin' over us, an' Tim lookin' like the better man av all. "Where's Black Fella Joe?" we asks. "He wint home," says the doctor, "two weeks ago. As near as I could make out, he said to tell you 'Merry Christmas.' " "Tim," I says, "I'm thinkin' our diamond dia-mond huntin' days is over. The ocean's jist out av your window there, an' whinever I see th' ocean I hear Ireland Ire-land a callin'." "What a Christmas we've had," sighed Tim ; "I've been dreamin av Christmas at home till I've an ache in me heart. Back to Ireland? Tm wonderin' " "I'll sittle that fer ye," says a merry, little voice, an' a tiny, white-haired lady stipped up behind Tim an' put her hand over his eyes. "One guess," she says. An' Tim guessed right. 1920, Western Newspaper Union.) II I IIWIIIllW il II I llll 1 1 II Jama lewi riLi! , ' -" J . .fVLL be tellin' ye av a rid (K,t hot Christmas an' a sad rd dny fer me, Ochone. I was in Casey's Oven, as Tv0(l namcd it an' black '7tpgi' fever was puttin' wur'rils lV'ffs on Tiras tonsne at he J y knew nawthing about. "Diamonds!" he cries, "ah, Mother, yards an' yards av thim. What could be grander fer a yule tree to' glitter with? Mother, darlin', ye'll rest, now. No toil. No tears. Fer we've diamonds to burn. An' Christmas, Mother, Christmas! Christ-mas! Mother are ye near me?" "Xis, Tim,'' I whispered to Black Fella Joe, fer the fever had me, too, though I wasn't feelin' it as much as him. "lTis, Tim," says Black Fella Joe who was a holdin' him in his arms. "Christinas," Tim says over an' over. Tim's cheeks glowed rid against white like a fair child's an' I looked away with pain in me throat. Outside the haythen parrots quarreled in the rank trees an' the big sun baked the muddy village till the straw roofs steamed." Tim's eyes was full av wonder like a lad's, with him a lookin' up into Black Fella Joe's face, not seein' it at all. j "Mother!" lie says, "Xe're rosier than ever. Sure, the years must lie runnin' backwards with ye, Mother !" An' thin', "Mother, sing to us!" Black Fella ' Joe looked worried. Even the hist native couldn't he au- The Three in a Canoe Sliding Down the Black Congo. swerin' questions like that. So I rnr.n- ! aged to crawl to him an' take his place, holdin' Tim's head in me lap. "Sing about the Babe in the Manger," Man-ger," Tim begged. "Hush, boy !" says I. "Thin, tell us a story, Mother." So, in a little voice I told him an old, old story about the Dublin beggar beg-gar an' the good king. "It was cold," I was a sayin', "An' the beggar sang outside the king's W'n"' on C'rir-"?-, " |