HOW THE CHRIST FLOWERS CAME 181 stillness, the wail of a child in distress. The charcoal burners crossed themselves, and huddled closer to their fires. ""Tis the cry from Bethlehem," said Johann reverently. "The Christ-Child is born." "No child of the Black Forest would be abroad to-night?" asked Hans, uneasily. "It might not be one of our little children?" "Not so," asserted Michael, a sturdy giant. "No hausmutter in the Black Forest could be so careless. Content thee, Hans, thy little ones snug in their cot dream of the angels, while thy good frau guards their sleep. It is as Johann says, the echo from Bethlehem, or mayhap we have nodded and dreamed." Hans was silent, but presently stole away into the snowwreathed depths of the forest. A voice in his heart was urging him on. 66 May the star of Bethlehem guide me aright," he prayed. "If a child be abroad this holy night, lead me, dear God, to Thy little one." Again the wail of distress smote upon his ear, a sob was the answer to his prayer; and stooping down, the charcoal burner lifted from the snow a babe scantily wrapped in swaddling clothes. Its feeble strength was almost spent, so placing it in his breast, Hans sped through the forest toward his home. The hausmutter sat by her babes, her face, beautiful with mother-love, radiant in the glow of the Christmas lights burning on the humble tree. And so Hans found her. "I have brought thee one more, Gretchen," he said as he placed the babe on her bosom. "Succor it for the ChristChild's sake." "Who was born to-night," answered the mother gently, and her love flowed out to the waif, warming it back to life. The slumbering children stirred and wakened, and seeing the stranger, rose from their cots, and presently the hut rang with their rejoicing. The lights on the tree twinkled like stars. The children bore their guest toward it, loaded him with its choicest gifts, and played about him merrily, Hans and Gretchen looking on, a great content in their hearts. Suddenly a radiance not of earth illumined the humble abode; the waif was encircled by a glory that deepened and spread, till the charcoal burner's hut became as an antechamber of heaven. Hans and Gretchen fell on their knees in adoration. The Babe they had harbored was passing from their vision, floating upward as if borne by angels' wings, His tiny hands outspread in parting benediction. The children wept for the loss of their playmate. "Hush thee, my darlings," whispered the mother. "Know you 'twas the dear Christ-Child, who came to us and hath returned to Heaven. To-morrow thy father shall show thee the spot where he found the Holy Babe." When the morrow came Hans led the little ones into the forest and where had been a bed of snow, lo! flowers bloomed, great waxen blossoms with hearts of gold and petals like silken floss! "The Christ flowers!" cried little Greta, and kneeling before them, as at a shrine, the peasants solemnly recorded a vow to succor each Christmas day some poor child in honor of the Holy One, who had been their guest. And so, in the Black Forest, is still held this legend of how the Chrysanthemums or Christ flowers came. HEROES DENIS A. McCARTHY If so it be we are forbid by fate To do the deeds that make a hero great, Let's do our duty each one as we should, Oh, there are seeds of kindness to be sown 'Tis true these seem of little worth, because But noble actions are not judged by size, And though our names the world may never fill, The ear of God may find them sweeter still. A BOY ON A FARM CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER, an American writer, was born at Plainfield, Massachusetts, in 1829. He graduated at Hamilton College in 1851. From 1856 until 1860 he practiced law in Chicago, and the following year became the managing editor of the Hartford Press. In 1884 he became associate editor of Harper's Magazine. Some of his best works are "Back Log Studies," "Being a Boy," "A Roundabout Journey," "Their Pilgrimage,” and “The Golden House." He has also written interesting papers entitled, "Studies in the South," and "Studies in the Great West." He, together with Mark Twain, wrote "The Gilded Age." Boys in general would be very good farmers if the current notions about farming were not so different from those they entertain. What passes for laziness is very often an unwillingness to farm in a particular way. Say what you will about boys, it is my impression that a farm without a boy would very soon come to grief. What the boy does is the life of the farm. He is the factotum, always in demand, always expected to do the thousand indispensable things that nobody else will do. Upon him fall all the odds and ends, the most difficult things. After everybody else is through he has to finish up. His work is like a woman's-perpetual waiting on others. Everybody knows how much easier it is to eat a good dinner than it is to wash the dishes afterward. Consider what a A BOY ON A FARM 185 boy on a farm is expected to do; things that must be done or life would actually stop. It is understood, in the first place, that he is to do all the errands, to go to the store, to the post-office, and to carry all sorts of messages. If he had as many legs as a centipede, they would tire before night. His short limbs seem to him entirely inadequate to the task. He would like to have as many legs as a wheel has spokes, and rotate about in the same way. This he sometimes tries to do; and the people who have seen him "turning cart-wheels" along the side of the road have supposed that he was amusing himself and idling his time; he was only trying to invent a new locomotion, so that he could economize his legs and do his errands with greater dispatch. He practices standing on his head, in order to accustom himself to any position. Leapfrog is one of his methods of getting over the ground quickly. He would willingly go on an errand any distance if he could leapfrog it with a few other boys. He has a natural genius for combining pleasure with business. This is the reason why, when he is sent to the spring for a pitcher of water, and the family are waiting at the dinner table, he is absent so long, for he stops to poke the frog that sits on the stone, or, if there is a penstock, to put his hand over the spout and squirt the water a little while. He is the one who spreads the grass when the men have cut it; he mows it away in the barn; he rides the horse, to cultivate the corn, up and down the hot, weary rows; he |