The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he did n't care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes.

After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five and sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of business; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favor when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord "was much about as tall as Peter;" at which Peter pulled up his collar SO high that you couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and by and by they had a song, about a lost child traveling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well Indeed.

There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented

and with the little they had ;
and so they
their humble
humble homagled in

50

Good Selections.

with the time; and when they faded, and looked happie:
yet in the bright sparklings of the Spirit's torch at part-
ing, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on
Tiny Tim, until the last.)

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YEAR'S

ANONYMOUS.

LITTLE Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down

the street;

The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on her feet.
The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the

lamp.

The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth.
Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest
night.

With the little box of matches she could not sell all day,
And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows every way,
She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom-
There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight in the

room;

And children with grave faces are whispering one another
Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her
speak,

No breath of little whisperers comes warmly to her cheek.
No little arms are round her: ah me! that there should be,
With so much happiness on earth, so much of misery!
Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings
round,

As aden boughs in Autumn fling their ripe fruits to the

ground.

And the best love man can offer to the God of love, be

sure,

Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor. Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way; There's no one looketh out at her, there's no one bids her stay.

Her home is cold and desolate; no smile, no wood, no fire, But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet, And she curleth up beneath her for warmth her little feet;

And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high. She hears the clock strike slowly, up in a church tower, With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour.

And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell, And of the cradle-songs she sang, when Summer's twilight

fell;

Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child,

Who was cradled in a manger, when Winter was most

wild;

Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone;

And she thought the song had told he was ever with his

own;

And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his.

How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this!"

Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now, For the pressure on her heart, and the weight upon her

brow;

But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and

bare,

That she might look around her, and see if He were there.
The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two;
And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread.

She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what they did say,

Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned
away.

She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see
Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree.
The branches were all laden with things that children
prize,

Bright gifts for boy and maiden-she saw them with her
eyes.

And she almost seemed to touch them, and to join the welcome shout,

When darkness fell around her, for the little match was out.

Another, yet another, she has tried-they will not light;
Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her

might:

And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare, And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in the air.

There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear-wound · in his side,

And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread

wide.

And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known

Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow—ay, equal to her own.

And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree,

Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come with me?"

The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim,

And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn:

And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned from that bright board,

And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with thee, O Lord!"

The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies.

In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall,

She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call.

They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said,

"It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin;

Men said, "It was a bitter night; would no one let her in?" And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see

How much of happiness there was after that misery.

THE CHRISTMAS PARTY.

From Dickens' "Christmas Carol,"

IT is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as