In

Right hastily we despatched supper, and then my young Cambridge friend and I sallied out for a stroll through the principal streets. one of them, the "Calle de las Sierpes" (Street of the Serpents), the people were all afoot, even the smallest children, enjoying the cool night air; it was a perfect promenade of the bourgeoisie, all walking, chatting, laughing, fanning. Wives, of apparently the working class, walked leaning on their spouses, gracefully carrying their flowered and embroidered trains with their left hand, while the eternal fan waved in the right. Already I could discern that the women of Seville are small, and that for eyes and teeth they are unsurpassed and unsurpassable. As at Cadiz, no useless shawl or covering encircles or oppresses them; a flower in the hair and a fan in the hand is all the muffling the climate endures.

Almost like magic, as the clock strikes ten, all this fairy scene vanishes, and away we wander through open spaces, where orangewomen are nodding in deepest slumber over their piles of fruit, with useless torches flickering over them, those torches unprotected by glass or glazed paper, yet undisturbed by the least breath of the night air. And we stroll along silent narrow streets, where not a form of man is visible, and then through squares as silent, where people are already fast asleep on the marble benches. So swiftly still does the town become that soon our very footfalls re-echo from the closed-up fronts of the dwelling-houses.

And all this before the old "" serenos (policemen), looking very fierce with their halberds clattering against the pavement, made the deserted walls re-echo to their tremulous strains:

which simply means, "eleven o'clock and fine." And so very much is fine weather the rule at Seville, and so regularly is it chanted with the hours of the night by the venerable guardians of the city, that they themselves have become the walking equivalents of the everwelcome fact which they proclaim. Hence their name-" Serenos."

THE EIGHTH OF DECEMBER.

BY THE REV. ARTHUR RYAN.

MID this chill December gloom,

A When flowers sleep in their darkling tomb,

Ere yet the gleam of Christmas gladness
Breaks for a while the winter's sadness,

Beams out a ray,
Spring-like to-day;
Opes a white flower,
Glad for the hour;
Rings up a cry

Clear to the sky,

N a German town, on Christmas Eve, the shop windows were

gaily decorated, comptingly

attracting passers-by. Between the curtains, in private houses, light glimmered, presage of general preparation for the morrow's great festival.

66

Edmund, the only child of a barrister, was in his father's study, waiting in happy, impatient expectation for Christmas presents. His mother's light footsteps were audible passing to and fro the door of communication with the next room, as she furnished his tree; he almost thought he heard the flap of the Child-Christ's wings;* but Edmund was too honourable to look through the keyhole, though strongly tempted, as he felt very impatient to know what was going on inside. His father tried to quiet him by telling a story. At last the door opened and he heard his mother's gentle Come." Edmund rushed into the room and stood transfixed with delight opposite to the bright tree. For some weeks he had had vague, varying wishes for more gifts than his parents, though rich, could afford to give. Now all those fancies vanished; the actual presents before his eyes filled him with bliss, the more so that not having wished for one of them, each had the charm of complete novelty even in thought. Two handsome illuminated books-one, Bible Stories the other, Natural History, illustrated with pictures of the animals in the Zoological Gardens; a lovely wooden sleigh, with a warm overcoat in it, and fur-lined gloves; some toys; and, lastly, a supply of

* In Germany a belief prevails among children that on Christmas Eve the Infant Christ flies from heaven on gold and silver wings, visiting every house, leaving gifts for all the young people, generally in a stocking hung near to each little bed.

sweets, which his dainty mouth did not scorn. In a few minutes his mother extinguished the pretty variegated wax-lights, to reserve them for New Year's Night, and lighted a lamp specially that Edmund should stay as long as he liked to gaze on and examine his treasures. He, feeling as happy as a king is supposed to feel, remained alone, his mother having to order supper, his father to attend a consultation.

Presently, old Betty, who had been his nurse, came, asking : “Edmund, would you care to see the young count's gifts; his old servant has just finished arranging them, and has invited me to

come."

At first Edmund refused, being disinclined to leave his tree, feeling sure, too, the young count's could not surpass his own; but finally he followed Betty, springing down the staircase two steps at a time to overtake her. They soon reached the splendid house where the wealthy Count Von Bertoff lived in great state. The old servant met them, and ushered Betty and Edmund into a large room.

II. OSCAR's.

It was magnificent; not merely the tree, but the room was nearly filled with presents for the only child and heir of the rich old Count Von Bertoff. Edmund, wonder-stricken, walked with slow steps into the richly-carpeted room, which seemed like a fairy's home. A beautiful pyramid-shaped chandelier was suspended from the ceiling, with myriads of wax lights; sconces to match, set with candles, were fixed on the walls. Edmund could not suppress his admiration, round and round the room he went, ever finding something new to admire. A Hussar uniform, one mass of gold embroidery; a great coat, lined with fur, and cap to suit; weapons of all sorts ready for the young warrior, just as if he were to be off at once to fight; a sleigh almost as long as the room, lined with red cloth, in it a bear-skin rug. The servant said: "There are two beautiful Russian ponies in the stable." A table was laden with toys, bricks, soldiers, a camp, a fortress garrisoned with men and cannons, even ammunition; picture-books, instrucsive and amusing. Edmund felt bewildered, and asked if Oscar were delighted.

"No, he does not seem to care, he always has so many presents; however, he looks forward with some pleasure to driving the ponies to-morrow."

Edmund seemed puzzled about Oscar's indifference, and was proceeding once again to make a tour of the room, when he heard Betty's voice summoning him home.

His mother was already seated at the piano, waiting till all should sing together the Christmas Hymn. She led in a clear, melodious voice-"Glory to God on high;" his father's deep bass voice chimed

in: then his own child tones. But somehow he did not feel as he had felt last Christmas, when he imagined he heard angels sing too. Even when his father read aloud the Gospel, that they might meditate on it before next day, his thoughts wandered, reverting in envious comparison of the young Count Oscar's tree with his own, which he now discontentedly despised. Later, his father observed the abstracted indifference about presents which only an hour ago had pleased so much; his mother felt grieved, knowing he had seen Oscar's, and said: "Our boy will never be contented."

"Yes," replied his father, "you will find he will; sooner or later he must come in contact with others both poorer and richer than he is."

She sighed; if in her power, she would have given her son every luxury.

“Edmund, dress warmly, and come for a short walk before supper; the night is starry and bright, though cold."

Wondering at so unusual an occurrence as a winter evening's walk, he accompanied his father down a narrow side-street, into a very old house, up to the garret-room, which they entered, his father warning him not to make any noise: a wretched room, dimly lighted.

III. KARL'S.

Edmund's memory flashed back to a time when he had been here formerly with a message from his mother to Monsca the washerwoman.

He had seen the boy, too, now lying ill and pale on a small bed, who used to come back and forwards to the house any day Monsca stayed for a day's work. He was always delicate-looking and intelligent.

Edmund recollected having heard his mother mention Karl's illness and her frequently sending nourishment and dainties during the last two years to the suffering boy, who was now worn almost to a skeleton. He seemed just awakened from sleep and gazed in ecstasy at a tiny Christmas tree, placed by Monsca on a chair beside the bed; only three tapers, a penny gingerbread, and a penny picture-book.

"How beautiful! beautiful" he exclaimed. Poor Monsca was well repaid for her thought of giving him his first Christmas tree, by seeing his joy.

"Yes, dear mother, I am pleased," he answered in reply to her anxious query if he were; "and now let us say a prayer." Clasping his little wasted hands he began, "Praise be to Thee, O Lord," his weak voice sounding earnest and devout. Mother and son were so absorbed they did not perceive Edmund and his father in the doorway, who, disliking to disturb them, went away noiselessly.