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lessons that they teach. O, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!”

Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

Yes, and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in !

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard.

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist, no night; clear, bright, stirring, golden day.

“ What's to-day ?” cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

“What's to-day, my fine fellow ?"
"To-day! Why, Christmas day."

“It's Christmas day! I haven't missed it. Hallo, my fine fellow !

“ Hallo !"

“Do you know the Poulterer’s, in the next street but one, at the corner ?"

“ I should hope I did.”

“An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up there ? Not the little prize Turkey, — the big one ?

“What, the one as big as me?

“What a delightful boy! It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck!”

“It's hanging there now.”
“Is it! Go and buy it."
“Walk-er !” exclaimed the boy.

“No, no, I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll give you half a crown ! ”

The boy was off like a shot.

“ I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's! He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be !”

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one;

but write it he did, somehow, and went down stairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man.

It was a Turkey! He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax.

Scrooge dressed himself “all in his best," and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and, walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humored fellows said, “Good morning, sir! A merry Christmas to you !” And Scrooge said often afterwards, that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears.

In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew's house.

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it.

“Is your master at home, my dear?” said Scrooge to the girl. Nice girl! Very.

“ Yes, sir."
“ Where is he, my love ? ”
He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress.”

“ He knows me;" said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock. “ I'll go in here, my

dear." “ Fred !! “Why, bless my soul !” cried Fred, “who's that ?”

“It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred ? "

Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when he came. So did the plump sister, when she came. So did every one when they came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!”

But he was early at the office next morning. O, he was early there. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late !

That was the thing he had set his heart upon. And he did it. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. Bob was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank.

Bob's hat was off, before he opened the door ; his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.

“Hallo!” growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"

“I am very sorry, sir. I am behind my time." “You are ? Yes. I think you are. Step this way, if you please."

“It's only once a year, sir. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir."

“Now, I'll tell you what, my friend. I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," Scrooge continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the Tank again, — "and therefore I am about to raise your salary!”

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler.

“A merry Christmas, Bob !” said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. “A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy a second coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!”

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more ; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him ; but his own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived in that respect upon the Total-Abstinence Principle ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us ! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!



Aubrey Thomas De Vere, third son of the late Sir Aubrey De Vere, Bart., of Curragh Chase, County Limerick, was born in 1814, and educated at the University of Dublin. He published in 1842 The Waldenses and other Poems; in 1843 The Search after Proserpine ; in 1856 Poems Miscellaneous and Sacred ; in 1858 May Carols; in 1864 The Infant Bridal. In 1869, in this country, was published a volume of poems, dedicated to the poet Longfellow, entitled Irish Odes and other Poems. It is from this last volume that the specimens here given have been taken. His prose works are English Misrule and Irish Misdeeds (1843), and Wanderings in Greece and Turkey (1850).

He is a highly-cultivated gentleman, of agreeable manners, and though belonging to a Protestant family, is an ardent Catholic. His poems are of a very high order, and will have more than an ephemeral interest.

(From the Ascent of the Apennines. ]
The plains recede; the olives dwindle ;
The chestnut slopes fall far behind ;
The skirts of the billowy pine-woods kindle
In the evening lights and wind.
Not here we sigh for the Alpine glory
Of peak primeval and death-pale snow;
For the cold gray green, and the glacier hoary,
Or blue caves that yawn below.
The landscape here is mature and mellow;
Fruit-like, not flower-like:— hills embrowned ;
Ridges of purple and ledges of yellow
From red stream to rock church-crowned :
'Tis a region of mystery, hushed and sainted :
Serene as the visions of artists old
When the thoughts of Dante his Giotto painted :
The summit is reached ! Behold!
Like a sky condensed lies the lake far down ;
Its curves like the orbit of some fair planet ;
A fire-wreath falls on the cliffs that frown,
Above it - dark walls of granite ;
• The hill-sides with homesteads and hamlets glow;
With snowy villages zoned below;
Down drops by the island's woody shores
The bannered barge with the rhythmic oars.
No solitude here, no desert cheerless
Is needed pure thoughts or hearts to guard ;
'Tis a populous solitude, festal, fearless,

For men of good-will prepared.
The hermit may hide in the wood, but o'er it
All day the happy chimes are rolled:
The black crag wooes the cloud, but before it
The procession winds on white-stoled.
Farewell, O Nature ! None meets thee here
But his heart goes up to a happier sphere,
The radiance around him spread forgetting.
That City he sees on whose golden walls
No light of a rising sun, or setting,
Of moon or of planet falls ;
For the Lamb alone is the light thereof -
The City of Truth, the Kingdom of Love!




So long as Duddon 'twixt his cloud-girt walls
Thridding the woody chambers of the hills
Warbles from vaulted grot and pebbled halls
Welcome or farewell to the meadow rills;
So long as linnets chant low madrigals,
Near that brown nook the laborer whistling tills,
Or the late-reddening apple forms and falls
'Mid brakes whose heart the autumnal redbreast thrills,
So long, last Poet of the great old race,
Shall thy broad song through England's bosom roll,
A river singing anthems in its place,
And be to later England as a soul.
Glory to Him who made thee, and increase
To them that hear thy word, of love and peace !


When first that precinct sacrosanct I trod,
Autumn was there, but Autumn just begun;
Fronting the portals of a sinking sun
The queen of quietude in vapor stood,
Her sceptre on the dimly-crimsoned wood
Resting in light. The year's great work was done ;

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