'n' I told him I was his great-grandfather, or something. I thought he was poking fun at me, 'n' I thought I'd give him as good as he sent. Cracky! If I'd known who it was that I was talkin' to, I'd have been a little more pertickler 'bout what I said. He was a jolly little chap, anyhow." "O Jack!" cries his mother, "your imagination must have made most of this. I can hardly believe that you have really seen anything quite so strange as you describe." "Now, Mother Kilbourne !" replies Jack, deeply grieved, and somewhat indignant; "I guess I have eyes and ears; and I guess I know what I see with my eyes, and hear with my ears; and I tell you, it is just exactly as I've told you. I never b'lieved in Santa Claus before; but when a fellow hangs on to his sleigh and rides with him a quarter of a mile or so, then he knows; and there's no use talking." "Well, my son, it is very curious, I admit. But I wish your father would come. He must have had time to walk here since the train arrived. Is it still snowing hard?" asks the lady as she rises and walks slowly to the window, and, shutting her face between her hands, gazes out into the storm. "'Deed it is! "" answers Jack. "Snow's most up to my knees now. Sis will have a gay time wading though it." "Your father will be obliged to carry her, I fear," replies Mrs. Kilbourne. "I think," she adds, after a moment, "that he must have stopped by the way at Judge Gray's; I know that there was some matter of important business between them. Our little Lil will be very tired, I fear." Jack sits looking into the glowing grate, and asking his mother all sorts of questions about the legend of St. Nicholas; who he was, anyhow; if he was really a man; and when he lived; and how long ago; and what he did; and what about the Bible stories that tell of spirits and angels that appeared to men a sharp fire of puzzling questions, which his mother answers, dubiously and absently; for her heart is a little troubled about the child for whose coming she waits impatiently. Meanwhile Ben is speeding upon his errand of good-will with many a merry experience. Halting his ponies in front of each favored house he seizes the parcel prepared for its inmates, runs to a lighted window, taps on the pane, holds aloft his treasure in full sight, makes a low bow, skips to the door and lays it down upon the sill, and then jumps into his cutter and is off in a twinkling. The children run to the window half in terror, half in transport; they gaze after the vanishing sprite, with their hearts in their mouths; then they go timidly to the door and take with undissembled glee the goods so mysteriously provided for them. As for the older folks, they are as much puzzled as the children; no one can find any clew to the identity of this unearthly visitant. If Ben could have looked into all these homes, and could have heard the admiring outcries, and could have known how much of surprise and curiosity and innocent mirth and thankfulness his pranks were producing, he would have been fully satisfied with the success of his experiment. Finally he arrives in front of Mr. Kilbourne's gate, for he has reserved a part of his bounty for the children whose descriptive list Jack has given him. There is a light tap on the window which opens upon the veranda, and Mrs. Kilbourne starts. There he is, in full view, bowing low, waving his parcel in the air, then bounding away with the spring of an antelope. "There, Mother Kilbourne!" cries Jack, his teeth chattering again; "n-now what have you to say? "Blessings on us!" exclaims the pale lady; "what does it mean?" They reach the window, like all the rest, just in time to see the ponies trot away, and to verify Jack's description in every detail. Run "Well, I never!" cries Mrs. Kilbourne. to the door, Jack, and see what he has left!" A rubber rattle for the baby, a volume of "Baby World" for Lil, and "Historic Boys" for Jack,these were the gifts drawn forth from the paper bag with great delight and wonderment. "Now you'll own up, wont you, Mother?" demands Jack triumphantly. "I did n't imagine it all, did I?" "No, Jack; you are a good reporter; your account was very accurate." "Well, how do you explain him?" "I can't explain him," answers the mother. "I have n't the least idea who he is - some good being, I'm sure." "Right you are!" says Jack, in a tone the solemnity of which strangely contrasts with his schoolboy phraseology. "But here come Father and Lil!" The boy runs to admit the tardy comers, but his father is alone. "Where's Lil?" cries Jack, as he opens the door. "Is n't she here?" demands Mr. Kilbourne anxiously. "No, sir; we thought you went to the station after her." Mr. Kilbourne pushes into the room, where the pale mother stands, trembling and anxious. "We shall find her soon," he says. 'Did n't that Johnson boy bring you my note?" "What note? No! Nobody brought any note," cries Mrs. Kilbourne. "The young rascal! I sent him with a line to tell you that I could not leave my office at that hour, and that Jack must go to the train for Lillie." "And so the poor child found no one waiting for her there. Where can she have gone?" "Wait!" cries the father. "I'll telephone to Wilkinson at the depot. That's where she is beyond a doubt. He has taken her into his office to keep her till we arrive." rather pale, with an anxious look about his eyes; but, for his wife's sake, he says cheerfully: "Well; Wilkinson says that he saw a little girl step off the rear end of the train; the conductor helped her off and told her to run into the waitingroom; Wilkinson had some baggage to look after, and when he was through with that, the child was out of sight. He supposed that some one had "THERE HE IS THE SAME LITTLE MAN, AND HE TOSSES LIL ABOVE HIS HEAD!" Mr. Kilbourne rushes to the telephone. "Hello, Central! Give me the Gridiron depot. That you, Wilkinson? Kilbourne's talking. Did my little girl come down on the accommodation train from Smokopolis? -What? - Did n't what?" Mr. Kilbourne turns away from the telephone come for her." 66 "O my poor little lamb!" cries the mother, piteously. "Where is she? Out in this merciless storm! What shall I do?" "Don't cry, Mother!" says Jack, cheerily. 66 She 's down the street somewhere; she 's gone into somebody's house." "They would have sent us word," says Mrs. Kilbourne, hopelessly. "Well, we 'll find her, anyhow," says Jack. Mr. Kilbourne has been thinking hard with knitted brows and compressed lips. Now he speaks: "Jack, you stay here, and take care of your mother. I'll go down street. As soon as I get word of her, I'll call to you from the nearest tele phone." He gently leads the trembling lady to the sofa, and turns to go. Hark! the gate is opening! There is a quick footstep on the porch,-on the veranda! Mr. Kilbourne pauses; Mrs. Kilbourne springs to her feet. There he is the same little man, and Lil is in his arms! He tosses her above his head; he lets her gently down upon the veranda; he makes the same low bow; he springs from the porch and runs away. Mr. Kilbourne rushes to the door. "Oh, yes, I know where you live! I've been to your house once to-night.'” "How did you know it was Santa Claus?" asked her mother. "Why, I saw him, did n't I? When he lifted "Hello!" he cries. "Who are you, my friend? up the robe to tuck me in, there was a lantern beSay! - wont you let me. But the little man is in the sleigh and the ponies are in motion. All they hear is Ben's laugh as he drives away. "Oho! ho! ho!" Mr. Kilbourne picks up the little girl, who stands half dazed upon the porch, and hurries into the house. Her mother clasps the child in her arms and covers her face with kisses. Poor little bairn! Her garments are wet and her curls are matted with snow, but her eyes are bright. tween his legs, he said it was his stove — an' the light shined right up into his face, an' I saw him as plain as anything. 'Sides, I asked him if he was n't Santa Claus, an' he laughed and said, 'That's what some folks call me!'" "I don't know whether he is a saint or an angel," says Mrs. Kilbourne, solemnly; "but this I know, my darling, he has been a messenger of good to us. "But what did he mean when he said he had "Was n't it beautiful for Santa Claus to bring been here before to-night?" asks Mr. Kilbourne. me home?" she cries. "Yes, my darling; where did he find you?" "Oh, up here in the road. Papa was n't there when the train stopped, an' I was in such a hurry to go home, I started right off; an' I went along down that way, an' then I turned into the street." "The little midget!" exclaims Mr. Kilbourne, "she went off up Long Lane!" "There was n't any houses," continues the little wanderer, "so I kept going on, an' on; an' it snowed so I could n't see; an' by and by I came to another road, Now it is Jack's turn to talk. While his mother strips off the wet garments and puts the little girl into her warm bed Jack rehearses to his father, open-eyed with wonder, the tale of the evening, with which we are familiar. His father listens, questions, shakes his head, and gives it up. Many of the gossips of Springdale wondered that night, and the next day, and are wondering still, over this mystery, but they are not likely soon to unravel it, for the ponies went leisurely back that night to Smokopolis. It was about one o'clock when they began munching "Yes, she must have turned out on the Smok- their oats in their comfortable stalls; the wig and opolis road," shouts Jack. "An' I kept going on, an' then I was tired, an' I sat down on a log to rest, an' I heard a team coming, and it was Santa Claus,—and he turned around an' brought me home." the beard that had formed so perfect a disguise were hidden in the granary; the little man let himself softly in at Mrs. Snowden's front door, and went noiselessly to his room. It was a happy heart that beat, on that early Christmas morning, in the breast of Benoni Benaiah Benjamin; but the secret of its happiness will never be discovered, "Oh, he asked me what was my name, and I for his laughing lips will not open to reveal it, told him it was Lillie Kilbourne, and he said: even in his dreams. "How did he know where your home was?" asked the father. HOW FISHES CLIMB HILL. BY CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER. MOUNT LINCOLN is one of the very highest peaks in the Green Mountain range. Its base is clothed in a coat of the richest green; but, up near the summit, the trees have been blasted by the rigorous storms of winter; and at the very top all that is left is a congregation of gigantic gray bowlders, moss-covered and worn, lying piled one upon another, and even deserted by the soil that so firmly clasps them in the valley below. From these weather-worn rocks, a beautiful scene stretches away; green valleys, like rivers of verdure, extend to the north and south, as far as the eye can reach. Away to the north lies Canada, while the silvery thread almost at our feet is Lake Champlain. In summer, Mount Lincoln has many visitors; eddies. The higher I climbed up the mountain, the more fish I found; the stream became a succession of falls, some of which were three feet or more in height-the brook in its track forming steps down the mountain-and I began to wonder how the fish came to be up there. dam, where the riddle was solved. The dam was nearly four feet high, and to relieve the stream, several auger-holes had been bored in it, allowing a small stream of water to jet forcibly out and go splashing down into the clear pool below. As my friend approached the spot, and looked through In one pool, out of which led a direct fall of three the bushes, several large-sized trout were seen feet, there were numbers of the richly tinted little creatures that, to have attained their position, must either have swum up the falls or gone around by land. After catching a number, I began to frighten the others to see what they would do. Some dashed at the little fall and disappeared, while others darted over and swam down stream. Still farther up I found the speckled game, until finally, the passage became so difficult, that I was obliged to turn back. In the village, I chanced to mention the subject to a friend who owned a mill on the same stream; and he told me that the fishes' ascent was a puzzle to him, until one day his boy called him out to the moving about under the mimic fall, evidently in great excitement, and darting into it as if enjoying the splash and roar of the water. Suddenly, one of the fish made a quick rush that sent it up the falling stream, so that it almost gained the top; but by an unlucky turn it was caught and thrown back into the pool, where it darted away, evidently much startled. Soon another made the attempt, darting at it like the first, and then rapidly swimming up the fall, but only to meet the fate of its predecessor. This was tried a number of times, until finally, a trout larger than the others made a dash, mounted the stream, and entered the round hole. The observers were almost ready to clap their hands, but it was not successful yet. As the water stopped flowing for a moment, they saw that though the athletic trout had surmounted the fall, the hole was too small for it to pass through, and there the poor fish was lodged. The lookers-on hastened to relieve it, and found that its side or pectoral fins were caught in the wood, but by pushing the fish ahead, which you may be sure they did, they liberated it, and it darted away into the upper pond. The salmon, the cousin of the trout, is famous for its method of going up stream; it darts at falls ten or twelve feet high, leaps into the air and rushes up the falling water in a marvelous manner. So determined are the salmon to attain the high and safe waters, that in some localities nets are placed beneath the falls, into which the fish tumble in their repeated attempts to clear the hill of water. Other than human hunters, moreover, profit by these scrambles up-hill. Travelers report that on the banks of the Upper St. John River, in Canada, there was once a rock in which a large circular well, or pot-hole, had been worn by the action of the water. At the salmon season, this rock proved a favorite resort for bears; and for a good reason. Having an especial taste for salmon, the bears would watch at the pot-hole, and as the salmon, dashing up the fall, were |