locomotive came thundering along, sending out volumes of black smoke, which scattered slowly in the warm air, making the sunlight for a while seem gray and dingy. Big Hans was almost stunned, but picked himself up, with a little fainter heart than before, perhaps ; but, whispering a snatch of a prayer which his mother had taught him, he seized Little Hans by the halter, and started once more upon his weary way after the train.

"Minnesota must be a great ways off, I am afraid,” he said, addressing himself, as was his wont, to his companion; "but if we keep on walking, it seems to me we must, in the end, get there; or, what do you think, Little Hans?"

Little Hans did not choose to say what he thought, just then, for his attention had been called to some tender grass at the roadside which he knew tasted very sweet. Big Hans was then reminded that he, too, was hungry, and he sat down on a stone and ate a piece of bread which he had brought with him from Castle Garden. The sun rose higher in the sky and the heat grew more and more oppressive. Still the emigrant boy trudged on patiently. Whenever he came to a station he stopped, and read the sign, and shook his head sadly when he saw some unfamiliar name.

"Not Minnesota yet, Little Hans," he sighed; "I am afraid we shall have to take lodgings somewhere for the night. I am so footsore and tired." It was then about six o'clock in the evening, and the two friends had walked about twenty miles. At the next station they met a hand-organ man, who was sitting on a truck, feeding his monkey. Big Hans, who had never seen so funny an animal before, was greatly delighted. He went close up to the man, and put out his hand cautiously to touch the monkey.

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Are

you going to Minnesota, too?" he asked, in a tone of great friendliness; "if so, we might bear each other company. I like that hairy little fellow of yours very much." The hand-organ man, who, like most men of his calling, was an Italian, shook his head, and the monkey shook his head, too, as if to say, "All that may be very fine, but I don't understand it." The boy, however, was too full of delight to notice whether he was understood or not; and when the monkey took off his little red hat and offered to shake hands with him, he laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. He seemed to have entirely forgotten Little Hans, who was standing by, glowering at the monkey with a look which was by no means friendly. The fact was, Little Hans had never been accustomed to any rival in his master's affection, and he did n't enjoy in the least the latter's interest in the monkey. He kept his jealousy to himself, however, as long as he

could; but when Big Hans, after having given ten cents to the organ man, took the monkey on his lap and patted and stroked it, Little Hans's heart was ready to burst. He could not endure seeing his affections so cruelly trifled with. Bending his head and rising on his hind legs, he darted forward and gave his rival a knock on the head that sent him tumbling in a heap at Big Hans's feet. The Italian jumped up with a terrible shout and seized his treasure in his arms. The monkey made an effort to open its eyes, gave a little shiver, and-was dead. The boy stood, staring in mute despair at the tiny stiffened body; he felt like a murderer. Hardly knowing what he did, he seized Little Hans's halter; but in the same moment the enraged owner of the monkey rushed at the goat with the butt end of his whip uplifted. Little Hans, who was dauntless as ever, dexterously dodged the blow, but the instant his antagonist had turned to vent his wrath upon his master, he gave him an impetus from behind which sent him headlong out upon the railroad track. A crowd of men and boys (of the class who always lounge about railroad stations) had now collected to see the fight, and goaded both combatants on with their jeering cries. The Italian, who was maddened with anger, had just picked himself up, and was plunging forward for a second attack upon Little Hans, when Big Hans, seeing the danger, flung himself over his friend's back, clasping his arms about his neck. The loaded end of the whip struck Big Hans in the back of the head; without a sound, the boy fell senseless upon the track.

Then a policeman arrived, and Little Hans, the Italian, and the insensible boy were taken to the police station. A doctor was summoned, and he declared that Big Hans's wound was very dangerous, and that he must be taken to the hospital. And there the emigrant boy lay for six weeks, hovering between life and death; but when, at the end of that time, he was permitted to go out, he heard with dread that he was to testify at the Italian's trial. A Norwegian interpreter was easily found, and when Hans told his simple story to the judge, there were many wet eyes in the courtroom. And he himself cried, too, for he thought that Little Hans was lost. But just as he had finished his story, he heard a loud "Ba-a-a” in his ear; he jumped down from the witness-stand and flung his arms about Little Hans's neck and laughed and cried as if he had lost his wits.

It is safe to say that such a scene had never before been witnessed in an American court-room.

The next day Big Hans and Little Hans were both sent by rail, at the expense of some kindhearted citizens, to their uncle in Minnesota. And it was there I made their acquaintance.

"THERE'S a storm brewing," said Tempestuous Moody, bringing in a large forestick, and groaning as he laid it on the fire.

It was one hundred and two years ago, or his baptismal name would not have been Tempestuous; though I dare say he would have groaned at any date, for he could hardly have existed at all, whatever the year or century, except as a rheumatic town pauper, doing "chores" for his "keeping."

"Ah?" said busy Mrs. Vane, paying no more heed to his words than to the singing of the teakettle, high up in the fire-place.

"Yes, a trimmer of a storm, sartin sure," pursued Tempestuous, thrusting his hands in his pockets and watching his mistress as she swung the heavy iron pot of bean porridge upon the great "lug-pole" to warm over for breakfast, and set her corn-cakes to bake in the Dutch oven before the fire.

"Yes, Nancy, I'm afeard it 's so; the clouds do look threatening,” said dear old Mr. Vane, who had just entered the kitchen, and was trying to warm his chilled thumbs in his scanty silver hair. The brisk housewife set down her red box of "Labrador tea," or dried raspberry leaves with a thud.

"O Grandsir, not a real drifting storm! exclaimed she, thinking of her husband, Lieutenant James Vane, who was on his way "home from the wars." He had left Annapolis more than two weeks before on horseback, and should have finished his journey by this time, but he had to cross a very wild country, and was probably now in the very heart of the Massachusetts wilderness. Maybe father 'll get snowed up, the way Captain Tuttle was," suggested little Asa, who could remember nothing about his father except his three-cornered hat and silver knee-buckles.

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"No, no; I look for him any minute," said the mother with a reassuring smile; but her fingers trembled slightly as she pinned the blue and white cotton kerchief closer about her throat, and went to the west window, followed by the three elder children.

They were far from neighbors, and the most they could see through the small panes of glass were the familiar black stumps of their own "clearing," partially hidden under the December drifts, and overhead a lowering sky, with now and then a whirling snow-flake. The storm had begun.

There was a grand mountain-view from the back door, but that was obscured now; and presently the unsightly stumps and the tall well-sweep were thoroughly whitened by the fast-falling snow. A great storm had set in, a storm to be measured by feet, not inches first the snow, then the wind following close after it.

Tempestuous groaned; but Mrs. Vane tried to smile, and her head never drooped as she drew her soft brown hair up higher than ever and fastened it with a goose-quill."Grandsir" Vane looked at her admiringly, and told droll Indian stories, and nothing could have been cheerier than his cracked old voice, unless, may be, the chirp of a cricket. Dear Grandsir! Did he ever think of his fine old mansion in Boston, where in by-gone days he had often tossed baby Nancy up to the ceiling and kissed her under the Christmas mistletoe, according to the quaint old English fancies? Did he ever sigh for the bright candelabras she called "stars," for the richly tiled fireplaces, the heavy oaken doors, the well-groomed horses, the faithful, keen-scented hunting-dogs? Nobody knew.

And what had become of these "treasures galore?" Ah, the pitiless British soldiers had seized the house and plundered it; and the little that was left, the childless old man had freely given to his country in the hour of her need. And here he was now, in the heart of the wilderness, shivering under as rude a storm as ever beat against a settler's cabin.

For two nights there was such a shrieking and howling of the wind, such a rattling of the hinged windows, that even the children sleeping in the loft awoke at intervals and thought anxiously of their father.

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Good Mr. Vane folded his aged hands under the blue woolen "counterpane," and prayed that Nancy might not see any more trouble; for O Lord, thou knowest she has had a hard time for the past three years, and more than once it has a'most broken her heart to send her poor little children to bed with nothing for supper but molasses and water. She's a Christian woman, and bears up and bears up; but I pray Thee, O Lord, don't try her too far! I'm afeard it is n't in her to stand much more."

The storm was over at last. On the third day the sun arose in a generous mood, and looked with a neighborly smile toward the log-cabin of the Vanes. What had become of it? The place

where it used to stand was nothing now but one swelling drift of snow, capped by the very tip of the stone chimney, which served as a needful breathing-hole for the buried family inside.

The children came down the ladder in the morning, rubbing their eyes and asking what made it so dark? To their surprise, no cheerful blaze greeted them from the big fireplace. The snow had dropped into the ashes overnight and quenched the deeply-buried coals. The fire was actually out! This in itself was a dire calamity.

"What shall we do? What shall we do?" wailed Ruth, echoed by Isaac. And oh what was that in the dim corner a bear? No, it was only the beloved grandfather, shielded from the cold by his bear-skin coat and coon-skin cap, while he patiently clicked together two pieces of flint in order to strike a spark.

Tedious process! A friction match would have done it instantly and saved all the trouble; only, you see, if they had waited for a friction match, they would have waited fifty years!

"Now I know what it is that 's happened; we 're buried alive!" screamed Patty hysterically. Whereupon the other children screamed, too, and they all walked into the fireplace- it was as big as the bedrooms at some watering-places- and gazed with curiosity and despair up the chimney, whence came their sole ray of light.

"We were never snowed under before — never any deeper than the tops of the windows," said Ruth; "shall we ever get out?"

"Yes, indeed, some time," replied her mother, smiling with high courage.

"Well, but I s'pose we can't go to school any more this winter, nor to meetin' either," remarked Isaac, by way of experiment.

At the delightful suggestion, little Asa had to run behind the door of the "Hampshire cupboard" to hide his smiles. He knew it was wicked; but oh! the joy of not going to meetin' to be scolded by the tithing-man!of not going to school to be flogged by the master!

"Don't be discouraged, youngsters!" said the guileless grandfather, rubbing his hands as the fire began to curl up the chimney-“Go to school?- of course you will! Not to-day, I'm afeard,— no, not to-day; but there are more days a-coming. And Tempestuous, you'll be obleeged to make a road to the barn, for the stock must be fed and watered, whether or no."

The "stock" consisted of a pig and cow. Tempestuous was "beat," so he declared. "I'll undertake anything in reason, but I can't get to the barn!"

His mistress turned and looked at him. She a woman who did not mind such trifles

was

as impossibilities. "Yes, you can," she said; "you can get out of the gable window, and walk on snow-shoes. The barn can't be quite buried, for it is higher than the house. And you must take a shovel with you to dig your way back."

The chore-man seemed quite dazzled with the brilliancy of this scheme, till he reflected on the labor it would cost.

“Yes, ma'am,” he whined; "only it is n't at all likely I can open that gable winder. But I'll try it, if you 'll wait till I get limbered up,- say, along about the middle of the forenoon."

And then he limped along to the settle.

Mrs. Vane had many trials, and not the least of them had been this dead-and-alive man, neither servant nor boarder, who was never "limbered up" for any serious undertaking till " along about the middle of the forenoon." But as he could not be driven, she wisely said no more.

After breakfast, he condescended to help Mr. Vane put on the yule-log which had been brought in overnight.

"This is what they call Christmas-day, youngsters!" said the grandfather with a genial smile. "Christmas-day they call it; we can not afford to make any jollification; still I see no harm myself in a yule-log," added the old patriot, gazing complacently at the red blaze, already hot enough for a barbecue.

"And I myself see no harm in a candle," said the house-mother, lighting a tallow dip with reckless prodigality.

"Ah, well, it's a white Christmas, Nancy, a pretty white Christmas; but the Lord sent the weather, and we 'll bear it."

The children's faces had brightened wonderfully. "See me!" said Isaac, riding a chair across the floor; "I'm Paul Revere a-horseback!"

"See me; I'm a 'lobster!'”—meaning a British soldier, said little Asa, winding a scarlet comforter about his neck.

"Well, well, let 'em caper," said the tenderhearted grandfather, turning to wipe away a tear as he mused. "Poor things-fatherless, far's I know! And here's a cold, stormy winter upon us, and not a bit of meat in the house."

Perhaps Nancy divined his thoughts, for she paused in her work to stroke his withered cheek and say,

Christmas?" pleaded young Paul Revere, meeting with a "header," as his horse rode into the settle. "Yes, if you don't make too much noise. And may be we'll roast those big potatoes and have some hasty pudding and molasses for dinner," replied the mother, well aware that nothing was better calculated to raise the tone of the family spirits.

"It's a terrible pity we could n't have a sparerib to roast; such a complete good fire for it," observed Tempestuous, the kill-joy, looking up at the hook over the mantel-piece, from which he had often seen a juicy spare-rib suspended by a string. But that was in the good old times before James Vane had gone to fight against King George, silly creature! Tempestuous had always kept his political views to himself, but the war was over now, and he could hurrah for George Washington as loud as the rest.

There was something weird and unnatural about the day. The candle looked as if it did not know why it was burning, and the tall clock in the corner ticked as if it were talking in its sleep. The portrait of Oliver Cromwell, coarse-featured and stern, glowered from the wall in disapproval, and the profiles of "great-grandsir and grandma'am Harvard"— black as ink, and suspected by little Asa of being negroes-looked down with astonishment; that is, if they could be said to look at all, having no eyes, and only one eyelash apiece. But the white Christmas went on all the same.

It came to be "along about the middle of the forenoon," and Tempestuous was gradually becoming limbered, and wondering "whether or no that cow and pig would n't want to see him," when suddenly a peculiar sound was heard overhead "a trampling, crushing sound," Patty said, "as if it was in the chimney."

They all listened for it and it ceased; but presently, when they were talking, it began again,— or so Patty said, who was nearest the fireplace, and it made her nervous.

"It's a strange day. Oh, if Father would only come!" sighed she.

"Where can he be?" asked the other children, for the twentieth time.

Ah! If they could only have known! If they could only have guessed!

The good man had been greatly hindered on his journey by the storm, as they rightly supposed. For the past two days, as his horse could not go through the drifts, he had been obliged to leave

To

the animal behind, and walk on snow-shoes. day he had traveled in this hard way for ten miles over hills and valleys of snow, till now, at eleven o'clock, he was actually standing on his own white roof, faint and exhausted, listening to the prattle of his children. How had he been able to distinguish his own buried house, lying silently in its "white sleep"? The outline of the chimney had been his only landmark. Still there he stood now, well muffled in bear-skins, his pockets full of candy and toys for the little ones- the kind father! but waiting for the right moment to reveal himself.

How he longed to see as well as hear! How famished he was, after a fast of nearly twenty-four hours! And what a savory odor was wafted to his nostrils from the pot of pease boiling on the lugpole! Yet the sound of his voice would terrify the children, and he dared not speak. He laughed silently at his absurd position, but it was a tantalizing one, and was fast becoming unendurable.

At last, when he could wait no longer in his eagerness to see and embrace his family, he threw a snow-ball down the chimney, shouting as it bounced upon the fore-stick:

"Don't be afraid! It's only Father."

The people of those early days had strong nerves, perhaps; at any rate, no one fainted. And, of course, after a moment they understood it all; and then the children shouted! "Grandsir" said, "The Lord be praised!" Tempestuous sprang from the settle without groaning; and Mrs. Vane, who always had her thoughts about her, exclaimed: "Wait, James! We'll take the fire off the andirons and cool the chimney, and then you can come down!"

For nobody thought of stopping for Tempestuous to dig out the gable window. He had to do it as soon as his master saw him, let me tell you, and I am glad to record that the imprisoned "stock" were found alive and weli.

But was n't it a strange home-coming for Lieutenant Vane? And did any man ever "drop down" upon his family more unexpectedly? I'm sure no one ever met with a warmer reception!

And it is my opinion that he is the first Santa Claus who ever ventured into a New England chimney. If you doubt it, Patty's granddaughter can show you the very snow-shoes he wore on that strange white Christmas a hundred and two years ago.