 THE STILLER OF THE STORM Be of good cheer, it is I, be not afraid. It's Christmas Eve at home, murmured the young lad, after he had said his prayers and tumbled into his narrow berth on the great ship. I suppose they're trimming the Christmas tree now and hanging up the stockings, I wish I were there. He was very young to serve his country, but not too young, according to the standards of mankind, to be a midshipman on the great steel monster keeping the lead in deep. It was the first time he had ever been away from home on Christmas Day, too. The youngsters had all laughed and joked about it in the steerage mess. They had promised himself some kind of celebration in the morning, but in his own caught, with no one to see, a few tears which he fondly deemed unmanly would come. He had the midnight watch, and he knew that he must get some sleep. But it was a long time before he closed his eyes and drifted off to dream of home and his mother. A thwart that dream came a sudden, frightful, heart-stilling roar of destruction. A hideous crash followed, a terrible rinding, breaking, smashing, concatenation of noises succeeded by frightful detonations. As through the gaping hole torn in the great battleship by the deadly torpedo, the water rushed upon the heated boilers, the explosion of which in turn ignited the magazines. By that deadly underwater thrust of the enemy, the battleship was reduced, in a few moments, to a disjointed, disorganized, sinking mass of shapeless, formless, splintered steel. As the explosion ceased, from every point rose shrieks and groans and cries of men in the death agony hurtled into eternity and torn like the steel, and then the boy heard the surviving officers, Cooley, resolutely calling the men to their stations. He had been thrown from his birth by the violence of the explosion. His face was cut and bleeding, where he had struck a nearby stanchion. His left arm hung useless. He had lain dazed on the deck for a few moments until he heard the orders of his lieutenant. He was one of the signal midshipmen stationed on the signal bridge. Whatever happened, that was the place to which to go. He still had his duty to perform. Picking himself up as best he could, he hurried to report to the lieutenant. With such means as were available, signals were made. Calls for help? Oh, never! Warnings that the enemy's submarines were in the near vicinity and that other ships should keep away. The captain was on the half-wrecked bridge above. The boy noticed how quiet he was, yet his voice rang over the tumult. Steady men, steady, keep your stations, stand by, be ready. The old quartermaster, whose business it was to tell the hours, saluted the captain. Eight bells, sir, he said, midnight. Christmas day, he added. Strike them, said the captain, and, as clear as ever, the four couplets rang out over the chaos and the disaster. Christmas day! The boy murmured. She's going, men, said the captain, as the cadences died away. Save yourselves, abandon the ship. Christmas morning, said the boy. I wonder what they're doing at home. Overboard with you, youngster, said the signal lieutenant. I wish I had a life-preserver for you, but Merry Christmas, sir, said the lad suddenly. Good God, said the man, Merry Christmas! They will think of us at home. What was left of the ship gave a mighty reel. Stick or she'll suck you down, the officer roared, as he fairly flung the boy into the water, and how he hurt that broken arm. You can swim, strike out, good-bye. The boy had caught a glimpse of the captain standing on the bridge as the wreck went down, and then the wild waters closed over his head. It was frightfully cold. A hard gale was blowing. The waves ran terribly high. His left arm was helpless. His head ached fiercely. That was the use. Still the boy struck out bravely with his free hand, the instinct of life. It was too dark to see. The sky was covered with drifting clouds. Only here and there a little rifted moonlight came through. Christmas morning, he sobbed out as the waves rolled over him. Oh, my God! He felt himself going down. All at once the waters seemed to grow still. It was suddenly calm. He was no longer cold. He threw his head up for one last look at the sky and life. And then he hung, as it were, suspended in some strange way. He saw a figure walking across the smooth of the seas, as it had been solid ground. The figure grew nearer. The winds seemed to have died away, but the draperies that shrouded it swung gently as they would while a man walked along. The face he saw dimly, vaguely, but there was light in it somehow. It came slowly nearer. Christmas morning, whispered the boy. The hand of the figure reached down. It caught the boy's right arm. He was lifted up. Home and Christmas morning, whispered the boy, closing his eyes. The moonlight broke through a cloud and fell upon him. A wave rolled over him, and the sea was empty as before. Read of THE STILLER OF THE STORM by Cyrus Townsend Brady Read by David Lawrence. Was it a fancy, bread of vagrant guess, or well-remembered fact, that he was born when half the world was wintry and forlorn, in nature's utmost season of distress? And did the simple earth indeed confess its destitution and its craving need, wearing the white and penitential weed, meet symbol of judicial barrenness? So be it, for in truth tis ever so, that when the winter of the soul is bare, the seed of heaven at first begins to grow, peeping abroad in desert of despair. Full many a flower-et, good and sweet and fair, is kindly wrapped in covalent of snow. End of Christmas Day by Hartley Coleridge Read for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation What Child is This? A Sixteenth-Century Carol sung in English. Words by William C. Dicks. Music, Sixteenth-Century Greensleeves, arranged by Sir John Steiner. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. What Child is This? Performed by Carol Stribling. The Goblins' Christmas by Elizabeth Anderson Read in English. Once upon a time I visited Fairyland and spent a day in Goblin Town. The people there are much like ourselves. Only they are very, very small and roguish. They play pranks on one another and have great fun. They are good-natured and jolly and rarely get angry. But if one does get angry, he quickly recovers his good-nature and joins again in the sport. If a goblin should continue angry, he would take on some visible form. Perhaps he would become a toad or a squirrel or some other little animal, and would have to live here on the earth-plane for ever more. But if he keeps good-natured, he can come here and have his fun and not be seen by anyone except a seer or very wise person. The Goblins are gracious to the wise people now, but they were not always so. A long, long time ago on a Christmas Eve the fairy folk were having great sport. All the little people of the unseen world had gathered together in the earth realm. There were brownies and gnomes and elves, and some little cherubs had joined them. They were having a wild dance and a gay time, when who should appear, but Chris cringle. Now the fairies did not know that he was a magician or seer, and so they tried to make sport of him. But Chris, by his wonderful magic, changed them into the most beautiful toys. They became straight little jumping jacks and dolls in bright dresses and the dearest little rabbit with white soft fur, and somewhere in the bottom of the sleigh one was turned into a cute little teddy bear. Then old Chris tucked all these toys into his roomy sleigh and shook the reins of his waiting steed. Go on, he said, for I've many, many a chimney to reach to-night. Now this is the tale of the Goblins' Christmas that the Moonbeams told as they heard it from the Fairy Queen, who declares that every word of it is perfectly true. To Earl and Georgia, the little man and tiny maid who love the fairies in the Glade, who see them in the tangled grass, the gnomes and brownies as they pass, who hear the sprites from Elfland call, go frolic with these brownies small, and join these merry sporting elves, but ever be your own sweet selves. The Goblins' Christmas The big bright moon hung high and round in a densely darkened sky. The tall pine swayed and mocked and groaned, the mountains grew so high, that the man in the moon came out and said, who, spooks for a merry dance, the winds blow hard the cavern's roar while o'er the earth they prance. A witch and a goblin led the sprites out from the sky they sprung, and down the milky way they slid and over a chasm swung. The streams around ran witches' broth, the fumes were strong and rank, these elven creatures all were wroth while o'er the stuff they drank. The cunning moon looked on and laughed with a shrill and sneering jibe, her soul grew fat to see them chaffed this mad and elfish tribe. The big black cauldron boiled so high with food for these queer mites that it lit the world throughout the sky and down came all the sprites. Their mad career upset a star as through the air they flew. It cringed in fear and shot afar, and fell where no one knew. A ryan sword was broke in bits, corona's crown was gone. Capella seemed to lose her wits while all so longed for dawn. Then from the night there came a sound of sleigh bells ringing sweet. Out of the chaos came a man, Kris Kringle, for his Christmas treat. Ho Kris they cried will have some fun, will bind the old man down, will tie him up and toss him o'er into our goblin town. They climbed the sleigh with shout and din to bind his hands and feet. A hundred strong they clamoured in, our good old Kris to meet. He sat quite still with twinkling eyes, then seized his mystic wand. He raised it up and waved it round. Stilled was this chattering band. Stiffly stark and still they stood, clad in elfish clothes. Some were wax and some were wood, one had crushed his nose. Play things rare, he said and smiled. For children rich and poor, some will leave the crippled child and some at the orphan's door. He shook his reins and called his stage to bear him swiftly on, for well it knew its master's need to hurry ere the dawn. From house to house they scampered down, their sleigh bells ringing clear, through chimneys in the sleepy town good Kris and his reindeer. The windows rattled, the moonbeams tattled, a tale so strange and queer. They told how at night in the dire fright the moon had hid in fear. That he'd called in sport his elfish court of spooks and witches gay. Each elfin child by glee beguiled brought scores of others, they say. Then a man appeared with flowing beard in a sled with a reindeer-fleet. They gathered about with din and shout, to bind him hands and feet. Then the moon laughed loud at the gathering crowd while he held his sides in mirth, to see old Kris in a plight like this toiling o'er the earth. But alas for the moon he had laughed like a loon, for Kris is a hero of old. Yes, Kris is a seer with his small reindeer, he captured the goblin's bold. And he changed them they say in a wonderful way, to toys for his Christmas cheer. The big dull stair with the goblin air, the small ones cringe with fear. While the moonbeams prattle I hear a rattle of hooves on the chimney side. Then out of the snow I gaze below. Hurrah! it's Kris Kringle I cried. Then sly as a mouse he entered the house and hung up his treasures so gay. Then out with a dash he sped like a flash, into the night and away. End of the Goblin's Christmas by Elizabeth Anderson. Recording by Linda Ferguson. Christmas 2009. Christmas with the Baron by Angelo J. Lewis. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and auto-volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Once upon a time fairy tales always begin with once upon a time. Once upon a time there lived in a castle on the Rhine a certain Baron von Schlossloff Schifffinger. He will not find it an easy name to pronounce, in fact the Baron never tried it himself but once, and then he was laid up for two days afterwards. So in future we will merely call him the Baron for shortness, particularly as he was a rather dumpy man. After having heard his name you will not be surprised when I tell you that he was an exceedingly bad character. For a Baron he was considered enormously rich. £150 a year would not be thought much in this country, but still it will buy a good deal of sausage, which with wine grown on the estate formed the chief sustenance of the Baron and his family. Now you will hardly believe that, notwithstanding he was the possessor of this princely revenue, the Baron was not satisfied, but oppressed and ground down his unfortunate tenants to the very last penny he could possibly squeeze out of them. In all his exactions he was seconded and encouraged by his steward Clutes, a old rascal who took a malicious pleasure in his master's cruelty, and who chuckled and rubbed his hands with the greatest apparent enjoyment when any of the poor landholders could not pay their rent, or afforded him any opportunity for oppression. Not content with making the poor tenants pay double value for the land they rented, the Baron was in the habit of going round Navy now and then to their houses, and ordering anything he took a fancy to, from a fat pig to a pretty daughter to be sent to the castle. The pretty daughter was made parlor maid, but as she had nothing a year and to find herself, it wasn't what would be considered by careful mothers an eligible situation. The fat pig became sausage of course. Things went on from bad to worse, till at the time of our story, between the alternate squeezing of the Baron and his steward, the poor tenants had very little left to squeeze out of them. The fat pigs and pretty daughters had nearly all found their way up to the castle, and there was little left to take. The only help the poor fellows had was the Baron's only daughter, Lady Bertha, who always had a kind word, and frequently something more substantial for them when her father was not in the way. Now I'm not going to describe Bertha for the simple reason that if I did you would imagine that she was the fairy I'm going to tell you about, and she isn't. However I don't mind giving you a few outlines. In the first place she was exceedingly tiny. The nicest girls, the real lovable little pets always are tiny, and she had long silken black hair and a dear dimpled little face full of love and mischief. Now then fill up the outline with the details of the nicest and prettiest girl you know, and you will have a slight idea of her. On second thoughts I don't believe you will, for your portrait wouldn't be half good enough, however it will be near enough for you. Well, the Baron's daughter, being all your fancy painter and a trifle more, was naturally much distressed at the goings-on of her unameable parent, and tried her best to make amends for her father's harshness. She generally managed, as a good many pounds of the sausage, should find their way back to the owners of the original pig, and when the Baron tried to squeeze the hand of the pretty parlour maid, which he occasionally needed after dinner, Bertha had only to say, in a tone of mild remonstrance, par, and he dropped the hand instantly and stared very hard the other way. Bad as this disreputable old Baron was, he had a respect for the goodness and purity of his child. Like the lion tamed by the charm of Eunice's innocence, the rough old rascal seemed to lose in her present half of his rudeness. And though he used awful language to her sometimes, I daresay even Eunice lying more occasionally. He was more tractable with her than with any other living being. Her presence operated as a moral restraint upon him, which possibly was the reason he never stayed downstairs after dinner, but always retired to a favoured tarrot, which I regret to say he had got so in the way of doing every afternoon that I believe he would have felt unwell without it. The hour of the Baron's afternoon symposium was the time selected by Bertha for her errands of charity. Once he was fairly settled down to his second bottle, I went Bertha with her maid beside her carrying a basket to bestow a meal on some of the poor tenants, among whom she was always received with blessings. At first these excursions had been undertaken principally from charitable motives, and Bertha thought herself plentifully repaid by the love and thanks of her grateful pensioners. Of late, however, another cause had led her to even stronger interest in her walks, and occasioned her to come in with brighter eyes and a rosier cheek than the gratitude of the poor tenants had been wanted to produce. The fact is, some months before the time of our story, Bertha had noticed in her walks a young artist who seemed to be fated to be invariably sketching points of interest in the road she had to take. There was one particular tree, exactly in the path which led from the castle gate, which he had sketched from at least four points of view, and Bertha began to wonder what there could be so very particular about it. At last, just as Carvon Sempak had began to consider where on earth he could sketch the tree from next, and to ponder seriously upon the feasibility of climbing up into it and taking it from that point of view, a trifling accident occurred, which gave him the opportunity of making Bertha's acquaintance. Which, I don't mind stating confidentially, was the very thing he had been waiting for. It so chanced, on one particular afternoon, the maid either through awkwardness, or possibly through looking more at the handsome painter than the ground she was walking on, stumbled and fell. Of course, the basket fell too, and equally, of course, Carl as a gentleman could not do less than offer his assistance in picking up the damsel and the dinner. The acquaintance, thus commenced, was not suffered to drop, and handsome Carl and her good little Bertha were fairly overhead and ears in love, and had begun to have serious thoughts of a cottage in a wood, etc., when their felicity was disturbed by their being accidentally met in one of their walks by the baron. Of course, the baron, being himself Sathara an aristocrat, had higher views of his daughter than marrying her to a beggarly artist, and accordingly he stamped and swore, and threatened Carl with summary punishment of all sorts of weapons, from heavy boots to blunderbusses, if he ever ventured near the premises again. This was unpleasant, but I fear it did not quite put a stop to the young people's interviews, though it made them less frequent and more secret than before. Now, I am quite aware that this was not all proper, and that no properly regulated young lady would ever have had meetings with a young man her papa didn't approve of. But then, as is just possible, Bertha might not have been a properly regulated young lady. I only know she was a dear little pet, worth twenty model ladies, and that she loved Carl very dearly. And then consider what a dreadful old tyrant of a papa she had. My dear girl, it's not the slightest use you're looking so provokingly correct. It is my deliberate belief that if you had been in her shoes, they'd have been at least three sizes too small for you, but that doesn't matter. You would have done precisely the same. Such was the state of things on Christmas Eve in the year stay. Fairy tales never have a year to them. So on second thoughts, I wouldn't tell you the date if I knew, but I don't. Such was the state of things, however, on the particular twenty-fourth of December to which our story refers. Only if anything, rather more so. The Baron had got up in the morning in an exceedingly bad temper, and those about him had felt its effects all through the day. His two favourite wolfhounds, Lutso and Turfill, had received so many kicks from the Baron's heavy boots that they scarcely knew at which end their tales were him, and even Clutes himself scarcely dared to approach his master. In the middle of the day, two of the principal tenants came to say that they were unprepared with their rent, and too big for a little delay. The poor fellows represented that their families were starving and then treated for mercy. But the Baron was only too glad he at last found so fair an excuse for venting his little humour. He loaded the unhappy defaulters with every abusive epitaph he could devise, and being called names in German is no joke, I can tell you. And lastly, he swore by everything he could think of that if their rent was not paid on the morrow, that themselves and their family should be turned out of doors to sleep on the snow, which was then many inches deep on the ground. They still continued to beg for mercy, till the Baron became so exasperated that he determined to put them out of the castle himself. He pursued them for that purpose as far as the outer door, where fresh fuel was added to his anger. Carl, who as I have hinted, still managed notwithstanding the paternal prohibition to see Bertha occasionally, and had come to wish her a merry Christmas, chanced at this identical moment to be saying goodbye at the door, above which, in accordance with immemorial usage, a huge bus of mistletoe was suspended. What they were doing under it at the moment of the Baron's appearance I never knew exactly, but his wrath was tremendous. I regret to say that his language was unparliamentary in the extreme. He swore till he was moved in the face, and if he had not providentially been seized with a fit of coughing and sat down in a cold skull, mistaking it for a three-legged stool, it is impossible to say to what lengths his feelings might have carried him. Carl and Bertha picked him up rather black behind, but otherwise not much the worse for his accident. In fact, the diversion of his thoughts seems to have done him good, for, having sworn a little more, and Carl having left the castle, he appeared rather bitter. After enduring so many and various emotions, it is hardly be wondered at that the Baron required some consolation. So, after having changed his trousers, he took himself off to his favorite turret to allay by copious potations the irritations of his mind. Bottle after bottle was emptied, and pipe after pipe was filled and smoked. The fine old burgundy was gradually getting into the Baron's head, and altogether he was beginning to feel more comfortable. The shades of the winter afternoon had deepened into the evening twilight, made dimmer still by the aromatic clouds that came with dignified deliberation, from the Baron's lips and curled and floated up to the carved ceiling of the turret, where they spread themselves into a dim canopy, which every successive cloud brought lower and low. The fire, which had been piled up mountain high earlier in the afternoon, and had flamed and roared to its heart's content ever since, had now got to that state, the perfection of a fire to a lazy man, where it requires no poking or attention of any kind, but just burns itself hollow and then tumbles in, and blazes jovially for a little time, and then settles down to a genuine glow, and gets hollow and tumbles in again. The Baron's fire was just in this delightful decapo condition, most favorable to the enjoyment of the dodgeffa in the empty. For a little while it would glow in kindle quietly, making strange faces to itself, and building fantastic castles in the depth of its red recesses, and then the castles would come down with a crash, and the faces disappear, and a bright flame spring up and lick lovingly the sides of the old chimney. And the carved heads of improbable men and impossible women, ewned so deftly round the panels of the old oak walkrobe opposite, in which the Baron's choices, vintage's words posited, were lit up by the flickering light, and seemed to nod and wink at the fire in return, with the familiarity of old acquaintances. Some such fancy as this was to sporting itself in the Baron's brain, and he was gazing at the old oak carving accordingly, and emitting huge volumes of smoke with reflective slowness, when a clatter among the bottles on the table caused him to turn his head to ascertain the cause. The Baron was by no means a nervous man, however the sight that met his eyes when he turned round did take away his presence of mind a little, and he was obliged to take four distinct puffs before he had sufficiently regained his equilibrium to inquire, Who the pickwick are you? The Baron said dickens, but as that is a naughty word we will substitute pickwick, which is equally expressive and not so wrong. Let me see, where was I? Oh yes, who the pickwick are you? Now before I allow the Baron's visitors to answer the question, perhaps I better give a slight description of his personal appearance. If this were not a true story, I should have liked to make him a model of manly beauty. But a regard for veracity compels me to confess that he was not what would be generally considered handsome, that is not in figure, for his face was by no means unpleasing. His body was, in size and shape, not very unlike a huge prom pudding, and was clothed in a bright green tightly fitting doublet, with red holly berries for buttons. His limbs were long and slender in proportion to his statue, which was not more than three feet or so. His head was encircled by a crown of holly and mistletoe. The round red berries sparkled amid his hair, which was silver white, and shone out in cheerful harmony with his rosy jovial face, and that face, it would have done one good to look at it. In spite of the silver hair and an occasional wrinkle beneath the merry laughing eyes, it seemed brimming over with perpetual youth. The mouth, well garnished with teeth, white and sound, which seemed as if they could do ample justice to holiday cheer, was ever open with a beaming, genial smile, expanding now and then into hearty laughter. Fun and good fellowship were in every feature. The owner of the face was, at the moment when the marron first perceived him, comfortably seated upon the top of a large tobacco jar on the table, nursing his left leg. The baron's somewhat abrupt inquiry did not appear to irritate him. On the contrary, he seemed rather amused than otherwise. He don't ask pretty-y, old gentleman, he replied, but I don't mind telling you for all that. I'm King Christmas. Aye, said the baron. Ah, said the goblin. Of course, you have guessed he was a goblin. And pray, what's your business here, said the baron? Don't be crusty with a fellow, replied the goblin. I merely looked in to wish you the compliments of the season. Talk here, crust, by the way. What sort of tap is it you're drinking? So saying, he took up a flask of the baron's very best and poured out about half a glass. Having held the glass first on one side and then on the other, winked at it twice, sniffed it, and gone through all the remainder of the pantomime in which connoisseurs indulge. He drank it with great deliberation, and smacked his lips scientifically. Hmm, Johannesburg, and not so very bad for you, but I'll tell you what it is, baron. You'll have to bring out better stuff than this when I put my legs on your mahogany. Well, now you are a cool fish, said the baron. However, you're rather a joke, so now you're here, we may as well enjoy ourselves. Smoke? Not anything you're likely to offer me. Confound your impudence, roared the baron, with a horribly complicated oath. That tobacco is as good as any in all Rhineland. That's a nasty cough you've got, baron. Don't excite yourself, my dear boy. I dare say you speak according to your lights. I don't mean for Servians, you know, but your opportunity is for knowing anything about it. Try a weed out of my case, and I expect you'll alter your opinion. The baron took the profit case and selected a cigar. Not a word was spoken till it was half-consumed. When the baron took it for the first time from his lips and said gently, with the air of a man communicating an important discovery in the strictest confidence, Das is gut. Thought you'd say so, said the visitor. And now, as you like the cigar, I should like you to try a thimble full of what I call wine. I must warn you, though, that it is rather potent, and may produce effect you are not accustomed to. Bother that, if it is as good as the weed, said the baron. I haven't taken my usual quantity by four bottles yet. Well, don't say I didn't warn you, that's all. I don't think you'll find it unpleasant, though it is rather strong when you're not accustomed to it. So, saying the goblin produced from some mysterious pocket a black, big-bellied bottle, crusted apparently with the dust of ages, it did strike the baron as peculiar that the bottle, when once produced, appeared nearly as big round as the goblin himself. But he was not the sort of man to stick to trifles, and he pushed forward his glass to be filled just as compulsory as if the portion had been shipped and paid duty, in the most commonplace way. The glass was filled and emptied, but the baron uttered not his opinion. Not in words, at least, but he pushed forward his glass to be filled again in a manner that sufficiently bespoke his approval. Ah, your smile, said the goblin, and it was a positive fact that the baron was smiling. I think he had not been known to do in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. That's the stuff to make your hair curl, isn't it? I believe you, my boy. The baron brought out this earnest expression of impeasant confidence with true unction. It warms one here. Knowing the character of the man, one would have expected him to put his hand upon his stomach, but he didn't. He laid it upon his heart. The spill begins to operate, I see, said the goblin. Have another glass. The baron had another glass, and another after that. The smile on his face expanded into an expression of such geniality that the whole character of his countenance was changed, and his own mother wouldn't have known him. I doubt myself, in so much as she died, when he was exactly one year and three months old, whether she would have recognized him out of any circumstances, but I merely wish to express that he was changed almost beyond recognition. Upon my word, said the baron, at length, I feel so light I almost think I could dance a hornpipe. I used to once, I know, shall I try? Well, if you ask my advice, replied the goblin, I should say decidedly don't. Parkus is willing, I dare say, but trousers are weak, and you might spit him. Hang it all, said the baron, so I might. I didn't think of that, but still I feel as if I must do something, juvenile. Ah, that's the effect of your change of nature, said the goblin. Never mind, I'll give you plenty to do presently. Change of nature? What do you mean, you old conundrum? said the baron. You're another, said the goblin, but never mind. What I mean is just this. What you are now feeling is the natural consequence of my magic wine, which has changed you into a fairy. That's what's the matter, sir? A fairy, me, exclaimed the baron, get out, I'm too fat. Fat? Oh, that's nothing. We shall put you in regular training, and you'll soon be slim enough to creep into a lady's stocking. Not you to be called upon to do anything in a sort, but I'm merely giving you an idea of your future figure. No, no, said the baron. Me, thin, that's too ridiculous. Why, that's worse than being a fairy. You don't mean that, though, do you? I do feel rather peculiar. I do indeed, said the visitor. You don't dislike it, do you? Well, no, I can't say I do entirely. It's queer, though. I feel so uncommon-friendly. I feel as if I should like to shake hands or pat someone on the back. Ah, said the goblin, I know it is. Run, feely, when you're not accustomed to it. But come, finish that glass, for we must be off. We've got a precious deal to do before morning, I can tell you. Are you ready? All right, said the baron. I'm just in the umber to make a night of it. Come along, then, said the goblin. They proceeded for a short time in silence along the corridors of the old castle. They carried no candle, but the baron noticed that everything seemed perfectly light wherever they stood, but relapsed into darkness as soon as they had passed by. The goblin spoke first. I say, baron, you've been an uncommon old brute in your time now, haven't you? Hmm, said the baron reflectively. I don't know. Well, yes, I rather think I have. How jolly miserable you've been making those two young people, you old sinner. You know who I mean. Hey, what? You know that, too, said the baron. No, it, of course, I do. Why, bless your heart, I know everything, my dear boy. But you'll have made yourself an old tyrant in that quarter considerably. Aren't you blushing your hard-headed old monster? Don't know, I'm sure, said the baron, scratching his nose as if that was where he expected to feel it. I believe I have treated them badly, though. Now I come to think about it. At this moment they reached the door of Bertha's chamber. The door opened of itself at their approach. Come along, said the goblin. You won't wake her. Now, old frinty heart, look there. The sight that met the baron's view was one that few fathers could be held without affectionate emotion. Under ordinary circumstances, however, the baron would have not felt at all sentimental on the subject. But tonight something made him new things in quite a different light. I shouldn't like to make an affidavit of the fact it is my positive impression that he sighed. Now, my dear reader, don't imagine I'm going to indulge your input and curiosity with an elaborate description of the sacred details of a lady's sleeping apartment. You're not a fairy, you know, and I don't see that it can be possibly a matter to you where the fair Bertha's dainty little potteens were tidily placed on the chair by her bedside, or thrown carelessly as they had been taken off upon the heart throne. Where her favoured spaniel reposed, warming his nose in his sleep, before the last smoldering ambas of the decaying fire. Or whether her crinoline, but if she did wear a crinoline, what can that possibly matter to you? Or I shall tell you that everything looked snug and comfortable. But somehow anyplace got that look when Bertha was in it. And now a word about the drool in the casket. Let Bertha herself. Really, I'm at a loss to describe her. How do you look when you're asleep? Well, it wasn't like that, not a bit. Fancy a sweet girl's face, the cheek faintly flushed with a soft warm tint, like a blush in the heart of an opening rose, and made brighter by the contrast of the snowy pillar on which it rested. Dark, silken hair, curling and clustering lovingly over the tiniest of tiny ears, and the softest whitest neck that ever mortal maiden was blessed with. Long, silken eyelashes, finging lids only less beautiful than the dearest eyes they cover. Fancy all this, and fancy too if you can, expression of perfect goodness and purity that lit up the sweet features of the slumbering maiden, with a beauty almost angelic. And you will see what the barrens saw that night. Not quite all, however, for the barren's vision paused not at the bedside before him, but had passed on from the face of the sleeping maiden to another face as lovely, that of the young wife, Bertha's mother, who had years before taken her angel beauty to the angels. The goblin spoke to the barrens, thought, wonderful like a wisp, you not barren? The barrens slowly inclined his head. You made her happy, didn't you? The turn in which the goblin spoke was harsh and mocking. Her faithful husband, tender and true, she must have been a happy wife, eh, barren? The barren's head had sunk upon his bosom. Old recollections were thronging into his awakened memory. Solemn vows to love and cherish somewhat strangely kept. Memories of bitter words and savage oaths showered at a quiet and uncomplaining figure without one word in reply. And at last the memory of a fit of drunken passion, and a hasty blow struck with a heavy hand, and then of three months of fading away, and last of her last prayer for her baby and him. A good husband makes a good father, barren. No wonder you were somewhat cheery of rashly entrusting to a suitor the happiness of a sweet flower like this. Poor girl, it is hard, though, that she must think no more of him she loves so dearly. See, she is weeping even in her dreams. But you have good reasons, no doubt. Young Karl is wild, perhaps, or drinks or gamble, though. What, none of these? Perhaps his wayward and uncertain, and you fear that the hunted words of courtship may turn to bitter things in matrimony? They do sometimes, eh, barren? By all means, garter, from such a fate as that. Poor tender flower. Or who knows worse than that, barren? Hard words break no bones, they say, but angry men are quick, and a blow is soon struck, eh? The goblin had drawn nearer and nearer and laid his hand upon the barren's arm, and the last words were literally hissed into his ears. The barren's foam swayed to and fro under the violence of his emotion. At last, with a cry of agony, he dashed his hands upon his forehead. The veins were swollen up like thick cords, and his voice was almost inarticulate in the sun-natural hoarseness. Tortures, release me, let me go, let me go and do something to forget the past, or I shall go mad and die. He rushed out of the room and paced wildly down the corridor, the goblin following him. At last, as they came near the outer door of the castle, which opened of itself as they reached it, the spirit spoke. This way, barren, this way, I told you there was work for us to do before morning, you know. Work, exclaimed the barren, absently pressing his fingers through his tangle there. Oh, oh yes, work, the harder the better, anything to make me forget. The two stepped out into the courtyard, and the barren shivered, though as it seemed unconsciously, had the breath of the frosty midnight air. The snow lay deep on the ground, and the barren's heavy boots sank into it with a crisp crunching sound at every tread. He was bare-headed, but seemed unconscious of the fact, and tramped on as if utterly indifferent to anything but his own thoughts. At last, as a blast of the night wind, keener than ordinary, swept over him, he seemed for the first time to feel the chill. His teeth chattered, and he mattered cold, very cold. I, barren, said the goblin, it is cold even to us who are healthy and strong and warm with wine. Colder still, though, to those who are hungry and half-naked and have to sleep on the snow. Snape, snow, said the barren, who sleeps on the snow? I wouldn't let my dogs be out on such a night as this. Your dogs know, said the goblin, I spoke of meaner animals, your wretched tenants. Did you not order yesterday that Wilhelm and Frederick, if they did not pay their rent tomorrow, should be turned out to sleep on the snow? A snug bed for the little ones and a nice white coverlet, eh? Ha! Twenty Florence also is no great matter, is it? I'm afraid their chance is small. Nevertheless, come and see. The barren hung his head. A few minutes brought him to the first of the poor dwellings, which they entered noiselessly. The fireless grate, the carpetless floor, the broken window panes, all gave sufficient testimony to the wanton misery of the occupants. In one corner, they sleeping a man, a woman and three children, and nesting to each other for the warmth which their ragged coverlet could afford. In the man, the barren recognized his tenant Wilhelm, one of those who had been with him, to beg for indulgence on the previous day. The keen features and bones almost starting through the pallid skin showed how heavily the hand of hunger had been laid upon all. A cold night, wind moaned and whistled through the many floors at ill-glazed, ill-fetched tenement, and rustled over the sleepers who shivered even in their sleep. Ha! Barren said to Goblin, death is breathing in their faces even now, you see. It is hardly worthwhile to lay them to sleep in the snow, is it? They would sleep a little sounder, that's all. The barren shuddered, and then hastily pulling the warm coat from his own shoulders, he spread it over the sleepers. A hoist said to Goblin, bravely done, barren. By all means, keep them warm tonight. They enjoy the snow more tomorrow, you know. Strange to say, the barren, instead of feeling chilled when he had removed his coat, felt a strange glow of warmth spread from the region of the heart over his entire frame. The Goblin's continual illusions to his former intention, which he had by this time totally relinquished, hurt him, and he said rather pathetically, don't talk of that again, good Goblin, I'd rather sleep on the snow myself. Hey, what, said the Goblin, you don't mean to say you're sorry, but then what do you say to making these poor people feel comfortable? With all my heart, said the barren, if we only had anything to do it with. You leave that to me, said the Goblin, your brother fear is not far off, you may be sure. As he spoke, he clapped his hands thrice, and before the third clapper died away, the poor cottage was swarming with tiny figures, who the barren rightly conjectured to be the fairies himself. Now you may not be aware, the barren was not until that night, that they were among the fairies, trades, and professions, just as with ordinary mortals. However they there were, each with the accompaniments of his or her particular business, and to it they went manfully. A fairy glaze you put in new paints to the shattered windows. Fairy carpenters replaced the doors upon the hinges, and fairy painters with inconceivable celerity made cupboards and closets as fresh as paint could make them. One fairy house made lay them at a roaring fire, while another dusted and rubbed chairs and tables to a miraculous degree of brightness. A fairy butler hung corks bottles of fairy wine, and the fairy cook laid out a ripast of most tempting appearance. The barren, hearing a tapping above him, cast his eyes upward, and beheld the fairy slater rapidly repairing a hole in the roof. And when he had bent them down again, they fell upon a fairy doctor, mixing a cordial for the sleepers. Now there was even a fairy parson, who, not having any present employment, contented himself with rubbing his hands and looking pleasant, probably waiting till somebody might want to be christened or married. Every trade, every profession or occupation appeared without exception to be represented. Nay, we beg pardon, with one exception only. For the barren used to say when afterward relating his experience to bachelor friends. He may believe in me or not, sir. There was every mortal business under the sun, but Dale a bit of a lawyer. The barren could not long remain inactive. He was rapidly seized with a violent desire to do something to help, which manifested itself in insane attempts to assist everybody at once. At last having taken all the skin off his knuckles in attempting to hammer in nails in either the carpenter, and then nearly tumbling over a fairy housemaid, his broom who was offering to carry, he gave it up as a bad job and stood aside with his friend the goblin. He was just about to inquire how it was that the poor occupants of the house were not awakened by so much din, when a fairy same slick, who would be examining the cottage's old clock with a view to a thorough repair, touched some spring within it, and it made the usual perp preparatory to starking. When low and behold at the very first stroke, cottage, goblin, fairies, and all disappeared into utter darkness, and the barren bound himself in his turret chamber, rubbing his toe, which he had just hit with considerable force against the fender. As was only in his slippers, the concussion was unpleasant, and the barren rubbed his toe for a good while. After he had finished with his toe, he rubbed his nose, and finally, with accountants of deep deflection, scratched the bump of something or other at the top of his head. The old clock on the stairs was striking through, and the fire had gone out. Barren reflected for a short time longer, and finally decided he had better go to bed, which he did accordingly. The morning dawned upon the very ideal, as far as weather was concerned, of a Christmas day. A bright winter sun shone down just vividly enough to make everything look genial and pleasant, and yet not with sufficient warmth to mar the pure unbroken surface of the crisp white snow, which lay like a never-ending white lawn upon the ground, and glittered in myriad silver flakes upon the leaves of the sturdy evergreen. I afraid the barren had not had a very good night at any rate. I know he was wide awake in an hour long before his usual time of rising. He lay first on one side, and then on the other, and then by way of variety turned on his back, with his magenta nose pointing perpendicularly towards the ceiling, but it was all of no use. Do what he could, he couldn't go to sleep, and at last, not long after daybreak, he tumbled out of bed and proceeded to dress. Even after he was out of bed, his fidgetness continued. It did not stroke him until after he had got one boot on, that it would have been a more natural proceeding to put his stockings on first, after which he caught himself in the fact of trying to put his trousers on over his head. In a word, the barren's mind was evidently preoccupied. His old air was that of a man who felt a strong impulse to do something or other, but could not quite make his mind up to do it. At last, however, the good impulse conquered, and this wicked old barren in the stillness of the calm bright Christmas morning went down upon his knees and prayed. Stiff were his knees and slow his tongue, for neither had done such work for many a long day past, but I have read in the Book of the Joy of Angels over a repenting sinner. There need not be much eloquence to pray the publican's prayer, and who shall say that there was gladness in heaven that Christmas morning? The barren's appearance downstairs at such an early hour occasioned quite a commotion. Nor were the domestics reassured when the barren ordered a bullet to be killed and jointed instantly, and all the available positions in the lala, including sausage, to be packed up in baskets with a good store of his own peculiar wine. One ancient retainer was heard to declare with much pathos that he feared Master had gone insane. However, insane or not they knew the barren must be obeyed, and in an exceedingly short space of time he salad forth, accompanied by three servants carrying the baskets, and wondering what in the name of fortune their Master would do next. He stopped at the cottage of Vilhel, which he had visited with a goblin, the none the previous night. The neighbours of the fairies did not seem to have produced much lasting benefit, for the appearance of everything round was as wretched as could be. The poor family thought that the barren had come himself to turn them out of house and home, and the children huddled up timidly to their mother for protection, while their father attempted some words of entreaty for mercy. The pale-pinched features of the group and their looks of dread and wretchedness were too much for the barren. What do you mean confound you, turn you out? Of course not. I've brought you some breakfast. Here, Fritz Karl, where are the knives? Now they're unpacked, and don't let a week about it. Can't you see that the people are hungry, you villains? Here, lend me the corkscrew. The last being a tool the barren was tolerably accustomed to, he had better success than with those of the fairy carpenters. And it was not long before the poor tenants were seated before a roaring fire and doing justice with the appetitor's starvation to a substantial breakfast. The barren felt a queer sensation in his throat at the sight of the poor people's enjoyment, and it passed the back of his hand twice across his eyes when he thought no one was looking. But his emotion fairly rose to boiling when the poor father Vilhelm, with tears in his eyes and about a quarter of a pound of beef in his mouth, sprang up from the table and flung himself at the barren's knees, invoking blessings on him for his goodness. Get up, you audacious scoundrel, roared the barren. What did you mean by such conduct, they confound you? At this moment the door opened and then warped mine-hair cluts, who had heard nothing of the barren's change of intentions, and who, seeing Vilhelm at the barren's feet, and herding the latter speaking as he thought in an angry tone, had once jumped to the conclusion that Vilhelm wasn't treating for a longer indulgence. He rushed at the unfortunate man and called him, not if we know it, ick scoundrel. You'll have the wolves for bedfellows tonight, I reckon. Come along, my fine fellow. As he spoke he turned his back toward the barren, with the intention of dragging his victim to the door. The barren's little grey eyes twinkled, and his whole frame quivered with suppressed emotion, which, after a lapse of a moment, vetted himself in a ick and such a ick. Not one of your vassalvianas, ferocious, but a ick that implored every muscle from hip to toe, and drove the worthy steward up against the door like a ball from a catapult. Misfortunes never come singly, and so mine-hair cluts found with regard to the ick. For it was followed without loss of time by several dozen others, as like as it were possible, from the barren's heavy boots. Wounded lines proverbially come badly off, and Fritz and Karl, who had suffered from many inactive petty tyranny on the part of the steward, thought they could not do better than follow their master's example, which they did to such good purpose that when the unfortunate cluts did escape from the cottage at last, I don't believe he could have had any else sacrum left. After having executed this little act of poetic injustice, the barren and his servants visited the other cottages, in all of which they were received with dread and dismissed with blessings. Having completed his tour of charity, the barren returned home to breakfast, feeling more really contented than he had done for many a long year. He found Bertha had not risen when he started, in a considerable state of anxiety as to what he could possibly have been doing. In answer to her inquiries, he told her with a roughness he was far from feeling, to mind her own affairs. The gentle eyes filled with tears at the harshness of the reply, perceiving which the barren was beyond measure distressed, and chucked her under the chin in what was meant to be a very conciliatory manner. Hey, what my pretty tears, no surely Bertha must forgive her old father. I didn't mean it, you know, my pet, and yet on second thoughts, yes, I did too. Bertha's face was overcast again. My little girl thinks she has no business anywhere, eh? Has that it? Well then, my pet, supposing you make it your business to write a note to young Carl von Sempe, and say I'm afraid I was rather rude to him yesterday, but if you'll overlook it, and come take a snug family dinner and a slice of pudding with us today, why, Pa, you don't mean? Yes, I really do believe you do. The barren's eyes were winking, 19 to the dozen. Why, you dear, dear old Pa, and at the imminent risk of upsetting the breakfast table, Bertha rushed at the barren and flinging two soft white arms about his neck kissed him. Oh, how she did kiss him. I shouldn't have thought myself she could possibly have any left for Carl, but I daresay Bertha attended his interests in that respect somehow. Well, Carl came to dinner, and the barren was, not very many years after, promoted to the dignity of her grandpapa, and a very jolly old grandpapa he made. Is that all you wanted to know about Klutz? Well, Klutz got over the kicking, but he was dismissed from the barren's service and on examination of his accounts, it was discovered that he had been in the habit of robbing the barren of nearly one-third of his yearly income, which he had to refund. And with the money he was thus compelled to disgorge, the barren built new cottages for his tenants, and new stocked their farms. Nor was he poorer in the end, for his tenants worked with the energy of gratitude, and he was soon many times richer than when the goblin visited him on that Christmas Eve. And was the goblin ever explained? Certainly not. How dear you have the impertence to suggest such a thing! An empty bottle, covered with cobwebs, was found the next morning in the turret chamber, which the barren first imagined must be the bottle from which the goblin had produced his magic wine. But as it was found on examination to be labelled Old Jamaica Rum, of course, then could not have had anything to do with it. However it was, the barren never thoroughly enjoyed any other wine after it, and as he did not thenceforth get intoxicated, on an average more than two nights a week, or swear more than eight oaths a day, I think King Christmas may be considered to have thoroughly reformed him. And he always maintained to the day of his death that he was changed into a fairy, and became exceedingly angry and contradicted. Who doesn't believe in fairies after this? I only hope King Christmas may make a few more good fairies this year to brighten the homes of the poor with the light of Christmas charity. Truly we need not look far for armsmen. Cold and hunger, disease and death are around us at all times, but at no time do they press more heavily on the poor than at this jovial Christmas season. Shall we shut out in our mirth and jollity, the cry of the hungry poor? Or shall we not rather remember in the midst of our happy family circles, round our well-filled tables and before our blazing fires, that our brothers are starving out in the cold, and that the Christmas song of the angels was Good Will to Men. End of Christmas with the Baron by Angelo J. Lewis