To Know All is to For- * BY NIXON WATERMAN. If I knew you, and you knew me- If I knew you, and you knew me, M Christmas Gifts BY MR. DOOLEY. R. DOOLEY knew Christmas was coming by the calendar, and Mr. Hennessy coming in with a doll in his pocket and a rockingchair under his arm. "Prisints?" said the philosopher. "Yis," said Mr. Hennessy. "I had to do it. I med up me mind this year that I wudden't buy anny Chris'mas prisints or take anny. I can't afford it. Times has been fearful ha-ard, an' a look iv pain comes over th' ol' woman's face whin I hold out fifty cints fr'm * From "In a Merry Mood." Copyright 1903 by Forbes & Co. me salary on Saturdah night. I give it out that I didn't want annything, but they'se so much scurryin' ar-round an' hidin' things whin I go in that I know they've got something f'r me. I cudden't stand it no longer, so I wint downtown to-night, down be Shekel an' Whooper's place, an' bought these things. This is a fine doll f'r th' money." "It is," said Mr. Dooley, taking the doll and examining it with the eye of an art critic. "It closes its eyes,―yis, an', bedad, it cries if ye punch it. They're makin' these things more like human bein's ivry year. An' does it say pap-pah an' mam-mah, I dinnaw ?" "No," said Mr. Hennessy, "th' pap-pah an' mam-mah dolls costs too much." "Well," continued Mr. Dooley, "we can't have ivrything we want in this wurruld. If I had me way, I'd buy goold watches an' chains f'r ivrybody in th' r-road, an' a few iv th' good Germans. I feel that gin'rous. But 'tis no use. Ye can't give what ye want. Ivry little boy ixpects a pony at Chris'mas, an ivry little girl a chain an' locket; an' ivry man thinks he's sure goin' to get th' goold-headed cane he's longed f'r since he come over. But they all fin'lly land on rockin'-horses an' dolls, an' suspindhers that r-run pink flowers into their shirts an' tattoo thim in summer. An' they conceal their grief Chris'mas mornin' an' thtry to look pleasant with murdher in their hearts. "Some wan has always give me a Chris'mas prisint, though no wan has anny r-right to. But no wan iver give me annything I cud wear or ate or dhrink or smoke or curl me hair with. I smoke th' best five-cint see-gar that money can buy; yet, whin good frind iv mine wants to make me a prisint f'r Chris'mas, he goes to a harness shop an' buys a box iv see-gars with excelsior fillin's an' burlap wrappers, an', if I smoked wan an' lived, I'd be arristed f'r arson. I got a pair iv suspinders wanst fr'm a lady-niver mind her name-an' I wurruked hard that day; an' th' decorations moved back into me, an' I had to take thim out with pumice stone. I didn't lose th' taste iv th' paint f'r weeks an' weeks. "Wan year I wanted a watch more thin annything in th' wurruld. I talked watches to ivry wan that I thought had designs on me. I made it a pint to ask me frinds what time iv night it was, an' thin say, 'Dear me, I ought to get a watch if I cud affoord it.' I used to tout people down to th' jooler's shop, an' stand be th' window with a hungry look in th' eyes iv me, as much as to say, 'If I don't get a watch, I'll perish.' I talked watches an' thought watches, an' dreamed watches. Father Kelly rebuked me f'r bein' late f'r mass. 'How can I get there befur th' gospil, whin I don't know what time it is?' says I. 'Why don't ye luk at ye'er watch?' he says. 'I haven't none,' says I. Did he give me a watch? Faith, he did not. He sint me a box iv soap that made me smell like a coon goin' to a ball in a State Sthreet ca-ar. I got a necktie fr'm wan man; an', if I wore it to a meetin' iv th' Young Hebrews' Char'table Society, they'd've thrun me out. That man wanted me to be kilt. Another la-ad sint me a silk handkerchief that broke on me poor nose. Th' nearest I got to a watch was a hair chain that unravelled, an' made me look as if I'd been currin' a Shetland pony. I niver got what I wanted, an I niver expect to. No wan does." Spring BY CELIA THAXTER. The alder by the river Shakes out her powdery curls, The willow buds in silver For little boys and girls. The little birds fly over And oh, how sweet they sing! They tell the happy children And just as many daisies As their soft hands can hold The little ones may gather All fair in white and gold. The foolish fears of what might happen Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay, Among the husking of the corn Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born, Out in the fields of God. Nathan Hale BY FRANCIS MILLER FINCH. [Nathan Hale was born at Coventry, Conn., 1755; died in New York 1776. He graduated from Yale College in 1773, entered the army in 1775, and became captain the following year. In September, 1776, he was sent by Washington to procure intelligence about the British in New York; he was arrested in the British camp and executed as a spy, at the command of Sir William Howe. In 1893 a statue was erected to his memory in New York City.] To drum-beat and heart-beat A soldier marches by; There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye. Yet to drum-beat and to heart-beat By the starlight and moonlight He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag And the armed sentry's tramp; With slow tread and still tread The dark wave, the plumed wave, A sharp clang, a still clang, In the camp a spy hath found; |