AROUND THE YULE LOG

BY
WILLIS BOYD ALLEN
Author of “The Boyhood of John Kent,” “Snowed In,” “Christmas at Surf Point,” “The Pine Cone Series,” “Navy Blue,” etc.

BOSTON
The Pilgrim Press
CHICAGO

Copyright, 1898, by J. W. Tewksbury

CONTENTS

I
AROUND THE YULE LOG

It is the waning of the year. As the twilight, often hastened by the soft blur of falling snow, encroaches more and more upon the brief day, we gather closely about our firesides, and there, heart to heart, are wont to listen as at no other period of this prosaic nineteenth century life, to tales of olden time. More than ever are we drawn together at the season of our Saviour’s birth, when the yule log glows amain and the sweet spirit of Christmas kindles within us a warmth and gladness that responds to the cheerful blaze upon the hearth.

Christmas day! Does it not grow dearer to us every year? The summers come and go; we rush to and fro on our little errands of business and pleasure; great joys dawn in our lives, dark shadows of bitter disappointment creep over them; we are glad, sorrowful, eager, weary, well, ill; Life’s heart beats strongly, and Death is busy in its midst; we strive for the Beautiful, the True, and the Good; we hide our faces in helpless agony of shame and remorse; yet again comes the dear Day of days, with its blessed associations, memories, hopes.

Christmas! Do you remember what that word meant to you when you were a child? What a mysterious halo of light surrounded the day! How the very sound of its name suggested the fragrance of the fir-tree and wax-candles and marvelous toys, and the far-off tinkle of sleigh bells, or beat of tiny reindeer hoofs upon the snowy roof! Has the approach of Christmas but an indifferent charm in this grown-up work-a-day world of ours? If so, let us strive and pray for those delicate sensibilities of childhood that caught and reveled in the fragrant atmosphere of the day; that could hear, knowing naught beyond the bliss it brought, the voice of the Founder of Christmas blessing little children as it blessed them in distant Palestine eighteen centuries ago. Let us forgive our debtors this day as we would be forgiven; let no child’s cry fall unheeded on our ears; let our hearts be open to the tenderest, purest, most sacred thoughts, and to every ennobling influence; let us be alert and watchful, on this bright morning-day of the year; let the sun shine into and through us, shedding its warmth and brightness upon all about us; let us be once more as little children, and put out our hands trustingly, to be led.

Hope—Joy—Bethlehem—Christmas—Christ! How softly the words chime together, like Christmas bells! With their sweet music comforting and gladdening our hearts, may we gather by the fireside to-night, to listen to these simple tales

Around the Yule Log.

II
THE SHADOW OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT

I

It was at precisely eight o’clock, on the evening of the twenty-fourth of December, that Mr. Broadstreet yawned, glanced at the time-piece, closed the book he had been reading, and stretched himself out comfortably in his smoking-chair before the cannel fire which snapped and rustled cosily in the broad grate. The book was “A Christmas Carol,” and the reader, familiar as he was with its pages, had been considerably affected by that portion relating to Tiny Tim, as well as cheered by the joyful notes with which the Carol ends.

For some minutes he sat silently surveying the pattern on his slippers, and apparently working it out again on his own brow. Now, Mr. Broadstreet