Newspapers / The Rural Visitor (Fremont, … / Dec. 23, 1898, edition 1 / Page 1
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..■.. ■iwagi'i. i.' K^saaemss RURAL 99 ■f Rev W VISITOR: VOL. 2. FREMONT, N. C., FRIDAY, DECEMBER, 23, 1898. NO. 2a. Christmas. It came iipon the midnight clear, That glorious song of hid, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: “Peace to the earth, good-will to men From heaven’s all-gracious King!” The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing. > Still through the cloven skies they come, With peaceful wings unfurled; And still their heavenly music floats O’er all the weary world: Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on heavenly wing, And ever o’er its Babel sounds The blessed angels sing. Yet with the woes of sin and strife The world has suffered long; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong; I And men, at war with men, hear not The love-song which they bring: Oh! hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing! And ye, beneath life’s crushing load Whose forms are bending low; Who toil along the climbing way With painful steps and slow,— Look now! for glad and golden hours Come swiftly on the wing; Oh! rest beside the weary road, And hear the angels sing. For lo! the days are hasting on, By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold; When peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling, And the whole world send back the song Which now the angels sing. —Edmund H. Sears. “On Earth, Peace.” A CHRISTMAS STORY. ‘‘On earth, peace, peace, Good-will to mep, The angels sang: On earth, peace—” , Mrs. Sinclair rose, crossed the room, and drew together the heavy crimson portiers which separated the library from the back parlor. A frown farrowed her brow, while her hands trem bled nervously. “How foolish I am!” she ex claimed to herself. “I always enjoy Nora’s music, but somehow the words of that Christmas carol irritate me.” She went back to the hearth rug and stood looking thought fully into the mass of glowing coals. When Margaret Sinclair had married,”twenty-two years be fore, and had come to this beau tiful home, she had brought with her, her only near relative, a sis ter ten years old. Mr. Sinclair grew very fond of Bertha, and she had been like a daughter in the house. She was only eigh teen when Harold North, a young mechanic, asked her hand in marriage. The Sinclairs refus ed his suit because he was poor. However, the young girl loved Harold and finally married him. From that time the doors of her sister’s home had been closed against her. The Norths had removed to a distant city, and Bertha had written several times, but Mrs. Sinclair always returned the let ters unopened. No news o f them had reached her for a long time. Mr. Sinclair had died five years before, and Mrs. Sinclair was alone with her two daugh ters. In the early autumn she had learned, by a newspaper par agraph, that the Norths had re turned to the city where she was living. The paper stated that Harold had been seriously injur ed by falling from a building up on which he' was at work. Here Mrs. Sanclair’s reverie was interrupted by the entrance of Mae, her youngest daughter. “Oh, mamma,” the girl cried her jpretty blonde face aglow with earnestness, “will you not buy a basket of flowers-for the Children’s Hospital, for Christ mas? I told the matron I knew you would.” Mrs. Sinclair promised will ingly. It might ease the pain at her heart to give. She sigh ed. She noticed Mae’s strong resemblance to Bertha. How had the latter stood ten years of poverty and toil? Ah, was there any such thing as peace? As the week before Christmas slipped by, Mrs. Sinclair bestow ed gifts with even more than her usual liberality. But the shadow was not lifted from her brow. “On earth; peace”—those words were always ringing in her ears. On Christmas eve Nora found her mother sitting alone before the library fire, her hands clasp ed listlessly in her lap. “Come with us to the church, mamma, ” she coaxed. “It is the festival for the mission Sabbath school, and you will enjoy the music and the happy faces of the , Mrs. Sinclair consented weari ly. The walk through the thronged streets recalled mem ories of other days. Were there little ones in Bertha’s home for whom she was to-night shop ping? Or did poverty debar the mother from that joy? They soon arrived at the church and Mrs. Sinclair took her place in the family pew. When the curtain rose before the tree, Mrs. Sinclair almost forgot her vexation in the de light of the children, but in a few moments it was recalled to her mind as Nora stepped for ward and sang in her sweet well trained voice the quaint old carol, “On earth, peace!” Mar garet Sinclair closed her lips firmly and said to herself, “I will forget.” It is not always in our power to forget. Sometimes it is the voice of God which bids mem ory come to us, and, although we may refuse to heed the lesson it would fain teach, we cannot bar out the guest. “Did you enjoy it, mamma?” Nora asked wistfully as the girls joined their mother. “You look tired. I wish we had or dered the carriage to come for us.” “Yes, I enjoyed the children’s happiness. The walk will do me good.” Mae drew her mother’s hand in her arm, and they went home. When they ascended the steps Nora said, ■mow we are fjuiug tu uave our gifts ahd a cosey little lunch. This will be the only bit of Christmas we can have all to ourselves. To-morrow there's the dinner party to all the Sin clairs, so to-night we will be happy together.” Mrs. Sinclair had selected a set of pearls for Nora, while the quaint silver toilet articles for Mae had been ordered from Paris. The girls’ gifts to their mother were of their own hadi work; Nora’s a violet-embroider ed lunch-cloth, and Mae’s a pic ture painted by herself. Mrs. Sinclair recognised the bend of the placid river and the group of long-limed elms as forming a part of her favorite view from the veranda of their summer home. She entered so fully into the pleasure of her children that her face resumed its usual placid look. They enjoyed the simple lunch, and as they lingered over the fragrant coffee and grapes Nora said suddenly, “I’ve been thinking of Aunt Bertha to-day, mammjk. I wish you would let me write to her.” It was a daring speech, for the name of the Norths was never mentioned. Mrs. Sinclair replied coldly, “We will not discuss that mat ter.” f A few moments later they separated for the night. Nora whispered as she kissed her mother, “Forgive me, mamma, if I hurt you. Christmas always makes me think of those I love, since papa is gone we are few in number.” Mrs. Sinclair held her daughter in a close embrace for a moment. When she spoke she Said, “Good-night, darling. God is good to give me such dear girls.” Alone in her room Mrs. Sin clair paced restlessly to and fro. Why did this matter long ago settled, persistently haunt her? t After a little she retired, but only to lie for hours staring into the darkness. At last she fell into a restless sleep. She awoke just as the first faint light of morning crept in at the window. The first though tifoat came to her was of the Christ who so loved sinful erring humanity that he gave his life to redeem the world from sin. One of his gifts had been peace. Could she in any way truly observe the natal day of the divine Saviour of the world while refusing to accept the heaven-proclaimed message that heralded his com ing? Ah, there was the solution to the problem that had so vexed her-*-Christ, the very incarna tion of love and peace. Finally Mrs. Sinclair rose and began, with trembling fingers, to dress. She put on a plain street suit and a long sealskin cape. Quiting her room, she reached the lower hall just as a servant was carrying fresh bou quets of roses and violets into the dining-room. He stared in surprise at seeing his mistress arrayed for the street. “Tell the cook to prepare breakfast for several more than the family,” Mrs. Sinclair said quietly. “We will have guests.” She opened the massive hall door and descended .the* steps. The city was slowly waking to I life. The sun was rising, and through the closely-set houses she caught a glimpse of the eas tern sky aglow with radiance. The crisp air, the comparative quiet of the streets, and the chiming of the distant bells—all these gave and added impetous to her new-born resolve.. A half-hour after leaving her home she was climbing the stairs of a crowded tenement-house. At the door of the room to which she had been directed she paused and rapped. No reply came. Margret waited a mo ment, then entered the room. It was apparently a sitting-room and poorly furnished, although ! neat and clean. Two boys of five and seven were sitting on the floor, their heads bent over the contents of their stockings. One glance showed Mrs. Sin clair the home-made toys, the picture cards, and the tiny pack ages, of candy. The next mo ment she was kneeling by the children. “Where did you come from?” the eldest boy asked, a look of wonder in his blue eyes. “You can’t be Santa Claus nor the Christ-child, 'cause you are ft lady.” “No, I am your Aunt Marga ret. I came to tell you that San ta Culas has many beautiful gifts for you at my home. Will you go with me?” 4 “Yes,” and he sprang up, clapping his hands gleefully. “I know you. Mamma loves you and talks about you. She cries sometimes, but she cries lots since papa got hurt. ” Margaret drew both boys in her arms. “Tell me your name,” she said. “Why, don’t you know? I’m Alfred, and little brother is Max.” Alfred! That was her beloved husband's name. The door opened. There was a startled cry. Mrs. Sinclair looked up to see her sister stand ing near. Bertha was worn and faded, and upon' her shoulder rested one hand of her husband. Harold leaned upon a crutch with his other arm. Mrs. Sinclair advanced hur riedly. “Bertha, Harold, dear sister and brother, will you for give me I ask it in the name of Christ.” When they became composed enough to listen to mutual ex planations, Mrs. Sinclair learned that the long illness of her sister had kept the family in stratined circumstances, and that Harold’s accident had threatened them with actual want. She learned, too, that poverty and trouble had not dimmed the love of hus band and wife. That evening they were all gathered in the library of the Sinclair home, Nora was sitting on the.hearth-rug, the children nestling close against her, while Alfred tried to tell which of the many gifts he had received was the best. “1 think my best Christmas present was my dear little cous ins,” Nora cried gayly. Her mother’s eyes rested lov ingly on the group before the fire. “The best of all Christmas gifts is peace, my darlings,” she said, “the peace that Christ is always ready to give.”—Hope Daring, in American Messenger. Spanish Names. The following is a correct pro nunciation of the more promi nent Spanish names of towns, ships, generals, etc.: Almodvar-Ahl-moh-doh’-vahr. Alfonso— Ahl-f oh n’-soh. Almiraute Oquendo—Ahl-mee rahn’-tay Oh-kain-doh. Bianco—Blahn’-coh. Banes—Bah’-nace. Camara—Cah’- mah- rah. CadijB—Cah’-deeth. Cienfuegos-The--en--foo-a’ gobs. Cardenas—Kar-day’-nahs. Christobal Colon—Krees-toh' bahl Koh-lone'. - Caimanera—Kah-ee-may’ -nay rah. , ' -1.; Cervera—Thair-vay’-rah. C&stelar—Kahs’-tay-lahr. Emperador Carlos V.—Em* pay-rab-dor’ Car’-lohs Keen-toh. Gulloo-rGoohl-yohnV Guantanamo—Gwahn-tah-nah4 •moh. Gomez—Goh’-haytb. Garcia—Gahr-thee’*ah. Havana—Hah-vah’-nah. Holguin—Hohl’-geen. Matanzas—Mah-tahn’-thaths. Morro—Moh’-rroh. Maria Teresa—Msiy-reeah* Tay-ray’-sah. Neuvitas—Noo-ay-vee’-tahs. Pinar del Rio—Peeh-nahr thel Ree-oh. Puerto Principe—Poo-air’-toh Preen’-thee*pay. f Pelayo—Pay-lah’-yo. Santa Clara—Satin’-tah Clah’ rah. Sautiago—Sahu-tee-ah’-goh. San Juan—Satm Hwahn. Trinidad—Tree-ni-thath (hard th.) Vizcaya—Veeth-cah’-yah. —*Harper’s Weekly. [We marked the accented syl lables above with apostrophe's.] Luxury or Books? Richard De Bury once said: “The library, therefore, of wis dom is more precious than all riches^ and nothing that can be wished for is worthy to be com pared with it. t Success gives an interesting anecdote, told by Agassiz of his visit, when a young man, to the great German naturalist, Prof. Loren Oken. The professor received his guest with warm enthusiasm, but apparent embarassment. He showed his visitor the laboratory and the students at work, also his cabinet, and lastly, his splendid library of books per taining to zoological science, a collection worth some $7,000, and well deserving the glow of pride which the owner manifest ed as he expatiated on its excel lence. The dinner hour came and then the embarrassment of the great German reached its maxi mum point. “Monsieus Agaissiz,” he said, with perturbation, “to gather and keep up this library exacts the utmost husbandry of my pe cuniary means. To accomplish this, I allow myself no luxury whatever. Hence, my table is restricted to the plainest fare. Thrice a week our table boasts of meat; the other days we have only potatoes and salt. I very much regret that your visit has occured upon a potato day.” And so the splendid Switzer and the great German with his students dined together on pota toes and salt. And what must those students have enjoyed in the coversation of those remark able men! Surely this was a case of high thinking and plain living, and fortunate are they who have such opportunities.—Baptist Union. At a printer’s dinner lately, the following toast was propos ed: “Women—secohd only to the Press in disseminating news." The ladies are still un decided whether to regard this as a compliment or not. Renew your subscription ta The Rural Visitor. Subscribe to The Visitor* ' ■ ’ . ’ ■.} ' \ fr ' ill , t
The Rural Visitor (Fremont, N.C.)
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Dec. 23, 1898, edition 1
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