..■.. ■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.
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