Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1855-12-28
EVENING STAR.
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
By JEANNE DEANS

4
port. In the streets of the city feet were hur-
| rying to and fro; and little children gathe red
| before shops, filled with childish treasures
| hoping for this or that jewel, amid the window
settings. Those who had no hopes gathered
| colored papers from the cutters, and pilfered
| the candy stalls.
Huge Kris Kingles, with one fat leg dang
ling over false chimneys, bore incredibly sized
bags upon their shoulders, filed with wondrous
interminglings of all the toys shOp-born and
| child -exemplifed.
As the last rays fell slanting TO the earth.
| forming little golden bridge s, between the
celestial and terrestrial cities myriads of little
| FIRE flashes, supernatural sparks might have
been seen crossing the abyss of space, and
alighting in great numbers upon each roof like
| birds on their homo trees. Learned men
called them 4" "phosphOric gleams;" but the
| good and simple knew them TO be warm fire.
Spirits, coming to bless each hearth-making
more radiant the dim fires Of the poor and
wOrld-weary, the sinful and suffering souls.
| And where there was no fire to receive them,
| they illumined and warmed the room with the
bright glow Of their cheerful faces and loving
spirits, never failing to bring peace and COM
fort to their earthly brethren.
| =
81 couldn't possibly, Flip; could mt, with
justice to myself
And heavy Mr.. Dorner opened his huge
book, and ran his eyes over the large credit
columns, absorbed In his calculations.
Poor Flip buttoned his coat over his thin
| frame, seemed nerving himself 10 some great
outbreak of feeling; but withheld by deeper
| undercurrent, walked quietly to the green
baiSe door, paused with a shudder, and passed
| out.
A cold current of air crept into the counting
room. Mr.. DOrner looked around twice, fancy
| ing some one was behind him. The large
| chronOmeter licked with fearful distinctness,
and stared with peculiar meaning in its one
| eye. The gas glimmered, and rose and fell,
as though taking holiday; the fire cracked,
and hissed, and snapped, sending showers of
| indignant glances through the two firery eyes
| of the coal stove.
Mr.. DOrner was man Of nerve, or rather
| imagined he had none; but on this eventful
Christmas eve. contrary to his usual custom
| he hurried his books away, closed the desk
and, locking the door, walked up the street
with the huge brass key upon his finger.
81 think L was right said Mr. Dorner,
| speaking confidently to the key. To be
| sure, Flip has been faithful clerk for many
| year; but that dOes'n make il clear TO me
| that should advance him any more salary
He has been sick all summer; but that's his
misfortune-nOt my fault. If one has an at
tached dog, who has cared for his prop erty
| seventeen years, this is no reason why one
| should feed him upon geese livers. No. no;
| should not have given it another thought
MI. DOrner had now reached his own door
His was an elegant establishment He par
| took of a fine supper, smoked in his easy chair,
In his dressing gown and slippers, and now
prepared for a dOz. But Mr.. Dorner felt Cd
| pressed, thought himself a little dyspeptic,
| enumerated the articles he had eater. for sup
| Per; was astonished that it counted UP so
enormously, sighed, thought be should not
| live long, and cast backward glance over
| the actions of his life
Suddenly he paused In his walk across the
| carpet, drew his chair before the FIRE. and
| ga1ed fIedly upon it. The little fre-spirits
were at work, and radiant pictures glvwed
| with glorious light, and darkened with an
ashen shade. A bright face was mingled
| thereln-the cequettish eyes were giancing
| half playfully, half tenderly, into his. The
| rosy lips, with touch Of scOn and dimples uf
sweetness upon them, seemed ready To speak k
| to him.
How many weary years since that bright,
| graceful head had placed itself close to his
| since 1t had laid its wealth of curls upon his
bosom; and Mr.. Dorner sighed audibly He
| thought of the time when he had won a Young
| wife, beautiful and cOquettish, with cloak Of
| vanity covering deeply loving heart. Fre-
quently had he demonstrated with her upon
| her cOquetry, and Cften, not without reason !:
| for she had been so accustomed To admirati on
that it was daily food to her, and how could
| she give it all up at once for one so grave and
| So much older
One night, at a fancy party, he imagined
/ her more than oquettish-srtful and untrue
| to him-and when he followed her into her
| cOZy sitting room the storm Of his pent.up
| wrath burst in u shower Of bitter words upon
| her sunny head Heretofore she had Knocked
| him, laughed at his counsel, and defended
herself so spiritedly, yet so lovingly withal
L hat ha ho1 hna, Il. =
| night he was more stern, and she less laugh
| ing, even humble and tender and when, in
an unguarded moment, he accused her of
| trifing with his honor, she supplcated him TO
believe her, trust in her. And when he dis
believed her all her woman's spirit was
aroused, and, drawing the folds of her satin
cloak about her, with the shepherdess's hat
shading her pale face, she turned and left him
alone Never since that moment had he
seen her; twice had he met some good kind
| acts, two of her graceful footsteps upon the
path of time, by which she could be traced to
the shore of eternity.
Suddenly the picture changed, and poor
Flip's thin figure replaced that of the lost love
He was vending his way homeward through
dark and narrow streets. When he stepped
upon the bridge, over the dalk and rushing
river, he stopped and leaning over the para
pet seemed to mediate upon the distance IL
might be to the river below. So long did he
remain thus, as though transfxed, and started
so suddenly with a dizzy movement over the
railing, that Mr.. DOrner instinctiysly stretched
out his hand to drag him from his perilous po-
| sition, in fear that he meditated suicide. But
| at the same moment poor Flip said, with deep
voiced feeling:
"Oh Thou who sayest unto the troubled
waters, Be sttLLt' calm thou my soul, and
strobe resOlutely away. Soon he reached the
little havep called his home-a poor port in
which to cast anchor; but nonetheleSs dear to
him for all that.
Mr. Doner did not endeaver to enter with
Flip; but contented himself by peeping in at
the window. There was fire upon the
| hearth, composed Of miserable enough mate
rials, heaven knows, and small enough in
compass; but it shone, and laughed, and
danced with SO bright glow in every coal,
that MIR. DOrner thought it the most cheerful
heart-warming fire he had ever seen. And
Flip's wife, too, what delicate, sweet-look-
ing creature she was. lie had often seen a
woman, called by that name, come quietly
in O the counting room, and he remem he red \