New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1874-01-10
restoring to the people Of France the control
Of their own affairs.
A DEAD CHRISTMAS TREE.

and color within, and only an occasional Gus
toner, driven by necessity, hurried in from
the shelter of dripping umbrella to make q
purchase. The down pour put an end to tho
gay chattering crowds in front Of the counters
that warmed the hearts Of panic stricken
dealers an end to our long lingering over
hitherto unconsidered trihes that we did not
want, and could not afford. and the guilty de-
light of buying them. The chilly beat Of the
rain on our umbrellas overhead, and the leaden
weight of New Years bills in our pockets, re-
pressed the noble rage of outlay and
chilled the genial current of our souls,
driving us to those narrow dull economic
paths into which all the world turns after
quarter day. The children, with their Christ
mas toys thoroughly smashed, and the last
bon bon eaten, are sbouidering their satchels
and off to school again, with very positive
sense upon them that the play is over, and
Black Monday come. Now and then, topping
an ash-cart, or dragged down a gutter by
the wondering little vagabonds of the alleys.
a Christmas wreath or tree comes to view,
bare and dry and unsghtly, glittering star.
perhaps, or bit of gilt paper shining as in
Andersen's story, on one OF its tOpmOst
branches. To the boys, with their satchels on
their shoulders, who tore the toys and bon
bons from it, the glamour has quite gone from
it it is nothing but a dead old fagot
ready for burning; in fact, after Kriss- Kringle
vanished up the chimney it was real tree
enough to them but there are some older peO-
pie Flooding along in the rain to whom it is
plant out of that wonderful far-off country of
boyhood where they too had once lived and been
Arcadians where the evil days of unpaid bills
came not, and if the clouds returned after the
ran clouds and rain and slush to the knees
were full of as delicious pleasures and keen
promise of adventure as the clearest shining OF
sun or moon. 1t is all folly to talk of the
dreams of youth OF the illusions that vanish
with the cold daylight of our fOrtieth birth
day. The boy is comfortable little animal.
The old tree is cedar OF fir to him, nothing
more his lessons are page too long, his
heels frost-bitten, his stomach griped with too
much candy it is to his father that the dead
stalk becomes an arbOr-vit9, indeed, bios
soning with tender fancies, its roots deep in
his own gOrifed youth it is after we have
climbed the long hill Difficulty of middle age
that the golden mists of distance gather
about the beginning and end of our journey,
and out of our later disappointments we give
unreal glamour and beauty to the ignorance
of childhood and the rest of age.
Smith, going from his great mills or cloth
ing shops to his gorgeOusly furnished house
on Murray Hill, catches through the rain Oh
his carriage window glimpse of the old tree
and its glittering star on the cart, and
straightway fOrgets the heavy dinner waiting
for him. for which his hungry soul was be-
ginning to long; he goes back as upon Alad-
dns wonderful carpet to the little twO-story
house in a country village, and to hard
worked mechanic and his wife, gray haired
and stopped -shOuldered, trying to make
Christmas the bright day Of the year for their
boys. The tree, not half so big as that the
cheap little toys hung on it. the old iron and
empty barrels and bag of rags sold the week
before to give Bob and Jem and himself each
pOcket-money for gifts it is all near and
real to him. The gray-headed father and
mother are dead long ago; his brothers are
men, shrewd, money making as himself; Bob
was badly hurt by the panic month ago.
But what delight there used to be in giving
those trumpery trifles to each other And no
remembers, perhaps, the old words, how
even the poorest poor long for some mo-
"ment in weary life when they may be the
"dolers and the givers-out of some small
BLESSINGS y wondering, it may be, too, if the
gray-haired woman going by, one of his mill
hands, as he perceives, has had any poor tree
for her little ones. She is not unlike his own
mother he fancies.
She, too, sees the tree and thinks OF her
children; and directly, in the rain and fOggy
alley she sees the little room where Tom, fool
ish young father that he was, decked and
lighted the tree for their first-bop baby. A
wonderful tree-in her memory. Mono gayer
or pretter has ever been trimmed since than
that of Toms! The water stands in her eyes
when she thinks of it. with pleasure. But
Tom was killed in the mill soon after, and
she has done what she could alone for the
children since. God knows it has been but
little! Perhaps-whO knowsi when the mill
owner and the mill hand meet tomorrow, q
shadowy tree may rise between them, and for
the sake of it her way may be made easier TO
the end. Such fragments of human histories
lie all about us, linked by as trivial things.
But the Christmas trees and the Christ-liks
affections and charities that hang about them al
ways link them into genuine brotherhood. Let
US plant them then more generously year ~
year. We fancy that they wither in week
and are carted away by the ash-man, but thsa
IS only fancy; when we are gone they will be
green and fresh in our children's lives; full OF
calm tender memories and sacred affection for
them, when they are men. fighting with panica
and bills true branches are they OF the tree
of life, whose leaves are for the healing OF tbs
nations.
The Ball to be given the 18th of this month foo
the beneft of the Infant Asylum will be q suf.