Year: 1877

AN EDITORS CHRISTMAS REMINIsoEcsCE.


am an editor and one bitter cold
m orning, a few days before Christmas,
i a the year 49,, sat as usual at my
desk. Among the heap of manuscripts
/ was daily compelled to examine
many of them desultory, untidy, and
unstitched, defiant of spelling, subver-
sive of grammar, and with neither be-
ginning, middle or end-was one, writ
ten ON the softest cream-laid French
white paper, in childish lady's hand,
on lines which had been carefully erased
afterwards. 1t was little story of no
great literary merit, but there was an
aroma of youth and of sweetness in every
line. There was promise in it. 1t
was like the light in the sky before the
sun had risen on fine day-an omen, a
portent of sunshine and warmth, but no
more. Iput it down as if 1 had touch
ed the petal OF a rose, There was tiny
scented note beside it-of course full of
italics:


"DEAR Mr.. EDITOR: I send you a
little story, / am only sixteen, and papa
about it, but please tell me if it be
NOAVh any billilSs WUNt ~ 10 De pTlul-
ed l a0Gnt to be paid for it. 1t is not
for myself, though, but L want the
money to give NY dear little brother
nice ttHte birthday present. 1 am,
dear Mr.. Editor, yours. etc.,


EMILY -


Then came the, address and signature.
The writing of the note was less neat
and regular than the manuscript. But
there was the same fragrance OF dainty
youth about it.


held it long time in my hand. /
am an old man at all events middle
aged, perhaps something more but nay
heart is younger than my appearance.
Little Installations came, or seemed to
come, from the paper held. 1t was
with no common feeling of interest that
sat down and wrote my answer to the
note. l returned the manuscript, bnt
l wrote gently and tenderly. gave it
as my hope and my opinion that, with
little more care and study, the youthful
writer would achieve n success. l even
promised to print that identical manu-
script if it were little revised or cor
rected, and pointed out how it might
be made available. / opened the window
OF my den after had written my note.
The weeds piercing through the flags
below had less dreary look than they
had ever had before "A CLEAN of sun
shine shone on them, and their frosty
verdure borrowed something of Picciola
brightness from it. l posted my letter
and the manuscript TO the address
named, and went home, wondering if
ever should hear from the writer again.
With that, however, all thoughts of the
manuscript passed away. The author
was too timid to reply.


On Christmas Eve / was asked as
usual to dine with an old friend of mine
at st. Johns Wood. He was a married
man, with pleasant comely wife, and
several small children, male and female.


"The children are not coming down
to dinner" said my hostess, for they
are going to give us a surprise after
wards"


/ bowed and was delighted, both at
the anticipation of pleasure to come, and
of 'priyation for the first time of cOnsid-
erable present annoyance. need not
say l was then a bachelor. When we
went mp stairs after dinner, we found the
fOlding-doOrs which divided the front
from the back room closed.


They were SpeRed after while.
The Christmas hymn was sung, aud Fl
tree OF the most brilliant splendor WAS
revealed; on its branches we're hung