“It was very easy,” replied Cristobal, “when once the Little Jesus called me ‘brother,’ and bade me pray for you.”
“Oh that I could repay you for your wonderful deed of love,” said Jasper, through his tears.
“Do not thank me,” whispered Cristobal, with a look of awe; “thank the Little Jesus. And when he comes again next year, to ask what feelings we hold in our hearts, let us both be ready for Christmas.”
WILD ROBIN.
A SCOTTISH FAIRY TALE.
In the green valley of the Yarrow, near the castle-keep of Norham, dwelt an honest, sonsy little family, whose only grief was an unhappy son, named Robin.
Janet, with jimp form, bonnie eyes, and cherry cheeks, was the best of daughters; the boys, Sandie and Davie, were swift-footed, brave, kind, and obedient; but Robin, the youngest, had a stormy temper, and, when his will was crossed, he became as reckless as a reeling hurricane. Once, in a passion, he drove two of his father’s “kye,” or cattle, down a steep hill to their death. He seemed not to care for home or kindred, and often pierced the tender heart of his mother with sharp words. When she came at night, and “happed” the bed-clothes carefully about his form, and then stooped to kiss his nut-brown cheeks, he turned away with a frown, muttering, “Mither, let me be.”
It was a sad case with Wild Robin, who seemed to have neither love nor conscience.