“Paw hain’t no call ter kick us out,” said Pete, at length. “But I’m moughty glad we went ter the celebrashun, hain’t yo’, Lize?”
CHRISTMAS EVE, A FANTASY.
A FANTASY.
R. H. Fletcher.
{Illustrations by M. S. Sherman.}
It had been for me a day of toil and weariness and grief. Sick in body and heart, I returned home late at night and threw myself just as I was upon a couch. In an instant slumber came, but not relief.
I seemed again to tread the weary streets, crowded with the ever-surging throngs. On the icy-mirror pavements, in the blazing windows of the stores, on the faces of the joyous purchasers,—everywhere was the Christmas glow; and once more in bitterness of spirit I cried out against the hollow mockery and sham.
There was a change. All had vanished save the lights. Nor were they frigid, blinding, cruel, as before; a rosy glow, warm, soft, and kind, filled all the room. Before me stood an angel form, whence streamed the radiance. Beautiful was her flowing robe; beautiful must once have been her face, but now the deep lines about the large, appealing eyes, the quavering of the patient lips, and the pallor of the sunken cheeks had marred its symmetry and grace.
“Come,” said the figure in a voice plaintive, yet sweet. Unhesitatingly I grasped her hand, and straightway we were flying through the air. The night was inky and awful. The wind moaned dismally as it hurled upon us the huge masses of clouds, threatening and demon-like, and naught but implicit confidence in my conductor preserved me from a sense of loneliness and of desolation, from an utter horror like to that of death.