[LUCK THAT FELL FROM THE SKIES.]
BY ALBERT LEE.
It was an unusually cold Christmas eve, and the keen wind that had come close after the heavy snow-storm was blowing little white drifts up into every corner, and howling around the eaves of the tall houses in a way that made people turn their collars up high about their necks and thrust their hands deep into pockets and muffs. Nevertheless the streets were full of shoppers, and every one seemed to be loaded with bundles and packages that were surely full of all sorts of good things for old people and young children for the celebration of the morrow.
Just around the corner from one of the busiest of the shopping streets stood three boys stamping their feet over an iron grating, through which arose the warm air from an eating-house kitchen in the cellar below, bringing occasionally an odor which, to them at least, was savory. The three boys were all of about the same age, and all were engaged in the same enterprise of selling newspapers—an enterprise which had not proved particularly remunerative on this particular day, as the wayfarers seemed to be engrossed in matters more important to them than the reading of news. One of the lads had red hair, and was known to his companions as "Ratsey" Finnigan. The names of the other two were similarly characteristic of newsboy cognomens—"Swipes" Molloy, and "Tag" McTaggart. The boys were discussing the probability of their getting a Christmas dinner—a prospect which was apparently not very bright.
"WELL, DEN," REMARKED SWIPES, "I GUESS WE'RE ALL TREE UP AGIN IT."
"Well, den," remarked Swipes, as he stood alternately on one foot, and then on the other, "I guess we're all t'ree up agin it."
"It looks dat way, sure," assented Ratsey; "except Tag goes to de mission."
"Ah-h, de mission!" exclaimed Tag, scornfully. "Don't youse fellers know dey won't let me into de mission no more?"
"Didn't youse go fer T'anksgivin'?" asked Ratsey.