A’BRAM.

Continued from page Thirteen.

there on the Heights alone, in the chill of that Christmas day break, sixty years ago.

‘ Never mind, Abe,” I said, “ let’s hope this squirrel won’t be such an ill omen.” But he only shook his head, replying in English :

“ It's warning ; some one here dead, sure.”

The following day there was a fete in town. Abe and the lads were given a holiday to go and see the “ procession.” They did not return that night, but we thought little of that, as the trains all left there before the fun was over. They well deserved a rest, for the weather had been oppressively hot for days, the cloudless heavens stetched like a vast sheet of white-hot metal and the nights brought little change.

On this particular fete night I tossed about for hours after going to bed. The heat was intense, the room close, the night dry. In desperation I got up and sat beside the window, not a breath of air stirred outside or in, alate moon hung in the west, and beneath it the glistening river; the wide stretch of flats, the trees and their long shadows looked cool enough.

I had not watched the dreaming, midnight scene very long, when a monotonous repetition of soft sounds attracted my attention. It was undeniably the swathing of a scythe. I crossed the room and looked out through the west window,- to this day I can swear I was not dreaming, but there was the old Indian laboring, mowing the grass over the very spot where I lay yesterday morning.

“What an old stupid,” I said to myself, “he thinks this heat forebodes a storm, and there he is up all night at his grass ; he is more careful of our interests than his own——-Abe ?” I called aloud. No answer. The figure swayed on with its its scythe. I leaned far over the sill—-"Abe !-—Abe '!—A’bram !” I shouted. Still no reply. I recalled with a gruesome dread his uncanny story, as up through a strip of moonlight he swung the scythe to and fro, back and forth, and long after the figure was lost in the shadows of the trees I could hear the swish, swish of the blade, growing fainter and fainter, until it ceased altogether. I crept back to bed shivering with cold.

he lads came back in the morning. A’bram, they said, had gone off with some of his friends, and they had missed each other in the crowd. They supposed, however, that he would come home the next day. Two days later when one ofthem returned from the post-office he handed me the evening paper saying, " No letters to-night um’.” I was glancing indifferently over it, when,with a start of horror, I read the following among the locals :-

“ The weather has been unusuall warm during the past week, and several cases of vertigo ave bcen reported. On Thursday, an old .lndian named A’bram Hill received a sun- stroke while watching the procession cross Lorne Bridge. He was taken to the house of a friend on l)umfries street, where he died Friday evening. He was buried at 2 p.m. to-day at the old Mohawk Church.”

ff.2_/.2./2/flan/‘

A RUSH FOR A HUNDRED DOLLARS.

BY PEGGY WEBI ING.

“ The cock crows ere the Ch'istmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow.” -—TENNYBON.

l’An'r I. —Tim S'rAit'r.

“ A hundred dollars, Noll, if I only had a hundred dollars I guess I should be square ! ” said Arthur Maolcan, looking out at the driving snow storui with a sigh, but munching the nicest walnuts on tho table in spite of his drjcotion.

“Why," said I, “what do you want that for '2”

“ You know ! Livin stone ever cent of it i "

“ hat for 1' ' I enerally carry on a conversation with Art ur Maclean by ask- ing questions, and receiving more or less vehement answers.

“ My dear girl, he lent me thirty last spring, twenty in the summer, and fifty more in the fall——the chump l”

“ Avain, what for ? ” I repeated.

“ Oh ! fifty for odds and ends, and fifty to settle with that other chump I went a walking tour with—it was always me to foot the bill, and now I’m in a nice hole !”

“Well,” I said, “I think it is your duty, your bounden

duty, to pay at once——-pass the crackers, Arthur, and please do not break the poker ! ”

“ Is that so ? " said Arthur. “I guess I'd like to”—in allusion to the debt, not the poker—“but I can’t, Nell Look here !” turning out his pockets, “ here's fifty cents, a two dollar bill, a handful of change, a watch (the main spring broken), and a door-key. I can’t value the whole lot at a hundred dollars, can I ‘Z even if I chuck in this relic———a. bit of chewing gum I’ve had

for eighteen months—an elegant lot of valuables, but old Livingstone is such a screw 1 "

“ Ask your father ! ” I suggested. V

“ Rather not. That’s what I’m scared about, Nell. Living- stone has threatened to let the old man see my note if he’s not

paid by to-morrow at seven o’clock. A nice thing for a man to expe ct on Christmas night, ain’t it? ” striding to the window and staring out into the heavy whiteness of the snow.

It was Christmas Eve, and I myself felt a little lonesome and m lancholy on my own account. To-morrow was the first 2'ith of December I had ever spent away from home since my parents died, and my uncle and aunt took me into their house and made me their pet, indulged and cared for above every- thing else in the world. But this year the Maclcans had per- suaded me to come to them. They were old, old friends of ours. Arthur and I had known each other since we went to school togel her, and though I was very happy here in their comfortable house in the suburbs of a pretty Ontario city, l longed for the old frame house and the col hearth at home, where I knew the great wood-fire would be roaring up the

I owe that confounded

WILLIAM PATERSON, M. OUR l\/IEl\/IBl:)1~(S.

BRANTFORD EXPOSITOR .'. CHRISTMAS NUMBER, DECEMBICR, 189i.

chimney, the stoves all in a glow, and my little chair empty in “ hurrah for my hundred dollars, but its a fearfully long way,

the warmest corner.

“ Poor old fellow ! " I said, “ its too bad, but what can you do? Your father would be sure to make a row, but yet—”

“Of course he would, I know him, Nelly. I should be ruining him at once. He’d cuss and swear at Livingstone and make it worse still, then I should lose my temper, mother would cry and we’d all chew, chew, chew the rag at once !"

After Arthur’s eloquent description of the scene to be antici- pated if a hundred dollars were not forthcoming, we were silent for a long time, he whistling in a defiant manner and I looking into the grate fire—nothing like a. cheerful fire to make one pleasantly low-spirited.

“ Well, thinking won’t help it out,” said Arthur, at last. “I guess I’ll go for a walk. Will you come, Nelly ? ”

“ My dear boy, in this weather ‘Z No thank you,” with alacrity.

“ Afraid of a little snow ?” with contempt.

“No, I'm not afraid, but I think I won’t. You’ll go to the postrfifice, won’t you, Arthur? I’m sure I ought to have a letter from home.”

“Yes, I’ll go. Nelly, but don’t be surprised if I get frozen to death——don’t care if I do—and never come back ! ”

But in spite of this scarcely cheerful remark I observed that he wrapped himself up very carefully, and gloomily glaring at me through the window, disappeared like a dark shadow into the falling snow. As for me, I sat and longed for my people, and tried to devise some scheme for poor old Arthur, in vain. What could be done? It was as impossible to conjure up a hundred dollars as it was for me to be transported twenty miles, and spend my Christmas at home. I was still broodin by the fire when Arthur came back, having thought better, suppose, of the frozen-to-death idea—and,oh! howdelightful !——— threw some letters into my hands, letters from home, from my aunt, loving, newsy and long ; from my cousin (the dear boy), very loving, long, but not at all newsy ; and from my uncle, the most affectionate of all, saying how much he missed me; it was “ terrible lonesome.” What should they do without Ellie on Christmas day ?

“ Look, Arthur,” I exclaimed, “ look what uncle says ; isn’t he an old darling?”

“Arthur bent over my shoulder and read :' “I wish you were here, Ellie. Christmas dinner won’t be Christmas dinner without you. I’d give a hundred doilars, my dear, yes 1 would, to any man who could bring us our little girl home for Christmas.”

“ Uncle’s mind is divided between me and his dinner pretty equally, isn’t it? Why, Arthur, what’s the matter? Have you one mad? Arthur!

e was capering wildly about the room, snapping his fingers and declaring he’d hit it !

“ 1)on’t you see, Ellie ; don’t you catch on? a man of his word 1”’

“ Of course he is. Why '2”

“ Would you really like to be home Christmas?"

“ I should indeed.”

Is your uncle

P.

“ Then you shall go, my dear girl I Look here ; he offers a hundred dollars. I’ll earn it 1”

“ Oh, Arthur, tell me how.”

“ Drive you, Ellie. Take him at his word. See l"

“ You couldn’t do it, Arthur. Twenty miles !” _

“ Yes I could, if you'll help me. Be ready to start by six o’clock to-morrow morning. I'll hitch up myself and we’ll be away like the wind.”

“ What will your family say, Arthur ?” ‘ V

“ They won’t mind. We’ll be back for supper—do, Ellie, do ! ’

It was an exciting idea. I longed to be home. Darling auntie and uncle and my cousin-

“ Agreed ! Arthur, for the sake of your hundred dollars I'll go, agreed !" and we shook hands upon it.

Christmas morning I There is a charm in the very words, Christmas morning. When I awoke the first thing I saw was a

note pushed under my door :

“ DEAR NELL.—Merry ‘Xmas! l’m hitched (it read as if the writer were the horse), and waiting. Wrap yourself up. Its below zero. Get it move on. AR'i‘iiUic."

I obeyed his instructions to the letter, put a move on, wrapped up well, left a note for Mrs. Maclean, and ran down to the side door, where I found Arthur waiting for me with the horse already hitched——a handsome bay, famed for a fine swinging gait, and with a three minute record. The cutter was a smart little concern, scarlet and black, and heaped with buffalo robes. Arthur hurried me in almost before I had time to speak, gave me a handful of crackers and we sped away, turning in the opposite direction from the town out into the country. Whilcncss, whiteness, cvcrywliore, and a ride of twoiity miles before us ‘.

HUN. A. S. HARDY, M. P. I’.

Ellie, a fearfully long way ! "

PART II.-—TIlE Rusii.

How can I describe my delight when at last we saw the old home before us? When the long, cold drive was over, when our splendid bay brought us up to the house at a gallant trot, when Arthur made me promise to start back as soon as I could, when my uncle and aunt came rushing out full of praise for my compa.nion’s forethought and careful driving, and when my handsome cousin told me that the sun burst out as I appeared, and that for his part he would like to give Arthur a million dollars! VVhat a merry dinner we had, how I laughed and ta‘ ked, how I told uncle all about it——the debt and Livingstone’s determined threat —and how I rejoiced when I actually held a roll of bills and pressed them into Arthur’s hand as dear old uncle's Christmas box.

“ Its-—its too good to be true l I’m awfully grateful. Your uncle is the right sort !” he said over and over again. “ But look at the time, Ellie, its a quarter to five. You

can’t expect that horse to be quite as fresh going home, and I must be back by seven, for mother's sake and the governors.”

“Going back !” they all exclaimed. “ Why, Nell, you can’t, its snowing hard.”

“ We don’t mind a. little snow,” said Arthur hastily. “ You promised, Nell. You ain’t going back on your promise are

on ?’ y I hesitated. “ Are you certain Livingstone would tell your father to-night ‘Z ”

Arthur’s answer was short and emphatic : “ You bet.”

“ Well then, I suppose there is no choice,” I rejoined.

“ Shall I go alone and leave you here ? ” said Arthur.

“Oh, no indeed! If you go I go. I want to see Living- stone paid, and I promised your mother to be home to supper, so you can hitch up, Arthur, and We’ll weather the storm together ! ”

Arthur brought round the cutter. There was a great embracinv and hand-shaking, my cousin tucked the great buffalo robe around me, Arthur shook the lines and we whirled away, waving our good-bye to the merry group at the door through the feathery falling snow.

“ Jingle bells !_jingle bells l jingle a‘l the way, 0.i ! what fun it is to ride in a one—horse open sleigh."

We sang together as we dashed along, gaily for the first few miles, the snow covering me like an eiderdown cloak, the run- ners cutting an even straight line, and the fall of our horse's feet beating an accompaniment to the jingle of the bells. A little silently for the next few miles, the eiderdown cloak more like a dozen eiderdown quilts: me shivering slightly, Arthur glum, and his moustache and eye-lashes stiff with ice. The next, weary for both of us, up and down steep hills, the snow above the horse's knees, and we get on so very slowly that I half doze ; our cutter is low, so I can rest comfortably among the furs, and the larger flakes of snow fall softly upon my face, while Arthur makes a dive every now and then in an inner pocket for his watch, looking anxious after each survey, and trying to push on a little faster. “ Jingle bells ! jingle bells ”——and they tinkle,_tinkle into a dream. We seem to be wrapped up in a gigantic dollar bill, while the dreaded Livingstone is hitched to our cutter and whirling us along at a break- neck pece! Suddenly I awake with a feeling as if I were being hurled through space. I clutch at the lines and scream aloud, and the next instant I am lying at my full length in a snow bank at the side of the road, and Arthur, the horse, the robes and the cutter all seem to be mixed up together just ahead of me! How we look I cannot imagine, but I conclude that no one is hurt, because I scramble to my feet directly, and Arthur (like a youth- ful Father Christmas) grins at me a minute after, tells me to sit still, because he guesses we've tipped out !

“ What in the world were you doing not to drive properly ‘r'' l indiuuantly ask as I come up to him ruarrinqlog the cutter and abusing the horse.

"l soaronly know, my door girl," he answers slowly. “ \Vn worn gliding‘ alon in great style and tho next thing I now was on my bank in tho snow with the cutter and the brute on top of mu! llut got in, lllllio, wo'rn losing time."

The storm was upon us now, no ion or quiet and soft, but l own and blinding, ii a a great white sheet before our eyes.

" (ietin, got in ! ’ Arthur rcpcatod us- citedly. Let’s have a look at tho enemy-— say, its half-past six ; we shall never do it, for, Ellie, I’m in a fog ; hang me if I know where we are !”

I gaze hopelessly around ; no clue to guide us, nothing to be seen but snow, snow, snow ! Visions rise before me of being frozen to death, of never seeing our home again, and my eyes fill with tears, but I don’t let Arthur see them.

“ Nonsense,” I exclaim, “ take my advice, straight on and trust to fortune and the bay 1 ”

Shall we be too late ? Are we on the right road? have missed our way entirely ? Thank heavens, no !

Along we spin, faster and faster yet, the wind (flames tearing after us, the good horse sends great columns of snow whirling behind, Arthur, keeping a tight line, bends forward and cheers him on, and I laugh aloud with joy as we swerve round a sud- den corner and see the town, like a dark mist before us !

“ We shall do it, Arthur, I know we shall I ”

Faster and faster, into a gallop now, through the deserted streets, wildly alone the well-known road, and we see another cutter just ahead of us-—

“ Ellie,” Arthur almost shouts, “ by jove that’s old Living- stone ! ”

We gain upon him slowly but surely; the church we are passing peals out seven strokes as we dash before him, pull up at our own door, and Arthur, springing out, runs up to the other cutter-

“ A Merry Christmas, Livingstone. You’re just in time, old boy, for here is your hundred dollars ! ”

l’i<:(:<:ii«: VVEHLINU.

Arthur, go

Can we

O-0-.+O

Our bodies live in houses, because our souls live in bodies.

Wisdom, like ‘many other human attributes, is only for the time. We are wise today, that to morrow we may look back

“ liurrah," said Arthur, flourishing his whip over his head, and say, “ llow foolish we were 1 "

Bfanf . 57 I5fOI'ICO/ Soc-,'(,,y Clnr.

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