s, the sound of children's
voices, the smile of the poor little boy over the way--all this sweet
music crept into Joel's heart that Christmas morning; yes, and with
these sweet, holy influences came others so subtile and divine that, in
its silent communion with them, Joel's heart cried out amen and amen to
the glory of the Christmas time.

THE LONESOME LITTLE SHOE

The clock was in ill humor; so was the vase. It was all on account of
the little shoe that had been placed on the mantel-piece that day, and
had done nothing but sigh dolorously all the afternoon and evening.

"Look you here, neighbor," quoth the clock, in petulant tones, "you are
sadly mistaken if you think you will be permitted to disturb our peace
and harmony with your constant sighs and groans. If you are ill, pray
let us know; otherwise, have done with your manifestations of distress."

"Possibly you do not know what befell the melancholy plaque that
intruded his presence upon us last week," said the vase. "We pitched
him off the mantelpiece, and he was shattered into a thousand bits."

The little shoe gave a dreadful shudder. It could not help thinking it
had fallen among inhospitable neighbors. It began to cry. The brass
candlestick took pity on the sobbing thing, and declared with some show
of temper that the little shoe should not be imposed on.

"Now tell us why you are so full of sadness," said the brass
candlestick.

"I do not know how to explain," whimpered the little shoe. "You see I
am quite a young thing, albeit I have a rusty appearance and there is a
hole in my toes and my heel is badly run over. I feel so lonesome and
friendless and sort of neglected-like, that it seems as if there were
nothing for me to do but sigh and grieve and weep all day long."

"Sighing and weeping do no good," remarked the vase, philosophically.

"I know that very well," replied the little shoe; "but once I was so
happy that my present lonesome lot oppresses me all the more
grievously."

"You say you once were happy--pray tell us all about it," demanded the
brass candlestick.

The vase was eager to hear the little shoe's story, and even the proud,
haughty clock expressed a willingness to listen. The matchbox came
from the other end of the mantel-piece, and the pen-wiper, the
paper-cutter, and the cigar-case gathered around the little shoe, and
urged it to proceed with its narrative.

"The first thing I can remember in my short life," sa