e," said the child, and he
trod upon the branches till they cracked again under his boots.

And the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the
garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the
dark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of
the merry Christmas-eve, and of the little Mice which had listened so
pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.

"Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have
done so! Past! past!"

And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole
bundle lay there, it blazed brightly under the great brewing copper, and
it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot: and the children
who were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the fire, looked
into it, and cried, "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion, which was a
deep sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a winter
night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of Christmas-eve and of
Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to tell;
and then the Tree was burned.

The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a
golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that
was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past too: past!
past!--and that's the way with all stories.

* * * * *

LITTLE ROGER'S NIGHT IN THE CHURCH

SUSAN COOLIDGE

The boys and girls had fastened the last sprig of holly upon the walls,
and then gone to their homes, leaving the old church silent and
deserted. The sun had set in a sky clear and yellow as topaz. Christmas
eve had fairly come, and now the moon was rising, a full moon, and all
the world looked white in the silver light. Every bough of every tree
sparkled with a delicate coating of frost, the pines and cedars were
great shapes of dazzling snow, even the ivy on the gothic tower hung a
glittering arabesque on the gray wall. Never was there a lovelier night.

That light that you see yonder comes from the window of old Andrew, the
sexton, and inside sits his grandson, little Roger, eating his supper of
porridge. The kitchen is in apple-pie order, chairs and tables have been
scrubbed as white as snow, the tins on the dresser shine like silver,
the hearth is swept clean, and Grandfather's chair is drawn into the
warmest corner. Grandfather is not sitting in it though; he has go