Christian Andersen's story that we loved above all
the rest; for we knew the tree right well, and the hare; even the
tracks it left in the snow we had seen. Ah, those were the Yule-tide
seasons, when the old Domkirke shone with a thousand wax candles on
Christmas eve; when all business was laid aside to let the world make
merry one whole week; when big red apples were roasted on the stove,
and bigger doughnuts were baked within it for the long feast! Never
such had been known since. Christmas to-day is but a name, a memory.

A door slammed below, and let in the noises of the street. The holly
rustled in the draught. Some one going out said, "A Merry Christmas to
you all!" in a big, hearty voice. I awoke from my revery to find
myself back in New York with a glad glow at the heart. It was not
true. I had only forgotten. It was myself that had changed, not
Christmas. That was here, with the old cheer, the old message of
good-will, the old royal road to the heart of mankind. How often had I
seen its blessed charity, that never corrupts, make light in the
hovels of darkness and despair! how often watched its spirit of
self-sacrifice and devotion in those who had, besides themselves,
nothing to give! and as often the sight had made whole my faith in
human nature. No! Christmas was not of the past, its spirit not dead.
The lad who fixed the sprig of holly on the stairs knew it; my
reporter's note-book bore witness to it. Witness of my contrition for
the wrong I did the gentle spirit of the holiday, here let the book
tell the story of one Christmas in the tenements of the poor:--

It is evening in Grand Street. The shops east and west are pouring
forth their swarms of workers. Street and sidewalk are filled with an
eager throng of young men and women, chatting gayly, and elbowing the
jam of holiday shoppers that linger about the big stores. The
street-cars labor along, loaded down to the steps with passengers
carrying bundles of every size and odd shape. Along the curb a string
of pedlers hawk penny toys in push-carts with noisy clamor, fearless
for once of being moved on by the police. Christmas brings a two
weeks' respite from persecution even to the friendless street-fakir.
From the window of one brilliantly lighted store a bevy of mature
dolls in dishabille stretch forth their arms appealingly to a troop of
factory-hands passing by. The young men chaff the girls, who shriek
with laughter and run. The policeman on the corne