ugh Bohemians, my little brother and
I, in those war days, and were ready to take any stray bit of sport,
asking no questions whatever for conscience' sake. But the outlook was
rather bad for us, one dreary December. The holidays were very near,
and we saw no preparations for rendering the big dining-room royal
with holly and cedar, as usual, for King Cole's reception. We had
already ceased to press our grievances in the "big house," for we
felt, through a child's instinct, that we were standing in the
presence of griefs greater than our own.

We began to fear that Santa Claus had been killed in the war, or
that maybe he would not care to come to us now since the fire had
grown so small in the huge fire-place, where it used to roar and flash
around the back-log, until the polished floor was flooded in light,
and the candelabra's lights shone cold and pale as stars through a
conflagration. Even the crimson rugs and hangings, that used to
brighten up the dark old floor and furniture, had disappeared, one
by one, to be transformed into haversacks and warm garments for our
poor boys at the front, whose hearts were stouter and courage more
lasting than their regimentals. And so, we thought, poor little
infants! that perhaps our deity would desert the altars on which the
fires burned so low, and would go, with all his wonderful store, to
the happy children away in the North. There, we were told, the cities
blazed with light and merriment for weeks before his coming; there the
snow sometimes fell whole days at a time, until it lay like a white
carpet along the streets, where children could walk without fear,
and which never echoed to the tramp of foes; for there the heavy
booming cannon never sounded to drown the chiming bells, and
blanch the children's laughing lips with terror. Why, we argued,
should he not go there instead of driving his reindeer across
bloody fields and deserted highways, to bring gifts to two poor
little children? Truly we would have been comfortless in that sad
time but for one old standby, who had never yet failed us. Dear old
Uncle Scipio--his ebony face shines in the light of memory as it
used to shine in the light of the kitchen fire. To him we turned in
our trouble. We did not know all his worth then, but we knew him for
the sympathizer in all our childish griefs. Oh, those preposterous
old stories he used to tell us! but they could raise the sheeted dead
then in every corner of the old kitchen, as