an
thank him accordin'ly." Then, having kissed each of the children, and
spoken a few words to Wild Bill, he took the woman's hand, and said:--

"The sorrers of life be many, but the Lord never forgits. I've lived
until my head be whitenin', and I've noted that though He moves
slowly, He fetches most things round about the time we need 'em; and
the things that be late in comin', I conceit we shall git somewhere
furder on. Ye didn't kill the big buck this mornin', but the meat ye
needed hangs at yer door, nevertheless." And shaking the woman
heartily by the hand, he whistled to the hounds, and passed out of the
door. The inmates of the cabin stood and watched him, until, having
climbed the slope of the clearing, he disappeared in the shadows of
the forest; and then they closed the door. But more than once Wild
Bill noted that as the woman stood wiping her dishes, she wiped her
eyes as well; and more than once he heard her say softly to herself,
"God bless the dear old man!"

Ay, ay, poor woman, we join thee in thy prayer. God bless the dear old
man! and not only him, but all who do the deeds he did. God bless them
one and all!

Over the crusted snow the Trapper held his course, until he came, with
a happy heart, to his cabin. Soon a fire was burning on his own
hearthstone, and the hounds were in their accustomed place. He drew
the table in front, where the fire's fine light fell on his work, and,
taking some green vines and branches from the basket, began to twine a
wreath. One he twined, and then he began another; and often, as he
twined the fadeless branches in, he paused, and long and lovingly
looked at the two pictures hanging on the wall; and when the wreaths
were twined, he hung them on the frames, and, standing in front of the
dumb reminders of his absent ones, he said, "_I miss them so!_"

Ah! friend, dear friend, when life's glad day with you and me is
passed, when the sweet Christmas chimes are rung for other ears than
ours, when other hands set the green branches up, and other feet glide
down the polished floor, may there be those still left behind to twine
us wreaths, and say, "_We miss them so!_"

And this is the way John Norton the Trapper kept his Christmas.

[Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN TORRENT.]

[Illustration: THE VAGABOND'S ROCK.]

JOHN NORTON'S VAGABOND.

I.

A cabin. A cabin in the woods. Of it I have written before, and of it
I write again. The same great fireplace pile