“You are mistaken. You have a claim upon me. Shall I tell you what it is? Eleven years ago to-morrow,—for to-morrow is Christmas Day,—a poor boy, who had known none of the luxuries, and but few of the comforts, of life, stood in this street. His mind was ill at ease; for he had lost his way: but, as he walked on, he beheld a blaze of light issuing from a window,—from _your_ window,—and, aroused by curiosity, he looked in. Around a Christmas-tree, brilliant with light, a happy group were assembled. As he stood gazing in, he heard the front door open; and a gentleman came out, and kindly invited him to enter. He did so; and the words of kindness and the Christmas gift with which he departed have not yet left his remembrance. Seven years passed, and the boy’s fortune changed. An uncle, long supposed to be dead, found him out, and, when he actually died, left him the heir of a large amount of wealth. Need I say that I am that boy, and that my name is Willie Grant?” The reader’s imagination can easily supply the rest. Provided with capital by his young friend, Mr. Dinsmoor again embarked in business; and, this time, nothing occurred to check his prosperity. Charlie did _not_ leave college, nor did Lizzie lose her piano. She gained a husband, however, and had no reason to regret the train of events which issued from her CHRISTMAS GIFT. MY PICTURE. I have a beautiful picture; And gorgeous are its dyes, Wherein the green of the meadows Blends with the blue of the skies. A forest stands in the background; And hills are at the sides; And a valley lies between them, Through which a streamlet glides. There are fields that teem with a harvest Of rich and ripening grain, That has caught the glow of the sunlight, And will not return it again;— There are broad and spacious pastures, Where the quiet cattle stray, And the schoolboys meet to play at ball On their weekly holiday;— While here and there a cottage Peeps out from the leafy lane; And through the trees you can catch a glimpse Of the farmer with his wain. And out in the dark old forest There is many a stately tree, That has seen the green leaves come and go For more than a century. I have heard of the ancient masters, I have heard of their marvellous skill, And how the dull, dead canvas Would glow with life at their will;— But, when the sunshine falleth The rifts of the cloudlets through, It lends to my picture a glory That Raphael never knew. And, when the solemn moonlight Looks down with its mellow shine, My picture is bathed in beauty That seemeth almost divine. And whenever I gaze at my picture, Whether sun or stars light the sky, I feel that my spirit is strengthened, And my heart is made richer thereby. GOTTFRIED THE SCHOLAR.