“Angels and shining immortals Which, crowding the ebony portals. Fling out their banners of light,” It is a splendid carol, and if you do not already know it, I advise you to get the “New Service Book” and learn it before another Christmas eve. The distribution of gifts commenced at last, and never were children happier than those who, as their names were called, went up one after another to the chancel, and came back with loaded hands, and hearts throbbing with a keener, purer delight than they will ever know after the years of childhood are past, and they have grown to be women and men. The tree was stripped at last, and all over the church there was the hum of eager, excited voices, mingled occasionally with a blast from a whistle or horn blown by some boy who could not wait till he reached home before testing his musical instrument. Then there came a hush, as the closing prayer was said, and the grand old chant was sung “Glory to God on high.” How the music rolled through the church as the organ pealed its loudest strains, and the boys and girls joined in the song, while the little bird, frantic by this time with all it had seen and heard, fairly shook its golden sides as it trilled its clear, shrill notes, and mingled its own loud voice in the last Christmas song! Half an hour later, and the church was silent and empty, the organ was hushed, the echo of the singing had died away, the tree was shorn of its decorations, the children were all at home, sleeping many of them, and dreaming, perhaps, of that boy-baby whose birth the angels sang, whom wise men came to worship, and over whose cradle hovered the shadow of the cross. But with the early dawn I know they will awake, looking at their treasures and living over again the joy of the preceding night. Blessed childhood, when guarded and hedged around with the influences which religion brings! Which of us does not recall with a pang of regret those halcyon days when the summer was so long and bright because of the flowers and birds, and the autumn so fair and sweet because of the ripening fruits and nuts, and the winter so glorious because of the beautiful snow? And who does not love the children and wish to make them happy? I most certainly do; and as, while writing this story of The Font, the actors in the fair have one by one passed in review before me, I have kissed and blessed them all, and asked that God would keep them to a green old age, when, perhaps, they may read, with strange, curious feelings, what I have written of them. And to the children I have never seen, but who may read this story, I would say, I love you, too;—love you because you are children and parts of God’s great family, and I pray him that you may one day meet in the better world with every one of those who helped to buy the Font and her who wrote its story. ADAM FLOYD.