Then the Doctor laughed louder than before, and Mrs. Lickemwell laughed, and Jack laughed, and we all laughed, and finally we sat down, and Sally Primus, and Sally Secundus, appeared with a splendid turkey, and a roast joint of beef, at the sight of which we discovered that the duck and the apple tarts had been mere trifles that had only whetted our appetites. In short, we had a splendid dinner, and glorious fun afterwards. The young Lickemwells were all there in their best bibs and tuckers, and some other boys and girls came in to tea, and we had a snap-dragon, and a Christmas tree, and charades, and no end of games. And, when we had said good night, and gone back to the school-room to gather up the remnants of our own despised feast, which were now preserved for another time, we agreed that the Doctor was a much jollier fellow than we had ever before thought him, and that we were great fools for having wasted our money. And that is the story of our Christmas dinner, the only one, I am glad to say, I ever ate at school, for Ned got all right again very soon, and, as he came to school himself next half, took good care not to catch any more scarlet fevers about Christmas time. A WILD YULE E’EN. _By CYNTHA._ There are mad northern breezes howling over the heather, and there are savage blinding showers of snow, which fall in stinging bits and cover up the little dells, leaving only those same wind-waked heath-tops uncovered. There are loud-voiced tempestuous waves and anger-tossed foam, which lift themselves wildly up, as if in their insolent pride they would mingle with the low-lying clouds. There are grey gaunt cliffs frowning over the black water, and there are bare dreary-looking hills, with here and there a solitary cottage, standing unsheltered by tree or wall. It is not a pleasant scene, although, for some folks, it may have a weird beauty of its own. This snow is not like the gentle feathery flakes which robe your naked Christmas boughs in a robe of heavenly white. These gales are not the soft-toned breezes which bear to your expectant ears the sound of Christmas bells. These champing surges are not the light-footed friends who come to greet you with a smile and a word of seasonable cheer. Ah, no! but surely those fierce combating elements are fit attendants on the Yule of our sea-king sires. “Mother, this is Yule e’en,” said little Tronda Henderson, looking wistfully up in her mother’s face.