Tho’ my wrinkled-up lips still hold the pipe, No longer the smoke-wreath curls; But saddest to see, of sights for me— My frolicsome boys and girls Have grown so knowing, they dare to say— Those protesters wise and small— That all saints deceive, and they don’t believe In a Santa Claus at all! Ah, me! ’tis a fateful sound to hear; ’Tis gall in my wassail cup; The darlings I’ve spoiled, so wrought for and toiled, The children have given me up! My heart is broken. I’ll break my pipe, And my tinkling team may go, And bury my sledge on the trackless edge Of the wastes of the Lapland snow. My useless pack I will fling away, And in Germany’s forests hoar, From an icy steep I will plunge leagues deep, And never be heard of more. MARGARET J. PRESTON. INTRODUCTIONS. [Illustration: H]IS name is Bobby Williams, and he is the boy who stands with smiling face, and hands in pockets, watching the huge snow ball being rolled to its place. He has been doing something besides watch; not a boy in the crowd worked harder than he, until he was red in the face and quite out of breath, and two others came to take his place; then stood Bobby in the biting northeast wind, watching. You should have seen that same boy at midnight, or a little later. Sitting bolt upright in the big chair in his mother’s room; a hurried fire burning in the grate; his feet in hot water up to his knees, his hands in hot water up to his elbows, spoonfuls of disgusting stuff being poked down his throat every few minutes, and his very wail in protest,—so hoarse that you would have been in danger of mistaking it for the voice of the big dog out in the back kitchen. It seemed as though the doctor would never reach there, and when he came, as though he did nothing; and when something was really done, and Bobby was somewhat relieved, it seemed as though the weary night would never be gone. But it was, at last; and Bobby, pale and limp, with flannel about his neck, and a smell of pork and oil in the air, was tucked into his mother’s bed, and listened to the merry jingle of the school bell. Then said the tired mother: “Bobby, how was it all; did you get very warm yesterday, playing?” “I guess I did!” replied Bobby hoarsely; “I never was so hot in my life! We was rolling a great big snow-ball; the biggest we ever made.” “And when you stopped rolling, what did you do?” “I stood still and watched the other fellows, four of them; it was as much as they could do to move it an inch.” “Stood still in the sharp wind, all in a perspiration, I suppose! And did you have your overcoat on?” “No, ma’am,” said Bobby hoarsely, his cheeks growing red for shame. “I forgot.” “And don’t you remember, Bobby, how often I have told you not to stand still, out in a cold wind, when you are warm?” Said Bobby, “I forgot.”