Why, there was Christmas even in the very look of the mules on the poky cars; there was Christmas noise in the streets, and Christmas toys and Christmas odors, savory ones that made the nose wrinkle approvingly, issuing from the kitchen. Michel and Mme. Laurent smiled greetings across the street at each other, and the salutation from a passer-by recalled the many progenied landlady to herself. "Miss Sophie, well, poor soul, not very much Christmas for her. _Mais_, I'll just call her in to spend the day with me. It'll cheer her a bit." So clean and orderly within the poor little room. Not a speck of dust or a litter of any kind on the quaint little old-time high bureau, unless you might except a sheet of paper lying loose with something written on it. Titiche had evidently inherited his prying propensities for the landlady turned it over and read: "Louis. Here is the ring. I return it to you. I heard you needed it, I hope it comes not too late. Sophie." "The ring, where?" muttered the landlady. There it was, clasped between her fingers on her bosom. A bosom, white and cold, under a cold, happy face. Christmas had indeed dawned for Miss Sophie--the eternal Christmas. IF I HAD KNOWN. If I had known Two years ago how drear this life should be, And crowd upon itself allstrangely sad, Mayhap another song would burst from out my lips, Overflowing with the happiness of future hopes; Mayhap another throb than that of joy. Have stirred my soul into its inmost depths, If I had known. If I had known, Two years ago the impotence of love, The vainness of a kiss, how barren a caress, Mayhap my soul to higher things have soarn, Nor clung to earthly loves and tender dreams, But ever up aloft into the blue empyrean, And there to master all the world of mind, If I had known. CHALMETLE. Wreaths of lilies and immortelles, Scattered upon each silent mound, Voices in loving remembrance swell, Chanting to heaven the solemn sound. Glad skies above, and glad earth beneath; And grateful hearts who silently Gather earth's flowers, and tenderly wreath Woman's sweet token of fragility. Ah, the noble forms who fought so well Lie, some unnamed, 'neath the grassy mound; Heroes, brave heroes, the stories tell, Silently too, the unmarked mounds, Tenderly wreath them about with flowers, Joyously pour out your praises loud; For every joy beat in these hearts of ours Is only a drawing us nearer to God. Little enough is the song we sing, Little enough is the tale we tell, When we think of the voices who erst did ring Ere their owners in smoke of battle fell. Little enough are the flowers we cull To scatter afar on the grass-grown graves, When we think of bright eyes, now dimmed and dull For the cause they loyally strove to save.