upon by intelligent people at Christmas parties; but it is a gross error. The Druids chose the mistletoe of the oak on account of the extreme rarity of mistletoe on the oak; it was a 'divine gift,' and their rites were so exclusively confined to the mistletoe growing on oak, which is almost unknown in our age, that many persons believe the mistletoe of the Druids to be a myth, or else some other plant different from our mistletoe; which does not seem at all probable. The trees upon which the mistletoe usually grows are these: the apple, pear, hawthorn, mapie, elm, service-tree, almond, cherry-laurel, mountain-ash, hazel-elm, willow, lime, ash, poplar, beech, and sometimes (according to Schouw) on coniferous trees. It appears to be commonest on the apple, especially in Herefordshire and Worcestershire; and a writer in Loudon's Gardener's Magazine' says, that at Sutton Place, Ripley, in Surrey, the poplars and lime-trees are eaten up with mistletoe.' This plant is chiefly distributed over the middle and south of Europe. It stretches northwards to Sweden and Norway, however, but is rare, and in Scotland it is not known as an indigenous plant. It thrives well in the Edinburgh Botanic Garden. In the Dean Cemetery, near Edinburgh, a healthy plant has existed for many years on a mountain ash; and to it during the last five or six years have we referred hundreds of persons who wished to see the plant growing. And now that we have given these details, some reader, who has a little paradise of his own, in which he grows a few apple-trees, may like to have a mistletoe of his own also, from which he may cull an annual branch on Christmas Eve. Nothing is easier. Get some ripe berries of the mistletoe; stick them up upon a clean part of the trunk, where there are no cracks or furrows, keep the birds and earwigs from devouring the berries, and in due time your apple-tree will yield its energies to the favourite parasite.— Titan. HEREDITARY FEATURES. A peculiar thickness of the under lip has been hereditary in the imperial House of Hapsburg ever since the marriage, some centuries ago, with the Polish family of the Jagellon, whence it came. In our own Royal family, a certain fulness of the lower and lateral parts of the face is conspicuous in the portraits of the whole series of sovereigns, from George I. to Victoria, and has been equally marked in other members of the family. The females of the ducal House of Gordon have long been remarkable for a peculiarly elegant conformation of the neck. The Clackmannanshire Bruces, who are descended from a common stock of the famous Robert Bruce of Scotland, are said to have that strongly-marked form of the cheek-bones and jaws which appears on the coins of that heroic monarch, as it did The mistletoe presents many facts of in his actual face, when his bones were great physiological interest; but this is disinterred at Dunfermline, about thirtynot the place to enter upon minute de- five years ago. The prevalent tallness of tails of these. It may be stated, however, the inhabitants of Potsdam, many of whom that in germination, while other plants are descended from the gigantic guards direct the plumule upwards, and the ra- of Frederick I.; the Spanish features obdicle downwards to the earth, the mistle-servable in the people of the County of toe, as if by a peculiar instinct, directs its radicle horizontally to the bark of the tree or other body to which it is attached. The berry in which the seeds are embedded is so viscid, that it readily sticks to the bark, and, in fact, is in some parts of England made use of in the preparation of a kind of bird-lime. When fixing itself into a branch, the embryo or babyplant curves its radicle down upon the bark, adhering firmly to it, eventually piercing it, and becoming embedded in the woody tissue; the plumule (or young stem and foliage) does not begin to arise till twelve months after the radicle has begun its boring operations. Galway, in which, some centuries ago, several Spanish settlements were made; and the hereditary beauty of the women of Prague-are well-known facts, which have frequently attracted the attention of chronologists. The burgesses of Rome (the most invariable portion of every population), exhibit at the present day precisely the same type of face and form as their ancestors, whose busts may be seen carved in relief on the ancient sarcophagi, and the Jewish physiognomies portrayed upon the sepulchral monuments of Egypt are identical with those which may be observed among modern Jews in the streets of any of our great cities. CHRISTMAS EVE, The thickly-woven boughs they wreath Of summer's gentle reign; And rich the ray of mild green light Comes struggling through the latticed height Oh, let the streams of solemn thought Then, though the summer's pride departs, Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts CHRISTKINDLEIN.* How bird-like o'er the flakes of snow And on its soft and childish brow And expectation wings its feet, And stirs its infant smile; The merry bells their chime repeat; The child stands still the while. Then clasps in joy its little hand; Then marks the Christian dome; It runs along the sparkling ground; Which from each window gleams. The shadows dance upon the wall, And from the branches, green and tall, It views within the lighted hall The charm of social love; Oh what a joyous festival! 'Tis sanction'd from above. But now the childish heart's unstrung: 'Where is my taper's light? And why no evergreen been hung 'In my sweet home there was a band Of holy love for me; A mother's kind and tender hand Once deck'd my Christmas-tree. 'Oh some one take me 'neath the blaze Of those light tapers-do! And, children, I can feel the plays; Oh let me play with you! 'I care not for the prettiest toy; The little fragile hand is raised: *From the German of Rückert. Christinkle!* thou, the children's friend, I've none to love me now! Hast thou forgot my tree to send, With lights on every bough?' The baby's hands are numb'd with frost, Then on its breast, in meekness cross'd, And closer still the cloak it drew Around its silken hair; Its pretty eyes, so clear and blue, Then came another pilgrim child- 'I am thy Christmas friend, indeed, When all forget, thou need'st not pleadI will adorn thy tree. 'My joys are felt in street or bower, My aid is everywhere; Thy Christmas-tree, my precious flower, 'Shall far outshine those other trees, A glorious tree, and stars among As 'neath the power of a dream It finds a home and treasure there NEAPOLITAN CHRISTMAS CAROL. Was pure and bright, Shone with unwavering ray; But one, one glorious star Guided the Eastern Magi from afar. Then peace was spread throughout the land; The lion fed beside the tender lamb; And with the kid, To pasture led, The spotted leopard fed; In peace the calf and bear, The wolf and lamb, reposed together there. As shepherds watch'd their flocks by night, An angel, brighter than the sun's own light, Appear'd in air, And gently said, 'Fear not-be not afraid For, lo! beneath your eyes Earth has become a smiling paradise.' *A corruption of the German Christkindlein. It means the child-Christ, to whom it is thought all these gifts are owing. EVE. THE SECOND WIFE'S CHRISTMAS suffer, so I planted sweet-brier and violets on Harry's grave, and then went out to act and strive with the rest of the striving world. I was married. The final vows had been spoken, and I was no longer Agnes Park, but Agnes Fleming. I was the wife of a widower of thirty-eight, and the stepmother of three children! Not the first chosen, first beloved bride of a young and ardent lover, such as my girlish dreams had pictured; only a second wife. The reflection was not sweet; nevertheless, it was the thought with which I took my seat in the carriage which was to convey me to my new home. The short wedding-tour was ended, and we were 'homeward bound.' A long ride was still before us; for the village in which Captain Fleming resided was twenty miles from the last railway station; but he had caused his own carriage to meet us there, so I began fully to realise that we were nearing home. The road over which we journeyed was level and smooth, and for a long time wound close by the bank of a broad river. Fields lay on one side, stretching far away, until they were skirted by low woods and hills; here and there a white farmhouse stood, looking cheerful and almost gay in the afternoon sunshine. The whole prospect was rural and very beautiful. My gloom began to pass away, soothed by the sweet influences of the summer landscape, and visions of future usefulness began already to float through my brain. I had ample opportunity to indulge in these day-dreams, for Captain Fleming, tired with the long ride, was half asleep by the side of his new wife. I was weary of taking the lead in conversation, and concluded to leave him to his meditations, as he had left me to mine. After weaving for myself a very profitable future, I looked, for a little, upon the past. Oh, that past! Mine had been no gay and pampered girlhood; but, looking back, I saw, on the contrary, years of loneliness, of weariness, and of sorrow. For four years I had watched a young, beautiful, and gifted brother, as, stricken with consumption, he had wasted gradually away. We two were orphans, the last of our race, and all in all to each other. But at last I saw him laid in the coffin, and all my love and hope were long buried with him. Not that I became sad and misanthropic. No; life and duty were not dead, and looking forward, I saw that there was yet much for me to do, perhaps About a year after my brother's death, I met Arthur Fleming. I had been so shut out from the world by Harry's sickness, that I had no lovers, and very few friends, and I hardly believed I could ever again feel an interest in any one; but Arthur Fleming's kind, genial manner and delicate attentions warmed my heart to a new life. Unconsciously, my whole heart, all the more ardent for its long stillness, was given to this new friend. It was with bitter disappointment that I learned he had already been once married, for I could bear the thought of no rival, living or dead; yet I loved him, and when he asked me to become a mother to his motherless children, I accepted his hand, feeling sure that I would win from him in time an affection as deep and steadfast as my own. I knew he did not marry me for love. His house was lonely, his children poorly protected, and he needed a wife. I had been recommended to him as one who would keep his house in order, and be a suitable companion for his children; after a brief acquaintance, he had proposed in due form; and soon it was all settled. 'Almost home!' exclaimed Captain Fleming, rousing himself to look out of the carriage-window. The words sent a thrill through me, and I looked eagerly out, through the twilight shadows, to the house we were approaching. It was large, and stood at a distance from the village street, and, it seemed to me, in rather a desolate situation. Great trees swung their branches over the gateway, and as we rode between them, the wind made a sighing sound among the leaves. But the lighted, lower windows shone cheerfully in the darkness, seeming by their brightness to welcome me home. Jane Fleming, my husband's sister, who had been his housekeeper since his wife's death, came to the door to meet us. The moment her cold fingers touched mine, I felt that there would be no sympathy between us; and when we had entered the lighted parlour, and I had scrutinised her face, I was sure of it. Without a word she stood beside me while I took off my bonnet and gloves; she carried them away; then as silently walked into the room again, leading the three children. I feel now the chill of her presence upon me. The three ran into their father's arms, and embraced him affectionately, and as he caressed them in return, I perceived that there was a fountain of warmth in his heart, which, could I reach it, would be enough to shield me from cold and darkness for ever. This show of passionate fondness made me glad, and going to his side, I tried to win the notice of the children to myself. 'It is your new mother,' said he. 'She has come to take care of you when I am gone to sea again. Ellen and May, go to your mother. May, a pretty blue-eyed child of ten, came shyly toward me, and kissed my cheek; but Ellen, the eldest, merely gave me her hand. Ellen seemed to have imbibed something of her aunt's icy manner, for she sat aloof, and watched me coldly. The little boy now lifted his head from his father's shoulder, and, seeing that May stood by me unharmed, ventured to approach me. Come to me, Harry!' said Miss Fleming, with a frown. Was his name Harry? I caught him to my arms and held him closely, so that he could not escape to his jealous aunt, and I thought in my secret heart that I would make him like the Harry I had lost. In an instant, the feeling that I was a stranger had vanished, my heart had warmed so toward the little one whose auburn head nestled in my arms. My husband looked pleased, and smiled, giving his sister a gratified look, and I observed the shadow of a smile on her lips, but it faded again as she glanced at Ellen. When the clock struck nine, Miss Jane rose and led the children to their chambers. I bade them good-night as they went out, but I noticed that Ellen made no answer. The next morning, I made business of going over the house, and examining its conveniences. The first step upon the broad, gloomy staircase chilled me; but when, after visiting every room, I sat down in the parlour again, I was almost discouraged. Such a dreary, disordered house I never saw. In every chamber the curtains hung over the windows like shrouds, and the air was cold and damp as a dungeon. There was dust on the walls, on the windows, and the furniture; there was gloom in every corner. The parlour, which might have been a delightful room, seemed like a sepulchre. The furniture, as well as the pictures, was covered with canvas; a locked bookcase stood in the recess; and a locked piano was by the opposite wall. I asked little May, who had kept close by me all the morning, why this was so. 'Aunt Jane does not like music,' she said; 'and she keeps the bookcase locked, because she says we must not read books until we are older.' 'And why is the furniture all covered?' "The parlour is scarcely ever opened,' answered May. 'Aunt Jane wants to keep it nice.' 'Well, May,' I said, 'go now and ask Aunt Jane for the key to the bookcase. I want to see the books.' She ran quickly, and returned, followed by Miss Jane, who delivered up the key to me with a dubious kind of grace. 'I hope you will lock the bookcase when you have examined the books, ma'am,' said she. 'I don't allow the children to spend their time in light reading.' 'What are they now reading?' I asked. "They learn their lessons,' she replied, shortly. She disappeared, and I opened the bookcase, which I found to contain a most excellent selection of books. Tho best poets, the best historians, the best novelists and biographers were there, making a library, small, but of rich value. It was the first really pleasant thing I had found in my new home, and I sat an hour or two, glancing over one volume after another, and re-arranging them on the shelves. Suddenly Miss Jane looked in, and in a moment her face was pale with indignation, for there sat little May on the carpet, buried in a charming old English annual. Miss Jane took two steps forward, and snatching the book out of the child's hand, threw it on the table, then led her by the shoulder out of the room. I was mute with amazement at this rough government at first; then I sprang up and would have followed her, had not the fear of an outbreak restrained me. 'Selfish creature!' I exclaimed, 'you are trying to make these children like yourself; ruining them for all good and happiness in life. In Ellen's sullenness and coldness I see the fruit of your labour. Was Arthur Fleming blind when he left his children in your keeping?' I saw no more of the children until dinner, when by questioning I learned that they had been studying all the morning with Miss Fleming. I informed her that I should sit with them in the afternoon, as I wished to see what progress they were making. The look with which she received this announcement plainly indicated that I should be an unwelcome listener to her lessons, and for a few moments my heart so failed me, perplexed by her contemptuous glances, that I half determined to have nothing to do with the children, but leave them to her, since she was so jealous of them. But my better spirit prevailed over me. "They are mine now,' I thought, 'for I am their father's wife, and all his are mine. Their interest must be mine, whatever difficulties I find in the way. I have come here of my free will, and nothing shall now deter me from doing my duty.' After dinner, Miss Jane and the children repaired immediately to the chamber which was used as a school-room. In a few minutes I followed them, and quietly took a seat at the desk. She was drilling them in arithmetic, sending one after another to the black board, and talking all the time in a loud, petulant tone. 'Ellen! if you make such awkward figures, I'll put you back to the beginning of the book. May, will you stand straight or be sent to bed? Decide now!' 'I cannot understand this sum, Aunt Jane,' sighed May. 'Sit down then until you can.' 'Do you not explain what they cannot understand?' I asked. 'All that is necessary,' she replied. 'May could understand her sums if she attended to me.' An hour passed, during which May silently hung her head over her slate, and played with her pencil, Miss Jane offering no explanation: Harry alternately counted, with his fingers, the buttons on his jacket and marks of a knife upon his desk: Ellen, whose strong mind received knowledge almost intuitively, studied her lesson quietly and without difficulty. Presently she gave her book to her aunt, and recited her lesson perfectly. 'Very well, Ellen!" said Miss Jane; 'you may go into the garden and have your recess.' 'Do they not have a recess together?' I inquired, with astonishment, not pleased with the idea of solitary, mirthless exercise. 'Not unless they learn their lessons equally well,' she answered. 'Harry! if I live, the boy is going to sleep! Stand in the corner, Henry, until you are awake.' Harry coloured scarlet, and went to the corner, rubbing his eyes. I felt disgusted at the total lack of system, order, and justice, which prevailed in this mock school. I was growing frightened at the work before me, fearful that Jane Fleming had sown more tares than my weak hands could ever root out. Seeing that Harry was crying, I went to him in his corner. 'Go away!' he sobbed, when I laid my hand on his head. 'Go away; you are not my mother.' I made no reply to this, but asked him why he cried. 'Because I am tired,' he answered, 'and you and Aunt Jane won't let me sit down.' 'I and Aunt Jane, Harry?' 'Yes,' he sobbed out. 'Aunt Jane says you are come here to live always, and will make me mind you, and make my father hate me;' and the poor child cried as if his heart would break. I looked around, but Jane was on the opposite side of the room, scolding May, and had not heard. 'It is not true, Harry,' I whispered. 'I love you, and want you to love me. Won't you love me, darling?' But he only thrust out his little hand sullenly, and turned his face away from me. Jane now came forward, and I turned from the child with a sigh of disappointment. 'But I will be patient,' I said to myself; 'they have long been taught to fear and dread me; I cannot at once make them love me.' The next morning Captain Fleming left for a six months' voyage in his new bark, the May Fleming. His parting with the children was most tender and affectionate, even tearful; with me it was kind. After he was gone, I stole up to my room, and spent the morning in bitter weeping and sadness. What would become of me if I should fail in trying to make myself beloved by his children, if their hearts were irrevocably steeled against me! Would not his own grow gradually colder and colder toward me? Fearful prospect! an unloved wife, a hated stepmother! |