Both Miss Lavinia And Miss Clarissa Had

'i Believe, Mr. Snitchey,' Said Alfred, 'there Are Quiet Victories And Struggles, Great Sacrifices Of Self, And Noble Acts Of Heroism, In It - Even In Many Of Its Apparent Lightnesses And Contradictions - Not The Less Difficult To Achieve, Because They Have No Earthly Chronicle Or Audience - Done Every Day In Nooks And Corners, And In Little Households, And In Men's And Women's Hearts - Any One Of Which Might Reconcile The Sternest Man To Such A World, And Fill Him With Belief And Hope In It.

All Is Going On As It Was Wont. The Waves Are Hoarse With Repetition Of Their Mystery; The Dust Lies Piled Upon The Shore; The Sea-birds Soar And Hover; The Winds And Clouds Go Forth Upon Their Trackless Flight; The White Arms Beckon, In The Moonlight, To The Invisible Country Far Away.

Happy, Happy Christmas, That Can Win Us Back To The Delusions Of Our Childhood Days, Recall To The Old Man The Pleasures Of His Youth, And Transport The Traveler Back To His Own Fireside And Quiet Home!

Possibly We Might Even Improve The World A Little, If We Got Up Early In The Morning, And Took Off Our Coats To The Work.

He Describes It As A Large Apartment, With A Red Brick Floor And A Capacious Chimney; The Ceiling Garnished With Hams, Sides Of Bacon, And Ropes Of Onions.