A CEHRTS EMAS SIN THE WO@ODs 
RUPE BARMBY. 
Christmas day of the year 1860 I spent 
in a fashion and under circumstances 
which, no doubt, the ordinary man would 
think too rude to be desirable. Yet I 
can with truth affirm that no Christmas 
day in almost 40 which have passed since 
then gives greater pleasure to recall. 
In the fall of the year of which I write 
a friend and I decided to lay down a line 
of traps in a wild and unknown tract 
that stretched for many miles North of the 
village where we lived. 
The case is different now, but at that 
time the villagers could tell us little of 
its character, and were entirely ignorant 
of how far it extended. 
Before cold weather came we built a 
cabin in a sheltered spot far in the forest. 
We “‘toted” in our traps and other things, 
and felt prepared to face the winter's 
work. By Christmas eve we had settled 
down, 50 miles from home. While thou- 
sands of our fellows were indulging in the 
customs peculiar to the night, the children 
eagerly expectant of a visit from old 
Santa Claus, we sat before our roaring log 
fire and listened to the moaning of the 
winds outside. 
At break of day we woke, and, looking 
out, beheld a sight that far surpassed any 
Christmas decorations we had ever seen. 
Before us stood a host of trees, each 
bending with its sparkling weight of 
snow, coldly brilliant in the morning sun. 
The dark green spruces strikingly con- 
trasted with the pure white snow, and 
blended with the clear blue sky beyond. 
We thrilled with pleasure at the grandeur 
of nature’s Christmas day. 
The night before we had planned a 
hunting trip to celebrate the holiday; and, 
breakfast past, we were soon ready for 
the start. 
It is common belief that winter in the 
woods is full of hardship and discomfort, 
yet it need not be the case. The forest 
depths afford protection from the chilling 
winds which sweep unchecked across the 
open plains. ‘ 
To one who loves Dame Nature, winter 
in the woods has many pleasant features 
that compensate for the loss of civiliza- 
tion’s luxuries. 
The beauty of the forest on that Christ- 
mas day is far beyond description. The 
snow on every side bore traces of abound- 
ing game—a hunter's compensation sure- 
ly. Grouse, rabbits, foxes, otters, lynx 
and deer were there in plenty,—but that 
was 40 years ago. That special day we 
passed all these, deeming big game alone 
worthy of the holiday. Luck favored 
us, for soon we found the tracks of 
moose, and hour by hour followed the 
trail through brush and open space. — 
Imagine my astonishment to find the 
tracks led directly in the direction of our 
hut. We saw no trace of them on start- 
ing out, and were forced to the conclusion 
that the game was close at hand. The 
animal had evidently been interested in 
our cabin, as the trail completely circled 
it and then led on into the woods beyond. 
We followed eagerly, with extra care, fear- 
ing to frighten the game and spoil our 
morning’s work. 
Soon the tracks merged into a beaten 
path, from which we knew we had stum- 
bled on the runaway of a numerous herd. 
A short time later a snapping twig not 
far away betrayed the presence of the ob- 
ject of our chase. Instinctively we stopped, 
each nerve and muscle tightly strung. 
Suddenly 3 moose came into view, and, 
perfectly unconscious of our presence, 
slowly moved along. A moment more and 
both our rifles cracked. Roused to the 
danger 2 bounded out of sight, but one fell 
and hurrying to where he lay we realized 
the prize we had obtained. 
The remainder of the day was spent in 
carrying the meat to camp, and no trifling 
task it was. Before our glowing fire we 
passed the evening, tired, but with the 
satisfaction a good day’s work alone can 
give. It was a simple Christmas, it is true, 
yet it had a liberal share of pleasure, the 
memory of which is ever bright and fresh 
with me, though almost 40 years ago. 

“The Brown-Joneses don’t speak to us 
any more.” 
“What’s the trouble?” 
“Well, we locked up and went off to the 
country Saturday and left their Sunday 
dinner in our ice-chest.’--Detreit Free 
Press. 

