registered 
I N 
u 
PATENT 
OFFICE 
Volume XXII December, 1912 Number6 
®he (Cljnstmaa Prodigal 
&np man or tooman . ♦ ♦ tljat can gibe anp ftnntolc&ge, 
or tel anp tibingp, of ait olD, olb, berp olb grap^bearbeb 
gentleman, calleb Cfjriptmap, mljn tuab Uiont to be a 
berie familiar guept, anb bi>e?ite all £ort£ of people, 
botp pore anil ricp, . . , anb pab ringing feaplb attb 
iollitie in all placed . , , for pi^ coming . . . tupopoeber 
can tel bipat ip become of pirn, or bipere pe map be 
founb, let tpem bring pirn back againe! 0 m e« 9 .is h tract, 
by Leona Dalrymple 
P OLLY, the Doctor’s old white mare, plodded slowly along the 
snowy country road by the picket fence, and turned in at the 
snow-capped posts. Ahead, roofed with the ragged ermine of a 
newly-fallen snow, the Doctor’s old-fashioned house loomed gray- 
white through the snow-fringed branches of the trees, a quaint 
iron lantern, which was picturesque by day and luminous and 
cheerful by night, hanging within the square, white-pillared por¬ 
tico at the side. That the many-paned, old-fashioned window on 
the right framed the snow-white head of Aunt Ellen Leslie, the 
Doctor’s wife, the old Doctor himself was comfortably aware 
—for his kindly eyes missed nothing. 
He could have told you with a reflective stroke of his snow- 
white beard that the snow had stopped but an hour since, and that 
now through the white and heavy lacery of branches to the west 
glowed the flame-gold of a winter sunset, glinting ruddily over 
the box-bordered brick walk, the orchard and the comfortable 
barn which snugly housed his huddled cattle; that the grasslands 
to the south were thickly blanketed in white; that beyond in the 
evergreen forest the stately pines and cedars were marvelously 
draped and coififed in snow. For the old Doctor loved these 
things of Nature as he loved the peace and quiet of his home. 
So, as he turned in at the driveway and briskly resigned the 
care of Polly to old Asher, his seamed and wrinkled helper, the 
Doctor’s eyes were roving now to a corner, snug beneath a tat¬ 
tered rug of snow, where by summer Aunt Ellen’s petunias and 
phlox and larkspur grew—and now to the rose-bushes ridged in 
down, and at last to his favorite winter nook, a thicket of black 
alders freighted with a wealth of berries. How crimson they 
were amid the white quiet of the garden! And the brightly 
colored fruit of the barberry flamed forth from a snowy bush 
like the cheerful elf-lamps of a wood-gnome. 
There was equal cheer and color in the old-fashioned sitting- 
room to which the Doctor presently made his way, for a wood 
fire roared with a winter gleam and crackle in the fireplace and 
Aunt Ellen Leslie rocked slowly back and forth by the window 
with a letter in her hand. 
“Another letter!” exclaimed the Doctor, warming his hands 
before the blazing log. “God bless my soul, Ellen, we’re becom¬ 
ing a nuisance to Uncle Sam!” But for all the brisk cheeriness 
of his voice he was furtively aware that Aunt Ellen’s brown eyes 
were a little tearful, and presently crossing the room to her side, 
he gently drew the crumpled letter from her hand and read it. 
“So John’s not coming home for Christmas either, eh?” he said 
at last. “Well, now, that is too bad! Now, now, now, mother,” 
as Aunt Ellen surreptitiously wiped her glasses, “we should feel 
proud to have such busy children. There’s Ellen and Margaret 
and Anne with a horde of youngsters to make a Christmas for, 
and John—bless your heart, Ellen, there’s a busy man! A broker 
now is one of the very busiest of men! And what with John’s 
kiddies and his beautiful society wife and that grand Christmas 
eve ball he mentions—why—” the Doctor cleared his throat,— 
“why, dear me, it’s not to be wondered at, say I! And Philip 
and Howard—busy as—as—as architects and lawyers usually are 
at Christmas,” he finished lamely. “As for Ralph—” the Doctor 
looked away—“well, Ralph hasn’t spent a Christmas home since 
college days.” 
“It will be the first Christmas we ever spent without some of 
them home,” ventured Aunt Ellen, biting her lip courageously, 
whereupon the old Doctor patted her shoulder gently with a 
cheery word of advice. 
Now, there was something in the touch of the old Doctor’s 
broad and gentle hand that always soothed, wherefore Aunt 
Ellen presently wiped her troublesome glasses again and bravely 
tried to smile, and the Doctor making a vast and altogether cheer¬ 
ful to-do about turning the blazing log, began a brisk description 
of his day. It had ended, professionally, at a lonely little house 
in the heart of the forest, which Jarvis Hildreth, dying but a 
scant year since, had bequeathed to his orphaned children, Madge 
and Roger. 
“And, Ellen,” finished the Doctor, soberly, “there he sits by 
the window, day by day, poor lame little lad!—staring away so 
wistfully at the forest, and Madge, bless her brave young heart! 
—she bastes and stitches and sews away, all the while weaving 
him wonderful yarns about the pines and cedars to amuse him 
—all out of her pretty head, mind you! A lame brother and a 
passion for books—” said the Doctor shaking his head, “a poor 
inheritance for the lass. They worry me a lot, Ellen, for Madge 
looks thin and tired, and to-day—”the Doctor cleared his throat, 
“I think she had been crying.” 
“Crying!” exclaimed Aunt Ellen, her kindly brown eyes warm 
with sympathy. “Dear, dear!—And Christmas only three days 
off! Why, John, dear, we must have them over here for Christ¬ 
mas. To be sure! And we’ll have a tree for little Roger and a 
Christmas masquerade and such a wonderful Christmas alto¬ 
gether as he’s never known before!” And Aunt Ellen, with the 
all-embracing motherhood of her gentle heart aroused, fell to 
planning a Christmas fop -Kadge «and Roger Hildreth that would 
have gladdened the° hfeaYt-th’d ChrisfmaCs?:int Iiimself. 
Face aglow, the old Doctor bent and pattecf-his' wife’s wrinkled 
hand. 
(350 
