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T the first glance it must seem strange that in Ireland there are practically no national Christmas customs; but the wonder ceases when we remember that the Irish are the most conservative of people, and that even Christianity is modern when compared with most Irish customs, which date back to the ages when the Sun-god reigned and Beltane, the time of his coming, and Samhain, when he sank to sleep, were the great festivals.

In the big towns the old order is passing away, but in the country parts the people still cling to the ancient customs and every month has its lucky and unlucky days, its own charms and superstitions, some more, some less, but few seasons are so devoid of genuinely Irish customs as Christmas. Many of these customs were introduced from foreign countries, such as the English yule-log, which lives in the West of Ireland; in the bog deal, which is used for the Christmas fire, and the mummers, who in some parts of Munster go from house to house dancing and singing in character, acting such English parts as Robin Hood and Maid Marion. But these imported customs have never become general, for they are alien to the Irish race and traditions, and they are only found in places that are tainted by Anglicization or among the descendents of Cromwellian settlers.

Of the genuinely Irish Christmas customs the "Christmas Candle" is the most widespread. Even in Protestant Ulster and Anglicized Leinster there are none so poor that they cannot have the white wax candle lighted in the window to tell the passerby that Christ,

the Light of the world, has come; while in Connaught the house door is set open and the candle lit before an altar, that the Blessed Mother may know that here the doors would not be shut against her, as in Bethlehem the first Christmas night. In Munster, the candle is steadied in a large bowl full of holly, with wreaths of ivy, and set on the table. In most places it is the custom to light the candle at sunset on Christmas Eve and leave it lighted till Christmas day dawns, when it is put out, to be lit again each night the whole Christmas season; in some parts, however, the candle once lit, must be left to burn out and no one would dare to quench the light.

Another very general custom is the hunting of the wren on St. Stephen's day, but it is a mystery why the poor little dreoilin* should be singled out for persecution. There are three legends told to account for this strange method of honoring the protomartyr by stoning the little bird. One tells us how, once on a time, the birds assembled to elect a king, and after much dispute it was left to the decision of the owl. The bird of wisdom thought it over and finally declared that he who could fly highest should be king. Up, up, went all the birds, higher and higher, till all save the eagle sank exhausted to the earth. Then when his mighty wings failed there rose still higher a tiny speck that was quickly lost to sight. It was the dreoilin, who had hidden in the eagle's feathers and thus was carried to the highest before making any effort. So the wren gained the kingship by trickery, and every year,

* Pronounced "droleen"-the Irish for a

wren.

in punishment, is hunted through field. and moor with sticks and stones till captured and killed.

Another reason for the hunt is that the wren is the Judas among birds. When the soldiers were searching for Our Lord in the Garden of Olives, they say the dreoilin sat on a bush and cried: "He is here, here, here!" till he led them to the spot; but others date his treachery no farther back than the time. of Cromwell. One night, the story goes, the Irish troops hid on the side of a mountain waiting to fall on Cromwell's men as they passed through the ravine. Just as they came within hearing, a wren hopped on the Irish drum and with his beak rapped out a sharp alarm, thus betraying the Irish ambush.

Still, when all the evidence is brought against him, it seems a cruel thing to hunt the wee birdie every year, and it is a pity the saying, introduced into the North by the Highland Gaels,

"Do not hurt the robin or the wren, They are God Almighty's cock and hen." has not been carried out in other parts of the country. As it is, each 26th of December sees the wren boys, dressed in all kinds of tattered finery, with ribbons and greenery, carrying the poor dreoilin from door to door, singing some doggerel verse, with this refrain: "The wren, the wren, the king of all birds, On St. Stephen's day was caught in the furze, Although he is little, his family's great, So come, gentle lady, and give us a trate."

From the wren to the robin is a short step, but there is a long difference in their treatment. Woe betide the boy who throws a stone at the redbreast. Not many days will have passed before an angry, red sore breaks out on his hand, because the robin is God's own bird, the bird that had pity on the suffering Christ, and in trying to pluck the thorns from His sacred Head got his breast stained with the Precious Blood.

It brings luck to your house if a robin comes in, but ill luck will follow you if you keep him in a cage.

Christmas is a time for good luck if you are careful to do the right thing in the right way. A horse's or ass' shoe is always good to find, but if you chance

on one at Christmas time there will be no end to your good fortune, because on the first Christmas night the ass and the horse warmed the stable with their breath and "kept the life" in Christ and His Blessed Mother.

It is in memory of that night that the ass goes down on his two knees at midnight each Christmas to adore the Infant Saviour, and if you can only get your hand on the cross on his back before he gets up, you are sure to get the wish of your heart.

'Tis bad to lie abed on a Christmas morning. Be up and get your three Masses before dawn for you will have luck for the year if you breakfast by candle-light, and "luck is better than riches or talent."

Be sure to pay no money on New Year's Day, but you can give as freely as you will, for there is a blessing on the giving hand and no one is the poorer for giving. Then, when the New Year has come, watch well for the first full moon and, going into a clear space, look up into the sky and say:

"Moon, moon, tell unto me
When my true love I shall see?
What fine clothes am I to wear?
How many children shall I bear?
For if my love comes not to me

Dark and dismal my life will be."

Then cut three pieces of clay from the sod on which you are standing, but mind that your knife has a black handle or your charm is broken. Having gone home, go straight to your room without speaking to any one, take off your left stocking, and while it is still warm, wrap the clay up in it, tying all with your right garter, put it under your pillow, and

then, if you have faithfully worked the spell, your future husband will stand before you in a dream.

These are the most general customs and superstitions, though different counties have their local traditions; but as all are more or less variations on the same customs, there is nothing left except to give you a Christmas wish-one that is known as a "charm against enemies:"

"Three things are of God, and these three are what Mary told to her Son, for she heard them in heaven: "The merciful word,

The singing word (i. e., the joyful word)

And the good word.'

May the power of these three holy things be on all the men and women of Erin for evermore." Amen.

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T the entrance of a large suburban mansion, a man, with drawn and haggard face, was leaning against a pillar, gazing vacantly into the moonlit Christmas night. Suddenly out of the stillness. came the voice of a passing child, crying: "My Christmas present! Christmas present!"

My

"Oh, God!" gasped the startled dreamer by the gate, "her last words! and I had already forgotten them! Monica, my darling, your wish shall be sacred!" and with a stifled sob he entered the house.

There were few men better known or more envied in the great city, whose lights twinkled faintly in the distance, than the millionaire banker, Theodore Osgoode. Providence had been kind to him and up to the present time he had hardly known the shadow of a sorrow. His parents had both died within a year of his birth, but their place had been so well filled by a bachelor uncle that he had never realized the greatness of his loss. When he was fifteen, another ward came to share his guardian's care. She was a small, blue-eyed child of ten, Monica Barry by name, the daughter of General Osgoode's lifelong friend. From the first "Ted" and she were com

rades, and it surprised no one when, nine years later, they became man and wife, notwithstanding their difference of religious belief; for her guardian had faithfully complied with her dead father's wish, and Monica had been reared a Catholic.

"What shall I bring you for Christmas, mignonne?" said Theodore gaily, as he kissed his wife good-bye before starting on a hurried business trip to New York.

"Oh, Ted! she exclaimed, "will you really give me whatever I ask for?" "Do I usually refuse your requests?" "No, but this is not a usual one. I want-I wish to send Constance to a convent after the holidays. That will give me more pleasure than any present I know of. You see," without looking up, or giving him time to answer, “she is eleven now and so impression-"

"Monica," he interrupted, "you may let that subject drop forever. Have whomever else you will to educate her, but never again ask me to send a child of mine among the most narrow-minded followers of your narrow creed."

Without another word he left the room, and a moment later, the house. It was the first time in his life that he had alluded insultingly to his wife's re

ligion; the first time, also, that he had refused her a favor, and she could hardly believe her ears. She had foreseen that he might be displeased, but to be so angry, and to leave her so abruptly, was cruel and pained her beyond expression.

A heavy snow storm delayed his train twelve hours and Mr. Osgoode did not reach home as soon as he had anticipated. He felt sorry for his angry words, and was impatient to tell Monica so. Not that he would yield to her request! No, prejudices latent till now made that impossible.

He

On entering the house he went directly to his wife's apartments. would present to her the magnificent necklace which he had bought in New York, and the sight of its beautiful jewels would appeal to her woman's heart and promptly dispel the righteous indignation under which she was smarting. He had advanced on tiptoe half-way across the dimly lighted room when he heard a moaning sound in the direction of the heavily frosted window. Turning up the gas, he saw his wife resting heavily in the great armchair with hair disheveled and death's pallor on her fair face. "Monica!" he gasped as he sprang to her side. She tried to rise to meet his embrace, but sank back fainting into the chair.

The setting sun flooded the luxurious apartments of the broken-hearted millionaire and lighted up the inexpressibly sad face of the young wife as she lay on her bed of 'death. She keenly realized that her weak heart had sustained an irreparable shock, and that her end was near. But, fortified with the saving graces of the sacraments, she was not afraid to die. Too late she realized the fatal mistake she had made in marrying a man who, though naturally kind-hearted, was utterly irreligious and therefore wholly wanting in that sympathy which means so much to the lov

The honors have been awarded, the valedictory read, trunks packed, and for the pupils of St. Cecilia's vacation is at hand.

At the end of a long corridor are standing a nun and a young girl. The latter is talking excitedly and her eyes flash as she exclaims:

"Sister, I just hate to go home! Don't be shocked. But home is not home at all without mamma. Mrs. Stanton is so-"

"Charity, child-remember charity! and do try to be sensible. You have your father and that dear little Barry left to love you. You have admitted yourself that Mrs. Stanton is good-natured, so try to be thankful, and resigned to God's holy will. Enjoy your vacation, and come back to us ready for hard study."

"It is useless for you to say 'enjoy your vacation,' Sister, when mamma and dear uncle have both left us; and now that I am going away from you, I almost wish I were dead!"

"Be calm, Constance! You should not talk so. You may write to us, and come to see us, also, if you like, and you will always be welcome. You will find that two months are not such an eternity as you imag-"

"Pardon me, Sister," says a gentlevoiced religious who has approached unheeded, "Miss Osgoode's father is waiting for her."

A few hurried farewells, a parting word of advice, and Constance Osgoode's brief convent life has endedforever.

Her father tells her during their homeward journey, they are to go to the