rs an' rustle it, an' I
declare they do cry lonesome. Got terrible claws, too!"

"Ever hurt folks?" one of the boys inquired.

"No; but they're just like some kinds o' people--ye want to let 'em
alone. Any one that'll shake hands with an owl would be fool
enough to eat fish-hooks. They're not made for friendship--those
owls."

"What are they made for?" another voice inquired.

"Just to kill," said she, patting a boy's head tenderly. "They're
Death flying round at night--the angel o' Death for rats an'
rabbits an' birds an' other little creatures. Once,--oh, many
years ago,--it seemed so everything was made to kill. Men were
like beasts o' prey, most of 'em; an' they're not all gone yet.
Went around day an' night killing. I declare they must have had
claws. Then came the Prince o' Peace."

"What did he do to 'em, mother?" said Paul--a boy of seven.

"Well, he began to cut their claws for one thing," said the mother.
"Taught 'em to love an' not to kill. Shall I read you the
story--how he came in a manger?"

"B'lieve I'd rather hear about Injuns," said the boy.

"We shall hear about them too," the mother added. "They're like
folks o' the olden time. They make a terrible fuss; but they've
got to hold still an' have their claws cut."

Presently she sat down by a table, where there were candles, and
began reading aloud from a county paper. She read anecdotes of
men, remarkable for their success and piety, and an account of
Indian fighting, interrupted, as a red man lifted his tomahawk to
slay, by the rattle of an arrow on the buttery door.

It was off the cross-gun of young Paul. He had seen everything in
the story and had taken aim at the said Indian just in the nick of
time.

She read, also, the old sweet story of the coming of the Christ
Child.

"Some say it was a night like this," said she, as the story ended.

Paul had listened, his thin, sober face glowing.

"I'll bet Santa Claus was good to him," said he. "Brought him
sleds an' candy an' nuts an' raisins an' new boots an' everything."

"Why do you think so?" asked his mother, who was now reading
intently.

"'Cos he was a good boy. He wouldn't cry if he had to fill the
wood box; would he, mother?"

That query held a hidden rebuke for his brother Tom.

"I do not know, but I do not think he was ever saucy or spoke a bad
word."

"Huh!" said Tom, reflectively; "then I guess he never had no
mustard plaster put on him."

The widow b