mbler of Gukguk he
sat reading journals, sometimes
contemplatively looking into
the clouds of his tobacco-pipe:
an agreeable phenomenon,--more
especially when he opened
his lips for speech."

_Carlyle._

A STORY OF NUREMBERG.

It was a Christmas eve in the beginning of the sixteenth century, and
through the streets of Nuremberg came drifting a feathery snow that
heaped itself in fantastic patterns on the projecting windows and
fretted stone balconies of the quaint and crowded houses. It was not an
honest and single-minded snow-storm, such as would seek to shroud the
whole city in its delicate white mantle, but rather a tricksy and
capricious sprite, that neglected one spot to hurl itself with wanton
violence on another. Borne on the breath of a keen and shifting wind, it
came tossing gleefully full in the face of a solitary artisan who,
wrapped in a heavy cloak, was making the best of his way homeward. Truly
it was not a pleasant night to be abroad, with the snow-drifts dancing
in your eyes like a million of tiny arrow-points, and the sharp wind
cutting like a knife; and the wayfarer was consoling himself for his
present discomfort by picturing the warm fireside and the hot supper
that awaited him at home, when his cheerful dreams were broken by a
sharp cry that seemed to come from under his very feet.

Startled, and not a little alarmed, he checked his rapid walk and
listened. There was no mistaking the sound: it was neither imp nor
fairy, but a real child, from whose little lungs came forth that wail at
once pitiful and querulous. As he heard it, Peter Burkgmaeier's kindly
heart flew with one rapid bound to the cradle at home where slumbered
his own infant daughter, and, hastily lowering his lantern, he searched
under the dark archway whence the cry had come. There, sheltered by the
wall and wrapped in a ragged cloak, was a baby boy, perhaps between two
and three years old, but so tiny and emaciated as to seem hardly half
that age. When the lantern flickered in his face he gave a frightened
sob, and then lay quiet and exhausted in the strong arms that held him.

"Poor little wretch!" said the man. "Abandoned on Christmas eve to die
in the snow!" And wrapping the child more closely in his own mantle, he
hurried on until he reached his home, from whose latticed panes shone
forth a cheerful stream of light. His wife, with her baby on her breast,
met him at the door, and stared