lways maintained, to the day of his death, that he was changed
into a fairy, and became exceedingly angry if contradicted.

Who doesn't believe in fairies after this? I only hope King Christmas
may make a few more good fairies this year, to brighten the homes of
the poor with the light of Christmas charity.

Truly, we need not look far for alms-men. Cold and hunger, disease and
death, are around us at all times; but at no time do they press more
heavily on the poor than at this jovial Christmas season.

Shall we shut out, in our mirth and jollity, the cry of the hungry poor?
or shall we not rather remember, in the midst of our happy family
circles, round our well-filled tables and before our blazing fires, that
our brothers are starving out in the cold, and that the Christmas song
of the angels was "Good-will to men"?

_The Spaniard's Episode._

"He was a pleasant-looking fellow,
with huge black whiskers
and a roguish eye. He touched
the guitar with masterly skill,
and sang little amorous ditties
with an expressive leer."

_Irving._

A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE.

You have never heard of Alcala? Well, it is a little village nestling
between the Spanish hills, a league from great Madrid. There is a ring
of stone houses, each with its white-walled patio and grated windows;
each with its balcony, whence now and then a laughing face looks down
upon the traveller. There is an ancient inn by the roadside, a time-worn
church, and above, on the hill-top, against the still blue sky, the
castle, dusky with age, but still keeping a feudal dignity, though half
its yellow walls have crumbled away.

This is the Alcala into which I jogged one winter evening in search of
rest and entertainment after a long day's journey on mule-back.

The inn was in a doze when my footsteps broke the silence of its stone
court-yard; but presently a woman came through an inner door to answer
my summons, and I was speedily cast under the quiet spell of the place
by finding myself behind a screen of leaves, with a straw-covered
bottle at my elbow and a cold fowl within comfortable reach.

The bower where I sat was unlighted save by the waning sun, and I could
see but little of its long vista, without neglecting a very imperious
appetite. The lattice was covered, I thought, with vine-leaves, and I
felt sure, too, that some orange boughs, reaching across the patio wall,
mingled with the foliage above my