and potatoes. Nay, it can give flavor and richness
to broken bits of stale bread served on a doorstep and eaten by beggars.

We might say much more about this bill of fare. We might, perhaps,
confess that it has an element of the supernatural; that its origin is
lost in obscurity; that, although, as we said, it has never been printed
before, it has been known in all ages; that the martyrs feasted upon it;
that generations of the poor, called blessed by Christ, have laid out
banquets by it; that exiles and prisoners have lived on it; and the
despised and forsaken and rejected in all countries have tasted it. It
is also true that when any great king ate well and throve on his dinner,
it was by the same magic food. The young and the free and the glad, and
all rich men in costly houses, even they have not been well fed without
it.

And though we have called it a Bill of Fare for a Christmas Dinner, that
is only that men's eyes may be caught by its name, and that they,
thinking it a specialty for festival, may learn and understand its
secret, and henceforth, laying all their dinners according to its magic
order, may "eat unto the Lord."

* * * * *

A BALLADE OF OLD LOVES

CAROLYN WELLS

Who is it stands on the polished stair,
A merry, laughing, winsome maid,
From the Christmas rose in her golden hair
To the high-heeled slippers of spangled suede
A glance, half daring and half afraid,
Gleams from her roguish eyes downcast;
Already the vision begins to fade--
'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.

Who is it sits in that high-backed chair,
Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed,
With a mockery gay of a stately air
As she rustles the folds of her old brocade,--
Merriest heart at the masquerade?
Ah, but the picture is passing fast
Back to the darkness from which it strayed--
'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.

Who is it whirls in a ball-room's glare,
Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid,
Like a radiant lily, tall and fair,
While the violins in the corner played
The wailing strains of the Serenade?
Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last--
E'en now my fancy it will evade--
'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.

L'ENVOI

Rosamond! look not so dismayed,
All of my heart, dear love, thou hast
Jealous, beloved? Of a shade?--
'Tis o