as borne through the
streets in the arms of the populace.

"Wonder of wonders!" they all shouted.

"It was the Little Jesus," gasped Cristobal: "he opened my eyes; he
guided me up the ladder, and down again!"

"Hallelujah!" was now the cry. "On the birthday of our Lord, the
blind receive their sight."

"It is a triumph of faith," said the saints reverently.

"A miracle," murmured the nuns, making the sign of the cross.

"Not a miracle," replied the wise doctors, after they had first
consulted their books: "it is only the electrifying of the optic
nerve."

But hardly any two could agree, and what was so mysterious at the time
is no clearer now.

"Dear little Cristobal," sobbed the broken-hearted Jasper, "how could
you forgive such a wicked boy as I?"

"It was very easy," replied Cristobal, "when once the Little Jesus
called me 'brother,' and bade me pray for you."

"Oh that I could repay you for your wonderful deed of love," said
Jasper, through his tears.

"Do not thank me," whispered Cristobal, with a look of awe; "thank the
Little Jesus. And when he comes again next year, to ask what feelings
we hold in our hearts, let us both be ready for Christmas."

WILD ROBIN.

A SCOTTISH FAIRY TALE.

In the green valley of the Yarrow, near the castle-keep of Norham,
dwelt an honest, sonsy little family, whose only grief was an unhappy
son, named Robin.

Janet, with jimp form, bonnie eyes, and cherry cheeks, was the best of
daughters; the boys, Sandie and Davie, were swift-footed, brave, kind,
and obedient; but Robin, the youngest, had a stormy temper, and, when
his will was crossed, he became as reckless as a reeling hurricane.
Once, in a passion, he drove two of his father's "kye," or cattle,
down a steep hill to their death. He seemed not to care for home or
kindred, and often pierced the tender heart of his mother with sharp
words. When she came at night, and "happed" the bed-clothes carefully
about his form, and then stooped to kiss his nut-brown cheeks, he
turned away with a frown, muttering, "Mither, let me be."

It was a sad case with Wild Robin, who seemed to have neither love nor
conscience.

"My heart is sair," sighed his mother, "wi' greeting over sich a son."

"He hates our auld cottage and our muckle wark," said the poor father.
"Ah, weel! I could a'maist wish the fairies had him for a season, to
teach him better manners."

This the gudeman said heedlessly, little knowing there was a