t his worship here, but the
worship is more than an empty form. He typifies to them the old
neighborliness of home, the spirit of mutual help, of charity, and of
the common cause against the common enemy. The community life survives
through their saint in the far city to an unsuspected extent. The sick
are cared for; the dreaded hospital is fenced out. There are no
Italian evictions. The saint has paid the rent of this attic through
two hard months; and here at his shrine the Calabrian village gathers,
in the persons of these three, to do him honor on Christmas eve.

Where the old Africa has been made over into a modern Italy, since
King Humbert's cohorts struck the up-town trail, three hundred of the
little foreigners are having an uproarious time over their Christmas
tree in the Children's Aid Society's school. And well they may, for
the like has not been seen in Sullivan Street in this generation.
Christmas trees are rather rarer over here than on the East Side,
where the German leavens the lump with his loyalty to home traditions.
This is loaded with silver and gold and toys without end, until there
is little left of the original green. Santa Claus's sleigh must have
been upset in a snow-drift over here, and righted by throwing the
cargo overboard, for there is at least a wagon-load of things that can
find no room on the tree. The appearance of "teacher" with a double
armful of curly-headed dolls in red, yellow, and green Mother-Hubbards,
doubtful how to dispose of them, provokes a shout of approval, which
is presently quieted by the principal's bell. School is "in" for the
preliminary exercises. Afterward there are to be the tree and
ice-cream for the good children. In their anxiety to prove their title
clear, they sit so straight, with arms folded, that the whole row
bends over backward. The lesson is brief, the answers to the point.

"What do we receive at Christmas?" the teacher wants to know. The
whole school responds with a shout, "Dolls and toys!" To the question,
"Why do we receive them at Christmas?" the answer is not so prompt.
But one youngster from Thompson Street holds up his hand. He knows.
"Because we always get 'em," he says; and the class is convinced: it
is a fact. A baby wails because it cannot get the whole tree at once.
The "little mother"--herself a child of less than a dozen winters--who
has it in charge, cooes over it, and soothes its grief with the aid of
a surreptitious sponge-cake evolved