w that he was printing his paper at this moment
with relays of grinding stevedores. He said it was so. "But think of
it to-night," said he. "It is Christmas eve, and not an Irishman to
be hired, though one paid him ingots. Not a man can stand the grind
ten minutes." I knew that very well from old experience, and I
thanked him inwardly for not saying "the demnition grind," with
Mantilini. "We cannot run the press half the time," said he; "and the
men we have are giving out now. We shall lose all our carrier
delivery." "Todd," said I, "is this a night to be talking of ingots,
or hiring, or losing, or gaining? When will you learn that Love rules
the court, the camp, and the Argus office." And I wrote on the back
of a letter to Campbell: "Come to the Argus office, No. 2 Dassett's
Alley, with seven men not afraid to work"; and I gave it to John and
Sam, bade Howland take the boys to Campbell's house,--walked down
with Todd to his office,--challenged him to take five minutes at the
wheel, in memory of old times,--made the tired relays laugh as they
saw us take hold; and then,--when I had cooled off, and put on my
Cardigan,--met Campbell, with his seven sons of Anak, tumbling down
the stairs, wondering what round of mercy the parson had found for
them this time. I started home, knowing I should now have my Argus
with my coffee.

III.

And so I walked home. Better so, perhaps, after all, than in the lively
sleigh, with the tinkling bells.

"It was a calm and silent night!--
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was queen of land and sea!
No sound was heard of clashing wars,--
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars
Held undisturbed their ancient reign
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!"

What an eternity it seemed since I started with those children singing
carols. Bethlehem, Nazareth, Calvary, Rome, Roman senators, Tiberius,
Paul, Nero, Clement, Ephrem, Ambrose, and all the singers,--Vincent de
Paul, and all the loving wonder-workers, Milton and Herbert and all the
carol-writers, Luther and Knox and all the prophets,--what a world of
people had been keeping Christmas with Sam Perry and Lycidas and Harry
and me; and here were Yokohama and the Japanese, the Daily Argus and its
ten million tokens and their readers,--poor Fanny Woodhull and her sick
mother there, keeping Christmas too! For