mile that was at
once sweet and philosophical. The light ticking of a French clock on the
mantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze complexion and great
symmetry of limb, was the only sound that disturbed the Christmas-like
peace of the apartment,--a peace which held the odors of evergreens, new
toys, cedar-boxes, glue, and varnish in an harmonious combination that
passed all understanding.

"About four years ago at this time," began the Doctor, "I attended
a course of lectures in a certain city. One of the professors,
who was a sociable, kindly man,--though somewhat practical and
hard-headed,--invited me to his house on Christmas night. I was very
glad to go, as I was anxious to see one of his sons, who, though only
twelve years old, was said to be very clever. I dare not tell you how
many Latin verses this little fellow could recite, or how many English
ones he had composed. In the first place, you'd want me to repeat them;
secondly, I'm not a judge of poetry, Latin or English. But there were
judges who said they were wonderful for a boy, and everybody predicted
a splendid future for him. Everybody but his father. He shook his head
doubtingly, whenever it was mentioned, for, as I have told you, he was a
practical, matter-of-fact man.

"There was a pleasant party at the Professor's that night. All the
children of the neighborhood were there, and among them the Professor's
clever son, Rupert, as they called him,--a thin little chap, about as
tall as Bobby there, and as fair and delicate as Flora by my side. His
health was feeble, his father said; he seldom ran about and played with
other boys, preferring to stay at home and brood over his books, and
compose what he called his verses.

"Well, we had a Christmas-tree just like this, and we had been laughing
and talking, calling off the names of the children who had presents
on the tree, and everybody was very happy and joyous, when one of the
children suddenly uttered a cry of mingled surprise and hilarity, and
said, 'Here's something for Rupert; and what do you think it is?'

"We all guessed. 'A desk'; 'A copy of Milton'; 'A gold pen'; 'A rhyming
dictionary? 'No? what then?'

"'A drum!'

"'A what?' asked everybody.

"'A drum! with Rupert's name on it?'

"Sure enough there it was. A good-sized, bright, new, brass-bound drum,
with a slip of paper on it, with the inscription, 'FOR RUPERT.'

"Of course we all laughed, and thought it a good joke. 'You see