re a picture on the wall, is looking at a room
which he knows well enough. It is the tobacco shop. There are two men in
it; one sits on the bench and takes snuff, and does up little paper
pellets; the other is just discoverable under a cloud of tobacco smoke,
perched upon the top of a small observatory. This, too, is Christmas
Eve, for so the little man on the watch-tower announces, as if he kept
the calendar of the seasons, and piped an "All's Well" to his comrade
below.

"David," he says, "David Morgridge! This is Christmas Eve. 'On earth
peace, good will toward men.' That's what the Bible says, and that's
what Trinity chimes say. How many Christmases have we kept together?
eighteen, David; then that's eighteen turkeys for the poor folk, though
bless us we're not much richer." This is a long speech for Solomon Mit,
yet the man snuffing on the bench says nothing, but scowls. Then does
Solomon Mit clamber down from his watch-tower, and with his cheery,
piping voice sing a Christmas hymn, and though David Morgridge never
lends his voice, the little man is no whit disheartened, but ends with
laying his hand on David's shoulder and heartily wishing--"God bless
you, David Morgridge, old friend--God bless us all!" and climbs once
more to the top of his tower.

Quickly turns the kaleidoscope again, and now Mr. Morgridge, like a
shadow in the dark that can see but not be seen, is in the room where he
is now sleeping. But he is not on the bed, he is standing by the side of
it, and the old cheery voice, though weaker now, of Solomon Mit comes
from the pillow. The little man has come down from his tower for the
last time, and has puffed his last pipeful of tobacco smoke. This, too,
is Christmas Eve, and Solomon Mit has not forgotten it. Listen, he is
speaking now.

"David Morgridge, old friend, twenty years we've lived together. You've
been a true friend to me. We haven't said much, but we've trusted each
other. I'm the first to go, and I'm glad to go on Christmas Eve. I'd
like to go when the bells are ringing and Trinity is chiming, 'Peace on
earth, good will toward men;' that's it David. Don't forget the turkeys;
twenty you know; and don't make 'em chickens. You haven't always liked
to give them, but you will now. And you'll be good to little Peter. I
bequeath him to you, David, to hold and to keep in trust; and all that's
mine in the shop; it's all yours. There are the bells--

"'All glory be to God on high,
And to th