DINNERS.1 BY OWEN MEREDITH. (From "Lucile.") O HOUR of all hours, the most blessed upon earth, The land of his birth; The face of his first love; the bills that he owes; We may live without poetry, music, and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; A DOG OF FLANDERS.2 A STORY OF NOËL. BY OUIDA. [LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE, whose pen name is Ouida, an English novelist, was born at Bury St. Edmund, in 1840. She is of French extraction, and is a writer of undoubted genius and originality. Her childhood was spent in London, where at an early age she began to contribute articles to periodical literature. She later removed to Italy, and now makes her home in Florence. Her writings, which are very numerous, include: "Granville de Vigne" (1863), "Held in Bondage" (1863), "Strathmore" (1865), "Under Two Flags 1 By permission of Lady Lytton and the publishers, Longmans, Green & Co. 2 (1867), "Puck" (1870), "Pascarel " (1873), "In a Winter City" (1876), "Friendship" (1878), “Moths" (1880), “Princess Napraxine (1884), "A House Party" (1886), "Don Gesnaldo" (1890), "The New Priesthood" (1893); and "Views and Opinions" (1895), "Wanda" (1896), and “Muriella" (1897).] NELLO and Patrasche were left all alone in the world. They were friends in a friendship closer than brotherhood. Nello was a little Ardennois; Patrasche was a big Fleming. They were both of the same age by length of years, yet one was still young, and the other was already old. They had dwelt together almost all their days: both were orphaned and destitute, and owed their lives to the same hand. It had been the beginning of the tie between them, their first bond of sympathy; and it had strengthened day by day, and had grown with their growth, firm and indissoluble, until they loved one another very greatly. Noël was close at hand. The weather was very wild and cold. The snow was six feet deep, and the ice was firm enough to bear oxen and men upon it everywhere. At this season the little village was always gay and cheerful. At the poorest dwelling there were possets and cakes, joking and dancing, sugared saints, and gilded Jésus. The merry Flemish bells jingled everywhere on the horses; everywhere within doors some well-filled soup pot sang and smoked over the stove; and everywhere over the snow without laughing maidens pattered in bright kerchiefs and stout kirtles, going to and from the mass. Only in the little hut it was very dark and very cold. Nello and Patrasche were left utterly alone; for one night in the week before the Christmas Day, Death entered there, and took away from life forever old Jehan Daas, who had never known of life aught save its poverty and its pains. He had long been half dead, incapable of any movement except a feeble gesture, and powerless for anything beyond a gentle word; and yet his loss fell on them both with a great horror in it. They mourned him passionately. He had passed away from them in his sleep, and when in the gray dawn they learned their bereavement, unutterable solitude and desolation seemed to close around them. He had long been only a poor, feeble, paralyzed old man, who could not raise a hand in their defense, but he had loved them well; his smile had always welcomed their return. They mourned for him unceasingly, refusing to be comforted, as in the white winter day they followed the deal shell that held his body to the nameless grave by the little gray church. They were his only mourners, these two whom he had left friendless upon earth, the young boy and the old dog. "Surely he will relent now and let the poor lad come hither?" thought the miller's wife, glancing at her husband where he smoked by the hearth. - Baas Cogez knew her thought, but he hardened his heart, and would not unbar his door as the little humble funeral went by. "The boy is a beggar," he said to himself: "he shall not be about Alois." The woman dared not say anything aloud, but when the grave was closed and the mourners had gone, she put a wreath of immortelles into Alois' hands, and bade her go and lay it reverently on the dark, unmarked mound where the snow was displaced. Nello and Patrasche went home with broken hearts; but even of that poor, melancholy, cheerless home they were denied the consolation. There was a month's rent overdue for their little home, and when Nello had paid the last sad service to the dead he had not a coin left. He went and begged grace of the owner of the hut, a cobbler who went every Sunday night to drink his pint of wine and smoke with Baas Cogez. The cobbler would grant no mercy. He was a harsh, miserly man, and loved money. He claimed in default of his rent every stick and stone, every pot and pan, in the hut, and bade Nello and Patrasche be out of it on the morrow. Now, the cabin was lowly enough, and in some sense miserable enough, and yet their hearts clove to it with a great affection. They had been so happy there, and in the summer, with its clambering vine and its flowering beans, it was so pretty and bright in the midst of the sun-lighted fields ! Their life in it had been full of labor and privation, and yet they had been so well content, so gay of heart, running together to meet the old man's never-failing smile of welcome! All night long the boy and the dog sat by the fireless hearth in the darkness, drawn close together for warmth and sorrow. Their bodies were insensible to the cold, but their hearts seemed frozen in them. When the morning broke over the white, chill earth, it was the morning of Christmas Eve. With a shudder Nello clasped close to him his only friend, while his tears fell hot and fast on |