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To-day's Short Story.

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To-day's Short Story. THE NEW YEAR-O FEAST. the weather is bad, distressing, and cold; the streets are dirty. What of it! Paris ie On agog. It goes, it comes, it perambulates, and all its caa-riages axe crowded. All Saints is past—the day of the dead; to-day is the day of the living. Early in the corning a worthy fellow-& little, old man, already shaved and "spiok and span"—went down his six flights of stairs. With a little basket hanging from his arm, and his pipe in. his mouth, he goes elowly through the neighbourhood, watching the display of eatables, entering the shops and asking the prices. When he comes back his pipe is out; but the basket is no longer flat. Ha, ha! It's easy to see that someone is going to have his boy to dinner to-day," said the janitor. The oLd feUow smiles and atimbs up to his lodgings—two small rooms and a. kitchen to match. Once there he takes out, spreads, and gazes at the ccaitemts of hia basket. A. brill- think of it-with six splendid mushrooms! And that?" "Ilusa!" A partridge!" Quite so—ready drawn, and larded." And what is that over there-t-hat black thing—spoiled fruit?" iso, indeed." Truflie, perhaps?" As you say." Why not, since his boy is coming to ■diniter! Aud that is not all. Smell that Quarter of a pound of butter; the real article; no margarine in that; and fresh! Smell it, I tell you! It's to go with those pink radishes, the earliest of the season, if ,you pitai-e! And that, also—a head of salad, 'which will be followed by a square of Brie ,cheese (isn't it white and creamy?) And guess: two bunches. of grapes! What do you think of it?" You must be quite a rich, old man?" Very; yes." His pension of non-commissioned officer, and what he has been able to put aside and to pay into an annuity insurance company after leaving the army; in all, about 1,000 francs. "Per month?" Per year. But when one does not ask anything from anybody, what of it?" "And who is going to cook all that?" He himself. He knows; an old soldier is never embarrassed. And then the worthy woman whose artless picture is hanging on the wall—his wife, the mother of his boy- was a splendid cook during her lifetime. He used to watch her while smoking his pipe. He learned from her. You'll see if his boy does not lick his fingers." The time comes; the old man starts to work. With what care. It must be good, and it must look good. He does his best, enjoying in advance the effect produced upon the beloved guest by these luxuries, and this tempting food. The hours pass unnoticed by him. Twilight is coming; fortunately, Eiight comes early in the winter. He is not late; everything going on well. What a templing odour permeates the lodging. The little old man ig happy. His son will be surprised. It will be a great treat for him. Still more so than one thinks, for since the day before a long-necked bottle has been placed on the mantelpiece, to get luke- warm, to bring forth the full flavour of its aroma. It is claret. And, besides, when the young man will take up his napkin. What's that, father?" "Undo the paper: open the box." "A watch? A gold watch? Ah, pa, I know it. It's mother's watch." And the worthy fellow sees his boy rising from the table, throwing his arms around his neck, kissing him, with a tear in his eye; for his boy is a brave fellow. "After all, it is not worth while to be affected. The watch was there; it was no use to anybody. The watchmaker repaired it, and now it goes." That is what the little old man thinks, but he is moved, nevertheless. Bracing up, he begins to set the table. From the sideboard he takes old relics-a tablecloth, the only one which remains from the household which the good wife has left. Napkins are addedi th--pelong to the same time, hemmed and marked by the absent one. There is the plated castor, which was given him on his birthday; other things of small value—souvenirs—which the lone man carefully puts down, looking at the picture that is watching him, and seeming to smile as if she whom it represents was also await- ing her boy. "Well, he may come now. It's ready." He will not delay much longer; it is six o'clock. In the meantime the old man sits down, looks at the waiting table, and thinks, remembers, sees again in his mind the New Years of former days. The mother was seated opposite him, the youngster between them, perched on his high chair. Parents, dead also, and friends, scattered now, came to exchange greetings. They were happy; they were hopeful; they thought life would always go on in the same way, and then "Why it is half-past six? Can it be pos- sible for the boy to be detained at the shop? And yet he was complaining the other day of the little work that there was If he is late the fine dinner will not be so good. Oh, he'll cotie; he never fails. Let's wait." Ard while the harxi pushes on over the dial of the old clock a painful suspicion takes root in the other's mind. If his son were Hot coming? Where is he? What detains him? The tick-tack of the timepiece resounds like so maniy blows in the he-avy heart of the old man. His breathing becomes shorter in his unspeakable agony. Suddenly a crash resounds in the mournful silence of the and sewn times the gong strikes—seven o'clock. Intensely listening to every noise from out- side, the poor man starts every time the street door is shut. He seeks to recognise the ascending step. "Is it he?" No, it stops en the fom-th floor. He rebels lagair-t the despair which slowly overwhelms him. He wishes the clock were fast—he would wish to stop the- flight of time—but is a quarter-past. The atrocious truth imposes itself; and, heart-broken, the poor man thinks, He is not coming." What can he be doing? Is he at the cafe —in bad company? Or God if he were sick." > It's the last hop: cruel as it is; but the old man tortures his mind to find an excuse for his son. He wishes to go and find out. No. If he were to come while his father is away. Everything becomes confused and seems to crumble down; his bewilderment is complete. The poor man no longer struggles against his sorrow. Crushed, he yields to the bitter- ness of his abandonment, and the only thing that subsists in him is the regret of having lived so long—this desire to go away to die. Wnat is he to do henceforth? Who thinks of him? Who loves him? No one any more. He is de trop." Without expectations, tired of the present, he has but one refuge—tne J.. q He wishes to take down his wife's picture, to place it opposite him at the table, to try to eat. I Eat. When one's heart is so heajvy. There is no room for food. No, it's all over with him—it's all over." And he keeps on repeating this, struggling against the sob which rises, contracts his throat, strangles him, is it going to burst forth, when— The key grates in the keyhole, the door flies open, showing a tall, lusty fellow, who shouts: Happy New Year, Pop. I am late. But I'll tell you "Nothing, my son, my boy. You ars here; I have you, that's enough. For now, you see, my whole life can be told in one word: You." The poor people cannot do what they please. Work was slack, and, not wishing to come empty-handed, the boy had taken extra work. He had worked all night and I ail day, finishing only at five o'clock. Delivering his work, drawing his pay, buy- iing the Pre--Ont-a meerschaum pipe—and dressing were the causes of delay. I But he is there. Never mind the rest. They are at the table; they have finished the soup. The father pours the wine from the long-nocked bottle, and the son, raising his! glass and looking at the picture, says:— "To mother." t

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