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Jo-day's Short Story.

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Jo-day's Short Story. THE NEW YEAR'S FEAST. The weather is bad, distressing, and oold Ibe streets are dirty. Wtoat of it! Parris is all ago?. It goes, it cornea, it perambulates, and all its carriages are crowded. All Saints is past—tifco day of the dead; to-day fa the day of the lining. Early in the morning a worthy fel,a little, old man, already shaved and "spick and span"—went down his six flights of mtaim. With a. little basket hanging from his arm, and his pipe in his mouth, he goes Blowly 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 .coing to have his boy to dinner to-day," said i-the janitor. The old feilow smiles and climbs up to hia -lodgings—two small rooms and a. kitchen to match. Once there he takes out, spreads, and ,gazes at the oantemta of hia basket. A briJi- &hink of it-with eix splendid inusQrooma! And that?" Mush!" A par trid ge Quite so-xeaody drawn, and larded." And what is that over there-that. blaok thing—spoiled fruit?" Iso, indeed." Trufile, perhaps?" As you say." Why not, aince hia boy is coming to dinaier! And that is not all. Smell that Quarter of a. pound of butter; the real 'a.rticle; no margarine in that; amd freuh! Smell it, I tell you! It'd to go with thoso .zlink radishes, the earliest of the season, if 70u please! 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, said 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 Dot ask anything from anybody, what of it?" "And who is going to cook all tha.t?" 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 bis 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, might comes early in the winter. He is not late; everything going on well. What a tempting odour permeates the lodging. The little old man is 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 added; they belong 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 sit43 down, looks at the waiting table, and thinks, xexttefmberjs, sees again in hi3 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 cschange greetings. They were happy; they were hopeful; they t4hought life would always go on in the same way, and t..ben- "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 erf tie little work that there was If he is late the fine dinner will not be so good. Dh, he'll come; he never fails. Let's wait." Ar.d wl-iile the hard pushes on over the dial of the old clock a painful suspicion takes root in the father's mind. If his son were not coming? Where is he? What detains him? The tick-tack of the timepiece resounds lika so mruny blows in the heavy heart of the old man. His breathing becomes shorter in his unsneakable aeonv. Suddenly a crash resounds in the mournful silence of the roo;v>, and seven times the gong strikes sevfn 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 aeoending step. 1 Is it he?" No, it stops on the fourth floor. He rebels against the despair which slowly overwhelms him. He wishes the clock were fast—he would wish to stop the flight of timc-but, ■' is a quarter-past. The atrocious truth imposes itself; and, heart-broken, the poor man thinks, He is mot coming." What can he be doing? Is he at the cafe -in bad company? Or -God if he were eick." It's the last hops, cruel as if 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 rog-ret of having lived so long—this desire to go away to die. What 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 bnt one refuge-tlw TIe 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 h-e4rt is so heavy. 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 are 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 elack, and, not wishing to come empty-handed, the boy had taken extra work. lie had worked an night amd all day, finishing only at five o'olock. Delivering his work, drawing his pay, buy- ing the present—a meerechaum pipe—and dressing were the causes of delay. But he is there. Never mind the rest. They are at the table; they have finished the I soup. The father pours the wine from the 10n.g.nked bottte, and the son, raising his 1 grlaes and looking at the picture, says:— "To mother."

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