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The Christmas Bride, the old story
so often told of true love and a

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world so cold. When Christmas Day, my tale begins, loud and joyous,

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the church chime rings a bride so
fair, yet pensive, sad,

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while on this day all seemed glad
except this one, For she had fled

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against her parents wish to wed the
one who now stands by her side.

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She gave up all to be his
bride, home, parents, friends,

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and comforts too. In the small
village where she grew to be the joy

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and pride of all who knew of
her, both great and small. She

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was a teacher and the best.
Her pupils loved her with the rest,

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and John dear, loving, honest
boy. To him, she was his

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every joy. He had loved her
long and well more dear to him than

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tongue could tell. Her every wish
was to him law, nor could he

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in her see a flaw. Poor
boy. She liked him, but then

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he did not impress as some men
whom she had seen and heard about.

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Though he was manly, true and
stout of heart, and always ready too

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to serve her just the best he
knew. She admired him and all his

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ways, But then her eyes before
his gaze could not meet his, For

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there she read what at that time
she wished unsaid, much too tender to

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cause him pain or treat his love
with cold disdain for another one held all

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her thought, But this to hide
from John she sought, for he had

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come one summer day and stole poor
Mamie's heart away. In him, she

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fancied she had found the hero which
her dreams had crowned. He was tall,

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dashing in his ways, spoke soft
and low, nor stinted praise,

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and o'er her mind he had full
sway. John was forgotten from that day.

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All took him for the favored swain, until the city stranger came stole

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her from him, and all beside
on Christmas Day to be his bride.

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The same old story often told she'd
taken the dross for the gold. Time

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alone. Its tale would tell reveal
what others knew quite well, that he

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was a most depraved knave to gambling, and i'll vice the slave. Her

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eyes opened, But when too late
to save herself from such a fate,

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she was alas a gambler's wife,
for better or worse all her life,

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the worse and not the better,
came, although she tried just the same

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to win him from his wickedness,
his gambling, and his drunkenness. A

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sad awakening indeed was hers days spent
in wretchedness and tears, and far along

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into the night, waiting, watching
for the dread sight the hero of her

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dream uncrowned, Her bright hopes dashed
to the ground. Many a Christmas come

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and go, bringing little joy and
much woe. First a baby girl,

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then a boy. These constituted all
her joy. Long years have passed,

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years of pain, and Christmas time
has come again. What changes in those

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years have come to Mamie? Daughter
and son? A widow now and in

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distress. Her husband left her pennyless
five years ago. He passed away,

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but she has managed till this day
to meet the wants of those she loved.

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A heavy task and one that proved
too great a load for her frail

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form, with sickness, grief,
and anguish worn. The boy, a

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sturdy little lad to lend his help, was ever glad his sister with her

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loving care. Her mother's anguish tried
to share. Sickness sorrow had done their

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worst, and Maimie thought her heart
would burst as she no longer could provide

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for those dearer than all beside to
her, they were her very life,

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none more dear since she'd been a
wife. We'll leave them for a little

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space another life in this tale to
trace, John too had left the veil

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and glen where life to him had
pleasant been, For Mamie was his source

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of joy. She had gone,
and alas poor boy, what had been

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blissed to him before now brought sorrow
to his door. For every scene and

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every face reminded him of her.
The place full of delight when she was

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there, now held for him but
deep despair. Thus John also went his

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way, and it knew him not
from that day. With him too,

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ten years have passed flown, you
may say, they've gone so fast.

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Our scene now not a village need, but city large, a busy street

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where traffic of the densest kind thrust
thoughts of rural scenes behind, where buildings

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towering to the skies attract attention by
their size, and men employed in deadly

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strife for what money, their god, their life. We'll enter here a

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monstrous pile, a building of the
latest style, where almost dwells a merchant

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prince, yes, dwells for it
is not long since this merchant from the

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lowest round, by centering all his
will, has found the topmost limit of

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his fame, made for himself a
mighty name. From east to west.

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He is well known in every village
and small town. Is he happy?

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Well, may we ask, since
he has achieved this great task, a

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mighty power he has become. But
then, well, what about his home?

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Has he any loving wife whose smile
welcomes to his home, and the

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while, with gentle hands pressed to
his face, tries to read his every

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thought and trace with anxious eyes that
search him through to see if there are

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troubles, new that she might ease
them with her care, and thus with

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the dear one, to share what
she would bear full well as he sharing

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with him the stormy sea of life, with all its joys and woes.

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His friends are hers, as are
his foes. Home with loving wife,

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children too, were loving supreme known
to few. Is this the incentive to

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his fame, this the power behind
his name? No, this desire to

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lose all thought of just such scenes
is what he sought. Plunging into the

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whirl and strife they served for him
as child and wife. No home,

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just where to lay his head,
business thoughts to all others dead happiness,

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Why it long had flown these many
years he had not known. We'll look

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now at this merchant prince we may
have known him not long since, engrossed

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in thoughts and sitting there amidst a
whirl of business care, a man with

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brow of noble height, fitted by
nature for the fight, a man of

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men who commands respect, one of
great power and intellect. Years indeed have

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changed his face. Still in the
noble lines we trace our old friend John.

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What can it be, yes,
dear reader, indeed tis he Years

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have brought him a noble mien,
with greatness and much worldly gain. But

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in his face our lines of care
for happiness is absent. There. Yes,

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it is John, still kind and
true in all else, the same

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John we knew, older, more
thoughtful, still the same, spite of

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the greatness of his name. See
with what kindly smile he greets, that

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little boy who, from the streets
with papers to his desk, has come

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trying to help with the small sum
he may earn in this humble way those

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he loves. And from day to
day he's here, and John has seen

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him oft, greeting him in tones
mild and soft? What is your name,

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my little lad? We hear John
say, his eyes looked sad to

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see this one, so young and
fair, with sparkling eyes and curly hair,

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neatly dressed and winning ways. Mayhap
he had seen better days, John

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sir, he in answering, said, and Mas sick and Pa is dead.

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Why that is my name too,
my boy, said John, and

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to the other's joy, gave him
a sum, with which he fled to

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his poor mother, now ill in
bed. It's Christmas Eve, and with

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what joy the mother greets her darling
boy. A great hotel is our next

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scene, which, decked in festive
holly green and flashing lights and busy throng,

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a scene to be remembered long.
We see crowds hurrying to and fro.

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Some are coming while others go,
making a picture full of life,

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a whirl, a rush, an
endless strife to one not used to city

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ways, filling with wonder and amaze
that little girl with bashful air selling flowers.

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She seems so fair many by,
and they little know what brings the

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blushes to her brow. Tis pleasure, yes, and also pain to think

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that with this little gain she may
restore to that mother dear, health,

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happiness, and some good cheer,
nurtured with most tender care. Out of

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place was her presence there. Why
here again is our friend John? Amidst

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this whirl and busy throng the child
attracts him by her grace, something so

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winning in her face? Or does
he see some likeness there of one who

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wants to him? Was dear?
He approaches her, asks her name,

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Mamie, sir. Quick The answer
came Maimie, he said, to her

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surprise, looking into her deep dark
eyes, her mother's eyes. Yes,

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they were hers. No thought of
this to John occurs, but the attraction

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was the same as once again he
heard her name. Why are you here?

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He kindly said, ma, Ma
is sick and Pa is dead.

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She answered in the simplest way.
John heard this once before. Today He

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asked, have you a brother?
John? He spoke so kind The little

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one was drawn to him and answered
yes. Did he not now the secret

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guess that she was Mamie's child?
The name ever dear to him, loved

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the same for all his thoughts were
of her still through all these years.

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Nor thought he ill that the one
he loved had fled from him. Her

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own heart's choice to wed. He
had loved her with unselfish love, his

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own heart crushed still, he strove
her memory in his heart to shrine to

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him. She still was all divine. He knew not where she'd gone,

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nor thought the battle poor Mamie had
fought, the shame, the poverty,

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the disgrace that she had found in
that same place where he had made a

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name so great. It all seemed
like the hand of fate that these two,

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to Mamie so dear, should receive
from him Christmas cheer. Their story

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so impressed his mind, the names
too, and he thought he'd find just

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where they lived. He would call
on Christmas Day and see them all.

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Bought her flowers her little store with
more than she had seen before. He

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then dismissed her to her home,
telling the time that he would come.

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The bells ring out tis Christmas Day, and kind Santa Claus with his sleigh

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has caught all the homes he knew, dear reader, they were not a

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few. Hearts were made glad and
faces bright that they'd been thought of in

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the night, Stockings filled and tables
grown of many who dread want had known,

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will visit Mamie in her home.
Here want and poverty had come.

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Old Santa Claus too had been here, bringing happiness and good cheer. A

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large tree in the parlor stood decked
with things useful and good, and Mamie's

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face it shone with joy, as
her daughter and darling boy repeat the story

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of the one who to them this
great good had done. Who could he

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be John? That's his name,
she conned it? Or in aura again?

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Could it be the kind John she
knew so many long years ago,

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and who loved her? Yes,
now she knew quite well alas had she.

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But let him tell his love for
her before he came, that stranger,

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and whose very name long since loathsome
to her, and who had outraged

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every good she knew, well well, she thought enough of this twas not

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to be. We do not miss
the joy and bliss that might be ours

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until they're gone, and all the
powers cannot recall the past, nor say

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what may be in store for us
to day. Hark is that a knock

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at the door. The clock has
struck the hour of four, the hour

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he named the stranger John. Listen, children, he's come, He's come.

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They hastened to the door. Tis
he They both are glad his face.

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To see each takes a hand of
the kind friend whose thoughtfulness deigned to

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send those rich gifts to that mother
dear. Their hearts were full. They

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brought him nearer to their loved one
and his own, the one who was

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his joy and crown. Maimie John
was all that was said, as each

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the other's thoughts now read. She
saw in his eyes the same deep love

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now long dearer to her, far
above all things else which this world could

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hold, and wondered why she'd been
so cold. He saw all this and

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read her thought his mamy, indeed
is what he sought. Such a Christmas,

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so blessed with joy. Their hearts
were full without alloy. Another Christmas

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and another bride. And now tis
John stands by her side. Maimie,

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older yet full of grace. Happiness
now lights up her face. Joy is

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hers, for she now has found
in him all that her fancy crowned.

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Ring joyous bells with merry chime,
This merry, merry Christmas time and of

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the Christmas Bride. By Charles Nicholas
Tryvis