Peleg's mother, one of those gentle women, who seem only
able to hold life in its sunshine aspects, but whose experience is
an evidence that they have latent strength for cloud and storm,
was worse than widowed, because her husband, John Brown,
had, for several years, been a confirmed drunkard, dependent upon
the efforts of his gentle wife and feeble son for his food, raiment
and shelter, as well as for the means, obtained through force
and stealth, by which he purchased, at the village grog-shop, the
numerous drams that rendered his wife a creature of sorrow, and
his son a youth shunned and forsaken by the boys of his age.

It was Christmas—a holiday to most boys—but a day of labor
to Peleg Brown. With his saw-buck upon his shoulder and
his wood-saw under his arm, Peleg trudged through the snow,
from one house to another, seeking a job. A pile of wood in
front of the mansion of one of the wealthiest men of the village
attracted his attention, and he begged the privilege of sawing it
into proper stove-lengths. He was told that he might carry it
into the back-yard, saw it, and pile it in the wood-house. It
was a good job, Peleg was a small boy, but he thought how many
comforts he might buy his mother with the money the job would
bring him, and, with a cheerful heart, and a willing hand, he
went to work. Noon came and he sat down on his saw-buck to
eat his frugal Christmas dinner. It was a blustering day, and
the snow, whirled from the tops of the houses, fell upon Peleg,
until he looked as if he were a miller's apprentice, but he heeded
not the snow or the cold, and was hurrying with his repast, that
he might have the more time to work, when he found himself
face to face, with a handsome, well dressed boy, about his own
age, but of much larger size, who said to him:

“Halloa, little fellow, how much did you have to spend for
Christmas?”

“I had nothing, sir,” honestly answered Peleg, somewhat

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astonished at the abrupt question, “but if I work well to-day,
mother will make a nice pie when I go home.”

“Ha, ha,” cried the well dressed boy—“work on a Christmas
and get a nice pie for it. You're a little unfortunate. Where
do you live?”

This was said with an air, as if the speaker regarded Peleg a
curiosity; but Peleg was too honest to notice such irony, and he
answered frankly.

“I live in the little house back of the church on the common.”

“Oh! ho! then, you're the son of drunken Brown. No
wonder you don't have any money to spend on Christmas. I
had three dollars—my father ain't a drunkard.”

Peleg was hurt—sorely hurt—but he thought of his mother
and uttered no retort. He made his saw run glibly through the
wood, and paid no attention to the careless boy that had taunted
him. When he turned around to get another stick of wood to
lay upon his buck, he noticed that his tormentor was gone.

This boy was the only son of the merchant for whom Peleg
was sawing wood. When he left the yard, he ran into the parlor,
where his mother, father and sister were sitting, and marching
up to the latter, he whispered,

“There's a character in the yard, Jane, a chap that'll just
suit you. He is sawing wood on Christmas to get a pie at night.
Ain't he a character?”

“What character,” inquired the father, catching the last
words, “come, Frank, what mischief have you been up to
now?”

“Nothing, Pa,” returned the boy, “only I had been out to
see my pony, when I found a character in the yard—the son of
drunkard Brown is sawing our wood, and I had some fun with
him.”

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“You did not make fun of his misfortunes, I hope, my son,”
said the mother.

“No, mamma,” returned Frank, “I only laughed at him a
little for having to saw wood on Christmas, and being content
with a nice pie at night.”

“That was naughty, Frank,” said Jane.

“Come, come, Jane,” interrupted the father, “let Frank
have his sport to-day. You may preach to him to-morrow.
But, Frank, you must not associate with drunkard's sons and
wood-sawyers. It is bad enough to have one in the family given
to such company.”

The last sentence was intended as a reprimand to Jane.
She felt it, and left the parlor. As she walked to her own room,
the tears started in her eyes, and her heart said “Why does not
father love me? He tells me I am homely. He says Frank is
his only pride: but I love father, though he never does call me
Pet. I'm sure if I do associate with drunkard's children it's not
to disobey Pa, but it is because I love to see them have something
good to eat, and wear. Ma loves me for this, and other
people say I am good. Why does not Pa love me?”

Again, and again she asked herself this question, and still
she could find no answer, but that she was a homely girl, and
Frank was a handsome boy. She did not feel that her father
was a worldly man—one whose heart was on houses and lands
and stocks and bills—that he loved Frank because he was fine
ooking, and, what the parent was pleased to term, a “sharp”
boy—that he expected him to sustain the credit of the house of
Pridore & Co., and that he had nothing to expect of Jane, because
she was not only homely, but seemed to have no joy in
the society of the rich and proud who visited his house—would
rather, even when it stormed, carry a basket of clothing around
to the poor children in the neighborhood, than sit in the parlor

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and play the piano for visiters. Frank laughed at Jane for these
“whims.” He loved the dashing company that visited his father's
house—he was well pleased when his father allowed him
to sit down with the proud visiters to a rich supper, and drink the
choice wine which flowed freely around the board. Sometimes
his mother thought he took too much wine, but the father said,

“No. It don't hurt him. He's of the real Pridore stock.
He knows what good wine is, and it is good for him.”

Night was approaching—little Peleg prepared to quit work
for the day. His “job” was not finished, but he sent a modest
request into the house that, as it was Christmas, he might be paid
for what he had done; promising to come on the morrow and
complete his work. His request was granted, and he was carefully
placing the hard earned sixpences in the pocket of his ragged
jacket, when a young lady crossed the yard towards him.
It was Jane; who had determined to do something for the drunkard's
son, which would cause him to forget Frank's harshness,
and remember that Christmas with pleasure.

She spoke kindly to Peleg, and told him he must not think
hard of what her brother had said. He was a thoughtless boy.

“I didn't only for a moment, kind lady,” said Peleg, “I
know he doesn't feel what it is to be a drunkard's son. I am
a poor boy, but I've got a good mother, and I love her.”

“You are a good boy,” said Jane, “stay here a moment
I have something to send your mother.”

Peleg put down his saw-buck, and Jane ran into the house.
In a moment she appeared again, bringing a basket which was
carefully covered, and which Peleg found to be heavy when
Jane put it into his hand, saying,—

“Carry this to your mother, and tell her it is from Jane
Pridore.”

“We are not beggars,” was on Peleg's lip, but Jane smiled

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upon him so sweetly, he could not say it. Thanking her with
a tone which made her heart thrill, he bid her good evening,
and ran homewards. He had worked hard, and he was tired;
he carried his wood-saw and buck and a heavy basket, but the
remembrance of Jane's smile was warm in his heart, and he
walked not a step until he reached his mother's cottage.

He was gladly received—joyfully welcomed, and the basket
was quickly opened. There, nicely and carefully packed, was
an assortment of delicacies such as Peleg had never partaken of,
and such as his mother had not seen for many years.

The mother prepared the Christmas supper in the neatest
style her meagerly furnished house would allow, and when Peleg
had dressed himself, in his Sabbath school suit, they sat down
to such a repast as had never been eaten in that cottage. There
was but one thing wanting to complete comfort—the husband
and father could not partake with mother and son. He was at
the village grog-shop, and he did not come home till long after
Peleg had recited his lessons to his mother, and was dreaming of
Jane Pridore.

The wife had left for the husband a portion of the Christmas
supper in the most tempting manner she could prepare it, but he
was in no mood for “delicacies.” He threw himself upon his
couch—slept the sleep of a drunkard, and was away from the
cottage again as soon as it was light, seeking his bitters.

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