and when I tried to put it back he seized me and yelled that I was murdering him! I saw no horse under the saddle."

"Wait here a little," said Tip-Top. "Hold this thief till I return.”

He went to the stable, woke the thief's accomplice, who by this time was really asleep, and told him his companion had been captured. "If I can find the horse and hide it our friend will be safe, for nothing can be proved on him."

The man was so frightened that he told Tip-Top where he had arranged to meet the thief the next day. Then Tip-Top returned to the Mayor and his brother, who still held the thief, and took them to the house where the horse had been stabled.

When the horse had been found and restored to its owner the Mayor said to Tip-Top that he would not only reward him handsomely but grant any request he might make.

"Then, your honor," replied Tip-Top, "give this man his liberty."

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Why?" asked the Mayor, much astonished.
Because, your honor, he is my brother."

The thief was as much astonished as the Mayor at this turn in his affairs, but he had no difficulty in recognizing Tip-Top as his younger brother.

"He certainly is a man of talent," said the Mayor, "and it is a pity that he should be executed."

Then the thief fell on his knees and begged the Mayor to pardon him, promising him to live and die an honest man. And he kept his promise. He engaged in business, and, aided by Tip-Top's advice and influence, made a large fortune.

LITTLE GOTTLIEB1

A CHRISTMAS STORY

PHOEBE CARY

ACROSS the German Ocean,

In a country far from our own,
Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,
Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in the part of a village

Where the houses were poor and small,
But the home of little Gottlieb

Was the poorest one of all.

He was not large enough to work,

And his mother could do no more (Though she scarcely laid her knitting down) Than keep the wolf from the door.

She had to take their threadbare clothes,

And turn, and patch, and darn ;

For never any women yet

Grew rich by knitting yarn.

And oft at night, beside her chair,

Would Gottlieb sit, and plan

The wonderful things he would do for her,
When he grew to be a man.

1 From the Poetical Works of Alice and Phoebe Cary, copyright, 1882, by Houghton, Mifflin and Company.

One night she sat and knitted,
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,
When a happy fancy all at once
Upon his vision beamed.

'T was only a week till Christmas,
And Gottlieb knew that then
The Christ-child, who was born that day,
Sent down good gifts to men.

But he said, "He will never find us,
Our home is so mean and small,
And we, who have most need of them,
Will get no gifts at all."

When all at once a happy light
Came into his eyes so blue,

And lighted up his face with smiles,
As he thought what he could do.

Next day when the postman's letters
Came from all over the land;
Came one for the Christ-child, written
In a child's poor trembling hand.

You may think he was sorely puzzled
What in the world to do;

So he went to the Burgomaster,
As the wisest man he knew.

And when they opened the letter,
They stood almost dismayed
That such a little child should dare
To ask the Lord for aid.

Then the Burgomaster stammered,
And scarce knew what to speak,
And hastily he brushed aside

A drop, like a tear, from his cheek

Then up he spoke right gruffly,
And he turned himself about:
"This must be a very foolish boy,
And a small one, too, no doubt."

But when six rosy children

That night about him pressed, Poor, trusting little Gottlieb

Stood near him, with the rest.

And he heard his simple, touching prayer,
Through all their noisy play;
Though he tried his very best to put
The thought of him away.

A wise and learned man was he,
Men called him good and just;

But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,
By that weak child's simple trust.

Now when the morn of Christmas came,
And the long, long week was done,
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,
Rose up before the sun,

And hastened to his mother,

But he scarce might speak for fear, When he saw her wondering look, and saw The Burgomaster near.

He was n't afraid of the Holy Babe,

Nor his mother, meek and mild; But he felt as if so great a man Had never been a child.

Amazed the poor child looked, to find
The hearth was piled with wood,
And the table, never full before,
Was heaped with dainty food.

Then half to hide from himself the truth
The Burgomaster said,

While the mother blessed him on her knees,
And Gottlieb shook for dread;

"Nay, give no thanks, my good dame,

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To such as me for aid,

Be grateful to your little son,

And the Lord to whom he prayed!"

Then turning round to Gottlieb,

"Your written prayer, you see, Came not to whom it was addressed, It only came to me!

""T was but a foolish thing you did,

As you must understand;

For though the gifts are yours, you know,
You have them from my hand."

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly,

Where he humbly stood apart,

"But the Christ-child sent them all the same, He put the thought in your heart!"