It was the afternoon of Christmas eve. The weather was delightfully mild for the season, and the sky without a cloud. The streets of Philadelphia were unusually crowded, and the whole appearance of the city was gay and animated. The fancy stores were resplendent with elegant ribbons, laces, scarfs, and reticules, and the shops for artificial flowers, made a display which rivaled nature in her most blooming season. It was a pleasing spectacle to see so many parents leading their children, all with happy faces; some full of hope, and others replete with satisfaction; some going to buy Christmas gifts, others carrying home those already purchased. Mr. Woodley went out with his two boys to choose little presents for them, regretting that Amelia, his eldest daughter, was obliged to remain at home in consequence of a severe cold.

They soon entered a toy-shop, where Charles made choice of a toy representing William Tell directing his arrow toward the apple on the head of his son, who stood blindfold at a little distance, and, by pulling a string, the arrow took flight and struck the apple off the boy's head. This Charles called a very sensible toy, and his father bought him also a box containing little wooden houses, churches, and trees, which could be so arranged as to form a village.

Oswald, who was long since past the age of toys, selected, at a neighbouring shop, a very pretty and curious little writing apparatus of the purest and most transparent white marble. It looked like a very small vase, but it contained an ink-stand, sand-box, wafer-box, a candlestick for a wax taper, and a receptacle for pens: all nicely fitting into each other, and so ingeniously contrived as to occupy the smallest space possible.

"Oswald," said Mr. Woodley, "you have chosen so well for yourself, that I will leave to you the selection of a present for your sister Amelia. Oswald thought of many things before he could fix on any one that he supposed would be useful or agreeable to Amelia. She had already a handsome work-box, a bead-purse, and a case of little perfume bottles. For a moment his choice inclined to one of the elegant reticules he saw in a window they were just passing, and then he recollected that Amelia could make very beautiful reticules herself. At last, he fixed on a Souvenir, and wondered that the thought had not struck him before, as Amelia drew very well, and was an enthusiastic admirer of fine engravings. They repaired to a neighbouring book-store, where, amid a variety of splendid Souvenirs, Oswald selected for his sister one of those that he considered the most beautiful, and had the pleasure of carrying it home to her.

To describe the delight of Amelia on receiving this elegant present, is impossible. She spread a clean handkerchief over her lap before she drew the book from its case, that it might not be soiled in the slightest degree, and she removed to a distance from the fire lest the cover should be warped by the heat. After she had eagerly looked all through it, she commenced again, and examined the plates with the most minute attention. She then showed them to her little brother and sister, carefully, however, keeping the book in her own hands.

"Amelia," said Oswald, "I know a boy that would be very happy to examine this Souvenir. He has no opportunity of seeing any thing of the kind, except by gazing at the windows of the book-stores."

Amelia.—And who is this boy?

Oswald.—His father, who has seen better days, is an assistant in our school, and the boy himself is one of the pupils. His name is Edwin Lovel. He has a most extraordinary genius for drawing, though he has never had the means of cultivating it to any extent. He is a very sensible boy, and I like him better than any one in the school. His mother must be a nice woman, for though their income is very small, Edwin always makes a genteel appearance, and is uniformly clean and neat. He is also extremely handsome. All his leisure time is devoted to drawing. He first began on the slate, when he was only four years old, and had nothing else to draw on till he was nine or ten. Now, he saves what little money he has, for the purpose of buying paper and pencils. He has no box of colours, but draws only in Indian ink, which he does most beautifully. He never likes to see any thing wasted that can be used for drawing, and is even glad to get the cover of a letter.

Amelia.—You remind me of the French artist Godfrey's fine picture of the Battle of Pultowa, which he drew, while in prison, on the backs of letters pasted together; using, instead of Indian ink or colours, the soot of the stove-pipe mixed with water.

Oswald.—Well, Edwin Lovel is not quite so much at a loss for drawing materials, for he has a cake of Indian ink and four camel's hair pencils. He draws with a pen beautiful title-pages, decorated with vignettes, for his copy-books and ciphering-books; and the boys pay him for ornamenting their writing-pieces. He was for a long time very unwilling to take money for those things, but we finally prevailed on him, though with great difficulty. He passes most of his evenings in drawing; that is, when he has any candle of his own, for he will not, even in the pursuit of his favourite gratification, cause the slightest additional expense to his parents, who find it very hard to live on his father's small salary. Amelia.—What an excellent boy he must be.

Oswald.—Last Saturday afternoon, I thought I would go for him and take him to see some very fine pictures which were to be sold at auction on Monday. The door was opened by a half-grown black girl, (their only servant,) who was probably not accustomed to admitting visiters, and, therefore, knew no better than to show me at once up stairs to Edwin's chamber; a very small place, perfectly clean, but furnished in the most economical manner. There was no fire in the room. Edwin was sitting at a little pine table with his great coat on, and his feet enveloped in an old muff of his mother's to keep them warm. He was busily engaged in copying a head of Decatur from a China pitcher, improving on it so greatly as to make it a very fine drawing.

Amelia.—Poor fellow! had he nothing better to copy?

Oswald.—Why, I asked him that question, but he confessed that he was at so great a loss for models that he was glad to imitate any thing he could get; and that, having no instructer, he knew no better way to pick up a little knowledge of the general principles of the art, than by copying every thing that came in his way, provided it was not absolutely bad. I then reminded him that, as he could make admirable sketches from his own imagination, I thought he need not copy at all; but he disclaimed all pretensions to designing well, and then said that, even if his original attempts were tolerably successful, as outlines, it was only by drawing from prints or pictures that he could acquire a just idea of keeping, or of the distribution of light and shadow. He showed me, however, several original drawings, which my father would say evinced an extraordinary degree of talent, and some admirable copies, though many of them were taken from very coarse prints for want of better.

Amelia.—How very glad he would be to have this Souvenir to draw from.

Oswald.—He would, indeed. But that Souvenir cost three dollars, and I do not suppose that he ever had three dollars in his life, poor boy—I mean three dollars at once.

Amelia.—I will willingly lend it to him.

Oswald.—He has so little time to draw, that it would be a great while before he could return it; or rather, he would be so uneasy at keeping it long, that I know he would send it back before he had half done with it. And, besides, he would have no satisfaction in drawing from your book, as he would be in continual fear of dropping his brush on one of the leaves, or of accidentally injuring it in some way or other. He is very unwilling to borrow any thing that is new or valuable.

Amelia.—What a pity that a boy of so much genius should find any difficulties in his way.

Oswald.—There are too many similar instances. Some of the most distinguished artists of the present age have been obliged, in early life, to struggle with indigence, and, indeed, with absolute poverty, much as Edwin Lovel is now doing.

The next morning, Amelia said to her brother as soon as she found him alone, "Oswald, I wish to ask you one question. When we receive a present, does it not become our own?"

Oswald.—Certainly.

Amelia.—And we are at liberty to do exactly what we please with it?

Oswald.—Precisely—only I think we had better not destroy it.

Amelia.—Of course, not—but we may give it away?

Oswald.—Why—I do not know—I should not like to give away a present received from a valued friend.

Amelia.—But if, in giving it away, you make the person on whom you bestow it more happy than you yourself could possibly be made by keeping it?

Oswald.—If you were sure that that would be the case——

Amelia.—Oh! I am very sure—I can answer for myself. Therefore, dear brother, I beg your acceptance of my Souvenir.

Oswald.—Why, Amelia, your kindness surprises me. You know I have already a Christmas gift; the beautiful writing case that my father bought for me yesterday. I cannot take your Souvenir. Amelia.—Dear Oswald, for once allow me to make you a present. It is the first time in my life I have had it in my power to offer you any thing of consequence. I shall be so happy, if you accept it—There it is, (laying the Souvenir on Oswald's knee.)

Oswald.—But, Amelia, how can you part so soon with your beautiful Souvenir? You were so delighted with it last evening.

Amelia.—I know every thing in it—I examined all the plates with the greatest attention, and I read it through before I went to bed.

Oswald.—(smiling.)—Well, Amelia, though you are so generous as to make me the owner of the Souvenir, you know it will still remain in the house. I will put it carefully away in my little book case, and whenever you wish to look at it, just tell me so, and you shall have it at any time.

Amelia.—(looking disappointed.)—But, Oswald, are you going to keep it always?

Oswald.—Always, as the gift of my loving sister.

Amelia.—But I do not insist on your keeping it for ever, dear Oswald. You may give it away again—I shall not be the least offended if you give it away, provided you bestow it properly. Indeed, I would rather you should give it away than not—and as soon as possible, too—this very day, if you choose.

Oswald.—Surely, Amelia, you have a very strange way of making a present; desiring it to be given away again immediately. Amelia.—Why, Oswald, you know you do not draw.

Oswald.—No, indeed, to my great regret.

Amelia.—And, if you did, my father would always take care that you should be well supplied with models.

Oswald.—I suppose he would, as he never lets us want for any thing that could add to our improvement.

Amelia.—Had not the Souvenir better be given to a person that does draw very well,—beautifully, indeed,—but that has no money to buy models?

Oswald.—In one word—Had not the Souvenir better be given to Edwin Lovel?

Amelia.—Yes, since it must be told, that is exactly what I mean.

Oswald.—So I guessed from the beginning. But why did you take such a roundabout way of getting the book put into his possession?

Amelia.—Why, I do not suppose he would accept it from me, a young girl whom he has never seen; but he would be less scrupulous in taking it as your gift, as you are an acquaintance of his.

Oswald.—Say, a friend.

Amelia.—I know you so well, that, after our conversation last night, I was certain, if I gave the book to you, you would present it at once to the poor boy; and I was much disconcerted when you pretended at first that you would keep it always. Oswald.—Amelia, the book is yours, and the suggestion is yours, and I will not assume to myself more merit than I deserve. If you are determined on giving the Souvenir to Edwin Lovel, the best way is to seal it up in a sheet of white paper addressed to him, and with a few words written on the inside, requesting his acceptance of the book from an unknown admirer of early genius.

Amelia.—An excellent plan—I wonder I did not think of it before. I will set about it directly.

Oswald.—Here is a sheet of Ames's best letter-paper, and here is my new writing-box. Let it be used for the first time in a good cause.

Amelia.—(sits down and writes.)—I never wrote any thing with more pleasure.

Oswald.—Be sure to put "early genius."

Amelia.—I have.

Oswald.—Let me see—I never saw any writing of yours look so pretty. Now, I will put up the parcel, and tie it round with red tape, and seal it, for girls seldom do such things well—(he folds the book in the paper, ties, and seals it.) There, now direct it.

Amelia.—The next thing is, who shall we get to carry it to Edwin?

Oswald.—Why not William?

Amelia.—I do not wish my father to know it, lest he should think I set too little value on his Christmas present; and I will never ask a servant to do any thing for me that is to be kept from the knowledge of my parents. Oswald.—That is right. I will take the packet to the Intelligence Office, round the corner, and give one of the black boys that are always loitering there, a trifle to carry it to Mr. Lovel's, and just leave it with whoever opens the door.

Amelia.—That will do very well. Now, Oswald, make haste, for I hear my father coming.

Oswald easily procured a boy to carry the packet to the house of Mr. Lovel, who lived in one of the upper cross streets. The door was opened by the black girl, who immediately recognised the boy as an old acquaintance, and commenced a conversation with him. "Why, Ben," said she, "What is this you have brought for Master Edwin? I guess it's a book. It looks 'xactly like one. All done up so nice, and sealed. Why, I'm puzzled who sended it." "He did not tell me his name," replied the boy, "but I guess I know who he is, for all that. It's Master Oswald Woodley, Mr. Woodley, the great merchant's eldest son. My aunt is cook there, and I've often been in the kitchen. And he gave me a quarter-dollar for carrying it; and it must be 'livered into Master Edwin's own private, particular hands."

So saying, he departed, and the girl ran up to Edwin's room, holding out the parcel and saying, "Master Edwin, here's a book for you, signed, sealed, and delivered; sent by Master Oswald Woodley, oldest son of Mr. Woodley the great merchant."

Edwin took the book, and, on opening it, was much surprised to find the note written in a female hand, and the name of Amelia Woodley on the presentation plate of the Souvenir, which had been inscribed by her father the preceding evening, and which she had forgotten to erase before she sent it away. For some time, his pleasure in examining the beautiful plates absorbed every other consideration, and it was not till he had gone twice over them, that he thought of the mystery connected with the book. His honourable principles determined him not to accept it, as he saw that there was some secrecy about the whole transaction, and that probably the generous young lady, whose name it bore, had sent it to him without the knowledge of her parents. The beauty of the book was a great temptation, and he would have derived much pleasure from copying some of the fine plates, but still he could not reconcile it to his conscience to keep it, neither would he betray the kind-hearted Amelia to her father. He resolved to seal it up again, and leave it himself at Mr. Woodley's door, addressed to Oswald.

He took his last sheet of paper, and wrote in it as follows:—

"Accident has discovered to me to whom I am indebted for a most beautiful present, but though it has excited my warmest gratitude, I cannot consent to accept it under circumstances of mystery to which the parents of my kind friend may be strangers. I return it with a thousand acknowledgments.

Edwin Lovel." Having looked once more at the engravings, he put up the Souvenir, and set out himself to leave it at Mr. Woodley's house, intending to desire the servant that opened the door to give it to Master Oswald.

Mr. Woodley was sitting at the centre-table looking over some English newspapers, and he found in one of them a high eulogium on a new picture by an American artist, now in London. He read the piece aloud, and when he had concluded, "Amelia," said he, "if I am not mistaken, there is in your Souvenir an engraving from this picture. Let me look at it again." Amelia coloured and knew not what to say, and Oswald also seemed much embarrassed. "My dear," pursued Mr. Woodley, "did you not hear me? If you can get the book conveniently, I should like to look at that plate." Amelia, confused and trembling, tried to speak but could not, and her eyes were immediately filled with tears. "Amelia," said Mr. Woodley, "has any accident happened to the Souvenir?" "No, my dear father," she replied, "but I have given it away." "Is it possible," said Mr. Woodley, "that you were so soon tired of your father's Christmas gift?" "Oh! no, no," replied Amelia, "but there is a poor boy who draws beautifully, and I thought it would make him so happy. Dear Oswald, tell the whole."

Oswald then, as concisely as possible, related all the circumstances: and Mr. Woodley, after gently blaming the children for disposing of the book without consulting their parents, kissed Amelia, and commended her kindness and benevolence in bestowing her Souvenir on poor Edwin Lovel.

Just then a ring was heard at the front door, and William brought in and gave to Oswald the packet, which had been left that moment by Edwin. "Ah!" exclaimed Oswald, on opening the parcel, "this is so like Edwin. He sends back the Souvenir." He then gave Edwin's note to Mr. Woodley, who, after reading it, went to the desk and wrote a billet addressed to Edwin's father, in which he requested him to permit his son to join his family that day at their Christmas dinner. William was immediately despatched to Mr. Lovel's with the note, and in a short time Edwin arrived, looking very happy; and Mr. Woodley shook him heartily by the hand, on being introduced to him by Oswald. Then, taking up the Souvenir, he held it out to Amelia, and desired her to present it a second time to her brother's young friend. "With my sanction," said Mr. Woodley to Edwin, "you will not again refuse my daughter's gift, though you so honourably returned it when you suspected that she offered it unknown to her parents."

Edwin spent the day with the Woodley family, who were all delighted with his modesty and good sense, and Mr. Woodley made him promise to repeat his visit as often as he had leisure. That evening, Amelia's uncle brought her a present of an Album, bound in green morocco and handsomely gilt, and Edwin requested that she would allow him to take it home and draw something in it.

When he returned the Album, it contained copies, in Indian ink, of the most beautiful plates of the Souvenir, executed in Edwin's very best manner. Mr. Woodley presented Edwin with a portfolio, containing a selection of fine prints, and eventually made arrangements with a distinguished artist to take him as a pupil: his taste for drawing being so decided, and his indications of genius so extraordinary, it was thought best to yield to his desire of making painting his profession.

Finding Edwin's father to be a very deserving man, Mr. Woodley assisted him to re-establish himself in business, regretting that he should so long have been condemned to the irksome life of a teacher in a school. He was soon enabled to occupy a better house, and to live once more in the enjoyment of every comfort.

E. L.