IN the year 1 of our blessed Lord, a carpenter came with his wife to Bethlehem to pay his taxes, and it is to be hoped he did not have to shut his eyes and grit his teeth as I did when I paid mine in the year 1867 of our blessed Lord.

If the taxes at Bethlehem were on the scale of the taxes at Chicago, it is no wonder that the carpenter and his wife lodged in a stable.

On that night a Child was born among the cattle, and the angels opened the doors of Heaven and flooded the whole Bethlehem Plain with music, what time the shepherds leaned upon their staves to listen, and the sheep knelt down upon their knees in adoration. And wise, long-bearded Magi of the Orient came upon their camels, bearing gifts with them and following the star which never tarried until it stood over the young Child.

And from that Christmas to this Christmas, do I solemnly believe, that on each recurrence of the birthday of our blessed Lord, the angels open wide the doors of Heaven and smile upon each young child, and that some star still stands over each young child to guide Santa Claus on his beautiful errand.

Now I know that old Midas, who never had an aspiration of soul that soared higher than a quintal of codfish, nor an imagination that was not regularly ruled and indexed with a Dr. on one side, and a Cr. on the other, and a $ all over it; and that Mrs. Midas, whose theory of life is bounded by a bonnet-string and colored with the latest Bismarck shade, will shrug shoulders at the idea. And well they may, for I think it exceedingly doubtful whether the smallest star in the canopy would find it worth while to stand over either of them. And yet do I believe that there are choice spirits over whom a star stands, raining down blessed influences and ever bringing them closer together.

And thus the first Christmas was celebrated in that Bethlehem stable one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven years ago, and when it was over, the carpenter took his tax receipt, unvexed by special assessments for lamp posts, Nicolson pavements, plank sidewalks, etc., and went on his way rejoicing.

It seems to me, furthermore, that I hang up my stocking—that stocking which all the rest of the year has held only a foot, terror to shoemakers, and a bunion worthy its namesake, the immortal Tinker—on the most beautiful day of the year. It comes set like a jewel in the very heart of winter; when all nature is at rest; when the days are shortest and the nights are darkest; when every bird is silent upon the hillside; when no leaf is green but the holly, and the ivy, and the winter-green; when the weather is bleakest without but cheeriest within; when the storms sweep through the streets and the house-fires glow ruddiest on the hearths; when the grayest sky is made bright by Santa Claus, Kriss Kringle and the Christ-Kindchen; and Christmas-tide runs joyfully with wassail and taper-lighted tree, and song and dance. New Year has come to be hedged in by fashion. Fourth of July is a matter of buncombe. Thanksgiving is dear to the stomach. But Christmas is the day of all days—the best and the brightest of the year.

I would like to be a little child, or an old woman, it matters little which, to really enjoy Christmas. I would like to have back all the angles which friction with the world has rubbed off, and to thoroughly believe in the existence of that Laplander who drives his team of reindeer athwart the housetops, tethers them to the chimneys, and fills up the small stockings on the bed-posts; and to stand before a Christmas tree under the firm conviction that there never was anything so beautiful in the world before.

Or I would like to be an old woman, to sit, with my feet to the fire, in the arm-chair, with my best cap on, and just one gray curl escaping from it—that identical curl which played the deuce with gouty, rheumatic, splenetic, dear old John Anderson, in the chair opposite, half a century ago, when we were the pride of the whole country-side; with not a single wrinkle on my smooth face; with my silk gown on, which will stand alone; with my flock of children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren trooping about me; with blessed memories of a long and well-spent life: with tender recollections of eighty Christmases, dead and under the snow, whose ghosts flit by me in the ashes; with the beautiful privilege of extending my hands over the young heads and blessing them, as the Lord Christ stretches his hands in benediction over the earth each Christmas, and confers upon it the gift of his grace.

Even the crisp brown goose, smoking upon the platter, down whose streaming sides the little rivulets of rich gravy are trickling, his breast bursting with all savory essences, happy in his side pieces and doubly blessed in his second joints, is to be congratulated on his culinary canonization. The bald eagle, flying from the Atlantic to the Pacific, gazing at the sun because it don't hurt him a particle, and stealing chickens and other small deer from the barnyards; and the strutting turkey of Thanksgiving, with his shrivelled, chippy breast and stringy legs, are unworthy of mention by the side of the Christmas goose. Is it not well worth the while of any feathered biped to be a fool through life, the scoff and scorn of dogs and men, if haply he may achieve an apotheosis like that of the Christmas goose? He dies that we may dine. He dies in the flesh to resurrect in the oven. He passes from mortal sight to reappear in pate de foie gras. He gives his head cheerfully to the block that his body may be the crowning glory and the holocaust of Christmas-tide. His life, homely and foolish as it is, is not altogether in vain. How many of us bipeds without feathers may lay claim to the same merits?

If there is a sad spot in all the earth, on Christmas morning, it must be the house where there are no children; over which no star stops; in which there is no small stocking to be filled; in which no juvenile carnival will be celebrated. The giving of gifts is one of the most blessed privileges of the day. Blessed, too, on that day, is the bachelor uncle or brother, who can confer gifts upon the little ones, and thrice blessed the good sister of every neighborhood, who makes glad so many little hearts. If there is a wretched person on earth, it must be the man who can't or won't make a Christmas gift.

And, in all our Christmas giving, let us remember this, that under many roofs no Christmas-tree will blaze, and on many hearths the ashes will be gray and cold; that in many homes the voice of the angel, proclaiming the Bethlehem message, "Peace on earth, and good will to men," will be silenced by the wolf at the door; that many little feet will be cold upon the pavement, wandering about in quest of food; that many little eyes will peer into the windows and wonder at the strange sights and sounds; that poverty, hunger and despair will be the only visitants at many firesides in this Christian land of ours, filled with feasting and plenty. Let us therefore in all our giving remember that "the greatest of these is charity." Let us remember that the abodes of poverty are doubly dear to us on this day of all the year. Let us cheer them with our bounty, and vivify them with words of joy and hope. Let us make our star stand over these homes. Let us remember the poor, for the first Christmas was celebrated in a stable among the cattle, and the Christ-child was born in a manger, for the carpenter and his wife, who came down to pay taxes, were very poor.

My carol would not be closed without my Christmas wishes. And therefore a merry Christmas-tide to all gentle people, and a blotting out of all enmities on Christmas morn. A merry Christmas to all, saints and sinners. A merry Christmas to Aurelia and Celeste basking in the sunshine, and to Bridget in the shade. A merry Christmas to my enemy, whom I forgive, and to my friend, in whose heart I live. A merry Christmas to all children whose little lips will syllable the sweet utterances of childhood. A merry Christmas to the homeless, and the outcasts, and the Pariahs—God help them. A merry Christmas to my creditors, and many returns of the same. A merry Christmas and a full wassail bowl to all good fellows. A merry Christmas to the Tribune and all its readers, and, Mr. Editor, a merry Christmas to you upon your tripod, and may your stockings be well filled.

And "Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace, and good will to men."

December 25, 1867.