Thanksgiving On Cherry Hill

Cherry Hill was alive with sruall boys dressed as girls and still smaller girls dressed as boys yesterday, frotu early dawn until the street lamps blinked and vvinked at each other through the dusky twilight- long af'ter suaall boys and smaller girls should have beer; in bed. Never was a Thanksgi ving day eelebrated with more vociferous and ear piercing enthusiasm, though it would have taken a far wiser man than the wisest of wise philosophers to teil what the little celebrants had to be so noisily thankful for. It must have been 4 o'clock in the afternoon, for the corpulent old gentleman had eaten his Thanksgiving dinner a full hour before he started out froia his comfortable home to walk to an east side ferry, when he appeared on Bayard street. The day had grown cold and cheerless, but this did not affect the spirits of the mob of merry makers who surrounded him the moment his forrn came into siglit. He had barely escaped one troop of youthful highwaymen, who crowded his patlivvay and bolüly demanded tribute, before he ran plump into the tnidst of another party of foragers. Most corpulent men would have lost their temper, if not their pocketbooks, but this old gentleman was not so aged that he had forgotten that he was once a boy himself , and thus he managed to keep all of the former and a considerable portion of the latter. Long before he reached Mott street news of his generosity had preceded him, and when he found himself at this point further progres3 seemed impracticable, if not altogether impossible. Boys whose smudgy faces were hidden behind all sorts of masks of all degrees of ness blocked his way, andother urchins, who were obliged by poverty to wear their dirt witli shamciless openness, as6ailed him in the rear. It was here that he realized his danger, and summoning all his strength he pushed his way through the throng and found safety in flight and an alley way half a blook down the street. Waiting a moment to recover his breath and arrange for another dash for liberty, he noticed a small boy crouching on the hard pavement, his face buried in his hands - a picture of abject and juvenile ruisery. "What's the matter, my boy? Why are you not with the other little robbers on the street?" asked the old gentleman kindly. "Please, sir, I don't want to." "Don't want to?" repeated the philanthropist curiously. "Whafs the matter?" "Please, sir, me sister's dead and I can't play wid der boys." The little boy looked up into the old gentleman's face. Then he reburied his face in his hands and sobbed bitterly. "Bless my soul!" ejaculated the pliilanthropist, as he wiped hiseyes. "Thafa tough. Where do you live?" "Down de alley on de top floor back, de last house." "Well, come on. Til go down with you. Here, stop that crying. Here," and he drew from his pocket a silver dollar, "take this, and show mo the way to your house. 111 go with you." The little fellow rose to his feet, grasped his benelactor's hand in effusive gratitude and prepared to lead the way. "When did your sister die?" "Last night. She was sick and we didn"t have nothin' to eat. We ain't got nothin' there now." "Well, well, well," and the old gentleman cleared his throat with an effort. "Thafs bad. That is bad. Nothing to eat on Thanksgiving Day. Here, hold on. You take this $5 and go round to the grocery and teil them to send sonie coal, a turkey, some bread, some pie, flour and anything else you want to your rooms right off. 111 wait for you here. Don't be gone long." Like a flash the boy was off. It certainly was an hour before the old gentleman reappeared on Mulberry street. The day was darker than before, the boys noisier, if possible, and their costumes more terrifying. But among the lads the bereaved brother was nowhere to loe seen. 'Til go around to the store to see what's become of hini," observed the philanthropist to himself. Half way down the block, justabove the corner and under the protecting shelter of a grocery awning, were seated a party of urchins, busily munching pastry, smoking cigarettes and incidentally giving vent to sundry wild whoops indicative of a glee too joyous to be confined. One of the boys was entertaining the rest with a tale. "Didn't I do it hunk?" exclaimed the reconteur, with a chuckle of conscious pride. "Yer did it up hunk," exclaimed his listeners in a chorus, "you bet." "Oh! I'm a daisy on the hunk biz," continued the young hero, modestly. "I piped de big bloke off soon as I seed him and "Whager give him, Swipes?" "I give him a big steer 'bout me dead sister an' worked him for six bones. Den I skipped. Oh, Lordyl what'sdat?" "1 11 teach you (whack) young rascáis to steal my raoney (whack) and lie to me. I'll catch you and" But he didn't, and when the angry old gentleman looked around him he was alone with the gathering gloom, a dozen smoking cigarette etumps, a small paper of baker's pies and a handful or 6O of soiled candy. And nowthere isone more ex-philanthropist added to this cruel, selnsh, grasping old world. - New York Mail and Express. Innocent Child- Mamma, where's our turkey? Don't we keep Thanksgiving like other people? Mamma (advanced tliinker and dietetic reformer) - Dio Lewis Fowler Wells Graham Jones, you ungrateful boy, you Bhock me! Eat your good oatmeal and your delicious gruel and drink your pure cold water and be thankful, or ï'll spank you. - Chicago Tribune. In Denmark, when a man is found Mpon the streets "blind drunk," a policeman calis a carriage, sends the intoxicated man home in state, and the saloon keeper who sold him his last drink has to pay the carriage hire.