THE CHRIST CHURCH CHIMES.

It was a cold winter evening. The chill blast came sweeping from the chain of hills that guard our city on the north, laden with the cold breath of a thousand leagues of ice and snow. There was a sharp, polar glitter in the myriad stars that wheeled on their appointed course through the dark blue heaven, in whose expanse no single cloud was visible. Howling through the icy streets came the strong, wild north wind, tearing in its fierce frenzy the sailcloth awnings into tatters, swinging the public-house signs, and shaking the window shutters, like a bold burglar bent on the perpetration of crime. Then onward, onward it sped over the dark steel-colored bay, and out to the wild, wide, open sea, to do battle with the sails of the stanch barks that were struggling towards a haven.

But within, the good people of Boston were stoutly waging battle against the common enemy on this bitter Christmas eve. In some of the old-fashioned houses at the North End, inhabited by old-fashioned people, the ruddy light that streamed through the parlor windows on the street announced that huge fires of oak and hickory were blazing on the ample hearths. But in far the greater number of dwellings, the less genial, but more powerful anthracite was contending with the wintry elements.

In an upper room of an old, crazy, wooden house, a poor woman, thinly clad, sat sewing beside a rusty, sheet-iron stove, poorly supplied with chips. She had been once eminently handsome, and but for the wanness and hollowness of her face, would have appeared so still.

Two little boys, of eight and nine years of age, were warming themselves, or seeking to warm themselves, at the stove, before retiring to their little bed in a small room adjoining.

"Isn't this nice, mother?" said the younger, a bright, black-eyed boy. "Didn't I get a nice lot of chips to-day?"

"Yes, dearest, you are always a good and industrious boy," said the mother, snatching a moment from her work to imprint a kiss upon his forehead.

"Poor pa' will have a nice fire to warm him when he comes home," said the elder boy.

At this allusion to the child's father, the mother burst into tears. The countenances of both the children fell. They knew too well the cause of their mother's bitter sorrow—the same cause had blighted their own young hearts and clouded their innocent lives—their father was a drunkard! Hence it was that, bright and intelligent as they were, they could not go to school—they were too ragged for that—and their time was required on the wharves to pick up fuel and such scraps of provision as are scattered from the sheaves of the prosperous and prodigal. For this reason, too, the mother had carefully forborne to remind the children that this was Christmas eve. But they knew it too well, and they contrasted its gloominess and sorrow with the well-remembered anniversaries when this was a season of delight—the eve of promised pleasures, of feasts, of dances, and of presents. With this thought in their hearts they silently kissed their mother, and retired to their little bed, committing themselves to "Our Father who art in heaven," while the poor mother toiled on, listening with dread for the returning footsteps of her husband.

The husband and father, whose return was thus dreaded, had worked late at night in the shop of the carpenter who had given him temporary employment, and who was to pay him this evening. Five or six dollars were coming to him, more than he had earned honestly for a long while, and his hand shook with eagerness as his employer counted out his wages. As he put on his hat to leave the shop, he observed his fellow-workmen, who were all sober and steady men, eying him with sad, inquiring looks; he almost ran out of the shop.

"I know what they mean," he said to himself. "But what is it to them how I spend my money—the prying busy-bodies! I'm not a slave—I have a right to do what I please with my own. Whew! how cutting the wind is! A glass or two of hot whiskey toddy will be just the thing!"

Without one thought of his toiling wife and neglected children, the poor, infatuated man hastened towards a grocery with the intention of slaking his morbid thirst. At the moment his foot was on the threshold, out from the belfry of Christ Church, ringing clear in the frosty air, streamed a tide of sweet and solemn music. Simple, yet touching, was the melody of those sacred bells, chiming forth the advent of the blessed Christmas time. And as the song of the bells fell upon his ear, it awakened in the drunkard a thousand memories of happier, because better days. The comfortable dwelling, the quiet, neat parlor, with its Christmas dressings, the sweet face of his wife, the merry laugh of his bright-eyed children—all flashed back vividly upon his mind. He recked not of the bitter blast—he forgot his late purpose—he could wish those sweet bells to play on forever. But they ceased.

"It was a voice from heaven!" said the man, as the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Surely God has blessed those Christ Church chimes. I'll never more drink one drop. This money shall go to my family, every cent of it. It is not too late yet to buy provision for to-morrow, and some comfortable things for the children."

It was late that night when the watching wife heard the step of her husband on the staircase. It was as slow and heavy as usual; but how relieved, how astonished, how grateful she felt, when the door opened, and he came in, happy, sober, bearing a huge basket filled with provisions, and threw down a parcel containing stockings, comforters, and mittens for the children, not forgetting some simple Christmas wreaths, and some of those condiments which children love.

The next day was a happy one indeed for the mother and the little boys—a merry Christmas that reminded them of old times, and gave them assurance of a happy future. May we not hope that the effect we have attributed to the Christ Church chimes is not a solitary instance of the power of music?