ta la ra, ta la ra,” sat busily plying the needle, elbow-deep in ribbons; the consumptive-looking flute-player before the foot-lights trilled out his spasmodic trickle of melody, and contemplated with melancholy pleasure the excited audience; the lank danseuse ogled and smirked at it behind them, and, with passionate gestures of her thin legs, implored its applause; men, women, and children, of all grades and degrees, crowded into the murky night; for a day was coming when the youths of the neck-ties would not agree to mourir on any account; when the flute-player would cease to be contemplative; when the danseuse would forget her attenuated extremities; when the whole world, where the grace of the Redeemer is known, would believe that the chief end of the hour, at least, consisted in “dancing continually ta la ra, ta la ra.”

Shall “The Air” ring with the joyous notes of the carols, or breathe low and soft with the sighs of the suffering?

Shall it burst into mad hilarity at the revelry, or wail with the sharp cries of the poor?

It was a painted house, but the paint had worn off; it had a garden, but the garden was choked with weeds; its two rooms were once handsomely furnished, but the furniture was now common and old.  It was once a fashionable street; but fashion had fled before the victorious eagles of trade.  The tenants of that house were once happy and prosperous.  What are they now?

The occupant of the back room was a man, and the occupants of the front room a woman and her children.

He was sitting at a rude deal table; before him were scattered some dirty sheets of music, and around him the place was dreary and bare.  By the light of a tallow dip he was playing, in screeching tones, the commonest of ditties and polkas by note.  His coat was once of the richest; but now it was old and threadbare.  His hands were once white and elegantly shaped; now they were dirty, and blue with cold.  His face once beamed with contentment; now it was worn with care and marked by the hard lines of penury.

The other room was darker, and, if possible, more dreary.  There were two trundle-beds in a corner, and four bright beings, oblivious to the discomfort, in the happy sleep of childhood.  There was a mattress in another corner, with a pile of bedquilts and a sheet.

The fire had burned down to a coal.  It shone on the mantle with a sickly glare; and this was the only light there was.

To the mantle-piece were pinned four little stockings, each waiting open-mouthed for a gift from Santa Claus.

Below them crouched a woman, weeping bitterly.

The woman was Clara Hague; and she was weeping because the Christmas dawn would find those little mouths unsatisfied.

Our “Air” is getting mournful,—­too mournful for this hour of great joy.  The Te Deum Laudamus, not the Miserere, is for outbursts of gladness like these.