Its chief occupation is to attend at forest fires. In its leisure hours it protects the springs whose waters we dilute with whisky; it also shades the tributaries of our water-works, whose contents assist and contribute so largely to our collection of microscopic animals. The same tree protects at our Midsummer High Jinks the wise and venerable head of the old Bohemian and imparts a beautiful green bloom of persistent innocence to the intelligent face of the Bohemian neophyte.

So, dear Bohemian brethren, let us do homage and bow to-night reverently before the tree that shelters our midsummer services and enlightens and illuminates the present celebration.

A CELEBRATION like that of to-day has always a tendency to recall the past. It makes us look back into our own bygone days and also into the past ages of our race. So let us then date back the present night for a millennium and a half, and let us imagine that we live at the time when Constantine the Great ruled at Byzantium. We are not Bohemians to-night; we are northern barbarians-Warægians that fight as mercenary soldiers for the Roman Emperor, Danes that plunder the northern coasts, Normans that invade the Mediterranean-and led by our chieftains Hengist and Horsa, Angular Saxons, who found corner groceries.

The banquet of to-day is not called Christmas; its name is Yule. On the fireplace flames the yule-log, the sacred emblem of the god Balder's death. Champions

and warriors, seated on benches, occupy two sides of a long table. On an elevated seat at the head of the table presides the bold Jarl. The whole resembles a low jinks. On the walls lean torch-bearing serfs, instead of gas flames measured by cubic feet. Horns of the Urus filled with mead go from hand to hand, and the heroes walk up where the head of a wild boar is placed before the throne of the powerful Jarl.

This hall forms part of an ancient tower rising on a cliff that overhangs the wild waves of the German Ocean, not the California Market. Looking down from the stormy height, you witness the eternal warfare waged between rock and wave. The foot of the cliff is surrounded by phosphorescent breakers like this block by the fiery brokers. On the head of the wild boar the warriors lay their hands and pronounce In solemn

vows according to ancient rites.

chorus they sing:

"No, no, we will never get drunk any more!

No, no," etc., etc.

The impressive ceremony is interrupted by the discordant sound of a horn. "Is that the Gjallarhorn," exclaims the bold Jarl, "that invited us to Valhalla? Or is it the toothorn of the festive hoodlum?" The door of the hall is flung open, an icy blast of the

snowstorm enters.

"In Balder's name, shut that door," orders the Jarl; "even the San Francisco Morning Call would declare that weather more than partly cloudy. It is enough to give rheumatism to a rhinoceros, and at present I am oscillating between the regular school and homeopathy, since I found out that the same liquid that cures the bite of the rattlesnake has the power to produce the same reptile in the boots, as I am convinced by my own experience."

Then a rumbling and clanking noise is heard as if a tinshop was tumbling down a flight of stairs, and in steps Viking Bromley the Terrible in full armor.

"May Odin, Thor, and Balder protect thee, valiant Viking Bromley," exclaims

the Jarl. "Sit down and have a horn of our mead."

"The bold Jarl will excuse me.

I took a vessel near the Straits of Gibraltar loaded with wine from the island of Cyprus. My men are bringing the casks."

Hearing these words, Hero Damm spits his mead secretly on the floor, Burke Thirstenson empties his horn hastily into his throat; both are ready for Cyprus.

"And what do you bring besides?" asked the bold Jarl.

"The China mail and two beautiful Greek maidens," was the answer.

"Let them enter to gladden the hearts of my warriors by song and dance."

And a pair of Greek maidens, fair as the day, dance gracefully into the hall, wreaths in their hair and garlands in their hands. They look very much like brothers Belknap and Swan. Standing on Standing on one leg, they spread gracefully their arms and sing an ode of Anacreon on forensic medicine.

"Where is the scald that sings the gallant