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Title: Christmas in Legend and Story
       A Book for Boys and Girls

Author: Elva S. Smith

Release Date: February 10, 2004 [EBook #11014]

Language: English

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CHRISTMAS IN LEGEND AND STORY



Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth, is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.

SHAKESPEARE.



CHRISTMAS
IN
LEGEND AND STORY

A BOOK FOR BOYS AND GIRLS


COMPILED BY

ELVA S. SMITH

CARNEGIE LIBRARY
PITTSBURGH

AND

ALICE I. HAZELTINE

PUBLIC LIBRARY
ST. LOUIS


ILLUSTRATED
FROM
FAMOUS PAINTINGS


1915



CHRISTMAS IN LEGEND AND STORY



PREFACE

In our experience in library work with children we have learned that it is
very difficult to find Christmas stories and legends which have literary
merit, are reverent in spirit, and are also suitable for children. This
collection has been made in an endeavor to meet this need, and thus to be
of service to parents, teachers, and librarians.

Most of the stories and poems in this book are of the legendary type. They
have been chosen from a wide variety of sources and represent the work of
many writers. There are other stories also, which, although not strictly
traditional, have the same reverent spirit and illustrate traditional
beliefs and customs. These have been included for their literary value and
their interest for young people.

In the arrangement of the selections we have followed the natural order of
the events in preference to grouping the stories for boys and girls of
different ages.

Although no attempt has been made to adapt the legends for story-telling,
most of them may be used for that purpose. Many of the selections are also
well suited for reading aloud.

Above all it is hoped that this book may bring real joy to the boys and
girls for whom it has been compiled.

ELVA S. SMITH,

CATALOGUER OF CHILDREN'S BOOKS,

CARNEGIE LIBRARY OF PITTSBURGH.


ALICE I. HAZELTINE,

SUPERVISOR OF CHILDREN'S WORK,

ST. LOUIS PUBLIC LIBRARY.



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The compilers wish to thank Mrs. Margaret Deland for permission to use
"The Christmas Silence;" Mrs. Etta Austin McDonald for her adaptation of
Coppée's "Sabot of Little Wolff" from "The Child Life Fifth Reader;"
Josephine Preston Peabody for "The Song of a Shepherd-Boy at Bethlehem;"
Mrs. William Sharp for "The Children of Wind and the Clan of Peace," by
Fiona Macleod; Nora Archibald Smith and the editors of the _Outlook_ for
"The Haughty Aspen;" and the editors of _Good Housekeeping Magazine,_
Little, Brown & Company and Mrs. Velma Swanston Howard for her translation
of "The Legend of the Christmas Rose," by Selma Lagerlöf, taken from _Good
Housekeeping Magazine_, copyright, 1907. Copyright, 1910, by Little, Brown
& Company.

Thanks are also due to the following publishers for permission to reprint
poems and stories on which they hold copyright: The Century Company for
four selections from _St. Nicholas_, "The Little Gray Lamb" by A.B.
Sullivan, "A Christmas Legend" by Florence Scannell, "Félix" by Evaleen
Stein, "The Child Jesus in the Garden;" The Churchman Company for "The
Blooming of the White Thorn" by Edith M. Thomas; Doubleday, Page & Company
for "Neighbors of the Christ Night" by Nora Archibald Smith; E.P. Dutton &
Company for "The Sin of the Prince Bishop" by William Canton; Ginn &
Company for "Christmas Carol" from "Open Sesame;" Mr. William Heinemann
for "The Flight into Egypt" by Selma Lagerlöf; Houghton Mifflin Company
for "The Child Born at Bethlehem" by H.E. Scudder, "The Christmas Song of
Caedmon" by H.E.G. Pardee, "The Little Mud-Sparrows" by Elizabeth Stuart
Phelps.

"St. Christopher of the Gael" and "The Cross of the Dumb" are included
through the courtesy of Messrs. Duffield & Company. From "Poems and
Dramas" by Fiona Macleod, copyright, 1901, 1903, 1907, by Thomas B.
Mosher; 1910 by Duffield & Company.

The selection "Christmas at Greccio" from "God's Troubadour" by Sophie
Jewett is included by special arrangement with T.Y. Crowell Company. "The
Little Friend" by Abbie Farwell Brown, "Christmas Hymn" by R.W. Gilder,
"The Three Kings" by H.W. Longfellow, and "The Star Bearer" by E.C.
Stedman are included by special arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company;
and "The Three Kings of Cologne" by Eugene Field, and "Earl Sigurd's
Christmas Eve" by H.H. Boyesen, by special arrangement with Charles
Scribner's Sons.

The story of St. Christopher is taken chiefly from the "Golden Legend,"
but a few suggestions for its adaptation were obtained from a version by
Olive Logan.



CONTENTS

"THE GRACIOUS TIME"

THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS
  ST. LUKE, II, 1-16

THE CHILD BORN AT BETHLEHEM
  HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER

AS JOSEPH WAS A-WALKING
  OLD ENGLISH CAROL

THE PEACEFUL NIGHT
  JOHN MILTON

THE CHRISTMAS SILENCE
  MARGARET DELAND

NEIGHBORS OF THE CHRIST NIGHT
  NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

CHRISTMAS CAROL
  FROM THE NEAPOLITAN

A CHRISTMAS HYMN
  RICHARD WATSON GILDER

THE SONG OF A SHEPHERD--BOY AT BETHLEHEM
  JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS ROSES
  ADAPTED FROM AN OLD LEGEND

THE LITTLE GRAY LAMB
  ARCHIBALD BERESFORD SULLIVAN

THE HOLY NIGHT
  ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

THE STAR BEARER
  EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

THE VISIT OF THE WISE MEN
  ST. MATTHEW, II, 1-12

THE THREE KINGS
  HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

THE THREE HOLY KINGS
  ADAPTED FROM THE GOLDEN LEGEND, AND OTHER SOURCES

THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE
  EUGENE FIELD

BABOUSCKA
  ADELAIDE SKEEL

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT
  SELMA LAGERLÖF

THE HAUGHTY ASPEN
  NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

THE LITTLE MUD-SPARROWS
  ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS

THE CHILDREN OF WIND AND THE CLAN OF PEACE
  FIONA MACLEOD

THE CHILD JESUS IN THE GARDEN
  AUTHOR UNKNOWN

THE MYSTIC THORN
  ADAPTED FROM TRADITIONAL SOURCES

THE BLOOMING OF THE WHITE THORN
  EDITH MATILDA THOMAS

LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER
  ADAPTED FROM THE GOLDEN LEGEND

ST. CHRISTOPHER OF THE GAEL
  FIONA MACLEOD

THE CROSS OF THE DUMB
  FIONA MACLEOD

THE CHRISTMAS SONG OF CAEDMON
  H.E.G. PARDEE

GOOD KING WENCESLAS
  JOHN MASON NEALE

THE CHRISTMAS AT GRECCIO: A STORY OF ST. FRANCIS
  SOPHIE JEWETT

THE SIN OF THE PRINCE BISHOP
  WILLIAM CANTON

EARL SIGURD'S CHRISTMAS EVE
  HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND
  FLORENCE SCANNELL

THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE
  SELMA LAGERLÖF

FÉLIX
  EVALEEN STEIN

THE SABOT OF LITTLE WOLFF
  FRANÇOIS COPPÉE

THE LITTLE FRIEND
  ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO
  COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOÏ



CHRISTMAS IN
LEGEND AND STORY



"THE GRACIOUS TIME"


According to tradition, on the Holy Night there fell upon Bethlehem of
Judea a strange and unnatural calm; the voices of the birds were hushed,
water ceased to flow and the wind was stilled. But when the child Jesus
was born all nature burst into new life; trees put forth green leaves,
grass sprang up and bright flowers bloomed. To animals was granted the
power of human speech and the ox and the ass knelt in their stalls in
adoration of the infant Saviour. Then it was that the shepherds abiding in
the field with their flocks heard the angels praising God, and kings of
the Orient watching in their "far country" saw ablaze in the heavens the
long-expected sign. Even in distant Rome there sprang up a well or
fountain which "ran largely" and the ancient prophetess, Sibyl, looking
eastward from the Capitoline hill heard the angel song and saw in vision
all the wonders of that night.

There are many such traditional tales of the nativity, of the "star-led
wizards" and of the marvels wrought by the boy Christ. They tell of the
bees singing their sweet hymn of praise to the Lord, of the palm-tree
bending down its branches that the weary travellers fleeing from the wrath
of Herod might be refreshed by its fruit, of the juniper which opened to
conceal them and of the sweet-smelling balsam which grew wherever the
drops of moisture fell from the brow of the Boy "as He ran about or toiled
in His loving service for His Mother." Quaint fancies some of these,
perhaps, and not all of them worth preserving; but oftentimes beautiful,
and with a germ of truth.

From the centuries between then and now, come stories of holy men, of
bishops and peasant-saints, and of brave men who preached the White Christ
to the vikings of the north or on Iona's isle. As in popular belief, with
each returning eve of the nativity the miracles of the first Christmas
happen again, so in these tales the thorn-tree blossoms anew and wonderful
roses bloom in the bleak forest.

Other stories tell how on each Christmas eve the little Christ-child comes
again to earth and wanders through village or town, while lighted candles
are placed in the windows to guide Him on His way.

These various legends and traditional tales, which sprang up among the
people like flowers by the wayside and became a part of the life of the
Middle Ages, are still of interest to us of to-day and have a distinct
charm of their own. And when the childlike faith and beauty of thought of
the finest of these have found expression in literary form they seem
particularly suited for our reading at "the gracious time."



THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS

ST. LUKE, II, 1-16


And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from
Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.

And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.

And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into
Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; because he was
of the house and lineage of David:

To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished
that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling
clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in
the inn.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping
watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord
shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good
tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is
Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in
swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host
praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven,
the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and
see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto
us.

And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying
in a manger.



THE CHILD BORN AT BETHLEHEM

HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER


About six miles to the south of Jerusalem is the village of Bethlehem,
lying along the slope and on the top of a gray hill, from the steep
eastern end of which one looks over a broad plain, toward a range of high
hills beyond. At any time, as one drew near the place, coming from
Jerusalem, he would pass by rounded hills, and now and then cross little
ravines with brooks, sometimes full of water, sometimes only beds of
stone; and, if it were spring-time, he would see the hills and valleys
covered with their grass, and sprinkled abundantly with a great variety of
wild flowers, daisies, poppies, the Star of Bethlehem, tulips and
anemones--a broad sheet of color, of scarlet, white and green. Perhaps,
very long ago, there were trees also where now there are none; and on
those hills, gray with the stone that peeped out through the grass, stood
the mighty cedars of Lebanon, stretching out their sweeping branches, and
oaks, sturdy and rich with dark foliage, green the year round. At any
rate, then, as now, we may believe that there were vineyards upon the
sunny slopes, and we know that the wind blew over corn-fields covering the
plains that lay between the ranges of hills.

It is of the time long since that we are thinking, when there were no
massive buildings on Bethlehem hill, such as are to be seen in the town as
it now appears. Instead, there were low houses, many of mud and sunburnt
brick, some so poor, doubtless, that the cattle were stalled, if not in
the same room with the people of the house, yet so near that they could be
heard through the partition, stamping, and crunching their food. There was
an inn there, also; but we must not think of it as like our modern
public-houses, with a landlord and servants, where one could have what he
needed by paying for it. Rather, it was a collection of buildings for the
convenience and accommodation of travelers, who brought with them whatever
they required of food, and the means of preparing it, finding there only
shelter and the roughest conveniences. The larger inns of this sort were
built in the form of a great courtyard surrounded by arcades, in which
people stayed, and kept their goods, if they were merchants.

The inn at Bethlehem was not probably one of these great
caravanserais,--as they are called now in the East, because caravans stop
at them; and it is even possible that the stables about the inn were
simply caves scooped out of the soft chalk rock, for the country there
has an abundance of these caves used for this very purpose.

From the hill on which Bethlehem stands, one can see travelers
approaching, and at that time, long ago, no doubt the people who lived
there saw companies of travelers, on foot or mounted, coming up to the
village. For it was a busy time in Judea. The Emperor at Rome, the capital
of the world, had ordered a tax to be laid upon his subjects, and first it
had to be known just who were liable to be taxed. Nowadays, and in our
country, people have their names taken down at the door of their own
houses, and pay their tax in the town where they live. But then, in Judea,
it was different. If a man had always lived in one place, and his parents
before him, well and good: there his name was taken down, and there he was
taxed. But if he was of a family that had left another place, he went back
to the old home, and there his name was registered. There were many, it
may be, who at this time were visiting Bethlehem for this purpose.

At least, we know of two amongst these travelers; devout and humble people
they were; Joseph, a carpenter, living in Nazareth, a village of Galilee,
sixty miles or more to the northward, and Mary, his wife. Together they
were coming to Bethlehem, for while Nazareth was now their home, they were
sprung from a family that once lived in Bethlehem, and though they were
now poor and lowly, that family was the royal family, and King David, the
greatest king that ever sat on the Jewish throne, was their ancestor.
Perhaps, as they climbed the hill, they thought of Ruth, who had gleaned
in the corn-fields just where they were passing, and no doubt they thought
of Ruth's great-grandson, King David, who was born here, and here kept his
father's sheep,--such sheep as even now they could see on the hillsides,
watched by the watching shepherds.

They came, like the rest, to the caravanserai, but found it already filled
with travelers. They could not have room with other men and women, and yet
there was shelter to be had, for the place where the horses and beasts of
burden stood was not all taken up. It may be that many of those now
occupying the inn had come on Joseph's errand, and, not being merchants,
had come unattended by the beasts that bore the goods of merchants, who
were there occupying the inn; and what were they there for? We can only
guess. All is forgotten of that gathering; men remember only the two
travelers from Nazareth who could find no room in the inn, and made their
resting-place by a manger.

For there, away from the crowd, was born to Mary a child, whom she wrapped
in swaddling-clothes and laid in the manger. She was away from home; she
was not even in a friend's house, nor yet in the inn; the Lord God had
made ready a crib for the babe in the feeding-place of cattle. What
gathering of friends could there be to rejoice over a child
born in this solitary place?

Yet there were some, friends of the child and of the child's mother, who
welcomed its birth with great rejoicing. It may be that when Mary was
laying Him upon His first hard earthly resting-place, there was, not far
off, such a sight as never before was seen on earth. On the hilly slopes
about Bethlehem were flocks of sheep that, day and night, cropped the
grass, watched by shepherds, just as, so long before, young David, in the
same place, had watched his father's sheep. These shepherds were devout
men, who sang, we may easily believe, the songs which the shepherd David
had taught them; and now, in the night-time, on the quiet slopes, as they
kept guard over their flocks, out of the darkness appeared a heavenly
visitor: whence he came they knew not, but round about him was a
brightness which they knew could be no other than the brightness of His
presence which God cast about His messengers. Great fear fell upon
them--for who of mortals could stand before the heavenly beings? But the
angel, quick to see their fear, spoke in words which were the words of men
and fell in peaceful accents:--

"Fear not!" said he, "for see, I bring you glad tidings of a great joy
that shall be to all the people. For there has been born to you, this very
day, a Saviour, who is the Holy Lord, born in the city of David; and this
shall be its sign to you: ye shall find a child wrapped in
swaddling-clothes lying in a manger."

And now, suddenly, before they could speak to the heavenly messenger, they
saw, not him alone, but the place full of the like heavenly beings. A
multitude was there; they came not as if from some distant place, but as
angels that ever stood round these shepherds. The eyes of the men were
opened, and they saw, besides the grassy slopes and feeding sheep, and
distant Bethlehem, and the stars above, a host of angels. Their ears were
opened, and besides the moving sheep and rustling boughs, they heard from
this great army of heavenly beings a song, rising to God and falling like
a blessing upon the sleeping world:--

"Glory to God in the highest
  And on earth peace,
  Good will to men."

In the lowly manger, a little child; on the hillside pasture, a heavenly
host singing His praises! Then it was once more quiet, and the darkness
was about the shepherds. They looked at one another and said,--"Let us go,
indeed, to Bethlehem, to see this thing that has come to pass, which the
Lord hath made us know."

So, in all haste, with the sound of that hymn of glory in their ears, they
left the pasture and sought the town. They went to the inn, but they
looked not there for the child; where the mangers were, there they sought
Him, and found Him lying, and by Him Joseph and Mary. There were others by
the new-born child, some who had doubtless come out from the inn at
hearing of the birth. "Whence are these shepherds?" they might have said
to themselves, "and what has brought them to this birthplace?"

To all by the manger, the shepherds, their minds full of the strange sight
they had witnessed, recount the marvel. They tell how one appeared with
such brightness about him as in old times they had heard gave witness that
the Lord God would speak to His people; how their fear at his presence was
quieted by his strange and joyful words; and how, when he had said, "Ye
shall find a child wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a manger," they
suddenly were aware of a host of angels round about them sounding praise,
to which God also listened.

Those to whom they told these things were amazed indeed at the
strangeness. What did the marvel mean, they wondered. They could
know no more than the shepherds had told them, and as for these men, they
went away to their flocks again, praising God, for now they too, had seen
the child, and it was all true, and with their human voice they caught up
the song of rejoicing which had fallen from angelic lips.

There was one who heard it all, and we may think did not say much or ask
much, but laid it away in her heart. It was Mary, and she had, in the
treasure-house where she put away this wonder, other thoughts and
recollections in company with it. There, in her inmost heart, she kept the
remembrance of a heavenly visitor who had appeared to her when she was
alone, and had quieted her fear by words that told her of this coming
birth, and filled her soul with the thought that He whom she should bear
was to have the long-deserted throne and a kingdom without end. She
remembered how, when she visited her cousin Elizabeth, she was greeted
with a psalm of rejoicing that sprang to the lips of that holy woman, and
from her own heart had come a psalm of response.

And now the child was born--born in the place of David, yet born to be
laid in a manger. A name had been given it by the angel, and she called
the child Jesus; for Jesus means Saviour, and "He shall," said the angel,
"save His people from their sins."



AS JOSEPH WAS A-WALKING

OLD ENGLISH CAROL


As Joseph was a-walking
  He heard an angel sing:--
"This night there shall be born
  Our heavenly King.

"He neither shall be born
  In housen, nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise,
  But in an ox's stall.

"He neither shall be clothèd
  In purple nor in pall;
But in the fair, white linen,
  That usen babies all.

"He neither shall be rockèd
  In silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden cradle
  That rocks on the mould.

"He neither shall be christened
  In white wine nor in red,
But with fair spring water
  With which we were christened."

Mary took her baby,
  She dressed Him so sweet,
She laid Him in a manger,
  All there for to sleep.

As she stood over Him
  She heard angels sing,
"O bless our dear Saviour,
  Our heavenly King."



THE PEACEFUL NIGHT

JOHN MILTON


But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
  His reign of peace upon the earth began.
The winds with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kist,
  Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,--
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,
  Bending one way their precious influence;
And will not take their flight,
For all the morning light,
  Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them
  go.

And, though the shady gloom
Had given day her room,
  The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
And hid his head for shame,
As his inferior flame
  The new-enlightened world no more should need:
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.




THE CHRISTMAS SILENCE

MARGARET DELAND


Hushed are the pigeons cooing low
  On dusty rafters of the loft;
  And mild-eyed oxen, breathing soft,
Sleep on the fragrant hay below.

Dim shadows in the corner hide;
  The glimmering lantern's rays are shed
  Where one young lamb just lifts his head,
Then huddles 'gainst his mother's side.

Strange silence tingles in the air;
  Through the half-open door a bar
  Of light from one low-hanging star
Touches a baby's radiant hair.

No sound: the mother, kneeling, lays
  Her cheek against the little face.
  Oh human love! Oh heavenly grace!
'Tis yet in silence that she prays!

Ages of silence end to-night;
  Then to the long-expectant earth
  Glad angels come to greet His birth
In burst of music, love, and light!



NEIGHBORS OF THE CHRIST NIGHT

NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH


Deep in the shelter of the cave,
  The ass with drooping head
Stood weary in the shadow, where
  His master's hand had led.
About the manger oxen lay,
  Bending a wide-eyed gaze
Upon the little new-born Babe,
  Half worship, half amaze.
High in the roof the doves were set,
  And cooed there, soft and mild,
Yet not so sweet as, in the hay,
  The Mother to her Child.
The gentle cows breathed fragrant breath
  To keep Babe Jesus warm,
While loud and clear, o'er hill and dale,
  The cocks crowed, "Christ is born!"
Out in the fields, beneath the stars,
  The young lambs sleeping lay,
And dreamed that in the manger slept
  Another, white as they.

These were Thy neighbors, Christmas Child;
  To Thee their love was given,
For in Thy baby face there shone
  The wonder-light of Heaven.



CHRISTMAS CAROL

FROM THE NEAPOLITAN


When Christ was born in Bethlehem,
'T was night, but seemed the noon of day;
  The stars, whose light
  Was pure and bright,
Shone with unwavering ray;
But one, one glorious star
Guided the Eastern Magi from afar.

Then peace was spread throughout the land;
The lion fed beside the tender lamb;
  And with the kid,
  To pasture led,
  The spotted leopard fed;
In peace, the calf and bear,
The wolf and lamb reposed together there.

As shepherds watched their flocks by night,
An angel, brighter than the sun's own light,
    Appeared in air,
    And gently said,
    Fear not,--be not afraid,
For lo! beneath your eyes,
Earth has become a smiling paradise.



A CHRISTMAS HYMN

RICHARD WATSON GILDER


Tell me what is this innumerable throng
Singing in the heavens a loud angelic song?
These are they who come with swift and shining feet
From round about the throne of God the Lord of Light to greet.

Oh, who are these that hasten beneath the starry sky,
As if with joyful tidings that through the world shall fly?
The faithful shepherds these, who greatly were afeared
When, as they watched their flocks by night, the heavenly host appeared.

Who are these that follow across the hills of night
A star that westward hurries along the fields of light?

Three wise men from the east who myrrh and treasure bring
To lay them at the feet of him their Lord and Christ and King.

What babe new-born is this that in a manger cries?
Near on her lowly bed his happy mother lies.
Oh, see the air is shaken with white and heavenly wings--
This is the Lord of all the earth, this is the King of kings.



THE SONG OF A SHEPHERD--BOY AT BETHLEHEM

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY


Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary:
    Rest Thee now.
Though these hands be rough from shearing
    And the plough,

Yet they shall not ever fail Thee,
When the waiting nations hail Thee,
Bringing palms unto their King.
    Now--I sing.

Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary,
    Hope divine.
If Thou wilt but smile upon me,
    I will twine
Blossoms for Thy garlanding.
Thou'rt so little to be King,
    God's Desire!
    Not a brier
Shall be left to grieve Thy brow;
    Rest Thee now.

Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary.
  Some fair day
Wilt Thou, as Thou wert a brother,
  Come away
Over hills and over hollow?
All the lambs will up and follow,
Follow but for love of Thee.
  Lov'st Thou me?

Sleep, Thou little Child of Mary;
  Rest Thee now.
I that watch am come from sheep-stead
  And from plough.
Thou wilt have disdain of me
When Thou'rt lifted, royally,
Very high for all to see:
  Smilest Thou?



THE FIRST CHRISTMAS ROSES

ADAPTED FROM AN OLD LEGEND


The sun had dropped below the western hills of Judea, and the stillness of
night had covered the earth. The heavens were illumined only by numberless
stars, which shone the brighter for the darkness of the sky. No sound was
heard but the occasional howl of a jackal or the bleat of a lamb in the
sheepfold. Inside a tent on the hillside slept the shepherd, Berachah, and
his daughter, Madelon. The little girl lay restless,--sleeping, waking,
dreaming, until at last she roused herself and looked about her.

"Father," she whispered, "oh, my father, awake. I fear for the sheep."

The shepherd turned himself and reached for his staff. "What nearest thou,
daughter! The dogs are asleep. Hast thou been burdened by an evil dream?"

"Nay, but father," she answered, "seest thou not the light? Hearest thou
not the voice?"

Berachah gathered his mantle about him, rose, looked over the hills toward
Bethlehem, and listened. The olive trees on yonder slope were casting
their shadows in a marvellous light, unlike daybreak or sunset, or even
the light of the moon. By the camp-fire below on the hillside the
shepherds on watch were rousing themselves. Berachah waited and wondered,
while Madelon clung to his side. Suddenly a sound rang out in the
stillness. Madelon pressed still closer.

"It is the voice of an angel, my daughter. What it means I know not.
Neither understand I this light." Berachah fell on his knees and prayed.

"Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall
be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a
Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye
shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."

The voice of the angel died away, and the air was filled with music.
Berachah raised Madelon to her feet. "Ah, daughter," said he, "It is the
wonder night so long expected. To us hath it been given to see the sign.
It is the Messiah who hath come, the Messiah, whose name shall be called
Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince
of Peace. He it is who shall reign on the throne of David, he it is who
shall redeem Israel."

Slowly up the hillside toiled the shepherds to the tent of Berachah, their
chief, who rose to greet them eagerly.

"What think you of the wonder night and of the sign?" he queried. "Are we
not above all others honored, thus to learn of the Messiah's coming!"

"Yea, and Berachah," replied their spokesman, Simon, "believest thou not
that we should worship the infant King! Let us now go to Bethlehem, and
see this thing which has come to pass."

A murmur of protest came from the edge of the circle, and one or two
turned impatiently away, whispering of duty toward flocks, and the folly
of searching for a new-born baby in the city of Bethlehem. Hardheaded,
practical men were these, whose hearts had not been touched by vision or
by song.

The others, however, turned expectantly toward Berachah, awaiting his
decision. "Truly," said Jude, "the angel of the Lord hath given us the
sign in order that we might go to worship Him. How can we then do
otherwise? We shall find Him, as we have heard, lying in a manger. Let us
not tarry, but let us gather our choicest treasures to lay at His feet,
and set out without delay across the hills toward Bethlehem."

"Oh, my father," whispered Madelon, "permit me to go with thee." Berachah
did not hear her, but turned and bade the men gather together their gifts.

"I, too, father?" asked Madelon. Still Berachah said nothing. Madelon
slipped back into the tent, and throwing her arms around Melampo, her
shepherd dog, whispered in his ear.

Soon the shepherds returned with their gifts. Simple treasures they
were,--a pair of doves, a fine wool blanket, some eggs, some honey, some
late autumn fruits. Berachah had searched for the finest of his flock,--a
snow-white lamb. Across the hills toward Bethlehem in the quiet, star-lit
night they journeyed. As they moved silently along, the snow beneath their
feet was changed to grass and flowers, and the icicles which had dropped
from the trees covered their pathway like stars in the Milky Way.

Following at a distance, yet close enough to see them, came Madelon with
Melampo at her heels. Over the hills they travelled on until Madelon lost
sight of their own hillside. Farther and farther the shepherds went until
they passed David's well, and entered the city. Berachah led the way.

"How shall we know?" whispered Simon. And the others answered, "Hush, we
must await the sign."

When at last they had compassed the crescent of Bethlehem's hills, they
halted by an open doorway at a signal from their leader. "The manger,"
they joyfully murmured, "the manger! We have found the new-born King!"

One by one the shepherds entered. One by one they fell on their knees.
Away in the shadow stood the little girl, her hand on Melampo's head. In
wonder she gazed while the shepherds presented their gifts, and were
permitted each to hold for a moment the newborn Saviour.

Melampo, the shepherd dog, crouched on the ground, as if he too, like the
ox and the ass within, would worship the Child. Madelon turned toward the
darkness weeping. Then, lifting her face to heaven, she prayed that God
would bless Mother and Baby. Melampo moved closer to her, dumbly offering
his companionship, and, raising his head, seemed to join in her petition.
Once more she looked at the worshipping circle.

"Alas," she grieved, "no gift have I for the infant Saviour. Would that I
had but a flower to place in His hand."

Suddenly Melampo stirred by her side, and as she turned again from the
manger she saw before her an angel, the light from whose face illumined
the darkness, and whose look of tenderness rested on her tear-stained
eyes.

"Why grievest thou, maiden?" asked the angel.

"That I come empty-handed to the cradle of the Saviour, that I bring no
gift to greet Him," she murmured.

"The gift of thine heart, that is the best of all," answered the angel.
"But that thou mayst carry something to the manger, see, I will strike
with my staff upon the ground."

Wonderingly Madelon waited. From the dry earth wherever the angel's staff
had touched sprang fair, white roses. Timidly she stretched out her hand
toward the nearest ones. In the light of the angel's smile she gathered
them, until her arms were filled with flowers. Again she turned toward the
manger, and quietly slipped to the circle of kneeling shepherds.

Closer she crept to the Child, longing, yet fearing, to offer her gift.

"How shall I know," she pondered, "whether He will receive this my gift as
His own?"

Berachah gazed in amazement at Madelon and the roses which she held. How
came his child there, his child whom he had left safe on the hillside? And
whence came such flowers! Truly this was a wonder night.

Step by step she neared the manger, knelt, and placed a rose in the Baby's
hand. As the shepherds watched in silence,  Mary bent over her Child, and
Madelon waited for a sign. "Will He accept them?" she questioned. "How,
oh, how shall I know?" As she prayed in humble silence, the Baby's eyes
opened slowly, and over His face spread a smile.



THE LITTLE GRAY LAMB

ARCHIBALD BERESFORD SULLIVAN


Out on the endless purple hills, deep in the
  clasp of somber night,
The shepherds guarded their weary ones--
  guarded their flocks of cloudy white,
That like a snowdrift in silence lay,
Save one little lamb with its fleece of gray.

Out on the hillside all alone, gazing afar with
  sleepless eyes,
The little gray lamb prayed soft and low, its
  weary face to the starry skies:
"O moon of the heavens so fair, so bright,
Give me--oh, give me--a fleece of white!"

No answer came from the dome of blue, nor
  comfort lurked in the cypress-trees;
But faint came a whisper borne along on the
  scented wings of the passing breeze:
"Little gray lamb that prays this night,
I cannot give thee a fleece of white."

Then the little gray lamb of the sleepless eyes
    prayed to the clouds for a coat of snow,
Asked of the roses, besought the woods; but
    each gave answer sad and low:
  "Little gray lamb that prays this night,
  We cannot give thee a fleece of white."

Like a gem unlocked from a casket dark, like
    an ocean pearl from its bed of blue,
Came, softly stealing the clouds between, a
    wonderful star which brighter grew
  Until it flamed like the sun by day
  Over the place where Jesus lay.

Ere hushed were the angels' notes of praise
    the joyful shepherds had quickly sped
Past rock and shadow, adown the hill, to kneel
    at the Saviour's lowly bed;
  While, like the spirits of phantom night,
  Followed their flocks--their flocks of white.

And patiently, longingly, out of the night,
    apart from the others,--far apart,--
Came limping and sorrowful, all alone, the
    little gray lamb of the weary heart,
  Murmuring, "I must bide far away:
  I am not worthy--my fleece is gray."

And the Christ Child looked upon humbled
    pride, at kings bent low on the earthen floor,
But gazed beyond at the saddened heart of the
    little gray lamb at the open door;
And he called it up to his manger low and laid
    his hand on its wrinkled face,
While the kings drew golden robes aside to
    give to the weary one a place.
  And the fleece of the little gray lamb was blest:
  For, lo! it was whiter than all the rest!

       *       *       *       *       *

In many cathedrals grand and dim, whose windows
    glimmer with pane and lens,
Mid the odor of incense raised in prayer, hallowed
    about with last amens,
The infant Saviour is pictured fair, with
    kneeling Magi wise and old,
But his baby-hand rests--not on the gifts, the
    myrrh, the frankincense, the gold--
  But on the head, with a heavenly light,
  Of the little gray lamb that was changed to white.




THE HOLY NIGHT

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING


We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;
The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,
  Softened their horned faces
  To almost human gazes
  Toward the newly Born:
The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks
  Brought visionary looks,
As yet in their astonied hearing rung
  The strange sweet angel-tongue:
The magi of the East, in sandals worn,
  Knelt reverent, sweeping round,
  With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground,
  The incense, myrrh, and gold
These baby hands were impotent to hold:
So let all earthlies and celestials wait
  Upon thy royal state.
  Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!



THE STAR BEARER

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN


There were seven angels erst that spanned
  Heaven's roadway out through space,
Lighting with stars, by God's command,
  The fringe of that high place
Whence plumèd beings in their joy,
The servitors His thoughts employ,
  Fly ceaselessly. No goodlier band
    Looked upward to His face.

There, on bright hovering wings that tire
  Never, they rested mute,
Nor of far journeys had desire,
  Nor of the deathless fruit;
For in and through each angel soul
All waves of life and knowledge roll,
  Even as to nadir streamed the fire
   Of their torches resolute.

They lighted Michael's outpost through
  Where fly the armored brood,
And the wintry Earth their omens knew
  Of Spring's beatitude;
Rude folk, ere yet the promise came,
Gave to their orbs a heathen name,
  Saying how steadfast in men's view
    The watchful Pleiads stood.

All in the solstice of the year,
  When the sun apace must turn,
The seven bright angels 'gan to hear
  Heaven's twin gates outward yearn:
Forth with its light and minstrelsy
A lordly troop came speeding by,
  And joyed to see each cresset sphere
    So gloriously burn.

Staying his fearless passage then
  The Captain of that host
Spake with strong voice: "We bear to men
  God's gift the uttermost,
Whereof the oracle and sign
Sibyl and sages may divine:
  A star shall blazon in their ken,
    Borne with us from your post.

"This night the Heir of Heaven's throne
  A new-born mortal lies!
Since Earth's first morning hath not shone
  Such joy in seraph eyes."
He spake. The least in honor there
Answered with longing like a prayer,--
  "My star, albeit thenceforth unknown,
   Shall light for you Earth's skies."

Onward the blessed legion swept,
  That angel at the head;
(Where seven of old their station kept
  There are six that shine instead.)
Straight hitherward came troop and star;
Like some celestial bird afar
  Into Earth's night the cohort leapt
    With beauteous wings outspread.

Dazzling the East beneath it there,
  The Star gave out its rays:
Right through the still Judean air
  The shepherds see it blaze,--
They see the plume-borne heavenly throng,
And hear a burst of that high song
  Of which in Paradise aware
    Saints count their years but days.

For they sang such music as, I deem,
  In God's chief court of joys,
Had stayed the flow of the crystal stream
  And made souls in mid-flight poise;
They sang of Glory to Him most High,
Of Peace on Earth abidingly,
  And of all delights the which, men dream,
    Nor sin nor grief alloys.

Breathless the kneeling shepherds heard,
  Charmed from their first rude fear,
Nor while that music dwelt had stirred
  Were it a month or year:
And Mary Mother drank its flow,
Couched with her Babe divine,--and, lo!
  Ere falls the last ecstatic word
    Three Holy Kings draw near.

Whenas the star-led shining train
  Wheeled from their task complete,
Skyward from over Bethlehem's plain
  They sped with rapture fleet;
And the angel of that orient star,
Thenceforth where Heaven's lordliest are,
  Stands with a harp, while Christ doth reign,
    A seraph near His feet.



THE VISIT OF THE WISE MEN

ST. MATTHEW, II, 1-12


Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the
king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem,

Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his
star in the east, and are come to worship him.

When Herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all
Jerusalem with him.

And when he had gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people
together, he demanded of them where Christ should be born.

And they said unto him, In Bethlehem of Judaea: for thus it is written by
the prophet,

And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, art not the least among the
princes of Judah: for out of thee shall come a Governor, that shall rule
my people Israel.

Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them
diligently what time the star appeared.

And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the
young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may
come and worship him also.

When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they
saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the
young child was.

When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary
his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened
their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense,
and myrrh.

And being warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod,
they departed into their own country another way.




THE THREE KINGS

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW


Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
  That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
  Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
  Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
  Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
  Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
  With the people they met at some wayside well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,
  "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
  To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
  We know of no king but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
  Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
  Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,
  And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
  The only one in the gray of morn;
Yes, it stopped,--it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
  The city of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
  Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
  And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
  In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
  Of a kingdom not human but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth
  Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
  Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:
  The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
  The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
  And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
  Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
  With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
  And returned to their homes by another way.



THE THREE HOLY KINGS

ADAPTED FROM THE GOLDEN LEGEND, AND OTHER
SOURCES


In a far country, in the days before Jesus was born in Judea, there were
great astrologers who studied the heavens by night and by day, for they
knew of the prophecy which said that a star shall be born or spring out of
Jacob, and a man shall arise of the lineage of Israel. And twelve of them
were chosen to take heed, who every year ascended upon a mountain which
was called the Hill of Victory. Three days they abode there, and prayed
our Lord that He would show to them the star that Balaam had said and
prophesied.

Now it happened on a time, that they were there on the day of the Nativity
of Jesus Christ, and a star came over them upon this mountain, which had
the form of a right fair child, and under his head was a shining cross,
and from this cross came a voice saying: "To-day is there born a King in
Judea."

Now in Arabia, the land in which the soil is red with gold, there reigned
a king called Melchior. And in Saba, where frankincense flows from the
trees, the king Balthasar ruled. And in the land where myrrh hangs from
the bushes, the kingdom of Tharsis, reigned a third king, called Caspar.
These three kings also saw the star and heard the voice, and they each
made ready to go on a journey. And no one of the three knew that the
others intended thus to make a pilgrimage. And they gathered together
their treasures to present to the king whom they should seek, and summoned
those who should attend them. So each set out with a great company and
great estate. And as they journeyed they found the mountains made level as
the plains, while the swollen rivers became as dry land. And never did
they lose sight of the star, which shined upon them as the sun, always
moving before them to guide them on their way.

But when they were come within two miles of Jerusalem, the star
disappeared, a heavy fog arose, and each party halted; Melchior, as it
fell out, taking his stand on Mount Calvary, Balthasar on the Mount of
Olives, and Caspar just between them. And when the fog cleared away, each
was astonished to see two other great companies besides his own, and then
the kings first discovered that all had come upon the same errand, and
they embraced with great joy, and rode together into Jerusalem.

And when they came into the city, Herod and all the people were troubled,
because of their so great company like unto an army. Then they demanded in
what place the King of the Jews was born, for, said they, "We have seen
His star in the Orient, and therefore we come to worship Him." And when
Herod had heard this, he was much troubled, and all Jerusalem with him.
Then Herod called all the priests of the law, and the doctors, and
demanded  of them where Jesus Christ should be born. And when he had
understood them that He should be born in Bethlehem, he called the three
kings apart and demanded of them diligently the time that the star
appeared to them. And he said to them that as soon as they should have
found the Child and have worshipped Him, that they should return and show
it to him, feigning that he would worship Him also, though he thought that
he would go to slay Him.

And as soon as the kings were entered into Jerusalem, the sight of the
star was taken from them. But when they were issued out of the city, the
star appeared again and went before them, until it came above the place in
Bethlehem where the Child was. And they had journeyed now full thirteen
days.

And when they had entered into the place they worshipped the young Child,
and Mary, His mother. Now the kings had brought great treasures with them,
for it must be known that all that Alexander the Great left at his death,
and all that the Queen of Sheba gave to King Solomon, and all that Solomon
collected for the temple, had descended to the three kings from their
ancestors; and all this they had now brought with them. But when they had
bowed down before the Child, they were filled with fear and amazement
because of the so great light which was in the place. And they each
offered quickly the first thing that came to their hands, and forgot all
their other gifts. Melchior offered thirty golden pennies, Balthasar gave
frankincense, and Caspar myrrh; but all else they quite forgot, and only
remembered that they bowed before the Child, and said "Thanks be to God."

And when they would have stayed to do honor to the Holy Child, an angel
came to them in a dream, to warn them against Herod, who would do them
harm. So they departed each to his own country, journeying for two years.
And they preached unto the people, telling them of the new-born King, and
everywhere upon the temples men placed the figures of a star, the Child,
and a cross.

Now it happened years later that St. Thomas the Apostle journeyed to the
far country to preach, and that he wondered why the star was placed upon
the temples. Then the priests in those temples told him about the three
kings and how they had journeyed to Bethlehem and had seen the young
Child.

And the three kings were very old and feeble, but when they heard about
St. Thomas, each set out from his own place to go to meet him. And when
they had come together they builded them a city, and lived together there
for two years, worshipping God and preaching. Then Melchior died, and was
buried in a large and costly tomb. And when Balthasar died, he, too, was
buried there. And at last Caspar was placed beside his companions.

Now in the days of Constantine the Great, his mother Helena determined to
find the bodies of the three kings, and for this she made a journey to the
far country. And when she had found them, she brought them to
Constantinople to the Church of St. Sophia, where they were held in much
honor. And from Constantinople they were taken to Milan, where again many
pilgrims came. Now when Frederick Barbarossa laid siege to the city of
Milan, he rejoiced above all else to find them there. And by him they were
taken to Cologne, and there a golden shrine was built in which the bones
of the three holy kings were placed that there they might remain until the
Judgment day.



THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE

EUGENE FIELD


From out Cologne there came three kings
  To worship Jesus Christ, their King.
To Him they sought fine herbs they brought,
  And many a beauteous golden thing;
  They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town,
  And in that manger set them down.

Then spake the first king, and he said:
  "O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair!
I bring this crown to Bethlehem town.
  For Thee, and only Thee, to wear;
  So give a heavenly crown to me
  When I shall come at last to Thee!"

The second, then. "I bring Thee here
  This royal robe, O Child!" he cried;
"Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one
  There is not in the world beside;
So in the day of doom requite
Me with a heavenly robe of white!"

The third king gave his gift, and quoth:
  "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring,
And with these twain would I most fain
  Anoint the body of my King;
  So may their incense sometime rise
  To plead for me in yonder skies!"

Thus spake the three kings of Cologne,
  That gave their gifts and went their way;
And now kneel I in prayer hard by
  The cradle of the Child to-day;
  Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring
  As offering unto Christ, my King.

Yet have I brought a gift the Child
  May not despise, however small;
For here I lay my heart to-day,
  And it is full of love to all.
  Take Thou the poor but loyal thing,
  My only tribute, Christ, my King!



BABOUSCKA

ADELAIDE SKEEL


If you were a Russian child you would not watch to see Santa Klaus come
down the chimney; but you would stand by the windows to catch a peep at
poor Babouscka as she hurries by.

Who is Babouscka? Is she Santa Klaus' wife?

No, indeed. She is only a poor little crooked wrinkled old woman, who
comes at Christmas time into everybody's house, who peeps into every
cradle, turns back every coverlid, drops a tear on the baby's white
pillow, and goes away very sorrowful.

And not only at Christmas time, but through all the cold winter, and
especially in March, when the wind blows loud, and whistles and howls and
dies away like a sigh, the Russian children hear the rustling step of the
Babouscka. She is always in a hurry. One hears her running fast along the
crowded streets and over the quiet country fields. She seems to be out of
breath and tired, yet she hurries on.

Whom is she trying to overtake?

She scarcely looks at the little children as they press their rosy faces
against the window pane and whisper to each other, "Is the Babouscka
looking for us?"

No, she will not stop; only on Christmas eve will she come up-stairs into
the nursery and give each little one a present. You must not think she
leaves handsome gifts such as Santa Klaus brings for you. She does not
bring bicycles to the boys or French dolls to the girls. She does not come
in a gay little sleigh drawn by reindeer, but hobbling along on foot, and
she leans on a crutch. She has her old apron filled with candy and cheap
toys, and the children all love her dearly. They watch to see her come,
and when one hears a rustling, he cries, "Lo! the Babouscka!" then all
others look, but one must turn one's head very quickly or she vanishes. I
never saw her myself.

Best of all, she loves little babies, and often, when the tired mothers
sleep, she bends over their cradles, puts her brown, wrinkled face close
down to the pillow and looks very sharply.

What is she looking for?

Ah, that you can't guess unless you know her sad story.

Long, long ago, a great many yesterdays ago, the Babouscka, who was even
then an old woman, was busy sweeping her little hut. She lived in the
coldest corner of cold Russia, and she lived alone in a lonely place where
four wide roads met. These roads were at this time white with snow, for it
was winter time. In the summer, when the fields were full of flowers and
the air full of sunshine and singing birds, Babouscka's home did not seem
so very quiet; but in the winter, with only the snow-flakes and the shy
snow-birds and the loud wind for company, the little old woman felt very
cheerless. But she was a busy old woman, and as it was already twilight,
and her home but half swept, she felt in a great hurry to finish her work
before bed-time. You must know the Babouscka was poor and could not afford
to do her work by candle-light. Presently, down the widest and the
lonesomest  of the white roads, there appeared a long train of people
coming. They were walking slowly, and seemed to be asking each other
questions as to which way they should take. As the procession came nearer,
and finally stopped outside the little hut, Babouscka was frightened at
the splendor. There were Three Kings, with crowns on their heads, and the
jewels on the Kings' breastplates sparkled like sunlight. Their heavy fur
cloaks were white with the falling snow-flakes, and the queer humpy camels
on which they rode looked white as milk in the snow-storm. The harness on
the camels was decorated with gold, and plates of silver adorned the
saddles. The saddlecloths were of the richest Eastern stuffs, and all the
servants had the dark eyes and hair of an Eastern people.

The slaves carried heavy loads on their backs, and each of the Three Kings
carried a present. One carried a beautiful transparent jar, and in the
fading light Babouscka could see in it a golden liquid which she knew from
its color must be myrrh. Another had in his hand a richly woven bag, and
it seemed to be heavy, as indeed it was, for it was full of gold. The
third had a stone vase in his hand, and from the rich perfume which filled
the snowy air, one could guess the vase to have been filled with incense.

Babouscka was terribly frightened, so she hid herself in her hut, and let
the servants knock a long time at her door before she dared open it and
answer their questions as to the road they should take to a far-away town.
You know she had never studied a geography lesson in her life, was old and
stupid and scared. She knew the way across the fields to the nearest
village, but she knew nothing else of all the wide world full of cities.
The servants scolded, but the Three Kings spoke kindly to her, and asked
her to accompany them on their journey that she might show them the way as
far as she knew it. They told her, in words so simple that she could not
fail to understand, that they had seen a Star in the sky and were
following it to a little town where a young Child lay. The snow was in the
sky now, and the Star was lost out of sight.

"Who is the Child?" asked the old woman.

"He is a King, and we go to worship him," they answered. "These presents
of gold, frankincense and myrrh are for Him. When we find Him we will take
the crowns off our heads and lay them at His feet. Come with us,
Babouscka!"

What do you suppose? Shouldn't you have thought the poor little woman
would have been glad to leave her desolate home on the plains to accompany
these Kings on their journey?

But the foolish woman shook her head. No, the night was dark and
cheerless, and her little home was warm and cosy. She looked up into the
sky, and the Star was nowhere to be seen. Besides, she wanted to put her
hut in order--perhaps she would be ready to go to-morrow. But the Three
Kings could not wait; so when to-morrow's sun rose they were far ahead on
their journey. It seemed like a dream to poor Babouscka, for even the
tracks of the camels' feet were covered by the deep white snow. Everything
was the same as usual; and to make sure that the night's visitors had not
been a fancy, she found her old broom hanging on a peg behind the door,
where she had put it when the servants knocked.

Now that the sun was shining, and she remembered the glitter of the gold
and the smell of the sweet gums and myrrh, she wished she had gone with
the travellers.

And she thought a great deal about the little Baby the Three Kings had
gone to worship. She had no children of her own--nobody loved her--ah, if
she had only gone! The more she brooded on the thought, the more miserable
she grew, till the very sight of her home became hateful to her.

It is a dreadful feeling to realize that one has lost a chance of
happiness. There is a feeling called remorse that can gnaw like a sharp
little tooth. Babouscka felt this little tooth cut into her heart every
time she remembered the visit of the Three Kings.

After a while the thought of the Little Child became her first thought at
waking and her last at night. One day she shut the door of her house
forever, and set out on a long journey. She had no hope of overtaking the
Three Kings, but she longed to find the Child, that she too might love and
worship Him. She asked every one she met, and some people thought her
crazy, but others gave her kind answers. Have you perhaps guessed that the
young Child whom the Three Kings sought was our Lord himself?

People told Babouscka how He was born in a manger, and many other things
which you children have learned long ago. These answers puzzled the old
dame mightily. She had but one idea in her ignorant head. The Three Kings
had gone to seek a Baby. She would, if not too late, seek Him too.

She forgot, I am sure, how many long years had gone by. She looked in vain
for the Christ-child in His manger-cradle. She spent all her little
savings in toys and candy so as to make friends with little children, that
they might not run away when she came hobbling into their nurseries.

Now you know for whom she is sadly seeking when she pushes back the
bed-curtains and bends down over each baby's pillow. Sometimes, when the
old grandmother sits nodding by the fire, and the bigger children sleep
in their beds, old Babouscka comes hobbling into the room, and whispers
softly, "Is the young Child here?"

Ah, no; she has come too late, too late. But the little children know her
and love her. Two thousand years ago she lost the chance of finding Him.
Crooked, wrinkled, old, sick and sorry, she yet lives on, looking into
each baby's face--always disappointed, always seeking. Will she find Him
at last?



THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT

SELMA LAGERLÖF


Far away, in a desert in the East, there grew, many years ago, a palm that
was very, very old, and very, very tall. No one passing through the desert
could help stopping to look at it, for it was much higher than other
palms, and people said of it that it would surely grow to be higher than
the Obelisks and Pyramids.

This great palm, standing in its loneliness, and looking over the desert,
one day saw something which caused its huge crown of leaves to wave to and
fro with surprise on its slender stem. On the outskirts of the desert two
lonely persons were wandering. They were still so far away that even a
camel would have looked no larger than an ant at that distance, but they
were assuredly human beings, two who were strangers to the desert--for the
palm knew the people of the desert--a man and a woman, who had neither
guide, nor beasts of burden, nor tent, nor water-bag.

"Verily," said the palm to itself, "these two have come hither to die."

The palm looked quickly around.

"I am surprised," it said, "that the lions have not already gone out to
seize their prey. But I do not see a single one about. Nor do I see any of
the robbers of the desert. But they are sure to come.

"There awaits them a sevenfold death," thought the palm. "The lions will
devour them, the serpents will sting them, thirst will consume them, the
sand-storm will bury them, the robbers will kill them, the burning sun
will overcome them, fear will destroy them."

The palm tried to think of something else; the fate of these two made it
sad. But in the immeasurable desert around it there was not a single thing
that the palm had not known and gazed at for thousands of years. Nothing
could attract its attention. It was again obliged to think of the two
wanderers.

"By the drought and the wind!" said the palm, invoking the two greatest
enemies of life, "what is the woman carrying on her arm? I believe these
mad people have a little child with them!"

The palm, which was long-sighted, as the aged generally are, saw aright.
The woman carried in her arms a child, that had laid its head on her
breast and was sleeping.

"The child has not even enough clothes on," said the palm. "I see that the
mother has lifted up her skirt and thrown it over it. She has taken it out
of its bed in great haste and hurried away with it. Now I understand:
these people are fugitives.

"But they are mad, all the same," continued the palm. "If they have not an
angel to protect them, they should rather have let their enemies do their
worst than have taken refuge in the desert. I can imagine how it has all
happened. The man is at work, the child sleeps in its cradle, the woman
has gone to fetch water. When she has gone a few steps from the door she
sees the enemy approaching. She rushes in, seizes the child, calls to the
husband that he shall follow her, and runs away. Since then they have
continued their flight the whole day; they have assuredly not rested a
single moment. Yes, so it has all happened; but I say all the same, if no
angel protects them--

"They are in such fear that they do not feel either fatigue or other
sufferings, but I read thirst in their eyes. I think I should know the
face of a thirsty man."

And when the palm began to think about thirst a fit of trembling went
through its high stem, and the innumerable fronds of its long leaves
curled up as if held over a fire.

"If I were a man," it said, "I would never venture into the desert. He is
truly brave who ventures here without having roots reaching down to the
inexhaustible water-veins. There can be danger even for palms, even for
such a palm as I. Could I advise them, I would beg them to return. Their
enemies could never be as cruel to them as the desert. They think perhaps
that it is easy to live in the desert. But I know that even I at times
have had difficulty in keeping alive. I remember once in my youth when a
whirlwind threw a whole mountain of sand over me I was nearly choking. If
I _could_ die I should have died then."

The palm continued to think aloud, as lonely old people do.

"I hear a wonderful melodious murmur passing through my crown," it said;
"all the fronds of my leaves must be moving. I do not know why the sight
of these poor strangers moves me so. But this sorrowful woman is so
beautiful! It reminds me of the most wonderful thing that ever happened to
me."

And whilst its leaves continued their melodious rustle the palm remembered
how once, long, long ago, a glorious human being had visited the oasis. It
was the Queen of Sheba, accompanied by the wise King Solomon. The
beautiful Queen was on her way back to her own country; the King had
accompanied her part of the way, and now they were about to part. "In
memory of this moment," said the Queen, "I now plant a date-kernel in the
earth; and I ordain that from it shall grow a palm which shall live and
grow until a King is born in Judaea greater than Solomon." And as she said
this she placed the kernel in the ground, and her tears watered it.

"How can it be that I should just happen to think of this to-day?" said
the palm. "Can it be possible that this woman is so beautiful that she
reminds me of the most beautiful of all queens, of her at whose bidding I
have lived and grown to this very day? I hear my leaves rustling stronger
and stronger," said the palm, "and it sounds sorrowful, like a death-song.
It is as if they prophesied that someone should soon pass away. It is well
to know that it is not meant for me, inasmuch that I cannot die."

The palm thought that the death-song in its leaves must be for the two
lonely wanderers. They themselves surely thought that their last hour was
drawing near. One could read it in their faces when they walked past one
of the skeletons of the camels that lay by the roadside. One saw it from
the glances with which they watched a couple of vultures flying past. It
could not be otherwise--they must perish.

They had now discovered the palm in the oasis, and hastened thither to
find water. But when they at last reached it they sank down in despair,
for the well was dried up. The woman, exhausted, laid down the child, and
sat down crying by the side of the well. The man threw himself down by her
side; he lay and beat the ground with his clenched hands. The palm heard
them say to each other that they must die. It also understood from their
conversation  that King Herod had caused all children of two or three
years of age to be killed from fear that the great expected King in Judaea
had been born.

"It rustles stronger and stronger in my leaves," said the palm. "These
poor fugitives have soon come to their last moment."

It also heard that they were afraid of the desert. The man said it would
have been better to remain and fight the soldiers than to flee. He said
that it would have been an easier death.

"God will surely help us," said the woman.

"We are all alone amongst serpents and beasts of prey," said the man. "We
have no food and no water. How can God help us?"

He tore his clothes in despair and pressed his face against the earth. He
was hopeless, like a man with a mortal wound in his heart.

The woman sat upright, with her hands folded upon her knees. But the
glances she cast over the desert spoke of unutterable despair.

The palm heard the sorrowful rustling in its leaves grow still stronger.
The woman had evidently heard it too, for she looked up to the crown of
the tree, and in the same moment she involuntarily raised her arms.

"Dates, dates!" she cried.

There was such a longing in her voice, that the old palm wished it had not
been any higher than the gorse, and that its dates had been as easy to
reach as the red berries of the hawthorn. It knew that its crown was full
of clusters of dates, but how could man reach to such a dazzling height?

The man had already seen that, the dates being so high, it was impossible
to reach them. He did not even lift his head. He told his wife that she
must not wish for the impossible.

But the child, which had crawled about alone and was playing with sticks
and straws, heard the mother's exclamation. The little one could probably
not understand why his mother should not have everything she wished for.
As soon as he heard the word "dates," he began to look at the tree. He
wondered and pondered how he should get the dates. There came almost
wrinkles on his forehead under the fair locks. At last a smile passed over
his face. Now he knew what he would do. He went to the palm, stroked it
with his little hand, and said in his gentle, childish voice:

"Bend down, palm. Bend down, palm."

But what was this, what could this be? The palm-leaves rustled, as if a
hurricane rushed through them, and shudder upon shudder passed through the
tall stem. And the palm felt that the little one was the stronger. It
could not resist him.

And with its high stem it bowed down before the child, as men bow down
before princes. In a mighty arch it lowered itself towards earth, and at
last bowed so low that its great crown of trembling leaves swept the sand
of the desert.

The child did not seem to be either frightened or surprised, but with a
joyous exclamation it ran and plucked one cluster after another from the
crown of the old palm.

When the child had gathered enough, and the tree was still lying on the
earth, he again went to it, stroked it, and said in his gentlest voice:

"Arise, palm, arise."

And the great tree raised itself silently and obediently on its stem,
whilst the leaves played like harps.

"Now I know for whom they play the death-song," the old palm said to
itself, when it again stood erect. "It is not for any of these strangers."

But the man and woman knelt down on their knees and praised God.

"Thou hast seen our fear and taken it from us. Thou art the Mighty One,
that bends the stem of the palm like a reed. Of whom should we be afraid
when Thy strength protects us?"

Next time a caravan passed through the desert, one of the travellers saw
that the crown of the great palm had withered.

"How can that have happened?" said the traveller. "Have we not heard that
this palm should not die before it had seen a King greater than Solomon?"

"Perhaps it has seen Him," answered another wanderer of the desert.



THE HAUGHTY ASPEN

_A German Legend_

NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH


As I went through the tangled wood
  I heard the Aspen shiver.
"What dost thou ail, sweet Aspen, say,
  Why do thy leaflets quiver?"

"'Twas long ago," the Aspen sighed--
  How long is past my knowing--
"When Mary Mother rode adown
  This wood where I was growing.
Blest Joseph journey'd by her side,
  Upon his good staff resting,
And in her arms the Heav'nly Babe,
  Dove of the World, was nesting.
Fair was the mother, shining-fair,
  A lily sweetly blowing;
The Babe was but a lily-bud,
  Like to his mother showing.

The birds began, 'Thy Master comes!
  Bow down, bow down before Him!'
The date, the fig, the hazel tree,
In rev'rence bent to adore Him.
I only, out of all the host
  Of bird and tree and flower,--
I, haughty, would not bow my head,
  Nor own my Master's power.
'Proud Aspen,' quoth the Mother-Maid,
  'Thy Lord, dost thou defy Him?
When emperors worship at His shrine,
  Wilt courtesy deny Him?'
I heard her voice; my heart was rent,
  My boughs began to shiver,
And age on age, in punishment,
  My sorrowing leaflets quiver."

Still in the dark and tangled wood,
  Still doth the Aspen quiver.
The haughty tree doth bear a curse,
  Her leaflets aye must shiver.



THE LITTLE MUD-SPARROWS

_Jewish Legend_

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS


I like that old, kind legend
  Not found in Holy Writ,
And wish that John or Matthew
  Had made Bible out of it.

But though it is not Gospel,
  There is no law to hold
The heart from growing better
  That hears the story told:--

How the little Jewish children
  Upon a summer day,
Went down across the meadows
  With the Child Christ to play.

And in the gold-green valley,
  Where low the reed-grass lay,

They made them mock mud-sparrows
  Out of the meadow clay.

So, when these all were fashioned,
  And ranged in rows about,
"Now," said the little Jesus,
  "We'll let the birds fly out."

Then all the happy children
  Did call, and coax, and cry--
Each to his own mud-sparrow:
  "Fly, as I bid you! Fly!"

But earthen were the sparrows,
  And earth they did remain,
Though loud the Jewish children
  Cried out, and cried again.

Except the one bird only
  The little Lord Christ made;
The earth that owned Him Master,
  --His earth heard and obeyed.

Softly He leaned and whispered:
  "Fly up to Heaven! Fly!"
And swift, His little sparrow
  Went soaring to the sky,

And silent, all the children
  Stood, awestruck, looking on,
Till, deep into the heavens,
  The bird of earth had gone.

I like to think, for playmate
  We have the Lord Christ still,
And that still above our weakness
  He works His mighty will,

That all our little playthings
  Of earthen hopes and joys
Shall be, by His commandment,
  Changed into heavenly toys.

Our souls are like the sparrows
  Imprisoned in the clay,
Bless Him who came to give them wings
  Upon a Christmas Day!



THE CHILDREN OF WIND AND THE
CLAN OF PEACE

FIONA MACLEOD


I will tell this Legend as simply but also with what beauty I can, because
the words of the old Highland woman, who told it to me,...though simple
were beautiful with ancient idiom.

We must go back near twenty hundred years.... It was in the last month of
the last year of the seven years' silence and peace: the seventh year in
the mortal life of Jesus the Christ. It was on the twenty-fifth day of
that month, the day of His holy birth.

It was a still day. The little white flowers that were called Breaths of
Hope and that we now call Stars of Bethlehem were so hushed in quiet that
the shadows of moths lay on them like the dark motionless violet in the
hearts of pansies. In the long swards of tender grass the multitude of the
daisies were white as milk faintly stained with flusht dews fallen from
roses. On the meadows of white poppies were long shadows blue as the blue
lagoons of the sky among drifting snow-white moors of cloud. Three white
aspens on the pastures were in a still sleep: their tremulous leaves made
no rustle, though there was a soundless wavering fall of little dusky
shadows, as in the dark water of a pool where birches lean in the yellow
hour of the frostfire. Upon the pastures were ewes and lambs sleeping, and
yearling kids opened and closed their onyx eyes among the garths of white
clover.

It was the Sabbath, and Jesus walked alone. When He came to a little rise
in the grass He turned and looked back at the house where His parents
dwelled. Joseph sat on a bench, with bent shoulders, and was dreaming with
fixt gaze into the west, as seamen stare across the interminable wave at
the pale green horizons that are like the grassy shores of home. Mary was
standing, dressed in long white raiment, white as a lily, with her right
hand shading her eyes as she looked to the east, dreaming her dream.

The young Christ sighed, but with the love of all love in His heart. "So
shall it be till the day of days," He said aloud; "even so shall the
hearts of men dwell among shadows and glories, in the West of passing
things: even so shall that which is immortal turn to the East and watch
for the coming of Joy through the Gates of Life."

At the sound of His voice He heard a sudden noise as of many birds, and
turned and looked beyond the low upland where He stood. A pool of pure
water lay in the hollow, fed by a ceaseless wellspring, and round it and
over it circled birds whose breasts were grey as pearl and whose necks
shone purple and grass-green and rose. The noise was of their wings, for
though the birds were beautiful they were voiceless and dumb as flowers.

At the edge of the pool stood two figures, whom He knew to be of the
angelic world because of their beauty, but who had on them the illusion of
mortality so that the child did not know them. But He saw that one was
beautiful as Night, and one beautiful as Morning.

He drew near.

"I have lived seven years," He said, "and I wish to send peace to the far
ends of the world."

"Tell your secret to the birds," said one.

"Tell your secret to the birds," said the
other.

So Jesus called to the birds.

"Come," He cried; and they came.

Seven came flying from the left, from the side of the angel beautiful as
Night. Seven came flying from the right, from the side of the angel
beautiful as Morning.

To the first He said: "Look into my heart."

But they wheeled about Him, and with newfound voices mocked, crying, "How
could we see into your heart that is hidden" ... and mocked and derided,
crying, "What is Peace! ... Leave  us alone! Leave us alone!"

So Christ said to them:

"I know you for the birds of Ahriman, who is not beautiful but is Evil.
Henceforth ye shall be black as night, and be children of the winds."

To the seven other birds which circled about Him, voiceless, and brushing
their wings against His arms, He cried:

"Look into my heart."

And they swerved and hung before Him in a maze of wings, and looked into
His pure heart: and, as they looked, a soft murmurous sound came from
them, drowsy-sweet, full of peace: and as they hung there like a breath in
frost they became white as snow.

"Ye are the Doves of the Spirit," said Christ, "and to you I will commit
that which ye have seen. Henceforth shall your plumage be white and your
voices be the voices of peace."

The young Christ turned, for He heard Mary calling to the sheep and goats,
and knew that dayset was come and that in the valleys the gloaming was
already rising like smoke from the urns of the twilight. When He looked
back He saw by the pool neither the Son of Joy nor the Son of Sorrow, but
seven white doves were in the cedar beyond the pool, cooing in low ecstasy
of peace and awaiting through sleep and dreams the rose-red pathways of
the dawn. Down the long grey reaches of the ebbing day He saw seven birds
rising and falling on the wind, black as black water in caves, black as
the darkness of night in old pathless woods.

And that is how the first doves became white, and how the first crows
became black and were called by a name that means the clan of darkness,
the children of the wind.



THE CHILD JESUS IN THE GARDEN

AUTHOR UNKNOWN


Cold was the day, when in a garden bare,
  Walked the Child Jesus, wrapt in holy thought;
His brow seemed clouded with a weight of care;
  Calmness and rest from worldly things he sought.

Soon was his presence missed within his home;
  His mother gently marked his every way;
Forth then she came to seek where he did roam.
  Full of sweet words his trouble to allay.

Through chilling snow she toiled to reach his side,
  Forcing her way mid branches brown and sere,
Hastening that she his sorrows might divide,
  Share all his woe, or calm his gloomy fear.

Sweet was her face, as o'er his head she bent,
  Longing to melt his look of saddest grief.
With lifted eyes, his ear to her he lent;
  Her kindly solace brought his soul relief.

Then did he smile--a smile of love so deep,
  Winter himself grew warm beneath its glow;
From drooping branches scented blossoms peep;
  Up springs the grass; the sealèd fountains flow.

Summer and spring did with each other vie,
  Offering to Him the fragrance of their store;
Chanting sweet notes, the birds around him fly,
  Wondering why earth had checkered so her floor.



THE MYSTIC THORN

ADAPTED FROM TRADITIONAL SOURCES


"Three hawthornes also that groweth in Werall
Do burge and bere grene leaves at Christmas
As fresshe as other in May."

It was Christmas day in the year 63. The autumn colors of red and gold had
long since faded from the hills, and the trees which covered the island
valley of Glastonbury, the Avalon or Apple-tree isle of the early Britons,
were bare and leafless. The spreading, glass-like waters encircling it
round about gleamed faintly in the pale afternoon light of the winter's
day. The light fell also on the silver stems of the willows and on the
tall flags and bending reeds and osiers which bordered the marsh island.
Westward the long ranges of hills running seaward were purple in the
distance and their tops were partly hidden by the misty white clouds which
rested lightly upon them. To the south rose sharply and abruptly a high,
pointed hill, the tor of Glastonbury.

It was nearing the sunset hour when a little band of men in pilgrim garb,
approaching from the west and climbing the long, hilly ridge, came within
sight of this "isle of rest." Twelve pilgrims there were in all, in dress
and appearance very unlike the fair-haired Britons who at that time dwelt
in the land. One, he who led the way, was an old man. His hair was white
and his long, white beard fell upon his breast, but he was tall and erect
and bore no other signs of age. In his hand he carried a stout hawthorn
staff.

The men were climbing slowly up the hill, for they were all weary with
long travelling. And here at the summit of the ridge they stopped to look
out over the wooded hills, the wide-spreading waters and the grassy island
with its leafless thickets of oak and alder. Sitting down to rest, they
spoke one to another of their long journeying from the far-distant land of
Palestine and of their hope that here their pilgrimage might have end.

Those who were with him called their leader Joseph of Arimathea. He it was
who had been known among the Jews many years before as a counsellor, "a
good man, and a just," and who, when the Saviour was crucified on Calvary,
had given his sepulchre to receive the body of the Lord.

From this tomb upon the third day came the risen Saviour; but the people,
thinking that Joseph had stolen away the body, seized and imprisoned him
in a chamber where there was no window. They fastened the door and put a
seal upon the lock and placed men before the door to guard it. Then the
priests and the Levites contrived to what death they should put him; but
when they sent for Joseph to be brought forth he could not be found,
though the seal was still upon the lock and the guard before the door.

The disciples of Joseph as they gathered about their fire of an evening
often told how, at night, as he prayed, the prison chamber had been filled
with a light brighter than that of the sun, and Jesus himself had appeared
to him and had led him forth unharmed to his own house in Arimathea.

And sometimes they told how, again imprisoned, he had been fed from the
Holy Cup from which the Saviour had drunk at the "last sad supper with his
own" and in which Joseph had caught the blood of his Master when he was on
the cross, and how he had been blest with such heavenly visions that the
years passed and seemed to him as naught.

Now after a certain time he had been released from prison; but there were
people who still doubted him and so with his friends, Lazarus and Mary
Magdalene and Philip and others, he had been driven away from Jerusalem.
The small vessel, without oars, rudder or sail, in which they had been
cast adrift on the Mediterranean, had come at last in safety to the coast
of Gaul. And for many years since then had Joseph wandered through the
land carrying ever with him two precious relics, the Holy Grail and "that
same spear wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ." Now at last
with a chosen band of disciples he had reached the little-known island of
the Britons.

Landing from their little boat in the early morn on this unknown coast,
they had knelt upon the shore while Joseph "gave blessing to the God of
heaven in a lowly chanted prayer." Then, "over the brow of the seaward
hill" they had passed, led by an invisible hand and singing as they went.
All day through dark forests and over reedy swamps they had made their way
and now at nightfall, tired and wayworn, they rested on the ridgy hill
which has ever since been known by the name of Wearyall.

During the long day's march they had seen but few of the people of the
land and these had held aloof.

Now, suddenly, the silence was broken by loud cries and shouts, and groups
of the native Britons, wild and uncouth in appearance, their half-naked
bodies stained blue with woad, were seen coming from different directions
up the hill. They were armed with spears, hatchets of bronze, and other
rude weapons of olden warfare and, as they came rapidly nearer, their
threatening aspect and menacing cries startled the pilgrim band. Rising
hastily, as though they would flee, the men looked in terror, one toward
another. Joseph alone showed no trace of fear and, obedient to a sign from
him, they all knelt in prayer upon the hillside.

Then, thrusting his thorny staff into the ground beside him and raising
both hands toward heaven, Joseph claimed possession of this new land in
the name of his Master, Christ.

"'This staff hath borne me long and well,'
Then spake that saint divine,
'Over mountain and over plain,
On quest of the Promise-sign;
For aye let it stand in this western land,
And God do no more to me
If there ring not out from this realm about,
_Tibi gloria, Domine._'"

His voice ceased and the men rose from their knees, looking expectantly
for the heavenly sign, but ready, if need be, to meet with courage the
threatened attack.

But stillness had again settled over the hill. Only a few rods distant the
Britons had stopped and grouped closely together were gazing in awestruck
silence upon the dry and withered staff, which had so often aided Joseph
in his wanderings from the Holy Land. Following their gaze, Joseph and his
companions turned toward it and even as they did so, behold! A miracle!
The staff took root and grew and, as they watched, they saw it put forth
branches and green leaves, fair buds and milk-white blossoms which filled
the air with their sweet odor.

For a moment, awed and amazed, all stood silent. Wondrously had Joseph's
prayer been answered! This was indeed the heavenly token which had been
foretold! Then with tears of joy all cried out as with one voice, "Our God
is with us! Jesus is with us!"

Marvelling much at the strange things they had just seen and heard, the
Britons dropped their weapons and fled in haste from the hill.

Then did Joseph and his disciples go down across the marsh into the valley
and there they rested undisturbed.

Word of the miracle which had thus been wrought on Wearyall Hill was
brought soon to Arviragus, the heathen king of the time, and he welcomed
gladly the holy men and gave them the beautiful vale of Avalon whereon to
live. There they built "a little lonely church," with roof of rushes and
walls of woven twigs and "wattles from the marsh," the first Christian
church which had ever been built in Britain.

There they dwelt for many years, serving God, fasting and praying, and
there Joseph taught the half-barbarous Britons, who gathered to listen to
him, the faith of Christ.

       *       *       *       *       *

Time passed and the little, low, wattled church became a great and
beautiful abbey. Many pilgrims there were who came to worship at the
shrine of St. Joseph; to drink from the holy well which sprang from the
foot of Chalice Hill where the Holy Cup lay buried; and to watch the
budding of the mystic thorn, which, year after year, when the snows of
Christmas covered the hills, put forth its holy blossoms, "a symbol of
God's promise, care and love."

Now long, long afterward there came a time when there was war in the land
and one day a rough soldier who recked not of its heavenly origin cut down
the sacred tree. Only a flat stone now marks the place where it once stood
and where Joseph's staff burst into bloom. But there were other trees
which had been grown from slips of the miraculous thorn and these,
"mindful of our Lord" still keep the sacred birthday and blossom each year
on Christmas Day.



THE BLOOMING OF THE WHITE THORN

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS


God shield ye, comrades of the road!
  And while our way we hold,
List while I tell how it first befell
  In the wondrous days of old.

       *       *       *       *       *

From off the sea, the pilgrims came,
  With sea-toil wracked and worn;
The air blew keen, and the frost was sheen,
  Upon that wintry morn.

Through Glastonbury street went they;
  And ever on, and on,
Till they pass the well of the fairy spell,
  And the oak of Avalon.

They hear the rustling leaves and few,
  That linger on the bough;
But still they fare through the bitter air,
  And climb a hill-slope now.

On Weary-All-Hill their feet they stay
  (Full well that Hill ye know);
There may they rest, by toil oppressed,
  While round them drops the snow.

And one--far gone in age was he--
  As snow, his locks were white--
The staff of thorn which he had borne,
  Did plant upon that height.

A thorn-stick dry, that pilgrim staff,
  He set it in the ground:
And, swift as sight, with blossoms white
  The branching staff was crowned!

Each year since then (if sooth men say)
  Upon this Blessed Morn,
Who climbs that Hill, may see at will
  The flower upon the thorn!

Howe'er the wind may drive the sleet,
  That thorn will blooming be;
And some have seen a fair Child lean
  From out that blossomed tree!

One moment only--then, apace,
  Both flower and leaf are shorn;
And, gaunt and chill, on Weary-All-Hill,
  There stands an ancient thorn!

God shield ye, comrades of the road--
  With grace your spirits fill,
That ye may see the White-thorn tree
  A-bloom on Weary-All-Hill!



LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER

ADAPTED FROM THE GOLDEN LEGEND


There was a mighty man of old who dwelt in the land of Canaan. Large was
he and tall of stature and stronger than any man whom the world had ever
seen. Therefore was he called Offero, or, "The Bearer." Now he served the
king of Canaan, but he was proud of his great strength and upon a time it
came in his mind that he would seek the greatest king who then reigned and
him only would he serve and obey.

So he travelled from one country to another until at length he came to one
where ruled a powerful king whose fame was great in all the land.

"Thou art the conqueror of nations?" asked Offero.

"I am," replied the king.

"Then take me into your service, for I will serve none but the mightiest
of earth."

"That then am I," returned the king, "for truly I fear none."

So the king received Offero into his service and made him to dwell in his
court.

But once at eventide a minstrel sang before the king a merry song in which
he named oft the evil one. And every time that the king heard the name of
Satan he grew pale and hastily made the sign of the cross upon his
forehead. Offero marvelled thereat and demanded of the king the meaning of
the sign and wherefore he thus crossed himself. And because the king would
not tell him Offero said, "If thou tell me not, I shall no longer dwell
with thee." Then the king answered, saying, "Always when I hear Satan
named, I fear that he may have power over me and therefore I make this
sign that he harm me not."

"Who is Satan?" asked Offero.

"He is a wicked monarch," replied the king, "wicked but powerful."

"More powerful than thou art?"

"Aye, verily."

"And fearest thou that he hurt thee?"

"That do I, and so do all."

"Then," cried Offero, "is he more mighty and greater than thou art. I will
go seek him. Henceforth he shall be my master for I would fain serve the
mightiest and the greatest lord of all the world."

So Offero departed from the king and sought Satan. Everywhere he met
people who had given themselves over to his rule and at last one day as he
was crossing a wide desert he saw a great company of knights approaching.
One of them, mounted upon a great black horse, came to him and demanded
whither he went, and Offero made answer, "I seek Satan, for he is mighty,
and I would fain serve him."

Then returned the knight, "I am he whom thou seekest."

When Offero heard these words he was right glad and took Satan to be his
lord and master.

This king was indeed powerful and a long time did Offero serve him, but it
chanced one day as they were journeying together they came to a place
where four roads met and in the midst of the space stood a little cross.
As soon as Satan saw the cross he was afraid and turned quickly aside and
fled toward the desert. Offero followed him marvelling much at the sight.
And after, when they had come back to the highway they had left, he
inquired of Satan why he was thus troubled and had gone so far out of his
way to avoid the cross. But Satan answered him not a word.

Then Offero said to him, "If thou wilt not tell me, I shall depart from
thee straightway and shall serve thee no more."

"Know then," said Satan, "there was a man called Christ who suffered on
the cross and whenever I see his sign I am sore afraid and flee from it,
lest he destroy me."

"If then thou art afraid of his sign," cried Offero, "he is greater and
more mighty than thou, and I see well that I have labored in vain, for I
have not found the greatest lord of the world. I will serve thee no
longer. Go thy way alone, for I will go to seek Christ."

And when he had long sought and demanded where he should find Him, he came
at length into a great desert where dwelt a hermit, a servant of the
Christ. The hermit told him of the Master whom he was seeking and said to
him, "This king whom thou dost wish to serve is not an earthly ruler and
he requireth that thou oft fast and make many prayers."

But Offero understood not the meaning of worship and prayer and he
answered, "Require of me some other thing and I shall do it, but I know
naught of this which thou requirest."

Then the hermit said to him, "Knowest thou the river, a day's journey from
here, where there is neither ford nor bridge and many perish and are lost?
Thou art large and strong. Therefore go thou and dwell by this river and
bear over all who desire to cross its waters. That is a service which will
be well pleasing to the Christ whom thou desirest to serve, and sometime,
if I mistake not, he whom thou seekest will come to thee."

Offero was right joyful at these words and answered, "This service may I
well do."

So he hastened to the river and upon its banks he built himself a little
hut of reeds. He bare a great pole in his hand to sustain him in the water
and many weary wayfarers did he help to cross the turbulent stream. So he
lived a long time, bearing over all manner of people without ceasing, and
still he saw nothing of the Christ.

Now it happened one night that a storm was raging and the river was very
high. Tired with his labors, Offero had just flung himself down on his
rude bed to sleep when he heard the voice of a child which called him and
said, "Offero, Offero, come out and bear me over."

Offero arose and went out from his cabin, but in the darkness he could see
no one. And when he was again in the house, he heard the same voice and he
ran out again and found no one. A third time he heard the call and going
out once more into the storm, there upon the river bank he found a fair
young child who besought him in pleading tones, "Wilt thou not carry me
over the river this night, Offero?"

The strong man gently lifted the child on his shoulders, took his staff
and stepped into the stream. And the water of the river arose and swelled
more and more and the child was heavy as lead. And alway as he went
farther, higher and higher swelled the waters and the child more and more
waxed heavy, insomuch that he feared that they would both be drowned.
Already his strength was nearly gone, but he thought of his Master whom he
had not yet seen, and staying his footsteps with his palm staff struggled
with all his might to reach the opposite shore. As at last he climbed the
steep bank, suddenly the storm ceased and the waters calmed.

He set the child down upon the shore, saying, "Child, thou hast put me in
great peril. Had I carried the whole world on my shoulders, the weight had
not been greater. I might bear no greater burden."

"Offero," answered the child, "Marvel not, but rejoice; for thou hast
borne not only all the world upon thee, but thou hast borne him that
created and made all the world upon thy shoulders. I am Christ the king
whom thou servest in this work. And for a token, that thou mayst know what
I say to be the truth, set thy staff in the earth by thy house and thou
shalt see in the morning that it shall bear flowers and fruit." With these
words the child vanished from Offero's sight.

But Offero did even as he was bidden and set his staff in the earth and
when he arose on the morrow, he found it like a palm-tree bearing flowers
and leaves and clusters of dates. Then he knew that it was indeed Christ
whom he had borne through the waters and he rejoiced that he had found his
Master. From that day he served Christ faithfully and was no more called
Offero, but Christopher, the Christ bearer.



ST. CHRISTOPHER OF THE GAEL

FIONA MACLEOD


Behind the wattle-woven house
Nial the Mighty gently crept
From out a screen of ashtree boughs
To where a captive white-robe slept.

Lightly he moved, as though ashamed;
To right and left he glanced his fears.
Nial the Mighty was he named
Though but an untried youth in years--

But tall he was, as tall as he,
White Dermid of the magic sword,
Or Torcall of the Hebrid Sea
Or great Cuhoolin of the Ford;

Strong as the strongest, too, he was:
As Balor of the Evil Eye;
As Fionn who kept the Ulster Pass
From dawn till blood-flusht sunset sky.

Much had he pondered all that day
The mystery of the men who died
On crosses raised along the way,
And perished singing side by side.

Modred the chief had sailed the Moyle,
Had reached Iona's guardless-shore,
Had seized the monks when at their toil
And carried northward, bound, a score.

Some he had thrust into the deep,
To see if magic fins would rise:
Some from high rocks he forced to leap,
To see wings fall from out the skies:

Some he had pinned upon tall spears,
Some tossed on shields with brazen clang,
To see if through their blood and tears
Their god would hear the hymns they sang.

But when his oarsmen flung their oars,
And laughed to see across the foam
The glimmer of the highland shores
And smoke-wreaths of the hidden home,

Modred was weary of his sport.
All day he brooded as he strode
Betwixt the reef-encircled port
And the oak-grove of the Sacred Road.

At night he bade his warriors raise
Seven crosses where the foamswept strand
Lay still and white beyond the blaze
Of the hundred camp-fires of the land.

The women milked the late-come kye,
The children raced in laughing glee;
Like sheep from out the fold of the sky
Stars leapt and stared at earth and sea.

At times a wild and plaintive air
Made delicate music far away:
A hill-fox barked before its lair:
The white owl hawked its shadowy prey.

But at the rising of the moon
The druids came from grove and glen,
And to the chanting of a rune
Crucified St. Columba's men.

They died in silence side by side,
But first they sang the evening hymn:
By midnight all but one had died,
At dawn he too was grey and grim.

One monk alone had Modred kept,
A youth with hair of golden-red,
Who never once had sighed or wept,
Not once had bowed his proud young head.

Broken he lay, and bound with thongs.
Thus had he seen his brothers toss
Like crows transfixed upon great prongs,
Till death crept up each silent cross.

Night grew to dawn, to scarlet morn;
Day waned to firelit, star-lit night:
But still with eyes of passionate scorn
He dared the worst of Modred's might.

When from the wattle-woven house
Nial the Mighty softly stepped,
And peered beneath the ashtree boughs
To where he thought the white-robe slept,

He heard the monk's words rise in prayer.
He heard a hymn's ascending breath--
"Christ, Son of God, to Thee I fare
This night upon the wings of death."

Nial the Mighty crossed the space,
He waited till the monk had ceased;
Then, leaning o'er the foam-white face,
He stared upon the dauntless priest.

"Speak low," he said, "and tell me this:
Who is the king you hold so great?--
Your eyes are dauntless flames of bliss
Though Modred taunts you with his hate:--

"This god or king, is He more strong
Than Modred is? And does He sleep
That thus your death-in-life is long,
And bonds your aching body keep?"

The monk's eyes stared in Nial's eyes:
"Young giant with a child's white heart,
I see a cross take shape and rise,
And thou upon it nailèd art!"

Nial looked back: no cross he saw
Looming from out the dreadful night:
Yet all his soul was filled with awe,
A thundercloud with heart of light.

"Tell me thy name," he said, "and why
Thou waitest thus the druid knife,
And carest not to live or die?
Monk, hast thou little care of life?"

"Great care of that I have," he said,
And looked at Nial with eyes of fire:
"My life begins when I am dead,
There only is my heart's desire."

Nial the Mighty sighed. "Thy words
Are as the idle froth of foam,
Or clashing of triumphant swords
When Modred brings the foray home.

"My name is Nial: Nial the Strong:
A lad in years, but as you see
More great than heroes of old song
Or any lordly men that be.

"To Modred have I come from far,
O'er many a hill and strath and stream.
To be a mighty sword in war,
And this because I dreamed a dream:

"My dream was that my strength so great
Should serve the greatest king there is:
Modred the Pict thus all men rate,
And so I sought this far-off Liss.

"But if there be a greater yet,
A king or god whom he doth fear,
My service he shall no more get,
My strength shall rust no longer here."

The monk's face gladdened. "Go, now, go;
To Modred go: he sitteth dumb,
And broods on what he fain would know:
And say, '_O King, the Cross is come_!'

"Then shall the king arise in wrath,
And bid you go from out his sight,
For if he meet you on his path
He'll leave you stark and still and white.

"Thus shall he show, great king and all,
He fears the glorious Cross of Christ,
And dreads to hear slain voices call
For vengeance on the sacrificed.

"But, Nial, come not here again:
Long before dawn my soul shall be
Beyond the reach of any pain
That Modred dreams to prove on me.

"Go forth thyself at dawn, and say
'This is Christ's holy natal morn,
My king is He from forth this day
When He to save mankind was born':

"Go forth and seek a lonely place
Where a great river fills the wild;
There bide, and let thy strength be grace,
And wait the Coming of a Child.

"A wondrous thing shall then befall:
And when thou seek'st if it be true,
Green leaves along thy staff shall crawl,
With, flowers of every lovely hue."

The monk's face whitened, like sea-foam:
Seaward he stared, and sighed "I go--
Farewell--my Lord Christ calls me home!"
Nial stooped and saw death's final throe.

An hour before the dawn he rose
And sought out Modred, brooding, dumb;
"O King," he said, "my bond I close,
King Christ I seek: the Cross is come!"

Swift as a stag's leap from a height
King Modred drew his dreadful sword:
Then as a snow-wraith, silent, white,
He stared and passed without a word.

Before the flush of dawn was red
A druid came to Nial the Great:
"The doom of death hath Modred said,
Yet fears this Christ's mysterious hate:

"So get you hence, you giant-thewed man:
Go your own way: come not again:
No more are you of Modred's clan:
Go now, forthwith, lest you be slain."

Nial went forth with gladsome face;
No more of Modred's clan he was:
"Now, now," he cried, "Christ's trail I'll trace,
And nowhere turn, and nowhere pause."

He laughed to think how Modred feared
The wrath of Christ, the monk's white king:
"A greater than Modred hath appeared,
To Him my sword and strength I bring."

All day, all night, he walked afar:
He saw the moon rise white and still:
The evening and the morning star:
The sunrise burn upon the hill.

He heard the moaning of the seas,
The vast sigh of the sunswept plain,
The myriad surge of forest-trees;
Saw dusk and night return again.

At falling of the dusk he stood
Upon a wild and desert land:
Dark fruit he gathered for his food,
Drank water from his hollowed hand,

Cut from an ash a mighty bough
And trimmed and shaped it to the half:
"Safe in the desert am I now,
With sword," he said, "and with this staff."

The stars came out: Arcturus hung
His ice-blue fire far down the sky:
The Great Bear through the darkness swung:
The Seven Watchers rose on high.

A great moon flooded all the west.
Silence came out of earth and sea
And lay upon the husht world's breast,
And breathed mysteriously.

Three hours Nial walked, three hours and more:
Then halted when beyond the plain
He stood upon that river's shore
The dying monk had bid him gain.

A little house he saw: clay-wrought,
Of wattle woven through and through:
Then, all his weariness forgot,
The joy of drowning-sleep he knew.

Three hours he slept, and then he heard
A voice--and yet a voice so low
It might have been a dreaming bird
Safe-nested by the rushing flow.

Almost he slept once more: then, _Hush_!
Once more he heard above the noise
And tempest of the river's rush
The thin faint words of a child's voice.

"Good Sir, awake from sleep and dream,
Good Sir, come out and carry me
Across this dark and raging stream
Till safe on the other side I be."

Great Nial shivered on his bed:
"No human creature calls this night,
It is a wild fetch of the dead,"
He thought, and shrunk, and shook with fright.

Once more he heard that infant-cry:
"Come out, Good Sir, or else I drown--
Come out, Good Sir, or else I die
And you, too, lose a golden crown."

"A golden crown"--so Nial thought--
"No--no--not thus shall I be ta'en!
Keep, ghost-of-the-night, your crown gold-wrought--
Of sleep and peace I am full fain!"

Once more the windy dark was filled
With lonely cry, with sobbing plaint:
Nial's heart grew sore, its fear was stilled,
King Christ, he knew, would scorn him faint.

"Up, up thou coward, thou sluggard, thou,"
He cried, and sprang from off his bed--
"No crown thou seekest for thy brow,
But help for one in pain and dread!"

Out in the wide and lonely dark
No fetch he saw, no shape, no child:
Almost he turned again--but _hark_!
A song rose o'er the waters wild:

A king am I
Tho' a little Child,
Son of God am I,
Meek and mild,
Beautiful
Because God hath said
Let my cup be full
Of wine and bread.

Come to me
Shaken heart,
Shaken heart!
I will not flee.
My heart
Is thy heart
O shaken heart!
Stoop to my Cup,
Sup,
Drink of the wine:
The wine and the bread,
Saith God,
Are mine--
My Flesh and my Blood!

Throw thy sword in the flood:
Come, shaken heart:
Fearful thou art!
Have no more fear--
Lo, I am here,
The little One,
The Son,
Thy Lord and thy King.

It is I who sing:
Christ, your King....
Be not afraid:
Look, I am Light,
A great star
Seen from afar
In the darkness of night:
I am Light,
Be not afraid ...
Wade, wade
Into the deep flood!
Think of the Bread,
The Wine and the Bread
That are my Flesh and Blood,
Cross, cross the Flood,
Sure is the goal ...
Be not afraid
O Soul,
Be not afraid!

Nial's heart was filled with joy and pain:
"This is my king, my king indeed:
To think that drown'd in sleep I've lain
When Christ the Child-God crieth in need!"

Swift from his wattled hut he strode,
Stumbling among the grass and bent,
And, seeking where the river flowed,
Far o'er the dark flood peered and leant:

Then suddenly beside him saw
A little Child all clad in white:
He bowed his head in love and awe,
Then lifted high his burthen light.

High on his shoulders sat the Child,
While with strong limbs he fared among
The rushing waters black and wild
And where the fiercest currents swung.

The waters rose more high, more high,
Higher and higher every yard ...
Nial stumbled on with sob and sigh,
Christ heard him panting sore and hard.

"O Child," Nial cried, "forbear, forbear!
Hark you not how these waters whirled!
The weight of all the earth I bear,
The weary weight of all the world!"

"_Christopher_!" ... low above the noise,
The rush, the darkness, Nial heard
The far-off music of a Voice
That said all things in saying one word--

"Christopher ... this thy name shall be!
Christ-bearer is thy name, even so
Because of service done to me
Heavy with weight of the world's woe."

With breaking sobs, with panting breath
Christopher grasped a bent-held dune,
Then with flung staff and as in death
Forward he fell in a heavy swoon.

All night he lay in silence there,
But safe from reach of surging tide:
White angels had him in their care,
Christ healed and watched him side by side.

When all the silver wings of dawn
Had waved above the rose-flusht east,
Christopher woke ... his dream was gone.
The angelic songs had ceased.

Was it a dream in very deed,
He wondered, broken, trembling, dazed?
His staff he lifted from the mead
And as an upright sapling raised.

Lo, it was as the monk had said--
If he would prove the vision true,
His staff would blossom to its head
With flowers of every lovely hue.

Christopher bowed: before his eyes
Christ's love fulfilled the holy hour....
A south-wind blew, green leaves did rise
And the staff bloomed a myriad flower!

Christopher bowed in holy prayer,
While Christ's love fell like healing dew:
God's father-hand was on him there:
The peace of perfect peace he knew.



THE CROSS OF THE DUMB

_A Christmas on Iona, Long, Long Ago_

FIONA MACLEOD


One eve, when St. Columba strode
In solemn mood along the shore,
He met an angel on the road
Who but a poor man's semblance bore.

He wondered much, the holy saint,
What stranger sought the lonely isle,
But seeing him weary and wan and faint
St. Colum hailed him with a smile.

"Remote our lone Iona lies
Here in the grey and windswept sea,
And few are they whom my old eyes
Behold as pilgrims bowing the knee....

"But welcome ... welcome ... stranger-guest,
And come with me and you shall find
A warm and deer-skinn'd cell for rest
And at our board a welcome kind....

"Yet tell me ere the dune we cross
How came you to this lonely land?
No curraghs in the tideway toss
And none is beached upon the strand!"

The weary pilgrim raised his head
And looked and smiled and said, "From far,
My wandering feet have here been led
By the glory of a shining star...."

St. Colum gravely bowed, and said,
"Enough, my friend, I ask no more;
Doubtless some silence-vow was laid
Upon thee, ere thou sought'st this shore:

"Now, come: and doff this raiment sad
And those rough sandals from thy feet:
The holy brethren will be glad
To haven thee in our retreat."

Together past the praying cells
And past the wattle-woven dome
Whence rang the tremulous vesper bells
St. Colum brought the stranger home.

From thyme-sweet pastures grey with dews
The milch-cows came with swinging tails:
And whirling high the wailing mews
Screamed o'er the brothers at their pails.

A single spire of smoke arose,
And hung, a phantom, in the cold:
Three younger monks set forth to close
The ewes and lambs within the fold.

The purple twilight stole above
The grey-green dunes, the furrowed leas:
And Dusk, with breast as of a dove,
Brooded: and everywhere was peace.

Within the low refectory sate
The little clan of holy folk:
Then, while the brothers mused and ate,
The wayfarer arose and spoke....

"O Colum of Iona-Isle,
And ye who dwell in God's quiet place,
Before I crossed your narrow kyle
I looked in Heaven upon Christ's face."

Thereat St. Colum's startled glance
Swept o'er the man so poorly clad,
And all the brethren looked askance
In fear the pilgrim-guest was mad.

"And, Colum of God's Church i' the sea
And all ye Brothers of the Rood,
The Lord Christ gave a dream to me
And bade me bring it ye as food.

"Lift to the wandering cloud your eyes
And let them scan the wandering Deep....
Hark ye not there the wandering sighs
Of brethren ye as outcasts keep?"

Thereat the stranger bowed, and blessed;
Then, grave and silent, sought his cell:
St. Colum mused upon his guest,
Dumb wonder on the others fell.

At dead of night the Abbot came
To where the weary wayfarer slept:
"Tell me," he said, "thy holy name..."
--No more, for on bowed knees he wept....

Great awe and wonder fell on him;
His mind was like a lonely wild
When suddenly is heard a hymn
Sung by a little innocent child.

For now he knew their guest to be
No man as he and his, but one
Who in the Courts of Ecstasy
Worships, flame-winged, the Eternal Son.

The poor bare cell was filled with light,
That came from the swung moons the Seven
Seraphim swing day and night
Adown the infinite walls of Heaven.

But on the fern-wove mattress lay
No weary guest. St. Colum kneeled,
And found no trace; but, ashen-grey,
Far off he heard glad anthems pealed.

At sunrise when the matins-bell
Made a cold silvery music fall
Through silence of each lonely cell
And over every fold and stall,

St. Colum called his monks to come
And follow him to where his hands
Would raise the Great Cross of the Dumb
Upon the Holy Island's sands....

"For I shall call from out the Deep
And from the grey fields of the skies,
The brethren we as outcasts keep,
Our kindred of the dumb wild eyes....

"Behold, on this Christ's natal morn,
God wills the widening of His laws,
Another miracle to be born--
_For lo, our guest an Angel was_!...

"His Dream the Lord Christ gave to him
To bring to us as Christ-Day food,
That Dream shall rise a holy hymn
And hang like a flower upon the Rood!..."

Thereat, while all with wonder stared
St. Colum raised the Holy Tree:
Then all with Christ-Day singing fared
To where the last sands lipped the sea.

St. Colum raised his arms on high ...
"O ye, all creatures of the wing,
Come here from out the fields o' the sky,
Come, here and learn a wondrous thing!"

At that the wild clans of the air
Came sweeping in a mist of wings--
Ospreys and fierce solanders there,
Sea-swallows wheeling mazy rings,

The foam-white mew, the green-black scart,
The famishing hawk, the wailing tern,
All birds from the sand-building mart
To lonely bittern and heron....

St. Colum raised beseeching hands
And blessed the pastures of the sea:
"Come, all ye creatures, to the sands,
Come and behold the Sacred Tree!"

At that the cold clans of the wave
With spray and surge and splash appeared:
Up from each wrack-strewn, lightless cave
Dim day-struck eyes affrighted peered.

The pollacks came with rushing haste,
The great sea-cod, the speckled bass;
Along the foaming tideway raced
The herring-tribes like shimmering glass:

The mackerel and the dog-fish ran,
The whiting, haddock, in their wake:
The great sea-flounders upward span,
The fierce-eyed conger and the hake:

The greatest and the least of these
From hidden pools and tidal ways
Surged in their myriads from the seas
And stared at St. Columba's face.

"Hearken," he cried, with solemn voice--
"Hearken! ye people of the Deep,
Ye people of the skies, Rejoice!
No more your soulless terror keep!

"For lo, an Angel from the Lord
Hath shown us that wherein we sin--
But now we humbly do His Word
And call you, Brothers, kith and kin....

"No more we claim the world as ours
And everything that therein is--
To-day, Christ's Day, the infinite powers
Decree a common share of bliss.

"I know not if the new-waked soul
That stirs in every heart I see
Has yet to reach the far-off goal
Whose symbol is this Cross-shaped Tree....

"But, O dumb kindred of the skies,
O kinsfolk of the pathless seas,
All scorn and hate I exorcise,
And wish you nought but Love and Peace!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus, on that Christmas-day of old
St. Colum broke the ancient spell.
A thousand years away have rolled,
'Tis now ... "a baseless miracle."

O fellow-kinsmen of the Deep,
O kindred of the wind and cloud,
God's children too ... how He must weep
Who on that day was glad and proud!



THE CHRISTMAS SONG OF CAEDMON

H.E.G. PARDEE


About the year 650, among the servants in the ancient Abbey of
Streonschall, there was a cowherd whose name was Caedmon. The habits of
the people of that age were simple and rude; their houses were comfortless
huts, their dress was made from the skins of their flocks, or from animals
taken in the chase; they had no books, and their literature was limited to
the Latin manuscripts of the Church, which few of the monks even were
learned enough to read, and fewer still to translate. Amid such
influences, the life of a cowherd could scarcely be lifted above that of
the beasts he cared for; if his hunger and thirst were satisfied, he would
ask no more than a pleasant, daisied meadow in summer, and a warm nook in
the winter. But Caedmon had a sensitive nature, that craved something
nobler. When the minstrels struck their harps, and sung the wild
traditions and fierce conflicts of their tribes and the guests followed
with boisterous jest in their uncouth ballads, Caedmon sat silent and
gloomy.

One evening, as the harp, passing from one to another, drew nearer him,
dreading the oft-repeated taunts of his fellows, he crept away in the
shadows, and went to his only bed,--a truss of straw.

After a while he slept, and in his sleep some one of lofty stature, and
with kindly-beaming eyes, stood beside him, and commanded him to sing. "I
cannot," replied Caedmon, despondingly.

"Sing!" was the uncompromising answer.

"What shall I sing?"

"The origin of all things."

Immediately before his quickened sense swept a vision of Creation, and to
his glad surprise he described it all in song. The next morning he
remembered, and repeated it; and the monks, hearing of it, took him into
the monastery, and taught him scenes and sentences from the Bible, which
he rendered into verse, and so became the first of the long line of sacred
poets.

It was Christmas Eve, and the great hall of the Abbey was decked with the
Druids' sacred mistletoe with its pearly fruitage, the bright green of the
ivy, and branches of holly, with scarlet, shining berries. Great logs were
heaped on the broad stones in the middle of the hall, and jets of flame
leaped up to brighten the low, smoke-stained ceiling, and restless shadows
flitted along the wall, while the smoke escaped through the opening in the
roof, for chimneys were then, and for many centuries after, unknown. The
unglazed windows were closed at nightfall by wooden shutters, and rude
comfort cheered the inmates. A robin, who had fluttered in at dusk, and
found Christmas cheer on the holly boughs and warmth for his numbed little
feet, trilled a song of gratitude that winter had made such speed to be
gone.

Two nights before, a company of pilgrims from the convents of Palestine,
had come to the monastery. They had been many months on their way, eagerly
welcomed wherever they stopped, for journeying was both difficult and
dangerous, and travellers from such a remote region were rarely met. Their
dark complexions,  hair and beards; their bright, mobile expression; their
manners toned by the graces of Eastern civilization, were a strange
contrast to the shaggy, elfish, ruddy-faced throng about them. This
Christmas Eve they were telling the monks wonderful stories of the Holy
Land; its beautiful, vine-clad hills; its tropical, luscious fruits; its
towering, plumy palms and hoary cedars; the long lines of caravans that
wound over the silent, pathless deserts to bring to its cities the riches
of Oriental commerce; the palaces and heathen temples of those cities, and
the traditional glory of _the_ Temple, with its magnificence of gold, and
precious stones, and woods and ivory. On the table were huge platters of
smoking meats, and serving men brought in flagons and tankards of ale, and
feasting, stories and minstrelsy held the hours till the midnight bell
called to the first mass and ushered in Christmas Day. Caedmon, coming
back from the frosty chapel, saw the stars shining in the brilliance of
winter skies. His heart was suffused with all he had heard the pilgrims
repeat; for the first time it entered his mind that the same stars that he
saw twinkling, held their course at that glad time when "the morning-stars
sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy,"--a prelude to
this other song of "the great multitude of the heavenly host." He entered
the hall, and when the company reassembled, he took his harp, and sang
with power and pathos of the slumbering flocks on Judea's upland pastures;
the faithful, watching shepherds; the loneliness and silence of the night;
the sudden, startling brightness that shone about them, and enveloped
their angel visitant, who kindly soothed their alarm with "Fear not;" and
the outburst of angelic song, unheard by the ears dulled with sleep, but
overpowering these astonished men. "O happy shepherds! who alone among
men, were ever privileged to hear the songs of heaven."

His audience was thrilled. Never had the monks heard Caedmon, or any other
minstrel, sing with such fire; the intervening centuries fled before his
song. They, too, went to the lowly manger, and saw the Divine Infant
hushed on the happy breast of his young Mother and felt Mary's awe when
the shepherds told her what they that night had seen and heard. While
Caedmon sang they saw the caravan winding over an unmarked way and the
wise men of the Orient following ever the strange star, till, after weeks
of travel, it stood over the place where the young Child lay. They saw,
too, the aged, bearded Melchior, Gaspar, young and fresh, and Balthazar
the Moor, descend from their kneeling camels with their kingly offerings
of gold, frankincense and myrrh and prostrate themselves in reverence
before the Holy Babe.

"'Twas ages, ages long ago," and Caedmon and his hymns are nigh forgotten,
but with each returning Christmas-tide may be heard again, as Caedmon
heard of yore, the angels' song of joy: "Glory to God in the highest, and
on earth peace, good will toward men."



GOOD KING WENCESLAS

JOHN MASON NEALE


Good King Wenceslas looked out
  On the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
  Deep, and crisp, and even.

Brightly shone the moon that night
  Though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
  Gath'ring winter fuel.

"Hither, page, and stand by me,
  If thou know'st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he?
  Where and what his dwelling?"

"Sire, he lives a good league hence,
  Underneath the mountain;
Right against the forest fence,
  By Saint Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,
  Bring me pine-logs hither;
Thou and I will see him dine,
  When we bear them thither."

Page and monarch, forth they went,
  Forth they went together;
Through the rude wind's wild lament
  And the bitter weather.

"Sire, the night is darker now,
  And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how,
  I can go no longer."

"Mark my footsteps, good my page;
  Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter rage
  Freeze thy blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod,
  Where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
  Which the saint had printed.

Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
  Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
  Shall yourselves find blessing.




THE CHRISTMAS AT GRECCIO: A
STORY OF ST. FRANCIS

SOPHIE JEWETT


"The beautiful Mother is bending
  Low where her Baby lies
Helpless and frail, for her tending;
  But she knows the glorious eyes.

"The Mother smiles and rejoices
  While the Baby laughs in the hay;
She listens to heavenly voices:
  'The child shall be King, one day.'

"O dear little Christ in the manger,
  Let me make merry with Thee.
O King, in my hour of danger,
  Wilt Thou be strong for me?"

--Adapted from the Latin of Jacopone da Todi.
Thirteenth Century.

One night in December ... Brother Francis, with one companion, was walking
through the beautiful valley of the Velino River, toward Rieti, a little
city where he came often on his way from Assisi to Rome. To-night he had
turned somewhat aside from the main road, for he wished to spend Christmas
with his friend, Sir John of Greccio. Greccio is a tiny village, lying
where the foothills begin, on the western side of the valley. The very
feet of Brother Francis knew the road so well that he could have walked
safely in the darkness, but it was not dark. The full moon floated over
the valley, making the narrow river and the sharp outlines of the
snow-covered mountains shine like silver. The plain and the lower hills
were pasture land, and, not far from the road, on a grassy slope, the
Brothers saw the red glow of an almost spent shepherds' fire. "Let us
stop and visit our brothers, the shepherds," said Francis, and they
turned toward the fading fire.

There was no sense of winter in the air, scarcely a touch of frost, and
the only snow was that on the silver peaks against the sky. The shepherds,
three men and one boy, lay sleeping soundly on the bare ground, with their
sheepskin coats drawn closely around them. All about them the sheep were
sleeping, too, but the solemn white sheep dogs were wide awake. If a
stranger's foot had trod the grass never so softly, every dog would have
barked, and every shepherd would have been on his feet in an instant. But