Chapter VIII

She took the foundling in her arms,
And on its sleeping face
Her tears and kisses fell in one:
"How great is Heaven's grace!
It is the Christ-Child's gift to me,
To ease the aching place!"

MEETING THE KINGS

(_Suggested by "A Provençal Christmas Postscript," Thomas A. Janvier_)

Long, long ago, in dear Provence, we three!
Three children, ruddy with the _midi_ sun
(And blither none the all-seeing sun might see),
How happy when the harvest-time was done,
The last slow drop from out the winepress run;
And when the frost at morn was thick like snow;
And when Clotilde at evening sang and spun,
And old folk, by the new fire's ruddy glow,
Would tell, as I do now, the tales of long ago!

Those tales--ah, most of all, we begged to hear
The tales our grandsires from their grandsires had--
How, in the darkening undertime of year,
When with first-fallen snow the fields were clad,
That blessèd time when nothing can be sad
(Such peace through Christ's dear might encircles all),
How, then, the sleeping hives made murmur glad--
The white ox knelt within his littered stall,
And voices strange and sweet were heard through heaven to call!

We were three children--René, Pierre, Annette.
The little sister listened, wonder-eyed;
Each held her hand (that touch, I feel it yet!),
And all three drank those tales of Christmas tide.
The leaden-footed time how shall we bide?
How many days and hours we know full well,
Almost the little minutes that divide!
Meanwhile, like music of a hidden bell,
Our beating hearts keep up the chime, _Noël_, _Noël_!

One thing there was, desired above all things:
"Say, will they come (as ever from of old)--
The wise, the good, the three great Eastern Kings,
Who brought rich gifts,--frankincense, myrrh, and gold?"
How often of their names had we been told--
Balthasar, Melchior, Gaspard,--splendid all,
Wide-turbaned, sandal-shod, and purple-stoled,
Perhaps upon white steeds, curbed-in, and tall,
Or else on camels with the velvet-soft footfall!

"Will they at vespers be, on Holy Night?
And will they stop and see the little shrine
Where Jesus lies beneath the Star's true light,
As when, at first, they found him by that sign?"
"Hush, René, hush! and if the eve be fine,
Thou--yes, all three--shall go to meet the Kings.
But children--mark ye well these words of mine!
Each way, of four, to town the traveler brings;
So it may chance ye miss them in your wanderings."

Such sage replies our questions would receive.
The Holy Time drew near, and yet more near;
At last, it was the morning of the Eve,
All day we swayed from lovely hope to fear.
"'Too early?' Nay, 'tis twilight, mother dear--
At least, so very soon the sun will set!"
"Your warmest coats--the air is sharp and clear.
And in your hurry, children, don't forget
That baby feet tire soon--remember p'tite Annette!"

"No, no! I do not tire, though fast I run!"
Ah, how we laughed to see the red lips pout--
The small sweet pride that would not be outdone
In such a race, by brothers big and stout!
"Annette the first shall see the Kings, no doubt"--
It was our grandsire spake with twinkling eye.
"Yes, yes; she shall," impatient to be out,
We answered. Once beneath the deepening sky,
We ever took the sunset way--as late birds thither fly!

For thus we reasoned with one grave consent:
If yonder star above our mountain's crest
Should be that Eastern star for guidance lent,
Then must the Kings be journeying from the West.
So on we ran, past harvest fields at rest,
Past sheepfolds where the flock of summer dreamed
(Full soon they would be kneeling, as we guessed!)
And on, and on--and now, at times, it seemed
Far down the twilight road rich banners waved and gleamed.

But ever of enchanted weft they proved,
On sunset's pageant field emblazoned low;
And caravans, still moving as we moved,
At length, for straggling olive trees would show.
Then, while less confident our pace would grow,
Wiser than I--a twelvemonth and a day,
Would René counsel: Might it not be so--
As we had heard our own dear mother say--
_The roads are four_--the Kings had come another way?

No time to lose. We took the homeward track,
The Kings at vespers might be lingering still.
Soon were we in the church. Alack, alack!
The Kings had passed; for though they bore good will
To our good parish, yet must they fulfil
The prayers of all; and there were other folk
Who, if unvisited, would take it ill.
"'Tis said they must reach Arle by midnight stroke;
Sweet spices they have left--judge by the censer's smoke!"

We boys took manfully this frown of Fate;
But tears stood in petite Annette's blue eyes.
"Another year, my precious,--thou canst wait;
Besides, to-morrow morn a fine surprise
There'll be for children who are sage and wise.
Gifts--but I may not tell you now, my child."--
'Twas mother-love that did such cure devise
For bud-nipped hopes and hearts unreconciled;
We slept, and dreamed, on this--and then, the morning smiled!

Time passed. We never saw the Kings. Ah, well--
At least the two of us saw not, I know.
But how shall I the wonder of it tell?
There came a winter wild and dim with snow.
It seemed to us that sheeted ghosts did go
Upon the wind, that never ceased to moan.
And one of us with fever was laid low:
Like leaves the little hands were tossed and thrown,
And on her cheek the rose of fever was o'erblown!

The storm was done. The day threw off its shroud--
('Twas Christmas Eve--till then by all forgot),
And suddenly, across a scarp of cloud
One crimson flame, a parting sunbeam shot.
It reached Annette upon the low, white cot,
It touched our mother's face, Madonna-mild.
With dreaming eyes that saw us, yet saw not,
Petite Annette threw out her hand and smiled:
"Pierre! The Kings have come, and with them is a Child!"

Long, long ago in dear Provence was grief.
In vain the troubadour may sing Noël!
In vain the birds give thanks for Christmas sheaf,
In vain I heard, "God loved Annette so well
That He hath taken her to heaven to dwell."
No comfort till René would whisper me:
"O brother, think upon it--who can tell?--
Perhaps there was no other way, to _see_!
And, Pierre, remember how she told the news to thee!"

THE PROCESSION OF THE KINGS

The little town is muffled all in snow;
Yet there _Weihnachten_[1] love is burning clear.
And on each door three letters[2] in a row
Proclaim the Three Kings' Day is drawing near.

Oh, then will Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar
Ride through the country on their horses white!
And all the people, live they far or near,
Will early rise and follow with delight.

And never will the great procession stop
Till they Christkindlein and his mother greet:
Then on their knees the turbaned kings will drop,
And fill her lap with gifts, and kiss his feet;

For they will find her, sitting still and meek
Upon a bench beside some stable-shed,
Her soft hair brushing dear Christkindlein's cheek,
And sunshine brightness all around each head!

Then, while the old folk smile through happy tears,
Blame not the children if a shout they raise
When little _Esel_,[3] with his pointed ears,
Leans o'er the fence with puzzled, wistful gaze.

There, too, the gentle, great black ox will stand:
Folk say he knelt at night in strawy stall;
Perchance he knows these kings from Eastern land,
For now he lifts his head with lowing call!

[1] _Weihnachten_--Christmas

[2] In many parts of Southern Germany it is a custom to place on
the outer door the initials of the three kings--C. M. B.

[3] _Esel_--German for "donkey,"

MELCHIOR'S RIDE

Melchior rides from door to door,
Large Christmas doles he seeks;
A pannier wide receives the store,
Yet never a word he speaks!

The _nougat_ bells so merrily ring
Yet never a note he hears;
He gathers the gifts the good folk bring,
And onward still he steers.

The children laugh, and the children chaff,
He sits so stiff and straight,
And grandpère waves, with his thorn-tree staff,
A greeting at the gate!

Olives and almonds, and cheese and bread,
And the pack on his back grows stout!
Let the hungry poor to their fill be fed,
While the _nougat_ bells ring out.

Thus, Melchior rides from door to door,
Seeking of all his fee;
And their presents into his pannier pour,
Yet never a whit cares he!

For a wicker-work man is Melchior droll,
A wicker-work man, and no more;
But the people love him, with heart and soul,
As he rides from door to door!

ONE OF THE TWELVE

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

_From the Provençal of Roumanille_

"Great stir among the shepherd folk;
To Bethlehem they go,
To worship there a God whose head
On straw is laid full low;
Upon the lovely newborn Child
Their gifts will they bestow.

"But I, who am as poor as Job--
A widowed mother I,
Who for my little son's sweet sake
For alms to all apply--
Ah, what have I that I can take
The Child of Love most high?

"Thy cradle and thy pillow, too,
My little lamb forlorn,
Thou sorely needest them--no, no,
I cannot leave thee shorn!
I cannot take them to the God
That in the straw was born."

Oh, miracle! The nursing babe--
The babe e'en as he fed--
Smiled in his tender mother's face,
And, "Go, go quick!" he said;
"To Jesus, to my Saviour, take
My kisses and my bed."

The mother, all thrilled through and through,
To heaven her hands did raise;
She gave the babe her breast, then took
The cradle--went her ways,...
And now, at Bethlehem arrived,
To Mary Mother says:

"O Mary, Pearl of Paradise,
That heaven on earth hath shed,
O Virgin Mother, hear the word
My little babe hath said:
To Jesus, to my Saviour, take
My kisses and my bed.

"Here, Mary, here the cradle is;
Thy need is more than mine;
Receive, and in it lay thy Son,
Messiah all-divine!
And let me kiss, upon my knees,
That darling Babe of thine!"

The blessed Virgin, then, at once,
Right glad of heart, bent low,
And in the cradle laid her Child,
And kissed him, doing so.
Then with his foot St. Joseph rocked
The cradle to and fro.

"Now, thanks to thee, good woman, thanks,
For this that thou hast done."
Thus say they both, with friendly looks.
"Of thanks I merit none;
Yet, holy Mother, pity me,
For sake of thy dear Son."

Since then a happy soul was hers;
God's blessing on her fell;
One of the Twelve her child became,
That with our Lord did dwell.
Thus was this story told to me,
Which I afar would tell.

THE WITCH'S CHILD

'Tis Elfinell--a witch's child,
From holy minster banned....
Again the old glad bells ring out
Through all the Christmas land.

No gift might she receive or give,
Nor kneel to Mary's child:
She watched from far the joyous troop
That past the Crib defiled;

Far in the shadow of the porch,
Yet even there espied:
"Now, hence away, unhallowed Elf!"
The sacristan did chide.

"Hence, till some witness thou canst bring
Of gift received from thee,
In His dear name, whose birth we sing,
But this shall never be!"

Poor Elfinell--she turned away:
"Though none for me may speak,
Yet there be those may take my gift;
And them I go to seek!"

So, flitting light through lonesome fields
By summer long forgot,
She crossed the valley drifted deep--
The brook in icy grot;

And gained, at last, a still, white wood
All hung with flowers of snow:
There, down she sat, and quaintly called
In tender tones and low.

They heard and came--the doe and fawn,
The squirrel and the hare,
And dwellers shy in earthy homes,
And wanderers of the air!

To these she gave fresh leaves of kale.
To those the soft white bread,
Or filberts smooth, or yellow corn;
So each and all she fed.

She fed them from her hand--she sighed;
"Might you but speak for me,
And say, ye took my Christmas gift,
Then, I the Crib might see!"

At this, those glad, wild creatures join,
And close the child around;
They draw her on, she scarce knows how,
Across the snowy ground!

They crowd with soft, warm, furry touch;
They stoop with frolic wing:
Grown strangely bold, to haunts of men
The elfin child they bring!

They reach the town, the minster door;
The door they straightway pass;
And up the aisle and by the priest
That saith the holy mass.

Nor stay, until they reach the Crib
With all its wreathen greens;
And there above, with eyes of love,
The witch-child looks and leans!

Spake, then, the priest to all his flock:
"Forbid no more this child!
To speak for her, God sendeth these,
His loved ones of the wild!

"'Twas God that made them take her gift,
Our stubborn hearts to shame!
Melt, hearts of ours; and open, hands,
And give in Christ's dear name."

Thus, Elfinell with gifts was showered,
Upon a Christmas Day;
The while, beside the altar's font,
The ban was washed away.

A carven stall the minster shows,
Whereon ye see the priest priest--
The kneeling child--and clustering forms
Of friendly bird and beast.

BABUSHKA

(_A Russian Legend_)

Babushka sits before the fire
Upon a winter's night;
The driving winds heap up the snow,
Her hut is snug and tight;
The howling winds,--they only make
Babushka's more bright!

She hears a knocking at the door:
So late--who can it be?
She hastes to lift the wooden latch,
No thought of fear has she;
The wind-blown candle in her hand
Shines out on strangers three.

Their beards are white with age, and snow
That in the darkness flies;
Their floating locks are long and white,
But kindly are their eyes
That sparkle underneath their brows,
Like stars in frosty skies.

"Babushka, we have come from far,
We tarry but to say,
A little Prince is born this night,
Who all the world shall sway.
Come, join the search; come, go with us,
Who go our gifts to pay."

Babushka shivers at the door:
"I would I might behold
The little Prince who shall be King,
But ah! the night is cold,
The wind so fierce, the snow so deep,
And I, good sirs, am old."

The strangers three, no word they speak,
But fade in snowy space!
Babushka sits before her fire,
And dreams, with wistful face:
"I would that I had questioned them,
So I the way might trace!

"When morning comes with blessèd light,
I'll early be awake;
My staff in hand I'll go,--perchance,
Those strangers I'll o'ertake;
And, for the Child some little toys
I'll carry, for His sake."

The morning came, and, staff in hand,
She wandered in the snow.
She asked the way of all she met,
But none the way could show.
"It must be farther yet," she sighed;
"Then farther will I go."

And still, 'tis said, on Christmas Eve,
When high the drifts are piled,
With staff, with basket on her arm,
Babushka seeks the Child:
At every door her face is seen,--
Her wistful face and mild!

Her gifts at every door she leaves;
She bends, and murmurs low,
Above each little face half-hid
By pillows white as snow:
"And is He here?" Then, softly sighs,
"Nay, farther must I go!"

A CHRISTMAS OFFERING

(_Florence, Italy_)

I shall never forget Cimabue's Madonna,
No, nor the niche close by in the wall,
Where, on the straw, the Bambino was lying,
While the oxen knelt in the stall.

Rude are the images, tinsel the flowers;
But a tear to the eye unconsciously starts,
Beholding the tribute the children have rendered,
In the votive gift of "hearts"!

Among them a little gold watch was hanging,
That told of some sick child's treasured wealth,
Sent with a prayer that his Christmas present
Might be the good gift of health!

CHRISTMAS POST

In Sulz-am-Neckar, when night shuts down,
And the Christmas Eve has come,
All through the little snow-white town
There's a joyous stir and hum.

Now here and now there, along the street,
From windows wide open flung,
Float childish laughter and prattle sweet
In the kindly German tongue.

For the happy moment at last is here,
When each child a letter sends,
Directed to _Christkindlein_ dear--
The Children's Friend of Friends!

Then, out at the window--strung on a thread,
The precious letter is cast;
Though far and high on the night wind sped,
'Twill be found and read at last!

In Sulz-am-Neckar, prompt as the day,
The children awake to find
Among the Christmas branches gay
_Christkindlein's_ answer kind!

THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF

(_Provençal_)

It was a gleaner in the fields,--
The fields gleaned long ago:
The evening wind swept down from heights
Already brushed with snow.

The gleaner turned to right, to left,
With searching steps forlorn;
The stubble-blade beneath her feet
Was sharp as any thorn.

But as she stooped, and as she searched,
Half blind with gathering tears,
Beside her in the field stood One
Whose voice beguiled her fears:

"What seek ye here, this bitter eve,
The harvest long gone by?"
She lifted up her weary face,
She answered with a sigh:

"I seek but some few heads of wheat
To nail against the wall,
To feed at morn the blessed birds,
When with loud chirps they call.

"Poor ever have I been, God knows!
Yet ne'er so poor before,
But they might taste their glad Noël
Beside my cottage door."

Then answer made that Presence sweet,
"Go home, and trust right well
The birds beside your cottage door
Shall find their glad Noël."

And so it was--from soundest sleep
The gleaner woke at morn,
To see, nailed up beside her door,
A sheaf of golden corn!

And thereupon the birds did feast,--
The birds from far and wide:
All know it was Our Lord Himself
That goodly sheaf supplied!

THE BIRDS ON THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF

"And wherefore," the finch to the starling said,
On the Christmas sheaf, as they hungrily fed,
"Wherefore do now the children of men
Open their hands, when, again and again,
They drove us away from their plenteous store,
From the corn in the field, from the threshing-floor?"
"That," said the starling, "I'll try to explain:
They are feasting, themselves, and they spare us this grain;
For oft, as they feast and make merry, they sing,
'Peace upon earth and good will'----"
"But this thing"
(Said the finch), "we birds have been singing all year,
Then, why not before have they shared their good cheer?"

WHAT THE PINE TREES SAID

I heard the swaying pine trees speak,
As I went down the glen:
"Next year," said one, "the wind shall seek,
But find me not again!"

"I shall go forth upon the seas,
A mast, or steering-beam;
On me shall breathe the tropic breeze,
Above, strange stars shall gleam.'

"And I--the ax shall cleave my grain,
And many times divide;
From my dear brood I'll shed the rain,
And roof their ingleside."

Then up and spake a slender shaft,
That like an arrow grew;
"No breeze my leafless stem shall waft,
No ax my trunk shall hew--

But though a single hour is mine,
How happy shall I be!
Young hearts shall leap, young eyes shall shine
To greet their Christmas tree!"

TWO CHILD ANGELS

Two Child Angels on Christmas Night,
They stood on the brow of Heaven's hill;
The stars beneath them were glancing bright,
And the air was clear and still.

"That is the Earth that dazzles so--
That shines with a glad and a radiant light--
That is the Earth where, long ago,
I was born on the Christmas Night!"

Thus said the one, and the other replied,
"Forever dear is the Earth in my sight;
For there, full long ago, I died,
On the holy Christmas Night!"

THE OLD DOLL

(_Just after Christmas_)

Little one, little one, open your arms,
Now are your wishes come true, come true!
Here is a love with a thousand charms,
And see! she is reaching her hands out to you!
Put the old doll by, asleep let her lie,
And open your arms to welcome the new.

Little one, little one, play your sweet part,
Mother-love lavishes treasure untold.
Whisper fond words, and close to your heart,
Your warm little heart, the new idol enfold.
('Tis so with us all,--to worship we fall
Before the new shrine, forgetting the old!)

* * * * *

Little one, little one, wherefore that sigh?
Weary of playing the long day through?
But there's something that looks like a tear in your eye,
And your lips--why, your lips are quivering, too!
Do I guess aright?--it is coming night,
And you cry for the old--you are tired of the new?

Little one, little one, old loves are best;
And the heart still clings though the hands loose their hold!
Take the old doll back, in your arms she shall rest,
When you wander away to the dreamland fold.
(With all, even so,--ere to sleep we go,
The wavering heart wavers back to the old!)