Part 3

It was my family, my only family; but like the ever-widening circle on the surface of a lake into which a stone has been flung, here, from this great centre, spread the wonderful ever-widening relationship—the real brotherhood of the world. It is at the Crib that everything has its beginning, not at the Cross; and it is only as little children that we can enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.

When I went out again into the streets it was nearly dark. Anxious mothers hurried past on late, mysterious errands; papas who were not wanted until the last moment chatted gaily to each other at street corners, and exchanged recollections; maidservants hastened from shop to shop with large baskets already heavily laden; and the children were everywhere, important with secrets, comfortably secure in the knowledge of a tree behind the parlour doors, and a kindly, generous Saint who knew all their wants, and needed no rod this year.

One little lad, with a pinched white face, and with only an empty certainty to look forward to, was singing shrilly in the sharp, still air, “Zu Bethlehem geboren, ist uns ein Kindelein,” as he gazed wistfully at a shop window piled high with crisp gingerbread, marzipan, chocolate under every guise, and tempting cakes. A great rough peasant coming out, saw him, turned back, and a moment later thrust a gingerbread Santa Klaus, with currant eyes and sugar trimming to his coat and cap, into the half-fearful little hands. “Hab’ ebenso ein Kerlchen zu Haus’,” he said to me apologetically as he passed.

I waited to see Santa Klaus disappear; but no, the child looked at the cake, sighed deeply with the cruel effort of resistance, and refrained. It was all his Christmas and he would keep it. He gazed and gazed, then a smile rippled across the wan little face and he broke out in another carol, “Es kam ein Engel hell und klar vom Himmel zu der Hirten Schaar,” and hugging his Santa Klaus carefully, wandered away down the now brilliant streets: he did not know he was hungry any more; the angel had come with good tidings.

As I passed along the streets I could see through the uncurtained windows that in some houses Christmas had begun already for the little ones. Then the bells rang out deep-mouthed, carrying the call of the eager Church to her children, far up the valley and across the frozen river. And they answered; the great church was packed from end to end, and from my place by the door I saw that two tiny Christmas trees bright with coloured candles burnt either side of the Holy Child.

A blue-black sky ablaze with stars for His glory, a fresh white robe for stained and tired earth; so we went to Bethlehem in the rare stillness of the early morning. The Church, having no stars, had lighted candles; and we poor sinful men having no white robes of our own had craved them of the Great King at her hands.

And so in the stillness, with tapers within and stars alight without, with a white-clad earth, and souls forgiven, the Christ Child came to those who looked for His appearing.

A Christmas Idyll

THE Child with the wondering eyes sat on the doorstep, on either side of her a tramp cat in process of becoming a recognised member of society. On the flagged path in front the brown brethren were picking up crumbs. The cats’ whiskers trembled, but they sat still, proudly virtuous, and conscious each of a large saucer of warm milk within.

“What,” said the Child, “is a symbol?”

The cats looked grave.

The Child rose, went into the house, and returned with a well-thumbed brown book. She turned the pages thoughtfully, and read aloud, presumably for the benefit of the cats: “In a symbol there is concealment yet revelation, the infinite is made to blend with the finite, to stand visible, and as it were attainable there.” The Child sighed, “We had better go to the Recluse,” she said. So the three went.

It was a cold, clear, bright day, a typical Christmas Eve. There was a carpet of crisp snow on the ground, and a fringe of icicles hung from every vantage-point. The cats, not having been accustomed to the delights of domesticity, trotted along cheerfully despite the chill to their toes; and they soon came to the forest which all three knew very well indeed. It was a beautiful forest like a great cathedral, with long aisles cut between the splendid upstanding pine trees. The green-fringed boughs were heavy with snow, the straight strong stems caught and reflected the stray sun rays, and looking up through the arches and delicate tracery and interlaced branches the eye caught the wonderful blue of the great domed roof overhead. The cats walked delicately, fearful of temptation in the way of rabbits or frost-tamed birds, and the Child lilted a quaint German hymn to a strange old tune:—

“Ein Kind gebor’n zu Bethlehem. Alleluja! Dess freuet sich Jerusalem, Alleluja! Alleluja!”

The Recluse was sitting on a bench outside his cave. He was dressed in a brown robe, his eyes were like stars wrapped in brown velvet, his face was strong and gentle, his hair white although he looked quite young. He greeted the Child very kindly and stroked the cats.

“You have come to ask me a question, Child?”

“If you please,” said the Child, “what is a symbol?”

“Ah,” said the Recluse, “I might have known you would ask me that.”

“The Sage says,” went on the Child, “that it is concealment yet revelation.”

The Recluse nodded.

“Just as a mystery that we cannot understand is the greatest possible wisdom. Go in and sit by my fire, Child; there are chestnuts on the hearth, and you will find milk in the brown jug. I will show you a symbol presently.”

The Child and the two cats went into the cave and sat down by the fire. It was warm and restful after the biting air. The cats purred pleasantly, the Child sat with her chin in her hand watching the glowing wood burn red and white on the great hearthstone.

“The Recluse generally answers my questions by showing me something I have seen for a long time but never beheld, or heard and never lent ear. I wonder what it will be this time,” she said to herself.

The grateful warmth made the Child sleepy, and she gave a start when she found the Recluse standing by her with outstretched hand.

“Come, dear Child,” he said; and leaving the sleeping cats she followed him, her hand in his.

The air was full of wonderful sound, voices and song, and the cry of the bells.

The Child wondered, and then remembered it was Christmas night. The Recluse led her down a little passage and opened a door. They stepped out together, but not into the forest.

“This is the front door of my house,” said the Recluse, with a little smile.