It had been snowing for three days. The sky was black, the ground
white; the north wind howled through the trees; the ponds were
frozen; and the little birds were hungry. Women, wrapped in long
mantles of brown wool, and men in heavy cloaks slowly made their
way into the church. They knelt and with bent brows murmured the
answer as the priest said, "And the Lord said unto me, 'Thou art my
Son, whom this day I have begotten.'" The incense was smoking, and
blossoms of hellebore, which are the roses of Christmas, lay before
the tabernacle in the light of the tapers. Behind one of the pillars,
near the door of the church, knelt a child. His feet were bare. He
had slipped off his wooden shoes on account of the noise they made.
His cap lay on the floor before him and with clasped hands he prayed,
"For the soul of my father who is dead, for the life of my mother,
and for me, for your little Jacques, who loves you, O my God, I
implore you!" And he knelt all through Mass, lost in the fervor of
his devotion, and rose only when he heard the words,--
"Ite missa est."
The people crowded together under the exterior porch. Every man
lighted his lantern, and pulled up the collar of his cloak; and the
women drew their mantles closely around them. Brrr! how cold it was!
A little boy called out to Jacques, "Are you coming with us?"
"No," said he, "I have not time;" and he started off on a run. He
could hear the village people far away singing the favorite carol of
olden France as they walked home,--
"He is born, the Heavenly Child.
Ring out, hautbois! ring out, bagpipes!
He is born, the Heavenly Child;
Let all voices sing his advent!"