rivers stood still in their courses, the wind did not stir, and even the
aspen leaves had ceased to quiver. Had any one walked along the
sea-shore, he would have found that the waves no longer dashed upon the
sands; and had one wandered in the desert, the sand would not have
crunched under one's feet. Everything was as motionless as if turned to
stone, so as not to disturb the holy night. The grass was afraid to
grow, the dew could not fall, and the flowers dared not exhale their
perfume.
On this night the wild beasts did not seek their prey, the serpents did
not sting, and the dogs did not bark. And what was even more glorious,
inanimate things would have been unwilling to disturb the night's
sanctity, by lending themselves to an evil deed. No false key could have
picked a lock, and no knife could possibly have drawn a drop of blood.
In Rome, during this very night, a small company of people came from the
Emperor's palace at the Palatine and took the path across the Forum
which led to the Capitol. During the day just ended the Senators had
asked the Emperor if he had any objections to their erecting a temple to
him on Rome's sacred hill. But Augustus had not immediately given his
consent. He did not know if it would be agreeable to the gods that he
should own a temple next to theirs, and he had replied that first he
wished to ascertain their will in the matter by offering a nocturnal
sacrifice to his genius. It was he who, accompanied by a few trusted
friends, was on his way to perform this sacrifice.
Augustus let them carry him in his litter, for he was old, and it was an
effort for him to climb the long stairs leading to the Capitol. He
himself held the cage with the doves for the sacrifice. No priests or
soldiers or senators accompanied him, only his nearest friends.
Torch-bearers walked in front of him in order to light the way in the
night darkness and behind him followed the slaves, who carried the
tripod, the knives, the charcoal, the sacred fire, and all the other
things needed for the sacrifice.
On the way the Emperor chatted gayly with his faithful followers, and
therefore none of them noticed the infinite silence and stillness of the
night. Only when they had reached the highest point of the Capitol Hill
and the vacant spot upon which they contemplated erecting the temple,
did it dawn upon them that something unusual was taking place.
It could not be a night like all others, for up on the very edge of the
cliff they saw the most remarkable being! At first they thought it was
an old, distorted olive-trunk; later they imagined that an ancient stone
figure from the temple of Jupiter had wandered out on the cliff. Finally
it was apparent to them that it could be only the old sibyl.
Anything so aged, so weather-beaten, and so giantlike in stature they
had never seen. This old woman was awe-inspiring! If the Emperor had not
been present, they would all have fled to their homes.
"It is she," they whispered to each other, "who has lived as many years
as there are sand-grains on her native shores. Why has she come out from
her cave just to-night? What does she foretell for the Emperor and the
Empire--she, who writes her prophecies on the leaves of the trees and
knows that the wind will carry the words of the oracle to the person for
whom they are intended?"
They were so terrified that they would have dropped on their knees with
their foreheads pressed against the earth, had the sibyl stirred. But
she sat as still as though she were lifeless. Crouching upon the
outermost edge of the cliff, and shading her eyes with her hand, she
peered out into the night. She sat there as if she had gone up on the
hill that she might see more clearly something that was happening far
away. _She_ could see things on a night like this!
At that moment the Emperor and all his retinue, marked how profound the
darkness was. None of them could see a hand's breadth in front of him.
And what stillness! What silence! Not even the Tiber's hollow murmur
could they hear. The air seemed to suffocate them, cold sweat broke out
on their foreheads, and their hands were numb and powerless. They feared
that some dreadful disaster was impending.
But no one cared to show that he was afraid, and every one told the
Emperor that this was a good omen. All Nature held its breath to greet a
new god.
They counseled Augustus to hurry with the sacrifice, and said that the
old sibyl had evidently come out of her cave to greet his genius.
But the truth was that the old sibyl was so absorbed in a vision that
she did not even know that Augustus had come up to the Capitol. She was
transported in spirit to a far-distant land, where she imagined that she
was wandering over a great plain. In the darkness she stubbed her foot
continually against something, which she believed to be grass-tufts. She
stooped down and felt with her hand. No, it was not grass, but sheep.
She was walking between great sleeping flocks of sheep.
Then she noticed the shepherds' fire. It burned in the middle of the
field, and she groped her way to it. The shepherds lay asleep by the
fire, and beside them were the long, spiked staves with which they
defended their flocks from wild beasts. But the little animals with the
glittering eyes and the bushy tails that stole up to the fire, were they
not jackals? And yet the shepherds did not fling their staves at them,
the dogs continued to sleep, the sheep did not flee, and the wild
animals lay down to rest beside the human beings.
This the sibyl saw, but she knew nothing of what was being enacted on
the hill back of her. She did not know that there they were raising an
altar, lighting charcoal and strewing incense, and that the Emperor took
one of the doves from the cage to sacrifice it. But his hands were so
benumbed that he could not hold the bird. With one stroke of the wing,
it freed itself and disappeared in the night darkness.
When this happened, the courtiers glanced suspiciously at the old sibyl.
They believed that it was she who caused the misfortune.
Could they know that all the while the sibyl thought herself standing
beside the shepherds' fire, and that she listened to a faint sound which
came trembling through the dead-still night? She heard it long before
she marked that it did not come from earth, but from the sky. At last
she raised her head; then she saw light, shimmering forms glide forward
in the darkness. They were little flocks of angels, who, singing
joyously, and apparently searching, flew back and forth above the wide
plain.
While the sibyl was listening to the angel-song, the Emperor was making
preparations for a new sacrifice. He washed his hands, cleansed the
altar, and took up the other dove. And, although he exerted his full
strength to hold it fast, the dove's slippery body slid from his hand,
and the bird swung itself up into the impenetrable night.
The Emperor was appalled! He fell upon his knees and prayed to his
genius. He implored him for strength to avert the disasters which this
night seemed to foreshadow.
Nor did the sibyl hear any of this either. She was listening with her
whole soul to the angel-song, which grew louder and louder. At last it
became so powerful that it wakened the shepherds. They raised themselves
on their elbows and saw shining hosts of silver-white angels move in
the darkness in long swaying lines, like migratory birds. Some held
lutes and cymbals in their hands; others held zithers and harps, and
their song rang out as merry as child-laughter, and as carefree as the
lark's thrill. When the shepherds heard this, they rose up to go to the
mountain city, where they lived, to tell of the miracle.
They groped their way forward on a narrow, winding path, and the sibyl
followed them. Suddenly it grew light up there on the mountain: a big,
clear star kindled right over it, and the city on the mountain summit
glittered like silver in the starlight. All the fluttering angel throngs
hastened thither, shouting for joy, and the shepherds hurried so that
they almost ran. When they reached the city, they found that the angels
had assembled over a low stable near the city gate. It was a wretched
structure, with a roof of straw and the naked cliff for a back wall.
Over it hung the Star, and hither flocked more and more angels. Some
seated themselves on the straw roof or alighted upon the steep
mountain-wall back of the house; others, again, held themselves in the
air on outspread wings, and hovered over it. High, high up, the air was
illuminated by the shining wings.
The instant the Star kindled over the mountain city, all Nature awoke,
and the men who stood upon Capitol Hill could not help seeing it. They
felt fresh, but caressing winds which traveled through space; delicious
perfumes streamed up about them; trees swayed; the Tiber began to
murmur; the stars twinkled, and suddenly the moon stood out in the sky
and lit up the world. And out of the clouds the two doves came circling
down and lighted upon the Emperor's shoulders.
When this miracle happened, Augustus rose, proud and happy, but his
friends and his slaves fell on their knees.
"Hail, Cæsar!" they cried. "Thy genius hath answered thee. Thou art the
god who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!"
And this cry of homage, which the men in their transport gave as a
tribute to the emperor, was so loud that the old sibyl heard it. It
waked her from her visions. She rose from her place on the edge of the
cliff, and came down among the people. It was as if a dark cloud had
arisen from the abyss and rushed down the mountain height. She was
terrifying in her extreme age! Coarse hair hung in matted tangles around
her head, her joints were enlarged, and the dark skin, hard as the bark
of a tree, covered her body with furrow upon furrow.
Potent and awe-inspiring, she advanced toward the Emperor. With one hand
she clutched his wrist, with the other she pointed toward the distant
East.
"Look!" she commanded, and the Emperor raised his eyes and saw. The
vaulted heavens opened before his eyes, and his glance traveled to the
distant Orient. He saw a lowly stable behind a steep rock wall, and in
the open doorway a few shepherds kneeling. Within the stable he saw a
young mother on her knees before a little child, who lay upon a bundle
of straw on the floor.
And the sibyl's big, knotty fingers pointed toward the poor babe. "Hail,
Cæsar!" cried the sibyl, in a burst of scornful laughter. "There is the
god who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!"
Then Augustus shrank back from her, as from a maniac. But upon the sibyl
fell the mighty spirit of prophecy. Her dim eyes began to burn, her
hands were stretched toward heaven, her voice was so changed that it
seemed not to be her own, but rang out with such resonance and power
that it could have been heard over the whole world. And she uttered
words which she appeared to be reading among the stars.
"Upon Capitol Hill shall the Redeemer of the world be
worshiped--_Christ_--but not frail mortals."
When she had said this, she strode past the terror-stricken men, walked
slowly down the mountain, and disappeared.
But, on the following day, Augustus strictly forbade the people to raise
any temple to him on Capitol Hill. In place of it he built a sanctuary
to the new-born GodChild, and called it HEAVEN'S ALTAR--_Ara Coeli_.
[Illustration: THE VOYAGE OF THE WEE RED CAP]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 12: By permission from _Christ Legends,_ by Selma Lagerlof.
Copyright by Henry Holt & Company.]
THE VOYAGE OF THE WEE RED CAP[13]
IT was the Eve of St. Stephen, and Teig sat alone by his fire with
naught in his cupboard but a pinch of tea and a bare mixing of meal, and
a heart inside of him as soft and warm as the ice on the water bucket
outside the door. The tuft was near burnt on the hearth--a handful of
golden cinders left, just; and Teig took to counting them greedily on
his fingers.
"There's one, two, three, an' four an' five," he laughed. "Faith, there
be more bits o' real gold hid undther the loose clay in the corner."
It was the truth; and it was the scraping and scrooching for the last
piece that had left Teig's cupboard bare of a Christmas dinner.
"Gold is betther nor eatin' an' dthrinkin'. An' if ye have naught to
give, there'll be naught asked of ye;" and he laughed again.
He was thinking of the neighbors, and the doles of food and piggins of
milk that would pass over their thresholds that night to the vagabonds
and paupers who were sure to come begging. And on the heels of that
thought followed another: who would be giving old Barney his dinner?
Barney lived a stone's throw from Teig, alone, in a wee tumbled-in
cabin; and for a score of years past Teig had stood on the doorstep
every Christmas Eve, and, making a hollow of his two hands, had called
across the road:
"Hey, there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?" And Barney had
reached for his crutches--there being but one leg to him--and had come.
"Faith," said Teig, trying another laugh, "Barney can fast for the once;
'twill be all the same in a month's time." And he fell to thinking of
the gold again.
A knock came at the door. Teig pulled himself down in his chair where
the shadow would cover him, and held his tongue.
"Teig, Teig!" It was the widow O'Donnelly's voice. "If ye are there,
open your door. I have not got the pay for the spriggin' this month, an'
the childher are needin' food."
But Teig put the leash on his tongue, and never stirred till he heard
the tramp of her feet going on to the next cabin. Then he saw to it that
the door was tight-barred. Another knock came, and it was a stranger's
voice this time:
"The other cabins are filled; not one but has its hearth crowded; will
ye take us in--the two of us? The wind bites mortal sharp, not a morsel
o' food have we tasted this day. Masther, will ye take us in?"
But Teig sat on, a-holding his tongue; and the tramp of the strangers'
feet passed down the road. Others took their place--small feet, running.
It was the miller's wee Cassie, and she called out as she ran by:
"Old Barney's watchin' for ye. Ye'll not be forget-tin' him, will ye,
Teig?"
And then the child broke into a song, sweet and clear, as she passed
down the road:
"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen,
Mind that ye keep it, this holy even.
Open your door an' greet ye the stranger--
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger.
Mhuire as traugh!
"Feed ye the hungry an' rest ye the weary,
This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary.
'Tis well that ye mind--ye who sit by the fire--
That the Lord he was born in a dark and cold byre.
Mhuire as traugh!
Teig put his fingers deep in his ears. "A million murdthering curses on
them that won't let me be! Can't a man try to keep what is his without
bein' pesthered by them that has only idled an' wasted their days?"
And then a strange thing happened: hundreds and hundreds of wee lights
began dancing outside the window, making the room bright; the hands of
the clock began chasing each other round the dial, and the bolt of the
door drew itself out. Slowly, without a creak or a cringe, the door
opened, and in there trooped a crowd of the Good People. Their wee green
cloaks were folded close about them, and each carried a rush candle.
Teig was filled with a great wonderment, entirely, when he saw the
fairies, but when they saw him they laughed.
"We are takin' the loan o' your cabin this night, Teig," said they. "Ye
are the only man hereabout with an empty hearth, an' we're needin' one."
Without saying more, they bustled about the room making ready. They
lengthened out the table and spread and set it; more of the Good People
trooped in, bringing stools and food and drink. The pipers came last,
and they sat themselves around the chimney-piece a-blowing their
chanters and trying the drones. The feasting began and the pipers played
and never had Teig seen such a sight in his life. Suddenly a wee man
sang out:
"Clip, clap, clip, clap, I wish I had my wee red cap!" And out of the
air there tumbled the neatest cap Teig ever laid his two eyes on. The
wee man clapped it on his head, crying:
"I wish I was in Spain!" and--whist--up the chimney he went, and away
out of sight.
It happened just as I am telling it. Another wee man called for his cap,
and away he went after the first. And then another and another until the
room was empty and Teig sat alone again.
"By my soul," said Teig, "I'd like to thravel that way myself! It's a
grand savin' of tickets an' baggage; an' ye get to a place before ye've
had time to change your mind. Faith there is no harm done if I thry it."
So he sang the fairies' rime and out of the air dropped a wee cap for
him. For a moment the wonder had him, but the next he was clapping the
cap on his head and crying:
"Spain!"
Then--whist--up the chimney he went after the fairies, and before he had
time to let out his breath he was standing in the middle of Spain, and
strangeness all about him.
He was in a great city. The doorways of the houses were hung with
flowers and the air was warm and sweet with the smell of them. Torches
burned along the streets, sweetmeat-sellers went about crying their
wares, and on the steps of the cathedral crouched a crowd of beggars.
"What's the meanin' o' that?" asked Teig of one of the fairies.
"They are waiting for those that are hearing mass. When they come out,
they give half of what they have to those that have nothing, so on this
night of all the year there shall be no hunger and no cold."
And then far down the street came the sound of a child's voice, singing:
"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen,
Mind that ye keep it, this holy even."
"Curse it!" said Teig; "can a song fly afther ye?" And then he heard the
fairies cry "Holland!" and he cried "Holland!" too.
In one leap he was over France, and another over Belgium; and with the
third he was standing by long ditches of water frozen fast, and over
them glided hundreds upon hundreds of lads and maids. Outside each door
stood a wee wooden shoe empty. Teig saw scores of them as he looked down
the ditch of a street.
"What is the meanin' o' those shoes?" he asked the fairies.
"Ye poor lad!" answered the wee man next to him; "are ye not knowing
anything? This is the Gift Night of the year, when every man gives to
his neighbor."
A child came to the window of one of the houses, and in her hand was a
lighted candle. She was singing as she put the light down close to the
glass, and Teig caught the words:
"Open your door an' greet ye the stranger--
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger.
Mhuire as traugh!"
"'Tis the de'il's work!" cried Teig, and he set the red cap more firmly
on his head.
"I'm for another country."
I cannot be telling you half the adventures Teig had that night, nor
half the sights that he saw. But he passed by fields that held sheaves
of grain for the birds and doorsteps that held bowls of porridge for the
wee creatures. He saw lighted trees, sparkling and heavy with gifts; and
he stood outside the churches and watched the crowds pass in, bearing
gifts to the Holy Mother and Child.
At last the fairies straightened their caps and cried, "Now for the
great hall in the King of England's palace!"
Whist--and away they went, and Teig after them; and the first thing he
knew he was in London, not an arm's length from the King's throne. It
was a grander sight than he had seen in any other country. The hall was
filled entirely with lords and ladies; and the great doors were open for
the poor and the homeless to come in and warm themselves by the King's
fire and feast from the King's table. And many a hungry soul did the
King serve with his own hands.
Those that had anything to give gave it in return. It might be a bit of
music played on a harp or a pipe, or it might be a dance or a song; but
more often it was a wish, just, for good luck and safekeeping.
Teig was so taken up with the watching that he never heard the fairies
when they wished themselves off; moreover, he never saw the wee girl
that was fed, and went laughing away. But he heard a bit of her song as
she passed through the door:
"Feed ye the hungry an' rest ye the weary,
This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary."
Then the anger had Teig. "I'll stop your pestherin' tongue, once an' for
all time!" and, catching the cap from his head, he threw it after her.
No sooner was the cap gone than every soul in the hall saw him. The next
moment they were about him, catching at his coat and crying:
"Where is he from, what does he here? Bring him before the King!" And
Teig was dragged along by a hundred hands to the throne where the King
sat.
"He was stealing food," cried one.
"He was robbing the King's jewels," cried another.
"He looks evil," cried a third. "Kill him!"
And in a moment all the voices took it up and the hall rang with: "Aye,
kill him, kill him!"
Teig's legs took to trembling, and fear put the leash on his tongue; but
after a long silence he managed to whisper:
"I have done evil to no one--no one!"
"Maybe," said the King; "but have ye done good? Come, tell us, have ye
given aught to any one this night? If ye have, we will pardon ye."
Not a word could Teig say--fear tightened the leash --for he was knowing
full well there was no good to him that night.
"Then ye must die," said the King. "Will ye try hanging or beheading?"
"Hanging, please, your Majesty," said Teig.
The guards came rushing up and carried him off. But as he was crossing
the threshold of the hall a thought sprang at him and held him.
"Your Majesty," he called after him, "will ye grant me a last request?"
"I will," said the King.
"Thank ye. There's a wee red cap that I'm mortal fond of, and I lost it
a while ago; if I could be hung with it on, I would hang a deal more
comfortable."
The cap was found and brought to Teig.
"Clip, clap, clip, clap, for my wee red cap, I wish I was home," he
sang.
Up and over the heads of the dumfounded guard he flew, and--whist--and
away out of sight. When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting close
by his own hearth, with the fire burnt low. The hands of the clock were
still, the bolt was fixed firm in the door. The fairies' lights were
gone, and the only bright thing was the candle burning in old Barney's
cabin across the road.
A running of feet sounded outside, and then the snatch of a song:
"'Tis well that ye mind--ye who sit by the fire--
That the Lord he was born in a dark and cold byre.
Mhuire as traugh!"
"Wait ye, whoever ye are!" and Teig was away to the corner, digging fast
at the loose clay, as a terrier digs at a bone. He filled his hands full
of the shining gold, then hurried to the door, unbarring it.
The miller's wee Cassie stood there, peering at him out of the darkness.
"Take those to the widow O'Donnelly, do ye hear? And take the rest to
the store. Ye tell Jamie to bring up all that he has that is eatable an'
dhrinkable; and to the neighbors ye say, 'Teig's keepin' the feast this
night.' Hurry now!"
Teig stopped a moment on the threshold until the tramp of her feet had
died away; then he made a hollow of his two hands and called across the
road:
"Hey there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?"
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 13: By permission from _This Way to Christmas,_ by Ruth Sawyer
Durand. Harper & Brothers.
Also in _The Children's Book of Christmas Stories;_ ed. by A. D.
Dickinson and A. M. Skinner. Doubleday, Page.]
GREEK LEGENDS
[Illustration: THE CURSE OF ECHO]
THE CURSE OF ECHO[14]
IN the flowery groves of Helicon, Echo was once a fair nymph who, hand
in hand with her sisters, sported along the green lawns and by the side
of the mountain-streams. Among them all her feet were the lightest and
her laugh the merriest, and in the telling of tales not one of them
could touch her. So if ever any among them were plotting mischief in
their hearts, they would say to her:
"Echo, thou weaver of words, go thou and sit beside Hera in her bower,
and beguile her with a tale that she come not forth and find us. See
thou make it a long one, Echo, and we will give thee a garland to twine
in thy hair."
And Echo would laugh a gay laugh, which rang through the grove.
"What will you do when she tires of my tales?" she asked.
"When that time comes we shall see," said they.
So with another laugh she would trip away and cast herself on the grass
at Hera's feet. When Hera looked upon Echo her stern brow would relax,
and she would smile upon her and stroke her hair.
"What hast thou come for now, thou sprite?" she would ask.
"I had a great longing to talk with thee, great Hera," she would answer,
"and I have a tale--a wondrous new tale--to tell thee."
"Thy tales are as many as the risings of the sun, Echo, and each one of
them as long as an old man's beard."