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.