Forth they went together;
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather.
"Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer."
"Mark my footsteps, good my page;
Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly."
In his master's steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
Shall yourselves find blessing.
THE CHRISTMAS AT GRECCIO: A
STORY OF ST. FRANCIS
SOPHIE JEWETT
"The beautiful Mother is bending
Low where her Baby lies
Helpless and frail, for her tending;
But she knows the glorious eyes.
"The Mother smiles and rejoices
While the Baby laughs in the hay;
She listens to heavenly voices:
'The child shall be King, one day.'
"O dear little Christ in the manger,
Let me make merry with Thee.
O King, in my hour of danger,
Wilt Thou be strong for me?"
--Adapted from the Latin of Jacopone da Todi.
Thirteenth Century.
One night in December ... Brother Francis, with one companion, was walking
through the beautiful valley of the Velino River, toward Rieti, a little
city where he came often on his way from Assisi to Rome. To-night he had
turned somewhat aside from the main road, for he wished to spend Christmas
with his friend, Sir John of Greccio. Greccio is a tiny village, lying
where the foothills begin, on the western side of the valley. The very
feet of Brother Francis knew the road so well that he could have walked
safely in the darkness, but it was not dark. The full moon floated over
the valley, making the narrow river and the sharp outlines of the
snow-covered mountains shine like silver. The plain and the lower hills
were pasture land, and, not far from the road, on a grassy slope, the
Brothers saw the red glow of an almost spent shepherds' fire. "Let us
stop and visit our brothers, the shepherds," said Francis, and they
turned toward the fading fire.
There was no sense of winter in the air, scarcely a touch of frost, and
the only snow was that on the silver peaks against the sky. The shepherds,
three men and one boy, lay sleeping soundly on the bare ground, with their
sheepskin coats drawn closely around them. All about them the sheep were
sleeping, too, but the solemn white sheep dogs were wide awake. If a
stranger's foot had trod the grass never so softly, every dog would have
barked, and every shepherd would have been on his feet in an instant. But
the dogs trotted silently up to the Grey Brothers and rubbed against them,
as if they said, "We are glad to see you again," for they knew the
friendly feet of the Little Poor Man, and they had more than once helped
him to eat the bread that was his only dinner. Followed by the dogs,
Francis walked about among the shepherds, but they slept on, as only men
who live out of doors can sleep, and Francis could not find it in his
heart to waken them. The sheep lay huddled together in groups for more
warmth. Around one small square of grass a net was stretched, and, inside
it, were the mother sheep who had little lambs. There was no sound except
the faint cry, now and then, of a baby lamb. The coals over which the
shepherds had cooked their supper paled from dull red to grey, and there
was only a thin column of smoke, white in the moonlight. Francis sat down
on a stone, and the largest of the white dogs pressed up against his knee.
Another went dutifully back to his post beside the fold where the mothers
and babies slept. The Italian hillside seemed to Francis to change to that
of Bethlehem, which he had seen, perhaps, on his Eastern journey; the
clear December night seemed like that of the first Christmas Eve. "How
these shepherds sleep!" he thought; "how they would awaken if they heard
the 'Peace on earth' of the angels' song!" Then he remembered sadly how
the armies that called themselves Christian had, year after year, battled
with the Saracens over the cradle and the tomb of the Prince of Peace. The
moonlight grew misty about him, the silver heights of the mountains and
the silver line of the river faded, for the eyes of Brother Francis were
full of tears.
As the two Brothers went on their way, Francis grew light of heart again.
The sight of the shepherds sleeping on the grass had given him a new idea,
and he was planning a surprise for his friends at Greccio. For at Greccio
all were his friends, from Sir John, his host, down to the babies in the
street. In the valley of Rieti he was almost as well known and as dearly
loved as in his own valley of Assisi. The children of Greccio had never
heard of Christmas trees, nor, perhaps, of Christmas presents. I am not
sure that, in the thirteenth century, Italians had the beautiful custom
which they now have of giving presents at Twelfth Night, in memory of the
coming of the three kings with their gifts to the Christ Child; but in the
thirteenth century, even as now, Christmas was the happiest festival of
the year. This year all the folk of Greccio, big and little, were happier
than usual because their beloved Brother Francis was to help them keep
their Christmas-tide. Next day Francis confided his plan to his friend,
Sir John, who promised that all should be ready on Christmas Eve.
On the day before Christmas, the people came from all the country around
to see and hear Brother Francis. Men, women and children, dressed in their
holiday clothes, walking, riding on donkeys, crowding into little carts
drawn by great white oxen, from everywhere and in every fashion, the
country folk came toward Greccio. Many came from far away, and the early
winter darkness fell long before they could reach the town. The light of
their torches might be seen on the open road, and the sound of their
singing reached the gates of Greccio before them. That night the little
town was almost as crowded as was Bethlehem on the eve of the first
Christmas. The crowds were poor folk, for the most part, peasants from the
fields, charcoal burners from the mountains, shepherds in their sheepskin
coats and trousers, made with the wool outside, so that the wearers looked
like strange, two-legged animals. The four shepherds who had slept so
soundly a few nights before were of the company, but they knew nothing of
their midnight visitors. The white dogs knew, but they could keep a
secret. The shepherds were almost as quiet as their dogs. They always
talked and sang less than other people, having grown used to long silences
among their sheep.
Gathered at last into the square before the church, by the light of
flaring torches, for the moon would rise late, the people saw with wonder
and delight the surprise which Brother Francis and Sir John had prepared
for them. They looked into a real stable. There was the manger full of
hay, there were a live ox and a live ass. Even by torchlight their breath
showed in the frosty air. And there, on the hay, lay a real baby, wrapped
from the cold, asleep and smiling. It looked as sweet and innocent as the
Christ Child Himself. The people shouted with delight. They clapped their
hands and waved their torches.
Then there was silence, for Brother Francis stood before them, and the
voice they loved so well, and had come so far to hear, began to read the
old story of the birth of the Child Jesus, of the shepherds in the fields,
and of the angels' song. When the reading was ended, Brother Francis
talked to them as a father might speak to his children. He told of the
love that is gentle as a little child, that is willing to be poor and
humble as the Baby who was laid in a manger among the cattle. He begged
his listeners to put anger and hatred and envy out of their hearts this
Christmas Eve, and to think only thoughts of peace and good will. All
listened eagerly while Brother Francis spoke, but the moment he finished
the great crowd broke into singing. From the church tower the bells rang
loud; the torches waved wildly, while voices here and there shouted for
Brother Francis and for the Blessed Little Christ. Never before had such
glorious hymns nor such joyous shouting been heard in the town of Greccio.
Only the mothers, with babies in their arms, and the shepherds, in their
woolly coats, looked on silently and thought: "We are in Bethlehem."
THE SIN OF THE PRINCE BISHOP
WILLIAM CANTON
The Prince Bishop Evrard stood gazing at his marvellous Cathedral; and as
he let his eyes wander in delight over the three deep sculptured portals
and the double gallery above them, and the great rose window, and the
ringers' gallery, and so up to the massive western towers, he felt as
though his heart were clapping hands for joy within him. And he thought to
himself, "Surely in all the world God has no more beautiful house than
this which I have built with such long labor and at so princely an outlay
of my treasure." And thus the Prince Bishop fell into the sin of
vainglory, and, though he was a holy man, he did not perceive that he had
fallen, so filled with gladness was he at the sight of his completed work.
In the double gallery of the west front there were many great statues with
crowns and sceptres, but a niche over the central portal was empty and
this the Prince Bishop intended to fill with a statue of himself. It was
to be a very small simple statue, as became one who prized lowliness of
heart, but as he looked up at the vacant place it gave him pleasure to
think that hundreds of years after he was dead people would pause before
his effigy and praise him and his work. And this, too, was vainglory.
As the Prince Bishop lay asleep that night a mighty six-winged Angel stood
beside him and bade him rise. "Come," he said, "and I will show thee some
of those who have worked with thee in building the great church, and whose
service in God's eyes has been more worthy than thine." And the Angel led
him past the Cathedral and down the steep street of the ancient city, and
though it was midday, the people going to and fro did not seem to see
them. Beyond the gates they followed the shelving road till they came to
green level fields, and there in the middle of the road, between grassy
banks covered white with cherry blossom, two great white oxen, yoked to a
huge block of stone, stood resting before they began the toilsome ascent.
"Look!" said the Angel; and the Prince Bishop saw a little blue-winged
bird which perched on the stout yoke beam fastened to the horns of the
oxen, and sang such a heavenly song of rest and contentment that the big
shaggy creatures ceased to blow stormily through their nostrils, and drew
long tranquil breaths instead.
"Look again!" said the Angel. And from a hut of wattles and clay a little
peasant girl came with a bundle of hay in her arms, and gave first one of
the oxen and then the other a wisp. Then she stroked their black muzzles,
and laid her rosy face against their white cheeks. Then the Prince Bishop
saw the rude teamster rise from his rest on the bank and cry to his
cattle, and the oxen strained against the beam and the thick ropes
tightened, and the huge block of stone was once more set in motion.
And when the Prince Bishop saw that it was these fellow-workers whose
service was more worthy in God's eyes than his own, he was abashed and
sorrowful for his sin, and the tears of his own weeping awoke him. So he
sent for the master of the sculptors and bade him fill the little niche
over the middle portal, not with his own effigy but with an image of the
child; and he bade him make two colossal figures of the white oxen; and to
the great wonderment of the people these were set up high in the tower so
that men could see them against the blue sky. "And as for me," he said,
"let my body be buried, with my face downward, outside the great church,
in front of the middle entrance, that men may trample on my vainglory and
that I may serve them as a stepping-stone to the house of God; and the
little child shall look on me when I lie in the dust."
Now the little girl in the niche was carved with wisps of hay in her
hands, but the child who had fed the oxen knew nothing of this, and as she
grew up she forgot her childish service, so that when she had grown to
womanhood and chanced to see this statue over the portal she did not know
it was her own self in stone. But what she had done was not forgotten in
heaven.
And as for the oxen, one of them looked east and one looked west across
the wide fruitful country about the foot of the hill-city. And one caught
the first grey gleam, and the first rosy flush, and the first golden
splendor of the sunrise; and the other was lit with the color of the
sunset long after the lowlands had faded away in the blue mist of the
twilight. Weary men and worn women looking up at them felt that a gladness
and a glory and a deep peace had fallen on the life of toil. And then,
when people began to understand, they said it was well that these mighty
laborers, who had helped to build the house, should still find a place of
service and honor in the house; and they remembered that the Master of the
house had once been a Babe warmed in a manger by the breath of kine. And
at the thought of this men grew more pitiful to their cattle, and to the
beasts in servitude, and to all dumb animals. And that was one good fruit
which sprang from the Prince Bishop's repentance.
Now over the colossal stone oxen hung the bells of the Cathedral. On
Christmas Eve the ringers, according to the old custom, ascended to their
gallery to ring in the birth of the Babe Divine. At the moment of midnight
the master ringer gave the word, and the great bells began to swing in
joyful sequence. Down below in the crowded church lay the image of the
new-born Child on the cold straw, and at His haloed head stood the images
of the ox and the ass. Far out across the snow-roofed city, far away over
the white glistening country rang the glad music of the tower. People who
went to their doors to listen cried in astonishment: "Hark! what strange
music is that? It sounds as if the lowing of cattle were mingled with the
chimes of the bells." In truth it was so. And in every byre the oxen and
the kine answered the strange sweet cadences with their lowing, and the
great stone oxen lowed back to their kin of the meadow through the deep
notes of the joy-peal.
In the fulness of time the Prince Bishop Evrard died and was buried as he
had willed, with his face humbly turned to the earth; and to this day the
weather-wasted figure of the little girl looks down on him from her niche,
and the slab over his grave serves as a stepping-stone to pious feet.
Taken by permission of E.P. Dutton and Company from "A Child's Book of
Saints," by William Canton, Everyman's Library.
EARL SIGURD'S CHRISTMAS EVE
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
Earl Sigurd, he rides o'er the foam-crested brine,
And he heeds not the billowy brawl,
For he yearns to behold gentle Swanwhite, the maid
Who abides in Sir Burislav's hall.
"Earl Sigurd, the viking, he comes, he is near!
Earl Sigurd, the scourge of the sea;
Among the wild rovers who dwell on the deep,
There is none that is dreaded as he.
"Oh, hie ye, ye maidens, and hide where ye can,
Ere the clang of his war-ax ye hear,
For the wolf of the woods has more pity than he,
And his heart is as grim as his spear."
Thus rang the dread tidings, from castle to hut,
Through the length of Sir Burislav's land,
As they spied the red pennon unfurled to the breeze,
And the galleys that steered for the strand.
But with menacing brow, looming high in his prow
Stood Earl Sigurd, and fair to behold
Was his bright, yellow hair, as it waved in the air,
'Neath the glittering helmet of gold.
"Up, my comrades, and stand with your broadswords in hand,
For the war is great Odin's delight;
And the Thunderer proud, how he laughs in his cloud
When the Norsemen prepare for the fight!"
And the light galleys bore the fierce crew to the shore,
And naught good did their coming forebode,
And a wail rose on high to the storm-riven sky
As to Burislav's castle they strode.
Then the stout-hearted men of Sir Burislav's train
To the gate-way came thronging full fast
And the battle-blade rang with a murderous clang,
Borne aloft on the wings of the blast.
And they hewed and they thrust, till each man bit the dust,
Their fierce valor availing them naught.
But the Thunderer proud, how he laughed in his cloud,
When he saw how the Norsemen had fought!
Then came Burislav forth; to the men of the North
Thus in quivering accents spake he:
"O, ye warriors, name me the ransom ye claim,
Or in gold, or in robes, or in fee."
"Oh, what reck I thy gold?" quoth Earl Sigurd, the bold;
"Has not Thor laid it all in my hand?
Give me Swanwhite, the fair, and by Balder I swear
I shall never revisit thy land.
"For my vengeance speeds fast, and I come like the blast
Of the night o'er the billowy brine;
I forget not thy scorn and thy laugh on that morn
When I wooed me the maid that was mine."
Then the chief, sore afraid, brought the lily-white maid
To the edge of the blood-sprinkled field,
And they bore her aloft o'er the sward of the croft
On the vault of the glittering shield.
But amain in their path, in a whirlwind of wrath
Came young Harold, Sir Burislav's son;
With a great voice he cried, while the echoes replied:
"Lo, my vengeance, it cometh anon!"
Hark ye, Norsemen, hear great tidings:
Odin, Thor, and Frey are dead,
And white Christ, the strong and gentle,
standeth peace-crowned in their stead.
Lo, the blood-stained day of vengeance to the
ancient night is hurled,
And the dawn of Christ is beaming blessings
o'er the new-born world.
"See the Cross in splendor gleaming far and
wide o'er pine-clad heath,
While the flaming blade of battle slumbers in
its golden sheath.
And before the lowly Savior, e'en the rider of
the sea,
Sigurd, tamer of the billow, he hath bent the
stubborn knee."
Now at Yule-tide sat he feasting on the shore
of Drontheim fiord,
And his stalwart swains about him watched
the bidding of their lord.
Huge his strength was, but his visage, it was
mild and fair to see;
Ne'er old Norway, heroes' mother, bore a
mightier son than he.
With her maids sat gentle Swanwhite 'neath a
roof of gleaming shields,
As the rarer lily blossoms 'mid the green herbs
of the fields;
To and fro their merry words flew lightly
through the torch-lit room,
Like a shuttle deftly skipping through the
mazes of the loom.
And the scalds with nimble fingers o'er the
sounding harp-strings swept;
Now the strain in laughter rippled, now with
hidden woe it wept,
For they sang of Time's beginning, ere the sun
the day brought forth--
Sang as sing the ocean breezes through the
pine-woods of the North.
Bolder beat the breasts of Norsemen--when
amid the tuneful din
Open sprang the heavy hall-doors, and a
stranger entered in.
Tall his growth, though low he bended o'er a
twisted staff of oak,
And his stalwart shape was folded in a dun,
unseemly cloak.
Straight the Earl his voice uplifted: "Hail
to thee, my guest austere!
Drain with me this cup of welcome: thou shalt
share our Yule-tide cheer.
Thou shalt sit next to my high-seat e'en
though lowly be thy birth,
For to-night our Lord, the Savior, came a
stranger to his earth."
Up then rose the gentle Swanwhite, and her
eyes with fear grew bright;
Down the dusky hall she drifted, as a shadow
drifts by night.
"If my lord would hold me worthy," low she
spake, "then grant me leave
To abide between the stranger and my lord,
this Christmas eve."
"Strange, O guest, is women's counsel, still
their folly is the staff
Upon which our wisdom leaneth," and he
laughed a burly laugh;
Lifted up her lissome body with a husband's
tender pride,
Kissed her brow, and placed her gently in the
high-seat at his side.
But the guest stood pale and quivered, where
the red flames roofward rose,
And he clenched the brimming goblet in his
fingers, fierce and close,
Then he spake: "All hail, Earl Sigurd,
mightiest of the Norsemen, hail!
Ere I name to thee my tidings, I will taste thy
flesh and ale."
Quoth the merry Earl with fervor: "Courteous
is thy speech and free:
While thy worn soul thou refreshest, I will
sing a song to thee;
For beneath that dusky garment thou mayst
hide a hero's heart,
And my hand, though stiff, hath scarcely yet
unlearned the singer's art."
Then the arms so tightly folded round his neck
the Earl unclasped,
And his heart was stirred within him as the
silvern strings he grasped,
But with eyes of meek entreaty, closely to his
side she clung,
While his mighty soul rose upward on the
billows of the song.
For he sang, in tones impassioned, of the death
of Aesir bright,
Sang the song of Christ the glorious, who was
born a babe to-night,
How the hosts of heaven victorious joined the
anthem of his birth,
Of the kings the starlight guided from the far
lands of the earth.
And anon, with bodeful glamour fraught, the
hurrying strain sped on,
As he sang the law of vengeance and the wrath
forever gone,
Sang of gods with murder sated, who had laid
the fair earth waste,
Who had whetted swords of Norsemen,
plunged them into Norsemen's breast.
But he shook a shower of music, rippling from
the silver strings,
And bright visions rose of angels and of fair
and shining things
As he sang of heaven's rejoicing at the mild
and bloodless reign
Of the gentle Christ who bringeth peace and
good-will unto men!
But the guest sat dumb and hearkened, staring
at the brimming bowl,
While the lay with mighty wing-beats swept
the darkness of his soul.
For the Christ who worketh wonders as of old,
so e'en to-day
Sent his angel downward gliding on the ladder
of the lay.
As the host his song had ended with a last
resounding twang,
And within the harp's dumb chambers
murmurous echoes faintly rang,
Up then sprang the guest, and straightway
downward rolled his garment dun--
There stood Harold, the avenger, Burislav's
undaunted son.
High he loomed above the feasters in the
torchlight dim and weird,
From his eyes hot tears were streaming,
sparkling in his tawny beard;
Shining in his sea-blue mantle stood he, 'mid
that wondering throng,
And each maiden thought him fairest, and each
warrior vowed him strong.
Swift he bared his blade of battle, flung it
quivering on the board:
"Lo!" he cried, "I came to bid thee baleful
greeting with my sword;
Thou hast dulled the edge that never shrank
from battle's fiercest test--
Now I come, as comes a brother, swordless unto
brother's breast.
"With three hundred men I landed in the
gloaming at thy shore--
Dost thou hear their axes clanking on their
shields without thy door?
But a yearning woke within me my sweet sister's
voice to hear,
To behold her face and whisper words of
warning in her ear.
"But I knew not of the new-born king, who
holds the earth in sway,
And whose voice like fragrance blended in the
soarings of thy lay.
This my vengeance now, O brother: foes as
friends shall hands unite;
Teach me, thou, the wondrous tidings, and the
law of Christ the white."
Touched as by an angel's glory, strangely
shone Earl Sigurd's face,
As he locked his foe, his brother, in a brotherly
embrace;
And each warrior upward leaping, swung his
horn with gold bedight:
"Hail to Sigurd, hail to Harold, three times
hail to Christ the white!"
A CHRISTMAS LEGEND
FLORENCE SCANNELL
It was Christmas Eve. The night was very dark and the snow falling fast,
as Hermann, the charcoal-burner, drew his cloak tighter around him, and
the wind whistled fiercely through the trees of the Black Forest. He had
been to carry a load to a castle near, and was now hastening home to his
little hut. Although he worked very hard, he was poor, gaining barely
enough for the wants of his wife and his four little children. He was
thinking of them, when he heard a faint wailing. Guided by the sound, he
groped about and found a little child, scantily clothed, shivering and
sobbing by itself in the snow.
"Why, little one, have they left thee here all alone to face this cruel
blast?"
The child answered nothing, but looked piteously up in the
charcoal-burner's face.
"Well, I cannot leave thee here. Thou would'st be dead before the
morning."
So saying, Hermann raised it in his arms, wrapping it in his cloak and
warming its little cold hands in his bosom. When he arrived at his hut, he
put down the child and tapped at the door, which was immediately thrown
open, and the children rushed to meet him.