To-day I am homesick for the sound of bells, for the sad, melting tones
of an organ. I sit in my room and play manger songs on the zither. My
zither has but three strings; a more perfect one I did not know how to
make.
The three strings are enough for me; one is my mother, the other my
wife, the third my child. One always spends Christmas with one's
family.
Only a few of the forest people go with pine-torches to the midnight
service in Holdenschlag. The distance is too great. The rest remain in
their huts, yet, having no desire to sleep, they sit together and tell
stories, for to-day they have a peculiar impulse to leave their
commonplace life and create a world of their own. Many a one carries
out old pagan customs, hoping thereby to satisfy an unspeakable longing
of the heart. Many a one strains his eyes and gazes over the dark
forests, confidently expecting to see the heavens illumined. He listens
for the ringing of festival bells and soft angel voices. But only the
stars gleam above the forest hills, to-day as yesterday and always. A
cold breeze stirs among the tree-tops; there is a glitter of ice, and
now and then a branch shakes off its burden of snow.
But on this night the glistening and falling of the snow affect one in
an unusual way, and the hearts of men tremble in longing expectation of
the Redeemer.
I have trimmed a simple little Christmas-tree, such as they have in
northern countries, and have sent the same to Anna Maria Russ in
Lautergraeben. I think the light of the candles will be reflected in a
friendly way in the eyes of the little one. Perhaps a bit of the
brightness will sink into the young heart never to be extinguished.
In the widow's hut, there can be no Christmas-tree. Mathes's grave is
buried deep in snow; the branch which served as letter-box wears a tall
cap. The pleading letter from the mother to the child will be destroyed
without having been opened or read.