the shepherds hurried so that they almost ran. Upon reaching the city,
they found the angels had assembled over a stable near the gate. It was
a wretched structure with a roof of straw, and a naked cliff for a wall.
But over it hung the star, and thither flocked more and more angels. Some
seated themselves on the roof or alighted on the steep mountain wall back
of the house, others poised themselves in air on outspread pinions, while
high up, high up, the sky was illuminated by creatures with wings as
white as pearl.
The instant the star kindled over the mountain city all nature awoke.
Trees swayed, the Tiber began to murmur, stars twinkled, and the moon
stood out of the sky and lighted the world. Out of the clouds a dove
circled down and alighted on the shoulders of Augustus.
The Emperor was proud and happy, and his friends and slaves fell at his
feet.
“Hail, Cæsar!” they cried. “Thou art the god who shall be worshiped on
Capitol Hill!”
This cry of homage was so loud that the sibyl heard it and roused from
her vision. She turned from her place at the edge of the cliff and came
down among the people, so twisted, so shriveled, so terrifying in her
tangled hair and marks of age, that they fell back in awe. With one hand
she clutched the hand of the Emperor, with the other she pointed toward
the east.
“Look!” she commanded.
The vaulted heavens opened before his eyes, and his glance traveled
slowly to the distant Orient. He saw a lowly stable behind a steep rock
wall and shepherds kneeling in an open doorway. He saw a young mother
with a child upon her knees, resting on a bundle of straw.
The sibyl’s big, knotty fingers pointed toward the Babe.
“Hail, Cæsar!” she cried in a burst of scornful laughter. “There is the
God who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!”
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 rang out with such resonance and power
that it must have been heard throughout the world. And she uttered words
which she seemed 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 and
disappeared down the mountain.
On the following day Augustus forbade the people to raise a temple to
him on Capitol Hill. In place of it he built a sanctuary to the new-born
God-Child, and called it _Heaven’s Altar_—Ara Cœli.
THE SHEPHERD WHO TURNED BACK
RETOLD FROM A SYRIAN LEGEND
(_Ethics_)
This is a story they tell in Palestine when the Christmas stars shine out
and Syrian children sit, cross-legged and big-eyed, in front of the old
grandfather, listening to his tales by the light of the charcoal fire,
while the moon flings its veil across the jagged Hebron Hills and the
far, high peaks out Moab way are white as wool.
On the wonderful night when the star in the east proclaimed glad tidings
to the Magi, and these three wise ones started away from their pleasant
homes on a long and perilous journey, marvelous things are said to have
happened in every quarter of the earth. Away in imperial Rome, the
Emperor Augustus, straight and proud in his litter, was borne up the
long stairway leading to Capitol Hill to invoke his gods on the spot
where the people were to erect a temple to him. But suddenly the darkness
broke away and he beheld a manger in a distant land and a Babe wrapped
in swaddling clothes, and as the voices of his subjects shouted, “Hail,
Cæsar, thou art the god who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!” instead
of feeling great and exalted like a sovereign he felt very small and
humble, for he knew that One just born was mightier than Cæsar, and would
rule not only Rome, but all the earth.
And on that same night, where the mountains break southward from
Bethlehem to form the high plateau of Bêt Sahûr, there were shepherds
guarding their white-fleeced charges—six in all, five of whom slept by
the gate of the sheepfold while one walked up and down, starting whenever
he heard a stirring among the flocks and going in the direction of the
sound to make sure that all was well.
Sometimes he added wood to the fire, for the night was cold and a
wind from the white peaks eastward brought numbness to his hands, and
sometimes he stood and looked over the scene he knew so well—the pools
of Solomon, shimmering darkly under the moon, and the broad vales of
Boaz, bare and lifeless now, but yellow with ripened grain and gay with
reapers’ songs in harvest time. As a child he had played there with his
brothers, as a boy he had roamed up and down the ravines, and now, alone
in the darkness, it gladdened him to live again those days in memory.
Midnight drew near, yet he had no desire to sleep. The world was very
silent, very still, for the wind had died away, and the Ilwa, in its
rocky bed below, seemed to rest instead of surging Jordan-ward. Into
the hoot of the owls came a note of unwonted tenderness, and even the
cries of the jackals, that always made the night watch hideous and sent
terror to the hearts of the herders, softened to a sound like a song.
The man felt the calm and it soothed him, and although he had followed
the flocks all day long and the hills were steep and jagged, he knew no
weariness, but a strange sense of peace and delight, and as he looked at
his companions wrapped in their rough skin coats and dreaming beside the
embers, he wondered if they felt in sleep a sensation as exquisite as the
one he experienced awaking.
“How bright the heavens are tonight!” he thought as he looked up to where
a golden haze began to gleam around the crescent of the moon. Billions of
stars glittered in the purple spaces, and directly over the center of the
fold was a cluster large and brilliant that he had not seen before.
It grew warmer, too, and instead of the sting of winter that had kept
the men close by the fire after darkness fell, a balm came into the air,
a softness like that of May. Never had he dreamed there could be such a
winter night, and almost he felt tempted to rouse his companions that
they too might enjoy it.
But suddenly he stiffened and stood watching, cold with fear. A
glory came, and across the sky, which flamed as if on fire, floated
a white-winged heavenly host singing the glad tidings of the Messiah
come. The flocks started up and ran wildly about the fold. The sleeping
shepherds wakened and crouched on the ground, half dazed with fear.
The bright ones flew about the heavens. They moved in shining columns
down from the heights and fluttered above the fold, whiter than the
sheep, then glided across to the rugged cliffs, and sat there as if
on couches of down. And ever as they marched or floated or poised on
glittering pinions ready for another flight, they blended their voices in
a triumphal chorus as if all the hosts of heaven had descended to make
melody among the Judean hills.
“What is it?” one of the shepherds asked in a voice that shook.
Then, like an answering message, came a jubilant anthem, “Fear not, for
unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Saviour which is Christ
the Lord.”
As if a soothing hand had touched their fleeces, the sheep settled to
rest again; the fear left the hearts of the shepherds, and in a radiance
which dimmed and paled as they went, the shining ones floated upward out
of sight, singing, “Glory to God in the Highest, Peace on Earth, Good
Will to Men.”
For several minutes the keepers of the flocks stood silent, too
bewildered either to think or to speak. Then, by the peace among the
sheep and the perfect calm of the night, they realized a marvelous thing
had happened, and one of the herders lifted his voice.
“Didst hear?” he spoke in tones of reverence. “They say the Christ is
born.”
“Aye,” a companion answered, “in the city of David, which is Bethlehem.
Let us go and seek him.” And his comrades, speaking agreement, said they
would journey there together.
Now, when subjects go into the presence of a loved sovereign, they
bear with them tokens of loyalty and affection. Those who are rich give
priceless gifts, and those who are poor offer the best out of their
scanty possessions and the fullness of their hearts. And so these herders
of Bêt Sahûr, having nothing but their flocks, each chose the lamb he
prized most, and cradling it tenderly in his firm, warm arms, left the
sheepfold and started for the town.
Down over the cliffs they hurried, along perilous slopes and across
chasms that seemed like great black mouths agape; yet they did not fear,
for a light from above showed the path as plain as noontide and there was
no danger of falling. From one rock to another they proceeded, from ledge
to ledge they made their way, and soon were well down into the ravine,
from the bottom of which the road led to the town. Directly above, so
close that had they looked up they could have counted some of them, the
sheep lay white and shining under the stars; but the thoughts of the
shepherds were on Bethlehem, which, straight ahead, still showed a few
flickering tapers, and not on the flocks behind.
Ben Ezra, he who had stood on the night watch, was the most stalwart of
the six, and he it was who led the descent to the valley.
“Ah,” he exclaimed when at last their feet struck the white firmness
of the road, “from here on the way is smooth and easy. Let us hasten,
brethren, and soon we shall be there.”
And as he spoke he smoothed the fleece of the warm, white bundle he
carried, which bleated softly at his caress.
Just then was heard the cry of a lamb.
The shepherds stopped and listened, for having spent their lives among
the flocks, they knew the helplessness of the sheep, and although
rugged, fierce-looking men, their hearts were tender toward the weak and
appealing. The bleat of a ram or ewe never failed to call them from their
meals by day or their rest by night; and now other thoughts left their
minds, and they remembered only their charges alone on the hill. Then,
thinking of the glory in the sky and the word of the heavenly host that
the Christ was born in Bethlehem, one of them said, “Come. Methinks all
is well. Did we not feel on the hills that God would take care of the
sheep? Let us on to Bethlehem and seek the King.”
But another of the number, he who stood sentinel while his comrades
slept, shook his head and demurred.
“Nay,” he said. “Take my lamb and say ’tis the gift of Ben Ezra, but I
must go back. It is my night on the watch, and a good shepherd is not
deaf to the cry of a sheep.”
He gave his tiny white burden into the keeping of one of his companions
and turning, hurried back to the cliffs, while the others went ahead to
Bethlehem. He knew it would take much longer to make the climb than it
had taken for the descent, and a fear seized him that perhaps jackals had
broken upon the flock and he might reach the fold too late to save the
sheep. But as he moved forward the mounting of the first cliff seemed no
task at all. Hands invisible seemed to lift him up the mountain way, and
he reached the sheepfold easily and quickly.
A great relief came. The flocks lay silent, stirring only when a lamb or
ewe moved a white leg and turned as it slept, but there was no sign or
sound of danger, not even the howl of a jackal away on the mountain side
or the moving shadow of a panther creeping stealthily upon the fold. Then
he knew that in truth God was watching over the sheep, and that the lamb
had probably cried out in wonder, even as he and his brethren might have
done.
Secure in the thought that the flock was safe, he started down the
mountain toward Bethlehem, musing upon the strange things that had come
to pass that night. His comrades were far ahead, and he knew he could
not overtake them. Perhaps already they had reached the town and found
the place of the Child, while he yet had a long way to go. But his feet
sped over the spaces and he swung lightly along, the shaggy skin of his
shepherd’s cloak flapping as he went. He was not sorry he had gone back,
even though it meant he must journey alone, for there was a peace in his
heart that could not have been there had he gone ahead hearing the cry of
a lamb.
At last he reached Bethlehem and asked one of the soldiers who guarded
the gate, “Where is it that the Christ is born?”
“The Christ?” the man repeated like one dazed. “He is not in Bethlehem.
Better get you back to the hills, which is the place of shepherds.”
Ben Ezra stood firm.
“He must be here,” he insisted, “for so sang the angels at Bêt Sahûr,
saying, ‘In the city of David,’ which is Bethlehem.”
Whereupon some of the guardsmen smiled and pointed to their heads, and
some laughed jeeringly.
There was one, however, a tall, gentle-faced archer, who smiled and spoke
kindly, “They say a man child has come to the stable beyond the khan,
where Joseph ben David the Nazarene and his wife have taken shelter. You
might try there.”
The shepherd nodded and thanked him, his dark eyes moistly tender and in
his face a light that silenced the mockers.
“Thither will I go,” he exclaimed, and hurried on his way, bowing his
head reverently as he came in sight of the place.
Now it happened when Ben Ezra reached the stable where Joseph ben David
was abiding because of the multitude in the khan, that he found the Child
lying in a manger, and the other shepherds who had gone before knelt
beside Him, looking into His gentle eyes and marveling. Around them on
the ground, softly bleating as if they too understood the marvel and
rejoiced in it, were the lambs the men had brought as offerings to the
Babe; and some of the townsfolk too were there, murmuring in awed tones
and looking on the scene in wide-eyed wonder. No one noticed the herder
who entered late, or saw him fall on his knees beside the manger. But
as his sturdy head drooped low, the Child lifted His tiny hand as if
in blessing and smiled down on Ben Ezra’s upturned face; and then the
keepers of the sheep knew that thus God had chosen to reward him who had
not been deaf to the cry of a lamb.
For many a year after that time, the Syrian herders say, Ben Ezra tended
his sheep on the hills. Through summer and winter he abode in the pasture
place, his only respite from toil being the rare visits he made to the
village where his wife and wee ones dwelt; but he never was weary, and
his flocks never went astray. To his children and his children’s children
he told the story of how he went back to the hills that night and how he
was rewarded, bidding them to be ever mindful of the fact that he who
is tender to the sheep serves well a higher Master. And as years rolled
into decades and centuries passed away, all the herders of Judea came to
know the story and to shape their lives by it, so that to this day the
Syrian shepherds have remained men of tender heart and simple faith. And
when strangers visit the land and wonder at the gentleness of the keepers
of the flocks, some old grandfather or brown-eyed boy is ever ready to
explain what it is that has kept them sweet and serene, and tells the
story of Ben Ezra, the shepherd who on the wonderful night went back to
the hills, and so came late to Bethlehem.
THE PET RAVEN
A LEGEND OF THE RHINE
(_Geography—Ethics_)
One autumn morning a thousand years ago, a boy and a girl stood in a
forest path beside the Rhine. His great eyes, brown and full of feeling,
looked wistfully into the face of the golden-haired maiden, while his
clumsy hands stroked tenderly the glossy feathers of a young raven.
“Father says it is a poor gift to offer a princess,” he said as he held
the bird toward her, “but I have nothing else. Will you please take it?”
Blue-eyed Willeswind smiled. She was the petted child of a baron and
accustomed to receiving gifts, but something about this boy’s earnestness
touched her in an unusual way. He was only a forester’s son, with but
little to break the monotony of his life of toil, and it seemed wonderful
that he should be willing to part with his only treasure.
“I cannot take your only pet, Rupert,” she said kindly, “but it is good
of you to offer it.”
Disappointment crept into the boy’s dark eyes.
“Oh, please,” he pleaded. “I want you to have it, because you bound up
my foot with healing herbs when I tore it on the brambles in the wood.
Please take it.”
The girl answered with a smile that made her face very lovely, “Of course
I shall take it, and I will keep it always because you gave it to me.”
Reaching over, she took the fluttering creature from the big dark hands,
and stroked it gently as it quivered at the strange touch. Then she made
her way back to the castle over a carpet of fallen leaves, while Rupert
the forester’s son hurried to the hunting lodge, happy in the thought
that he had made a gift to her who had been kind to him.
“She will keep it and feed it and be glad I did not forget,” he thought
as he fed the falcons that evening, while up in the castle court
Willeswind was busy with her pet.
“See how glossy its feathers are!” she said as her brother Othmar came
near. “Rupert gave it to me, and I promised to keep it always.”
The young squire laughed. “A raven is sure to be a bother,” he said.
“Better let it fly into the woods.”
Willeswind shook her golden head. “No, no,” she exclaimed, “I like it.
Your horses and hounds and falcons are far more bother than one raven,
yet you would not think of being without them.”
Othmar mounted his horse and rode out to his archery practice, thinking
how soon his sister would tire of the bird. But she did not tire of it.
It was different from any pet she had ever owned, and she cared for it
and trained it.
Seven years passed, and the brother had grown from a squire to a knight,
and upon the death of his father the baron, became lord of the castle.
Willeswind too had changed from the slender maid who stood under the
November trees with Rupert the forester’s son. She was now the stateliest
of all the great ladies on the Rhine. But her hair was still the color
of sun-kissed straw, and her eyes the same sympathetic ones, as blue as
wood gentians. Rupert was tall and stalwart, one of the sturdiest vassals
of Castle Stolzenfels, and although Willeswind seldom saw him, she
remembered him kindly because he had given her the pet raven which she
still kept and loved. She spent many hours teaching it tricks, and the
bird was so clever that it learned rapidly. Sometimes it flew into the
forest and came back with flowers and leaves for its mistress. Sometimes
it winged its way across the river and brought sprigs of the sweet wild
berries growing there.
Everything was bright about the castle, for the young master and mistress
were kind to those who served them, and there were no happier vassals
along the Rhine than theirs.
One day in springtime, when the elder flowers were creamiest and swallows
were teaching their nestlings to fly, a stranger came riding along the
river. Past the postern gate his armored steed dashed, and straight he
sat in his saddle as he called to Lord Othmar.
“I bring a challenge from the great lord who is my master,” he spoke
defiantly as the young knight moved forth to meet him. With flashing eyes
he tossed his gauntlet to the ground.
A murmur went among the vassals who stood by. To throw down a gauntlet
was to invite war, and all waited for the master to act. But the silence
was only for a minute. Then came a shouting and clashing of arms, for
with defiance in his face Othmar picked up the glove and flung it back
at the rider. That meant war, which in those days was believed to be a
glorious thing.
The strange knight rode away along the Rhine shore as rapidly as he
had come, while in the great courtyard of Castle Stolzenfels began the
marshaling of vassals and preparation for fighting. The women burnished
arms and gave all the aid they could, while the Lady Willeswind moved
here and there, making suggestions where they were needed. All night long
the sound of clanging armor was heard, and the next morning, when the
men of Castle Stolzenfels went out of the castle gate to meet the enemy,
Rupert the forester’s son marched at the head of the vassals.
Willeswind stood at the tower window and watched them go along the
winding river road, thinking sadly of the days and nights of danger
into which they went. Perhaps they would not return. Perhaps, too, some
robber band might pillage the castle while they were away, for all the
able-bodied men had gone to battle, and in those days many brigand hordes
ravaged the Rhine valley, which the handful of old men at Stolzenfels
would not be able to hold back. But she was brave, and although danger
threatened, she faced it as a baron’s daughter should.
Autumn came, with swallows and martins flying southward, and still the
battling raged away in the northland, sometimes with victory for Othmar
and his men, sometimes with defeat, but always with dread for the anxious
hearts of those who waited at home.
One night the wind raged like a mad thing, whipping the Rhine into foam.
As the castle mistress sat in the great hall among the women, a servant
entered, saying that a pilgrim stood at the outer gate, begging shelter
from the night and storm.
“He is white and bent,” the man explained. “Shall I let him come inside?”
Willeswind’s heart was big and tender. “Yes, let him come,” she said.
A moment later he followed the servant through the hall to the sleeping
quarters, a hobbling figure leaning heavily on a staff. Willeswind pitied
him as he went by, but thought his face seemed hard and cruel.
A few days later she sat alone with her maid, in that same great hall,
looking happier than she had looked for many weeks. “A courier came by
with word from Othmar,” she said. “He sends greetings, says the worst
of the fighting is over, and soon they will be home. I feel quite safe
again.”
Suddenly the door was violently thrust open. The maid screamed and
Willeswind turned pale, for a man in heavy armor strode into the room.
She knew he was one of the dreaded robber barons who terrorized the Rhine
valley, and knew too, as she looked into his savage face, that it was the
same man who, in the guise of a pilgrim, had sought shelter there a few
nights before.
“I have come to take you with me,” he said in a voice of thunder, “for I
mean you to be my wife.”
Willeswind shuddered. She knew how wicked and cruel he was, and that it
was her great wealth he craved, for Stolzenfels was one of the richest
estates on the river. “That can never be, sir,” she answered haughtily.
“So go back whence you came.”
He looked at her with an evil smile. “You give me a blithe refusal now,”
he exclaimed, “but in three days I will come again and it will be sad for
you if I get not a different answer.”
The robber chief strode out, and Willeswind and the trembling maid looked
at each other in terror.
“My lady,” the woman spoke, as soon as the outer gate clanged and they
knew the man was beyond hearing, “you must get away from here.”
“Yes,” answered the mistress, “I must leave Stolzenfels and seek refuge
at some other castle.”
So that same afternoon a little cavalcade wended its way through the
woods, over the carpet of leaves that late autumn had whipped from the
trees. It was Willeswind and her attendants, bound for the home of
another baron, where she would be protected until the return of Othmar
and his men. Beside her rode Hulda the maid, and on her shoulder sat the
pet raven.
But they did not go far. Suddenly from behind some thickly growing brush
a band of horsemen appeared. One rider, taller and heavier than the
others, called out orders to his men.
“To my castle!” he shouted.
Willeswind knew well they were the tones of the robber baron, and that
she was now a prisoner in his power.
Sad indeed was her heart as the men turned her horse’s head away from her
road to safety, and tears came into her blue eyes as she caught a glimpse
of the Stolzenfels towers.
“Oh, my home,” she murmured, “when shall I see you again?”
On they went through the forest, along that part of the river whose gray
cliffs she had known since childhood, then into unfamiliar country as
they neared the castle of the robber chief.
“If only they will let us stay together,” she murmured to Hulda as they
drew rein at the gate.
They rode in through the courtyard, and then, dismounting, the baron led
the two women up a winding stairway to the tower.
“Here you may stay,” he said savagely, “and decide what to do.”
Then, striding out, he bolted the heavy door.
They looked around. The windows were covered with an iron grating, and
there was no possible way of escape.
“We cannot get away,” said Hulda, “so let us make the best of it and find
something to eat, for I am hungry.”
But there was no food about the place, and they realized then that he
meant to starve Willeswind into obeying him.
But suddenly a bright thought came to her, and she smiled.
“He cannot do it, though, for I have my raven.” And stroking its glossy
wings she said, “Berries, pet, berries.”