Christmas in Legend and Story. Elva Sophronia Smith

      Closer she crept to the Child, longing, yet fearing, to offer her gift.

      "How shall I know," she pondered, "whether He will receive this my gift as

       His own?"

      Berachah gazed in amazement at Madelon and the roses which she held. How came his child there, his child whom he had left safe on the hillside? And whence came such flowers! Truly this was a wonder night.

      Step by step she neared the manger, knelt, and placed a rose in the Baby's hand. As the shepherds watched in silence, Mary bent over her Child, and Madelon waited for a sign. "Will He accept them?" she questioned. "How, oh, how shall I know?" As she prayed in humble silence, the Baby's eyes opened slowly, and over His face spread a smile.

THE LITTLE GRAY LAMB

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      ARCHIBALD BERESFORD SULLIVAN

      Out on the endless purple hills, deep in the clasp of somber night, The shepherds guarded their weary ones—guarded their flocks of cloudy white, That like a snowdrift in silence lay, Save one little lamb with its fleece of gray.

      Out on the hillside all alone, gazing afar with

       sleepless eyes,

       The little gray lamb prayed soft and low, its

       weary face to the starry skies:

       "O moon of the heavens so fair, so bright,

       Give me—oh, give me—a fleece of white!"

      No answer came from the dome of blue, nor comfort lurked in the cypress-trees; But faint came a whisper borne along on the scented wings of the passing breeze: "Little gray lamb that prays this night, I cannot give thee a fleece of white."

      Then the little gray lamb of the sleepless eyes

       prayed to the clouds for a coat of snow,

       Asked of the roses, besought the woods; but

       each gave answer sad and low:

       "Little gray lamb that prays this night,

       We cannot give thee a fleece of white."

      Like a gem unlocked from a casket dark, like

       an ocean pearl from its bed of blue,

       Came, softly stealing the clouds between, a

       wonderful star which brighter grew

       Until it flamed like the sun by day

       Over the place where Jesus lay.

      Ere hushed were the angels' notes of praise

       the joyful shepherds had quickly sped

       Past rock and shadow, adown the hill, to kneel

       at the Saviour's lowly bed;

       While, like the spirits of phantom night,

       Followed their flocks—their flocks of white.

      And patiently, longingly, out of the night,

       apart from the others—far apart—

       Came limping and sorrowful, all alone, the

       little gray lamb of the weary heart,

       Murmuring, "I must bide far away:

       I am not worthy—my fleece is gray."

      And the Christ Child looked upon humbled

       pride, at kings bent low on the earthen floor,

       But gazed beyond at the saddened heart of the

       little gray lamb at the open door;

       And he called it up to his manger low and laid

       his hand on its wrinkled face,

       While the kings drew golden robes aside to

       give to the weary one a place.

       And the fleece of the little gray lamb was blest:

       For, lo! it was whiter than all the rest!

      * * * * *

      In many cathedrals grand and dim, whose windows

       glimmer with pane and lens,

       Mid the odor of incense raised in prayer, hallowed

       about with last amens,

       The infant Saviour is pictured fair, with

       kneeling Magi wise and old,

       But his baby-hand rests—not on the gifts, the

       myrrh, the frankincense, the gold—

       But on the head, with a heavenly light,

       Of the little gray lamb that was changed to white.

THE HOLY NIGHT

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      ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

      We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;

       The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,

       Softened their horned faces

       To almost human gazes

       Toward the newly Born:

       The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks

       Brought visionary looks,

       As yet in their astonied hearing rung

       The strange sweet angel-tongue:

       The magi of the East, in sandals worn,

       Knelt reverent, sweeping round,

       With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground,

       The incense, myrrh, and gold

       These baby hands were impotent to hold:

       So let all earthlies and celestials wait

       Upon thy royal state.

       Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

THE STAR BEARER

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      EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

      There were seven angels erst that spanned

       Heaven's roadway out through space,

       Lighting with stars, by God's command,

       The fringe of that high place

       Whence plumèd beings in their joy,

       The servitors His thoughts employ,

       Fly ceaselessly. No goodlier band

       Looked upward to His face.

      There, on bright hovering wings that tire

       Never, they rested mute,

       Nor of far journeys had desire,

       Nor of the deathless fruit;

       For in and through each angel soul

       All waves of life and knowledge roll,

       Even as to nadir streamed the fire

       Of their torches resolute.

      They lighted Michael's outpost through

       Where fly the armored brood,

       And the wintry Earth their omens knew

       Of Spring's beatitude;

       Rude folk,