CHRIST IS BORN.
"Really I take it unkindly of our pastor that he is continually speaking ill of us thorns, in the church yonder," said the thorn-bush, standing by a crumbling stable wall among the castle-ruins near the village church. "It is very unfair in him. How can he know, for instance, how the subject may affect me? On the bloody field of Golgotha, nearly two thousand years ago, there stood my ancestor, a buckthorn, of whose branches they wove our Saviour's crown. But the pastor yonder little thinks that I come of that same buckthorn; [Footnote 149] or that all its lineal descendants bear red blossoms and weep tears of blood on Christmas night; or that we thorns are ever renewed like Christ's teachings, being woven in with them?"
[Footnote 149: Kreuzdorn—Cross-thorn, literally.]
So spake the thorn-bush; and the wind blew through its branches, and shook them until the snow dropped off.
"Positively, this connection ought to be known!" sighed the thorn-bush.
But it was just then Christmas eve, and midnight was drawing near. Therefore did the thorn-bush make these pious reflections, which should have been cherished on other days too, if the lineage were really so wonderful as it fancied. Meantime the church-bells were ringing for the midnight mass, and the good priest passed by, going to the service of God.
"See, now, how indifferently he goes past me," said the thorn-bush. "And no wonder, since he knows nothing of my connections! And all the rest brush by me into the church; and if the Lord God could not see the things that are hidden, yet would he know his faithful by the footprints that lead from the houses to the church. But he knows them all, for he guides their steps. I know, though, two in the village who have not been to church to-day nor yet this whole year, for they are right godless men: the gloomy lord of our castle, and Wild Stephen, whom he turned out of his cottage yesterday because the rent was not paid. Here lie the poor wife and her half-naked children now in this ruined stable before which I stand guard. Really I must take a peep and see how the poor woman and her sick child are getting on," said the thorn-bush, and stretched up its bought to look in at the broken window.
But it was dark within, and the night-wind moaned through the damp walls and the open window. "O God! the creature is so good and so wretched. Here in this stable are tears and chattering teeth on this day of Christmas gifts. Now, that is too grievous," sighed the thorn-bush.
And over the way the church-organ poured out its solemn tones. "Christ is born," sang the people from the choir and benches. "Christ is born," cried the watchman from the tower. And our thorn-bush was right. In that old, deserted stable a poor woman knelt and prayed. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, her hands were convulsively clasped, and her eyes rested fixedly on the straw in the old stone manger; for in that manger lay her youngest born, a half-year old child, sick, and trembling with ague and cold. The moon shone through the window-opening upon this group. Her rays fell sympathizingly on the sick child, but they could not warm him; nor could the mother's breast do it either, she was herself so icy cold. [{497}] And through the chinks of the rotting roof, gaps were covered with snow, fell by hundred thousands the little glittering snow-stars and played in the moon-beams, but they gave no light or warmth either.
"Saviour of the world, thou who wert born this night, who didst live and die for us all, who didst lie to-day in a manger, like this poor helpless creature, save, oh! save my sick child!" So prayed this poor woman, and the baby stretched out his little cold hands to his mother and wept. But her strengths was all gone. She let her weary head sink on the icy edge of the stone manger; her eyes closed, and a heavy sigh burst forth from her breast. Days and nights had she watched; days and nights of bitter misery had she endured; but now she broke down, and sleep took pity on her wretchedness.
"Poor wife, where is thy husband? Poor baby, where is thy father?" whispered the thorn-bush pityingly, looking in at the window.
Yes, where was the husband, where was the father? Wild Stephen, for so the villagers called him, had been turned out of his cottage with his wife and children the evening before, as we have already said. He sought a refuge among the neighbors, but they would have nothing to do with him, for they were afraid of godless Stephen, who never had done a good thing, so they said. And so he and his had come to this deserted stable. Then he had rushed away breathless, in spite of the entreaties of his wife, who dreaded some misfortune. Where, then, was Wild Stephen? The bells ring out, the organ sounded, the people sang pious songs in the church, and the good priest stood before the altar and chanted: "Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace to men of good-will."
Up in the old castle, in a comfortless room, a man of dark, forbidding aspect set near the long-extinguished fire. He was the lord of the castle, a hard-hearted man, feared by every one within the limits of his estate. The light before him on the table burnt low; his face looked stiff and motionless, his eyes were closed. It seemed like sleep, only he looked so very pale. Now, while in the out-buildings of the court-yard servants hurried to and fro, a man was stealing up the stairs and through the gloomy corridor. He softly opened the door of the great room, crept lightly in, and up to the arm-chair where the landlord slept. The stranger's eyes gleamed with passion, a sneering smile disfigured his weather-beaten face. He cast one look stealthily around the room. A knife glistened in one hand, the other grasped that of the sleeping landlord. The blade quivered—
"Christ is born," saying the people in the church below.
Wild Stephen shrank back, for the hand was icy cold. He had touched a corpse.
"Christ is born," cried the warder from the tower; for mass was over, and the people were hastening home.
Stephen's knife fell from his hand. He looked again at the dead man, and it seemed as if the cold eyes were opening to blast him. Covering his face with both hands, he fled from the room. No one had seen him glide into the house; no one saw him now pause before the old stable and looked in the window—no one but the thorn-bush. Ashy pale, Stephen gazed into the stable. There he saw his wife kneeling, motionless as the dead man in the castle yonder, but more lovely; and gentle and pure as innocence, the child in the manger. Then Stephen, rushed forward, not knowing whither, rushed through the open church-door, and sank senseless on the steps of the altar.
Now the pastor was just going home. He came to the thorn-bush and saw two little boys sitting beneath it in the snow. They were shivering, and hiding their little red hands in their rags.
"Take them with thee," said the thorn-bush to the pastor. "They are Wild Stephen's children; they dare not [{498}] go in-doors for fear their father may beat them because they have come home empty-handed. Take them with thee. I cannot warm them; I am so poor and naked."
We know not whether it was the pastor's heart or the thorn-bush that spoke; but he took the children home with him.
"So, now have I one care the less!" said the thorn-bush to itself. "Now they are beginning to light up the Christmas tree there—and there—and again over yonder. What a pity that I'm not stationed under the windows, for here in this dreary stable there will be nothing to see."
But the thorn-bush was wrong, for just then the interior of the stable grew bright with a piercing light. Still knelt the poor woman with closed eyes, but the sick child waked up and stretched out its little arms laughing; for the roof opened, and down fluttered, surrounded by a light cloud, two lovely angels, one of them bearing a little Christmas tree gleaming with countless lights, the other bringing costly gifts. And it grew warm in the stable, and the light threw such a gleam into the street that the thorn-bush wondered within itself.
"There is no hut so poor but Christ is there to-night," it said.
The angels fluttered down, and while one offered the Christmas tree, the other went to the sick child and laid his hand healingly upon its breast. Then they flew upward again and vanished; but the light remained in the stable. In the mean time Wild Stephen lay upon the cold altar-steps. At last his consciousness returned, and he raised his head from the stone. A wonderful vision had appeared to him in a dream, for he had seen two beautiful spirits who, blessing him, walked by his side: and now, on awaking, he saw them standing by him, and felt each angel lay a little warm hand in his and lead him from the church.
It seemed to Stephen as if he still dreamed; as if it were in sleep that the two little angels led him from the church to the stable where he knew his poor wife and sorrowing children were. Willingly he let himself be guided; but when they reached the wretched dwelling, and everything within looked so warm and bright and pleasant; when he saw the Christmas presents, he rubbed his eyes, and look down at the angels who had brought him there and were still standing by his side. Then Stephen recognized his two other boys, grandly and beautifully dressed as he had never seen them before.
Still it seemed like a vision. He raised both children in his arms; he held them close and kissed them—no, it could not be a dream.
"Christ is born," cried the watchmen from the tower. "Ay, born is he, and within my own soul too!" exclaimed Stephen, and, still holding the two children, sprang to his wife. He drew her toward him and held her to his breast. "Jenny," he said, "wake up, Christ is indeed born!"
And she lifted her eyes and looked around in amazement, saying: "What has happened? Is it really thou, Stephen?—and all this light here! Is my dream true? I saw two angels bringing a Christmas tree and beautiful presents, and one of them went to the manger and laid his hand healingly upon my baby's breast. Yes, yes, it is true, for he is alive," she explained, taking the smiling child from the manger and clasping it to her bosom. "Get is true, Stephen," she said, and laid the baby in his arms. "Our Saviour is born, and he will not let my child die."
And while they were all looking at the Christmas presents the pastor stepped from behind the tree, for he it was who had sent the gifts through two good children of his parish; he it was who had seen Wild Stephen sink down upon the altar-steps; he it was who had dressed the little boys so beautifully, and led them to their father in the church.
"Christ is born," said the pastor, "and it is his will that even the poorest dwelling should not be without him to-day; but where he lodges for the first time, Stephen, is in your heart; cherish him tenderly, for you know that there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety-nine just persons."
And all this time the thorn-bush was looking in at the window, its branches rustled with joy, and, like the cross-thorn on Christmas night, its boughs put forth violet-red eyes, and wept tears of blood upon the snow.
The next morning Stephen went to church with his wife and children. In the meantime something must have passed between them and the pastor, producing a change in material as well as spiritual matters; for they were seen clad in modest and suitable attire, going to the Lord's table with deepest devotion. The villagers passed by the thorn-bush in their holiday dress, and when they saw the snow underneath it bedewed as if with ruddy pearls, they cried: "See, now, the buckthorn has borne red blossoms during the night!"
"Yes," answered the cross-thorn, "for Christ is born indeed. These thorns know it, for we crowned him in death; and you men should know it also, for he was crucified for you."