Whether to God, the king, or the child, all our gifts should first be brought to the manger, which is only another way of saying that without love they avail nothing.
I know a story about these magi, and I will relate it to the children of the North. It was told to me by Maryam, the ninth girl-child of Michaelovitch, a Russo-Canadian, in the Province of Saskatchewan. It is about three wise men and a foolish woman. The woman is called Baboushka and her heart has become as water. Once, when she was working in her home, the three wise men passed on their journey to find the Christ-child and they gave her greeting. "Come with us, grandmother," they said, "for we have seen His star in the East and we go to worship Him."
"Surely I will come," said the old woman, "but the oven is heated for my bread and I must even now bake it. After awhile, I will follow and find where this star leads."
But she never saw the Christ-child because, when her bread was baked, the star no longer shone in the sky. Ever since she has been searching, but has never found Him. She it is who fills the children's stockings on Christmas Eve, and decks the fir-tree on Christmas morn, because she hopes to find in some poor child she has fed or clothed the little Lord Jesus whom she neglected hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Long before dawn on Christmas Day the children in Russia are awakened by the cry, "Behold the Baboushka!" and they spring out of bed on the instant hoping to see her vanish out of the window, but no child has seen aught save only the gifts she has left behind.
Maryam thinks—indeed, she tells it to the four winds—that the Christ-child has left Russia and has come to Canada in a big ship with a shipmaster.
And so Maryam is full of employment, almost every day, knitting mittens and long white scarves for babies and poor children. You never can tell, He may be even here on the prairie, the Christ-child whom the unwise old Baboushka disesteemed hundreds and hundreds of years ago. You can never tell.
CHAPTER XXII
THE HERO PRIESTS OF THE NORTH
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear thro' life like a torch in flame,
And falling, fling to the host behind,
'Play up! Play up! and play the game!'—NEWBOLT.