We looked back at the little spot on the hill that was Bethlehem, where that night was born the baby who turned the world upside down—the baby who inspired the world’s best art, its finest literature, its greatest music,—there in that little town with its stone houses, its irregular streets, its simple people struggling with poverty! There was Bethlehem, the city of David, the shepherd boy of the hills, strongest and best of all the sons of Jesse, born to be a king and through his long line of descendants at last to give to the world the King of kings.
When we stopped at the desk for our keys and to ask for a fire in the little square stove in our room the clerk, in hesitating, careful English, said, “You have found it cold out on the hills. You have seen Bethlehem. It is a small place, Bethlehem. There is little there that a man may do. Many travelers are disappointed by Bethlehem.”
“That depends upon how much one sees when he looks at Bethlehem,” I thought. For me it held no disappointment.
That night in the great hall, around the stove that could not warm it, men talked of the future of Palestine. A good friend, who understood many languages and spoke Arabic fluently, interpreted much of the talk for us. The present population of Palestine, Jews, Christians and Mohammedans, is not even a million! Jews and Christians together number perhaps less than one-third. The Mohammedans make up most of the population and are found in every city and village. Arabic is the language of the people, but in Jerusalem and in Jaffa most European languages are freely spoken. The people who live in the towns are called Madaniyeh, the villagers are the Fellaheen, and those who live in tents, whom we called Bedouin, are Arabs. Despite its rocky, unpromising hillsides and its deserts, Palestine is an agricultural country and that must be its future, the men told each other. Wheat and barley, maize and lentils, figs, watermelons, grapes, pomegranates, mulberries, apricots, tomatoes, oranges, and olives could be easily raised. We heard glowing descriptions of the Jaffa oranges and some sent later to our room fulfilled all that had been said of them. There was much talk of the day when the cultivation of raisins and the manufacture of olive oil would make men rich; talk of the bananas that could be made to grow in large quantities at Jericho and of the date palms that would make Gaza prosper once more. There must be new plows, new machinery of many sorts. They talked of the Zionist movement, but the talk was cut short by an Arab who would not hear of it and, as some faces darkened and voices grew louder, our friend rose and took us to our room. Sometimes in these days a friendly talk about Palestine’s future ends in hot words and even blows. The Arab does not want Palestine to be passed over into the hands of the Jews. Many of the Jerusalem Jews express no pleasure whatever over an influx of their brothers from many lands. The problems of Palestine today are very grave and only great wisdom, unselfishness and patience will solve them.
After trying in vain to warm ourselves over our small wood stove we put on our heavy coats and stepped out upon our little balcony. There was no moon. Save for a light over the Jaffa gate and soft rays from the windows of our hotel, Jerusalem was dark. The narrow little street at our left was black. The stars were clear, sparkling, very near. One star seemed larger and brighter than all the rest. As if unconscious of my presence my friend sang softly:
“O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth,