And now the wonderful hour draws nigh. It is Christmas Eve. All nature is hushed. As the shepherds once sat around their fire upon the plains of Bethlehem, discussing, perchance, the strange portents attending the birth of the son of Zacharias, so to-night the peasants in their huts along the shores of the Baltic, or in the shadows of the Black Forest, sit before the Yule log, and talk of the birth of the Son of man. Suddenly the village bells toll for midnight. The sun appears upon the horizon and leaps three times for joy; the birds throughout the forest break forth into singing; every fir-tree blossoms into fairest flower and fruitage, and is clothed once more in soft leaves, in place of the sharp, spearpointed needles into which they were condemned to shrink when a fir-tree was used for the Saviour’s cross. All the good people of the village are praying; and hark! the cattle, upon their knees in the stable, are talking together in low tones. “A child is bo-or-rn!” lows the cow. “True-e-e,” returns the ass. “Where, where, where?” calls the shrill voice of the cock—and the lambs answer, “In Be-e-t-t-’lem!” The horses alone have nothing to say, and are upright on their feet; for when Christ was born, so the story goes, the horses who happened to be near the manger stamped and were rude, while the great, sweet-breathed oxen gazed upon the wee Baby with their mild eyes, and, with the asses and lambs, knelt in worship. For this hardness of heart horses are condemned to never have their fill of grass, and to this day they feed eagerly in the fields, but are never satisfied.
While these strange things are happening in the stables of the little German village, the gnomes are busy in the mountains, throwing out gold and precious treasures of the earth where men shall find them the coming year.
When Christmas morning dawns, which in the northern countries is not before nine or ten in the forenoon, the first loaves that come smoking from the housewife’s oven are given to the cattle. In Sweden it is the custom to tie a sheaf of grain to a pole and set it up where the birds may alight and take part in the joy and good cheer of the day. Before long the village beggars are knocking at the door, and the humblest peasant, remembering that it is the day on which God gave his only-begotten Son to the world, dispenses with a free hand his gifts to all that come.
Evergreen, and, in particular, the fir-tree, has been from the earliest times associated with Christmas, and countless tales and legends are perfumed with its spicy odors. Many are the German songs that are full of its praises.
“O northern fir, O northern fir,
In thee my heart delighteth,
How oft thy boughs at Christmastide