Christmas in Legend and Story | Page 8

Elva S. Smith
the ox and the ass within, would worship the Child. Madelon turned toward the darkness weeping. Then, lifting her face to heaven, she prayed that God would bless Mother and Baby. Melampo moved closer to her, dumbly offering his companionship, and, raising his head, seemed to join in her petition. Once more she looked at the worshipping circle.
"Alas," she grieved, "no gift have I for the infant Saviour. Would that I had but a flower to place in His hand."
Suddenly Melampo stirred by her side, and as she turned again from the manger she saw before her an angel, the light from whose face illumined the darkness, and whose look of tenderness rested on her tear-stained eyes.
"Why grievest thou, maiden?" asked the angel.
"That I come empty-handed to the cradle of the Saviour, that I bring no gift to greet Him," she murmured.
"The gift of thine heart, that is the best of all," answered the angel. "But that thou mayst carry something to the manger, see, I will strike with my staff upon the ground."
Wonderingly Madelon waited. From the dry earth wherever the angel's staff had touched sprang fair, white roses. Timidly she stretched out her hand toward the nearest ones. In the light of the angel's smile she gathered them, until her arms were filled with flowers. Again she turned toward the manger, and quietly slipped to the circle of kneeling shepherds.
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
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
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