The Babe In The Manger

Over an old city of Europe—never mind which—the Christmas-eve stars were twinkling faintly as the north wind drove the gathering clouds across the sky. Soon the snow began to fall, drifting whitely over the steep brown roofs of the ancient houses and covering the cobble-stones of the winding streets with a soft fleece. In the midst of the city rose a great cathedral, where the shining flakes touched lightly the stone fruits and flowers wreathing the beautiful portal, and tufted the wings of the marble angels carved above it till they seemed all plumed and feathery for flight.

Within the gray walls, here and there before some shrine, a few worshippers knelt; or a tall candle shone with a twinkling flame, as if the stars, blotted out of the sky, were coming down to shine on earth. But though these little, golden flames lighted a small space about them, the echoing aisles and high vaulted roof were still dim and shadowy, for it was not yet time for the midnight mass when hundreds more of the tall white candles would blaze out in honor of the Christ-child's birthday.

Indeed, everything was ready and waiting for the holy hour. Green Christmas garlands wound the fluted pillars and decked the walls between the lovely stained windows, and twined about the altar where a wonderful little scene,—or "creche," as it was called,—had been made in memory of the place in Bethlehem where the little Jesus was born. There at the back were the stalls where one might see the heads of the ox and the ass, carved from wood and painted to resemble life; while directly in front was the manger lined, like a pretty nest, with soft hay and golden straw, and in it lay the image of the blessed Christ-child, wrapped in swaddling clothes of white linen and with a halo of pure gold about his soft curls. At the head of the manger was a waxen figure of Mother Mary in a robe of heavenly blue, her hands clasped and her sweet eyes gazing lovingly into the face of her little Son. Near her stood Saint Joseph, and in front of the manger knelt the shepherds who had come to worship the newborn Babe, their crooks in their hands and their shaggy brown cloaks looking very rough beside the splendid mantles of the three wise kings. These were kneeling also, the aged Gaspar, with his long silvery beard, Melchior, strong and thoughtful, and Balthazzar, young and handsome, all sparkling with jewels and cloth of gold. Their heads were bare, for their precious crowns lay before the manger of the little Jesus, to whom they offered also their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. Over all hung a golden star which would shine and sparkle when the many tall candles were lighted, and round about hovered waxen angels in robes of purest white.

Everything was very still and beautiful, ready for the coming of the holy midnight. The star waited to twinkle, the candles to flash into golden flame, the white-robed angels seemed impatient to break into joyous song, and the shepherds and kings to bow lower still before the little Jesus. And high up in the cathedral tower the chime of bells waited also to ring out their gold and silver notes.

While all these things were thus hushed expectantly, now and again some worshipper entered through the beautiful open portal; and presently, all alone, there slipped in a little girl. A ragged shawl partly covered her head and her thin little figure, and she clasped in her arms a bundle wrapped in a tattered quilt. If you had lifted the corner of this, you would have seen the wan face of a baby, its tiny cheeks pale and sunken and its little lips blue with cold; for both shawl and quilt were thickly powdered with snowflakes.

The little girl looked timidly about her, and then slowly drawing near the altar where stood the creche, sank down on the stone floor to rest.

Who was she, and where did she come from? Listen, and I will tell you. She was called Margot; I do not know her other name, but that does not matter. In the poorest part of the city was the little hovel that had been her home. Her father had been dead since early summer, and for more than a week now her mother had been lying ill with a burning fever, so that she did not know how cold was their one room. Margot had been forced to use almost the last bit of firewood to keep herself and little brother from freezing in the bitter cold. Nor did the poor mother know that only a crust of bread and a few drops of milk were left in the bare cupboard. Her eyes were very bright and her cheeks flushed, but that was because of the fever which made her talk at times so strangely that Margot was frightened; but at last, on Christmas eve, she had come to herself for a little while, though so pale and weak she could scarcely call the little girl to her bedside.

When the child came to her, she whispered faintly, stopping often to gather her fluttering breath, that she was going to their father, and that Margot must take little brother and seek out the God's House for children; for so was called the home where poor orphans were cared for in the old city. Then the mother's eyes closed and she lay so white and still that Margot knew it was useless to try to waken her; for thus her father had lain, and all her tears had not aroused him.

Nevertheless, bending over the still face on the pillow, poor little Margot began to cry bitterly. But she was a brave child and, sad and forlorn though she was, soon she tried to dry her tears and to obey her mother's last words. In truth, she knew she must find help somewhere, for there were only gray ashes on the hearth and no longer was there even a crust on the cupboard shelf. So wrapping little brother in the old quilt, she took him in her arms, and putting the ragged shawl around her she tried to cover them both in its scanty folds. Then for the last time kissing her mother's cold forehead she set out to find the children's God's House. Why did not their neighbors help? Well, that was because all those dwelling in that part of the city were almost as poor and miserable as the family of Margot, and child though she was, she shrank from asking aid from them.

So, shivering and sorrowful, she had stumbled out into the darkness while the black clouds were driving across the sky and the snow beginning to fall. On and on the little girl wandered, for soon she lost her way. Colder and wearier and weaker she grew with every step; and though poor little brother lay very quietly, his eyes closed in a kind of stupor from cold and hunger, his thin, tiny body seemed a leaden weight in her tired arms. At last, when almost ready to faint, she had come to the cathedral, and seeing the open door and the lights within, had slipped in, as I have told you; and there she was, sunk on the floor before the altar.

Presently, when she had rested a little, she lifted her eyes to the wonderful creche. Though only the few candles lighted it, the more she stared at it the more wonderful it seemed to her. She had never before been in the cathedral in the evening; and while at the few Christmas times she could remember, once or twice she had seen the creche by day, never had she ventured so close to it. Perhaps it was the dim light that had made her dare to do so now. As she looked long and intently at the worshipping figures clustering around the little Jesus, slowly Margot's dark eyes grew deeper and dreamier, and her face filled with a strange light. More and more real it all became to her; Mother Mary, with her sweet loving face, seemed to breathe and smile, and so also did the white-winged angels; even the three kings, in their splendid mantles and gold and jewels, did not over-awe her, but everyone seemed so beautiful and kind and gentle. Then her gaze rested on the manger in the midst of all. From her place on the floor she could not see the Christ-child as he lay within it, but only the rim of his golden halo that shone amid the soft hay that brimmed around him as he nestled there.

Just then little brother slipped from her knees to the stone floor. As she stooped and gathered him in her arms and his tiny cold hands lay against her own, a thought came to her, filling her eyes still deeper with dreams. "Oh," she said to herself, "if only I could tuck him in the manger of the little Jesus,—it is so soft and warm,—surely, surely the dear Christ-child would not be angry,—the manger has plenty of room, and little brother is so small!" The more she gazed at the overflowing hay, the more she wished that he might lie there, if only for a little while till he grew warm and she could rest; the stone floor was so cold, and her arms were so tired. Surely, she thought, Mother Mary would not forbid her, she looked so loving and compassionate; and the white-winged angels, had they not all come down from the sky? So perhaps they would pity little brother and would take him with them when they flew back to heaven where everything was bright and happy.

Now, at any other time, Margot would never have dared to think of anything so bold as laying poor ragged little brother near the blessed Christ-child. But everything seemed so strange and wonderful as she knelt there,—perhaps it was the holy night, perhaps it was the little Lord Jesus himself who whispered to her,—well, never mind what it was. But presently, scarcely knowing what she did, and moving as one in a dream, Margot rose to her feet, and lifting little brother in her arms, slipped softly up the steps of the altar, gliding past the kneeling kings and the shepherds, past Mother Mary and Saint Joseph, till she stood before the stalls where the ox and the ass seemed to watch her with wondering eyes. Then, stooping over the manger, swiftly she laid little brother, still wrapped in his tattered quilt, at the feet of the Christ-child shining in his snowy white linen and his golden halo. Pausing only to tuck some soft wisps of hay over the quilt, she moved quickly and silently back to her place on the floor; and there, the last bit of strength leaving her, she drew her shawl about her and sank into a heavy sleep, such as comes to those who are too weak and weary to bear more.

It seemed strange that no one had seen what Margot had done; but, as you know, the light was still dim and the worshippers at the different shrines were all kneeling with heads bowed in prayer. So they did not guess that little brother, who had never known a cradle of his own, was tucked there in the warm hay of the holy manger; while overhead still the golden star waited to twinkle, and round about, the candles to flame into radiant light, the angels to sing their glad songs, and the wise kings and the shepherds to bow lower still before the little Jesus. And still, up in the gray old tower, the bells were fairly quivering with the gold and silver notes they would by and by chime forth. Nor had they long now to wait, for the midnight was drawing near.

Soon came a troop of altar boys in white tunics and collars of lace and crimson velvet, and, stepping quickly from candle to candle, tipped them with shining flame till the shadowy cathedral blazed into golden light and the star over the manger glittered with a dazzling brightness. By this time the aisles were filled with a throng of people, who crossed themselves reverently, while on the altar the ox and the ass, the shepherds, the wise kings and the angels seemed listening breathlessly as suddenly the bells pealed forth their joyous message that the Christmas morning had begun. And then, while strains of sweet music came thrilling through the air, with a sound of solemn chanting the midnight service began.

Very stately, and almost as splendid as the three wise kings, looked the white-haired bishop, who led the chant, as he stood clad in his beautiful Christmas vestments richly embroidered with jewels and golden thread; and the two young priests beside him, though their robes were not so wonderful as his own, were none the less shining with white and gold in honor of the blessed birthday. Round them all rose clouds of fragrant incense as sparkling censers were swung to and fro;—and still no one knew of little brother lying in the holy manger, nor noticed Margot, whom the music had roused from her sleep and who knelt now in the shadow of the altar steps, gazing with fascinated eyes at the creche.

As she watched the candles and the star, shining and twinkling, and listened to the glorious music, her pale, pinched little face grew lovely with happiness; so sure she was that her dream was true, that all was real; that it was indeed a bit of heaven itself up there on the altar, and that the little Jesus, Mother Mary, and the hovering angels would somehow take away all her troubles. As for little brother lying there at the feet of the Christ-child, at first he had been too cold and wretched to stir. But, by and by, the soft hay warmed his numb little body, and then, when the lights blazed out, slowly he opened his eyes, and oh! if you could have seen the wonder in them! He stared at the golden candle flames and the twinkling star in amazed delight, stared and stared, as if he would never leave off looking. Then at last his gaze fell on Mother Mary bending over the manger with her sweet face and her loving smile, and little brother, struggling feebly, freed his tiny arms from the covering quilt and reached them toward her with a little cry of gladness. But no one heard it, for at that moment a wave of music filled the air, quite drowning his baby voice.

So the service went on, till presently the last song was finished, and softly and slowly the joyous music trembled into silence. But the glad notes had scarcely died away and the worshippers had not yet risen to their feet, when suddenly little brother, who had reached his tiny hands in vain to Mother Mary, gave a shrill wail of despair. At first those farthest back in the cathedral paid no heed, thinking only that some mother, who had no one with whom to leave it, had brought her little one with her to the midnight mass. But those nearer the altar heard with surprise, for the cry sounded—but no, they thought, it could not possibly come from the manger!

But hark! Again it rose, the shrill cry of a baby, and there could no longer be any doubt that it was indeed the holy manger from which it came.

At once a great thrill of wonder swept through the cathedral. Some of the kneeling throng bowed their heads still lower in prayer, while others sprang to their feet crying out, "A miracle! A miracle! The holy Babe lives again on earth!" For they could think of nothing but that the image of the Christ-child, with his pretty curls and his golden halo, had come to life as it lay there in the hay.

But their cries were quickly hushed when they saw the look of horror and amazement on the face of one of the priests, who had hurried to the manger and was now bending over it. He was young and full of zeal for his faith. No doubt he became gentler as he grew older and saw more of the suffering of the world, but just then it seemed to him a dreadful and deadly sin that anyone should have dared to lay so ragged and miserable a waif as little brother in the manger of the blessed Jesus!

At first he could not speak for horror; then slowly lifting from the nest of hay the forlorn little bundle, as if the poor wailing baby were an unholy thing, he held it at arm's length, taking care that it's rags did not touch his own shining garments. And then, looking accusingly around, he asked, in a loud, harsh voice, "Who has dared to do this impious thing?"

At his look and his words the happy dream that had laid its spell upon little Margot was broken and fled away; and starting with fright, she could only gasp for breath. She felt now that she had been guilty of a dreadful sin, and she did not know what punishment she would receive. She was afraid; but then there was little brother who was not to blame and who might be punished instead, if they did not know; so, for his sake, she resolved to speak, for I have told you she was a brave child. Gathering together all her courage, "O reverend father," she said faintly, "It is only little brother. I laid him in the manger because he was so cold. It was just for a little while!" she added pleadingly.

On hearing this, the priest looked sternly at her. "Wicked girl," he said, "have you no parents to teach you reverence for sacred things?"

Poor Margot shook her head, and then bursting into terrified sobbing, she reached out her arms, crying piteously, "O sir, give him to me, and I will go and find the children's God's House! I had lost the way."

The priest was about to hand little brother to her, perhaps glad thus to be rid of him, when suddenly the white-haired bishop, who had been listening to every word, stepped between.

Looking down at Margot with pitying eyes, "There, little one," he said gently, "dry your tears, and do not go away." Then, turning to the young priest, he held up a warning finger. "Have a care, my son! Have you forgotten the words of our Master concerning such as these?" And he looked meaningly at the two forlorn waifs. "Give the child to me!" he commanded, holding out his hands.

Bewildered and shame-faced, the young priest obeyed; and had poor little brother been in very truth the living Christ-child himself, the good bishop could not have received him more tenderly or more reverently. Closely he pressed him to his breast, quite heedless that the tattered quilt lay against his beautiful white robe with its sparking jewels and embroidery of golden thread. And as he felt the gentle arms about him, little brother, his eyes still full of tears, stopped crying and smiled up into the eyes of the bishop, which— would you believe it?—were filled with shining tears also.

And then the good bishop stood up very straight and tall beside the manger, and oh, it was wonderful to see him, as, still clasping little brother close to his heart, he lifted his right hand! When he did that, over the throng of people, who had been watching and listening in silent amazement, there fell such a hush that I think you could almost have heard the snowflakes falling softly without. And then he spoke. His voice was not loud, but as clear and sweet and trembling with golden and silvery notes as the Christmas bells up in the tower; and, like them, it seemed to fill every shadowy nook of the gray old cathedral. "My children," he said to the people, "when the dear Christ-child, whose image lies in this manger, grew to be a man and walked on earth, you know He loved nothing so much as to have the little ones clustering about His feet; and you remember how often and how tenderly He held them in His arms." And then very simply, neither adding nor taking away a single syllable, he repeated the beautiful words which our Lord Jesus spoke concerning little children. That was all.

When he ended, there was a moment's pause, but only a moment, so the people might be quite sure he had finished; and then more than one, moved with compassion for the poor waifs, began to press forward. But hurrying swiftly ahead of all came a beautiful woman. Flinging back her furred mantle, she knelt before the altar and lifting up her arms imploringly to the bishop, "Reverend father," she said, "give me the little ones, and they shall be to me as my own children!" And a kindly faced man, who had followed her, knelt beside her, saying, "My lord bishop, as my wife says, even so they shall be to me."

The good bishop looked into the woman's face, as sweet and tender as the face of Mother Mary bending over the manger. "Daughter," he said, smiling gently, "the good God has chosen, and it is not for me to deny His choice." Then solemnly blessing them all, he laid little brother against the wife's breast, while the husband lifted in his strong arms little Margot, into whose eyes the dream of heaven had returned, brighter and more lovely than before. The people stood back for them, and thus they moved down the long aisle; and as they passed through the beautiful portal, the marble angels overhead seemed to flutter their white-plumed wings and watch them happily as they went out into the Christmas morning.