OVER the hills of Palestine The silver stars began to shine; Night drew her shadows softly round The slumb'ring earth, without a sound.
Among the dewy fields and rocks, The shepherds kept their quiet flocks, And looked along the dark'ning land That waited the divine command.
When lo! through all the opening blue, Far up the deep, dark heavens withdrew; And angels in a radiant light Praised God through all the list'ning night.
Again the sky was deep and dark; Each star relumed his silver spark; The dreaming land in silence lay And waited for the dawning day.
But, in a stable low and rude, Where white-horned, mild-eyed oxen stood. The gates of heaven were still displayed For Christ was in the manger laid.
Tiny cone figures were frequently produced by mass industry at the end
of the 1940s, primarily by the Japanese or in Germany for the North
American market place. Catalogue companies like: J. C. Penny, Wards and Sears sold cone figures by the thousands through the mail, while five-and-dime stores like Woolworth's
and made small fortunes by supplying the same kinds of factory made,
inexpensive holiday ornaments directly from store displays and shelves.
My vintage inspired angels are made the old-fashioned way, by hand. Factory made ornaments became popular after the first and second World Wars. Prior to that time, most ornaments were either made at home or supplied by various cottage industries throughout Western Europe and The United States, wherever Christmas trees were most popular. I've posted some examples of these manufactured angles below.
To make cone shaped angels, your will need the following supplies: cotton batting balls (for heads), decorative papers (tiny Christmas designs), scrap cardboard, trim for bottom of skirts (lace and rick-rack), acrylic paints for heads and arms, thin wire for arms, tiny novelties for angels to hold (see pictures), white glue and hot glue.
Step-by-Step Instructions:
Roll heads from cotton batting and white glue.
Cut out skirts
from patterned Christmas papers.
Shape and paste the paper skirts
into cones.
Glue the head on top.
Stuff the cone shaped skirts with
acrylic batting.
Glue a cardboard disk to the bottom of the cones.
Glue the pom pom features to the top of the head(s), one or two.
Wrap the string around the pom poms and above the forehead areas to make the hair design.
Cut the wings from decorative papers and glue these on.
Wrap cotton batting around thin wire and let dry.
Cut small pieces of that wire for arms and attach these with hot glue.
Hot glue tiny gifts for angels to carry: holly and berries, bows for presents, snowflakes, bottle brush trees etc...
Smear on touches of white glue and sprinkle angle wings with glitter.
Left, roll heads from cotton batting and white glue. Center, cut out skirts from patterned Christmas papers. Right, shape and paste the paper skirts into cones, glue the head on top. I stuff the cone shaped skirts with acrylic batting and glue a cardboard disk to the bottom of the cones.
Left, tiny cone angels hold: holly, bow and snowflake. Center several have bottle brush trees. Right, one has wings cut from a doily... and many have transparent glitter stuck to their wings.
Left, my tiny vintage cone angel ornaments. I hang these on my feather tree every Christmas. Right, old catalogue page shown. Elf-like figures. Pine-cone dwarfs, Santas, angels, snowmen. Cotton felt. Stand or hang from tree. Set of 15. From Japan. Shipping weight 12 oz.
Close up of a tiny vintage cone angle from the 1960s. This tiny angel has a metallic paper skirt and embossed gold wings. She carries two candles in her small chenille stem armature. Her head is made from cotton batting. She has a beaded collar and hair made from tinsel.
Close up of a tiny pink vintage cone angel from the 1960s. Her dress is made from painted pink cardboard sprinkled with silver glitter. She has white chenille stem arms and holds a tiny sprig of green to represent a tree. Her wings are embossed and pink, her head is a cotton batting ball and her yellow hair is made from a silky strand of yarn.
Left, are miniature angels with tulle skirts playing harps. Right the very same hold lights, seen in catalogue.
This is Joseph, the fourth figure for your Christmas crib, or creche. He was a humble man, a carpenter, (actually a stone mason) so his clothing is plain.
Color the picture, paste it on cardboard and cut it out. He wears a dark mantle over a gray robe. But his sash is colorful, you could make it red or green. And the straw peeping out from under his robe is yellow.
The center of the base folds forward, the outer ends fold back to make it stand. Add this picture to the three figures you have already saved.
"Angels from the Realms of Glory" is a Christmas carol written by Scottish poet James Montgomery. It was first printed in the Sheffield Iris on Christmas Eve 1816, though it only began to be sung in churches after its 1825 reprinting in the Montgomery collection The Christian Psalmist and in the Religious Tract Society's The Christmas Box or New Year's Gift. Before 1928, the hymn was sung to a variety of tunes, including "Regent Square" by Henry Smart, "Lewes" by John Randall, and "Wildersmouth" or "Feniton Court" by Edward Hopkins. In the United States, "Regent Square" is the most common tune. In the United Kingdom, however, the hymn came to be sung to the French carol tune "Iris" (Les anges dans nos campagnes, the tune used for "Angels We Have Heard on High") after this setting was published in the Oxford Book of Carols. Sometimes the "Gloria in excelsis Deo" refrain is even sung in place of Montgomery's original lyric: "Come and worship Christ the new-born King". The name for the "Regent Square" tune is reportedly an association with the publisher of the first hymnal to contain it, James Hamilton, who was the minister of the Regent Square Church situated in London.
More Versions of "Angels from The Realms of Glory:
"Christians, awake, salute the happy morn" is an English Christmas hymn on a text by John Byrom. It is usually sung to the tune "Yorkshire" by John Wainright. The text of the hymn is from a poem in iambic pentameter by John Byrom. The original manuscript, in Chetham's Library, Manchester, bears the title "Christmas Day. For Dolly", referring to the author's daughter, although there is no evidence to support the oft repeated story that it was written for her specifically. The original poem was in three paragraphs of 16 lines each (for a total of 48). The exact date of this document is uncertain, although it is usually dated between 1745 and 1750. This was later published in the author's posthumous Poems, &c. (1773) and later again in his Works (1814, vol. 2). The omission of some of the lines and re-arrangement of the remainder into singable verses appeared in combination with Wainwright's music in a 1766 publication, although the first printing for liturgical usage was Thomas Cotterill's Selection of Psalms and Hymns (1819, 8th ed.), retaken shortly thereafter in James Montgomery's Christian Psalmist (1825). The modern text, which runs to six verses of six lines, is frequently shortened, omitting one or two stanzas. The fifth verse ("Oh, may we keep and ponder in our mind") is sometimes replaced with an alternative one beginning "Like Mary let us ponder in our mind". A version by Davies Gilbert in 8 verses, printed in Some Ancient Christmas Carols (1823), stays more faithful to the original poem. The text retells the Christmas story as contained in Luke 2, referring to the birth of Jesus and quoting the angel's proclamation in verses 2 and 3. Verse 4 paraphrases the shepherds adoring the newborn Jesus.
Illustrated sheet music of "Christians Awake" carol.
Christians Awake!
Christians, awake, salute the happy morn, whereon the Savior of the world was born; rise to adore the mystery of love, which hosts of angels chanted from above: with them the joyful tidings first begun of God incarnate and the Virgin's Son.
Then to the watchful shepherds it was told, who heard the angelic herald's voice, 'Behold, I bring good tidings of a Savior's birth to you and all the nations upon earth: this day hath God fulfilled his promised word, this day is born a Savior, Christ the Lord.'
He spake; and straightway the celestial choir in hymns of joy, unknown before, conspire; the praises of redeeming love they sang, and heaven's whole orb with alleluias rang: God's highest glory was their anthem still, peace upon earth, and unto men good will.
To Bethl'em straight the enlightened shepherds ran, to see the wonder God had wrought for man, and found, with Joseph and the blessèd Maid, her Son, the Savior, in a manger laid: then to their flocks, still praising God, return, and their glad hearts with holy rapture burn.
O may we keep and ponder in our mind God's wondrous love in saving lost mankind; trace we the babe, who hath retrieved our loss, from his poor manger to his bitter cross; tread in his steps, assisted by his grace, till man's first heavenly state again takes place.
Then may we hope, the angelic hosts among, to sing, redeemed, a glad triumphal song: he that was born upon this joyful day around us all his glory shall display; saved by his love, incessant we shall sing eternal praise to heaven's almighty King.
St. Paul's Cathedral Choir sing "Christians Awake"
The association with the tune "Yorkshire" (sometimes also "Stockport") is an early one: some accounts describe it being sung under the direction of its composer by a group of local men and boys for Christmas 1750, some time after the writing of the poem; although it is not possible to tell how the poem was originally divided along to the tune. The first edition that has it in combination with Byrom's text is in Wainwright's only known musical publication, undated but assumed from newspaper announcements to have been published in 1766. The melody was first published in the Collection of Tunes (1761) by Caleb Ashworth from Lancashire, who presumably "heard and liked" the tune, but as a setting for the paraphrase of Psalm 50 by Isaac Watts, beginning "The God of Glory sends his Summons forth, / Calls the South Nations, and awakes the North". The melody was again reprinted by another Lancashire churchman, Ralph Harrison, in his Sacred Harmony (1784): the popularity of this publication made the tune widely known, including across the Atlantic, although it is unlikely it was much sung by American congregations at the time. In England Byrom’s hymn was sung frequently as an outdoors carol, but it did not make its way into liturgical use until the 1819 publication by Cotterill. From thence it had passed by the beginning of the 20th century into most hymnals in common use, both in England and America, including Hymns Ancient and Modern, the English Hymnal, and many others thereafter.
A distressed, galvanized steel cake stand is used to display a pewter nativity set.
My eldest daughter decorated with pewter, galvanized steel pieces and plaid textiles this year. Here is how she used a simple cake stand to display a Nativity scene. She used natural looking shredded grass paper to replace the "straw" in the manger vignette.
Joseph, Mary, Baby Jesus, a shepherd, sheep, an ox and two angels are all present at the Nativity.
She split up the wisemen in the scene, because they came to visit Jesus while He lived and hid in Egypt with his parents. (He was about two.) Below you can see them walking through a galvanized steel village on the middle shelf of our Welsh cupboard. The cake stand and Nativity where positioned lower on the counter of the wooden display cabinet.
Left, you can see that she used silver leaves to represent trees in the background. Right, the manger scene on top of the cake stand.
"The old north breeze thro' the skeleton trees, is chanting the year out drearily; but loud let it blow, for at home we know that the dry logs crackle cheerily." Albert Smith
The Yule Log was a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony on Christmas Eve, laid in the fire-place, and lighted with the brand of last year's log. While it lasted there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but in the primitive cottage the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule Log was to burn all night; if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck.
bit to fit the press that is the same size of the candles
greenery collected together to trim the log: pine cones, red berries, holly etc...
optional feet cut from branches to stabilize the log
thin wire for attaching greenery
Step-by-Step Process:
Select a clean, dry log of medium size for decorating the center of your Christmas table.
This log may have a flatish bottom or your may need to cut pegs from scrap branches to keep the log from rolling while on display. (see photos)
Choose a drill bit the same diameter as the candles you wish to use inside of the yule log and drill several inches into the log. If some of these are deeper than others and the candles don't fit exactly, just stuff cotton down inside of the holes to even the candle heights in the beginning.
Wire in Yule Log greenery in an attractive fashion.
You may also wish to display a Yule Log inside of your fire surround or fireplace instead of burning logs.This always adds a romantic touch during the holidays and is far less messy!
Yule Log Plant & Candle Meanings:
English Ivy - symbolizes eternal life
Holly/Holiday Berries and Mistletoe - good luck, protection
Pine Cones - symbolize resurrection
Juniper Sprigs - symbolize healing
Candles - white symbolize "light", red symbolize determination, green prosperity
Close up of plants used to trim our Yule log.
"These are glowing today for very joy, each in the measure of its greatness, like the wax candles which burn big and bright if they are big, little and bright if they are little, but are all flaming heavenward in rapture. Christmas is for everybody. To each of us the Child was born, and the world that was redeemed is our world. The merry greetings of Christmas morning are but symbols of that redemption. The children's happiness, the neighborly good-will, the generous deed are at once memorials of that pure dawn of long ago, and prophecies of a day more perfect still. Indeed, when we truly keep Christmas in the heart, the heavens are so near - the earth that the angelic voices are like the voices of those we love, and the faces of those we love shine like the faces of the angels. We forget the poor gift, the half-filled stocking, the anxiety. We think only of the perfection that is so close, after all, to our imperfection. To live but one day in good-will to all men is to anticipate and hasten that day when all men shall live in good-will. It is thus that the candles now lighted in the heart shall also be." Perry
This old-fashioned child-ornament reindeer craft is simple for little ones to assemble and paint if parents or older siblings cut the Popsicle sticks in advance.
Supply List:
acrylic brown paint ( one dark brown and one lighter brown)
one red pom-pom
two googly eyes
brown felt
a bit of cotton fluff
white school glue
twine for the hanger
5 narrow Popsicle sticks
Step-by-Step Instructions:
Use three of the Popsicle sticks to construct the Rudolf's head. Make sure that some of the crossing at the top of it's head sticks out far enough to shape the antlers for this wooden reindeer. Apply the glue at each corner and let dry. If you are working with a very young child to make this craft, you might want to do this step ahead of time.
Cut with scissors in advance, three segments of the wooden craft sticks that will fill in the face of this reindeer. Have the child glue these down. Let dry. (Read the story of "Rudolf, The Red Nosed Reindeer")
Now paint the antlers a dark brown and the face a lighter brown.
Glue on the felt ears and fluff.
Glue on the google eyes.
Glue on the nose.
Let the entire project dry over night.
Parent may hot glue the twine on the back of the deer's head for hanging in the morning.
"Many years ago, Christ was born in Bethlehem. I wish that I could have been on of the shepherd boys who saw the bright Star and heard the angels sing "Glory to our new-born King.'' It would have been wonderful to have placed in the tiny hands of Jesus a little toy. It is nice to just picture doing that. When I can paint better, I am going to make a picture of a little shepherd boy giving the baby Jesus a toy. I like the thoughts I have about Christmas. I like to give presents to my father and my mother, my sister and brother, and my friends. I make their presents and they like them.'' by Donald Wright, Age 11.
Restored vintage postcard of angels with instruments and church.
Christmas by Eleanor A. Hunter
The rounded hills in quiet lay; The Shepherds watch were keeping; Clothed in soft fleece, in warmth and peace, Their gentle flocks were sleeping. No sound was there in earth or air, Through wind-swept, star-lit spaces; O'er field and hill the wind blew chill, And o'er the shepherds' faces.
When suddenly through parted skies A wondrous light was beaming, And crowds of angels filled the air From out heaven's portals streaming; Abroad their glorious wings they spread, Their throats with song were swelling; In garments bright, with looks of light The shepherds' fears dispelling.
Ah, long ago that song was sung, Of "Glory in the highest, Good-will and peace to all mankind," When heaven to earth drew nighest, Because that night the Lord of Light Came down to earth a stranger, Was born within a stable old, Was cradled in a manger.
The brown-eyed cattle watched His sleep, The shepherds sought and found Him, Led by the Star that shone afar, The wise men knelt around Him; Spices and gold they brought of old, With joy rich gifts left with Him; And you have too, my golden head, A little heart to give Him.
'Mid crash and clang of Christmas bells That ring so loud and cheerly, Forget not that He cam a child Because He loved you dearly. Give sweeter kiss, give closer clasp, Give gentler Christmas greeting, Remembering Him whose blessed name It is you are repeating.
God's messengers bore to earth one day A spirit divine, enrobed in clay, To be mankind's redeemer for aye, And the angels called Him Jesus.
A babe in a manger cradle lay, His bed lined only with sweet, clean hay, But round his head shone a kingly ray, And the wise men called Him Holy.
A man walked forth on the busy street, Shod with the gospel of love his feet, Mercy-deeds dropping and thrilling words sweet, And the children called Him Father.
A soul was cruelly nailed to a cross, - A heavenly gain but an earthly loss ; As death was tinged with a radiant gloss, And the people called Him Savior.
The heavens opened its own to recall; The spirit then breathing a blessing on all, Re-entered with joy the celestial hall, And Jehovah called Him " Beloved."
The child-spirit of old Salem is strangely contagious. For the Visitor, along with the mysterious quickening to life of his buried childhood, holy things become homely, and homely things become holy. The Christmas road of Salem, for all its sacredness, is bordered by glistening Christmas trees, and haunted by gentle old-world fancies from a Germany of long ago. Everyone, no matter how aged, has a Christmas tree and every Christmas tree has its "putz," the word used to describe the decoration, most elaborate and painstaking, of the table or platform on which the tree stands. Some of the Christmas trees that I saw, remain in my memory vivid with the individuality of their treatment. The putz is built and arranged to show a world in miniature, a world most real but small enough for elves to inhabit. No mechanism is too tiny or too intricate for skilled fingers to perfect. I saw one house a foot high, a most luxuriously furnished mansion, on which one father had toiled happily for eighteen months. The foundation of the putz is usually gray-green southern moss, in which are laid out valleys and mountains, grottoes and caves. A favorite device is a mill, seven or eight inches high, which really grinds real meal. One putz that I saw transported me straight back to the Germany of old fairy tales. It had a parapeted castle of sand paper, and in the castle grounds a ten-inch fountain tossed its recurrent jet of water, and from it a stream meandered in a curving green trough cunningly hidden. On it ducks paddled and boats floated. Men fished from a bridge. This putz was arranged with a clever eye to perspective, and was full of details surprising and fascinating, diminutive chalets clinging to gorges, tiny antlered deer taking refuge in a thicket from the huntsman and dogs, a wee, secret spring hung with ferns, cottages busy with every activity, wood-chopping, washing, cooking. There were cows in the fields, sheep upon the hills. The sheep had been made by one of the oldest of the "single sisters," one tied to her chair with rheumatism, but delighting each year to make sheep for the putzes, molding them first out of clay, then covering them with wool, and last painting them so that every feature, nose, mouth, eye, ear, is lifelike, sheep four inches long, wearing bells hung around their necks on bright Christmas ribbon.
A Christmas Putz is a small village scene beneath holiday trees.
No family's putz is ever exactly alike on two successive Christmases, although separate objects in the decorations may appear year after year. I saw one sturdy hand-made house, less than a foot in dimensions, which has served four generations in the same family. One of the most beautiful Christmas trees I saw was beautiful in significance only, for it had no ornaments and no putz. The eighty-year-old grandmother called it her "Goodwill tree," for its sole trimming was Christmas cards fluttering from every green twig, and bearing their goodwill messages from all over the world. Although weighted with years, this grandmother is still quick-eyed, quick-hearted. She has been a famous maker of putzes, but now all her Christmas decorations have been divided among the households of her sons, men all active now in the life of church and city.
Here, beside the "Goodwill tree," I heard tale after tale of the past life of Salem, heard of the old sister, who, living in the community of the Sisters' House, used to steal down to the big kitchen after the rest were in bed, and gather all the scraps into her capacious apron; then she would open the door and softly call all the stray cats and dogs of the neighborhood to a midnight feast; and I heard of the gentle old man, who, coming to spend his last years in the shelter of the "Gemein Haus" of Salem, preferred that people call him not by his real name, Wolf, but address him always as Mr. Schaf and then, unforgettably, I heard of "little Betsey." Of all the kindly dead who still people the chat of old Salem, "little Betsey" stands out vividest in my memory. She lived to her seventies, and she has been seventy years dead, and yet of the many who as children knew her, not one of them ever speaks of her except as "little Betsey." A tiny woman, they have told me, always petted and shielded by two efficient elder sisters, and, so it would seem, by everybody else as well.
Little Betsey had been from three years old stone-deaf. She spoke all her life the German baby talk she had used when scarlet fever closed her ears forever. But this is not all, she kept until death the fancies she had at three, she believed always that angels carried a dead body straight from the grave to heaven. "No," people would assure me, "little Betsey was not queer, or lacking; little Betsey was as bright as anybody, it was just that after she was deaf people never told her sad things, so she stayed a child always." Bowed, old people have told me how they remember little Betsey, a tiny old woman, radiantly happy to be useful, coming to help them, when they were wee things, to lift the heavy mugs at the children's Christmas love-feasts of long, long ago.
There, by the "Goodwill tree" I saw and handled some of little Betsey's toys, which she had cherished to the end. There are two tiny carafes with infinitesimal stoppers, and a wee fluted goblet, all three only an inch and a half high, but beautiful in shape, slender bits of thinnest crystal brushed with gold. With the tiny doll and bed two inches long, little Betsey used to make every Christmas a manger scene. The doll is all of wax, and wears a little straight dress tied with a sash, the short black hair is demurely parted, the little red painted slippers are undimmed. You can hold little Betsey's toys in the palm of one hand, but far better than if they were larger, they have a spell to bring back the child heart that loved them. I can picture the joy with which she fashioned a manger out of this little bed of faded pink silk. Words of a poem I have read somewhere come back to me, spoken by the Madonna to the little baby on her lap,
" I have grown wise with littleness.
The Lord of Life is king of prettiness."
I wonder if anywhere but in Salem there could have lived a little Betsey. I wonder if anywhere but in this city founded on faith in a Child, people would have so tenderly conspired to protect a stricken woman from the sadness of growing up.
There is in Salem an old star-maker. He has showed me his stars and explained their manufacture. The rays are made of many long slim cones of white paper, the whole illumined by a concealed electric bulb. The star-maker is eighty-seven and still goes every day to his desk in a business office. In off hours he makes his stars and built his putz. He lives in a little fading brick house, which, hidden by boxwood and ivy, looks like a Christmas card.
Above the old doorway shines one of his white-rayed stars. Together he and his daughter trimmed their Christmas tree and made their putz. The putz represented a tiny forest hamlet in the old legendary fatherland. Little lighted houses looked out from shadowy green. Every wee shingle on the steep roofs had been carefully whittled. A little church out of some fairy tale showed ruddy windows and pushed its steeple up into the overhanging spruce twigs. Elfin footpaths climbed tiny hills. The star-maker had recaptured old, old child-dreams to make his putz. While I gazed at it, caught back myself to a childhood road all magic with lights and haunted shadows, I happened suddenly to look up, out of the window. There in strange juxtaposition to the enchanted elf-world of the Christmas putz, an airplane went soaring beyond the high, bare branches.
But it was not an old man who built the most magical of all the Christmas putzes, that one which of all my memories of the Christmas city, will always be the most poignant and the most significant, a memory deeper, sharper than the solemn beauty of the Christmas-Eve love-feasts or the profound reverence of the memorabilia service of the New Year. Dreamily I shall always recall the magical pathway of Christmas week, every morning I woke to a world misted by silvery fog and brushed by gleaming frost; soft blue haze wrapped the farther trees, haze soon burned away by the mild December sun; just outside my window on Christmas morning, a cardinal, flashing bright from a silver-misted tree, shrilled out a carol. But these things were of the daylight and may fade, while another picture grows only sharper.
It is a commonplace to say that the faith that built cathedrals is gone, that the ecstasy of confidence in which mediaeval architects conceived the Gothic arch, and masons carved angel faces on stones is perished from the earth, but in Salem I saw the Christmas road to Bethlehem constructed, immortally fresh and real, out of mere paper and pasteboard and boxes. It is not necessary in order to conceive a dream and give it concrete expression, that a man be himself a dreamer or a poet. The man who made for his two children the most beautiful Christmas putz in Salem, is a practical and prosperous young business man. With wholly instinctive skill in perspective, in color and lighting, above all in subjection of every detail to one central idea, he had built on a low platform a picture which held everyone absolutely silent. People might enter the room full of Christmas bustle and chatter, but in a few moments there would be utter stillness, "I made it," the artist told me, "from an old Bible picture, and from my thoughts."
Every evening during my two weeks in Salem I crossed the street to visit that softly lighted scene of Bethlehem. To the right the Christmas tree towered to the ceiling, but it was merely symbolic of Christmas cheer and fancy, standing all in shadow except as the rays of the star glistened on spruce twig and tinsel. In the dusk below the tree, sheep glimmered, and in the shadow at the back, far away in the distance, there rose the cone of a snowy mountain. To the left of the tree a huddled Oriental village went climbing. The dim walls had tiny slits of windows, ruddy in the near perspective, fading to white and then to darkness beyond. Slowly and mysteriously as one looked, shapes of men and of animals came to life out of the gloom. All the wall of the room was covered with dark blue paper on which gleamed silver stars forming the constellations. The light came from two spots only, the upper one the diffused radiance, pure white, from a single star hung from the ceiling, and the lower, the ruddy outpouring from a stable cave below the farthest walls of the shadowy, climbing town.
All the rosy glow from the cave was concentrated within on a tiny naked baby wearing a shining diadem. The figures of the Nativity scene had been bought from a Syrian art dealer and were extraordinarily lifelike. Over the baby's form Mary bent, blue-robed, and Joseph stood near by. Ass and ox gazed wonderingly at the bright manger. In the doorway of the cave knelt the first of the three wise men, a turbanned, robed figure, holding out his gift of gold. Below on the slope of the hill, all in the streaming light from the cave there came an Oriental shepherd, one of his sheep tied by its feet around his neck. Other sheep and other shepherds were discernible on the far hill beyond the town. Slowly as one looked there came looming out of the dusk to the right of the cave, nearer the tree, the shapes of three camels, much larger in scale than any of the other animals, because realistically nearer in perspective. Beside their camels stepped the richly robed figures of the other two wise men.
The effect of the lighting was magical. Beneath the star the shadows on the flat roofs were ink-black, mysterious with a sense of the crowded Oriental life beneath. It seemed incredible that all Bethlehem could lie so heavily asleep with this miracle of sky and cave to be seen for the mere opening of holden eyes. Yet while all Royal David's city lay unmindful, having turned away a king, a wise man from afar was kneeling at the shining stable door, motionless in an ecstasy of worship. In all that scene the only people who were aware were shepherds, untaught men schooled to faith by watching the nightly pageantry of the sky, and scholars, men made humble by long study of the luminous mystery of the constellations. In the quiet hour before the year's end, I sat gazing at this newly made scene of Bethlehem. In delicate etching of utter grace the branches of the Christmastree were thrown in shadow upon the deep blue wall. The light from the tiny cave shone forth in steadfast glory. Curiously summoned both the shepherds and the seers had set out on a road heavy with dangers, bordered on either side by black mystery, and at the end they had found, so said the faith that had constructed this Christmas putz in old Salem ‚at the end of their road they had found a shining Child and an unquenchable Star. W. Kirkland
A Christmas village (or putz) is a decorative, miniature-scale village often set up during the Christmas season. These villages are rooted in the elaborate Christmas traditions of the Moravian church, a Protestant denomination. Mass-produced cardboard Christmas villages became popular in the United States during the early and mid-20th century, while porcelain versions became popular in the later part of the century.Read more...
CHRIST'S coming inaugurated among men a new era of good will, and as a consequence thrones are tottering, chains are loosening, prison doors are opening and practical Christian beneficence is flooding the world with sunshine and fills it with songs of gladness. - Rev. Dr. P. S. Henson.
HERE is that "glad tidings," that gospel of "great joy" of which the angel spake to the wondering shepherds -- this announcement of God's love for man and man's sonship to God. And these "glad tidings" are for "all people," so the angel said. There is not a single soul to whom the tidings of Christmas come that is not assured of the love of the almighty and infinite Father.
REFORM ye, then -- so sounds the voice of the Eternal Spirit, the power back of evolution -- reform ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand! So we may gird ourselves to every task of reform with new hope and fresh enthusiasm and ring our Christmas bells again. - Rev. Dr. R. Herber Newton.
IT may be that in every gift, with which at this blessed Christmastide we gladden our children's hearts we are the Magi again offering treasure to the Holy Child. We may make it so. But richer gifts than these will be required. Our endurance shall be our gift to him who gave himself. Is there toil for us, that we may honor him? Is there self denial? Are there holy consecrations and humble service, that shall make the world at last a spotless sacrifice to him who purchased it?
SO we keep Christmas because of its good tidings of great joy. The season of its occurrence is our ripest time. The north wind and the snow in that wind have made us what we are. It drove us to the hearth, to the sacred fires of the inner circle, to the building of the keystone in the arch of our civilization, the home of the Christian man. - Rev. Dr. S. P. Cadman.
TODAY all institutions are beginning to imitate the wise men from the east, who brought to the Divine Child their gold and aromatic spices their frankincense and treasure. Christ's estimate of the value of childhood has conquered the world. His thought of childhood is the very heart and genius of Christian civilization. - Rev. Dr. Newell Dwight Hillis.
MORNING, noon and night, for breakfast, dinner and supper, the first thing on awaking and the last thing on going to sleep, every hour of every day of every week of every month of the year we want the spirit of Christmas, for it is the spirit of ministration, of giving, of service, of doing for others. - Rev. Dr. Francis E. Clark
AND did you ever think what a peculiarly blessed sound in the ears of those watching shepherds of the valley of Bethlehem was the announcement of the angels, "Christ has come?" Ever since the gate of paradise was shut against our first parents his advent had been looked forward to as the hope of a lost world.
STILL there is call for strenuous endeavor and constant fight against evils without and within, as though God would remind us that this is not our rest, that the true holiday (holy day, as it used to be written) is above at his right hand. - Rev. Dr. P. S. Henson.
The only way to visit old Salem of the old South is with a child's heart for luggage. Otherwise this old town in the middle of North Carolina may lie before your eyes actual enough, with its old streets, its old houses, its old Square, its old Home Church as its inmost core, and Salem may welcome you with the gentle, unobtrusive courtesy pecularily its own, but unless you have learned the wisdom that knows how to put away grown-up things, you cannot really enter the Christmas city.
In Salem of all places I have ever seen, it is easiest to drop from one's shoulders the crippling pack of maturity and become once again a little child stepping along a Christmas road. Of all places it is easiest in Salem to forget the jangle of faiths and of no-faiths that have deadened our ears, to slip away from the clamor of an age proud and fevered as ancient Rome, and to listen to the confidence of old carols ringing along moonlit dreamy streets, mysterious with the black of magnolia and of boxwood, or to hear floating down from the church belfry high up under the stars the silver melody of the ancient horns which, better than any other instruments, express the soul of the Moravian church. A most musical religion it must seem to every visitor who yields his spirit to the spirit of Moravian Salem. Not only the church liturgy but also the everyday life of the community is keyed to old tunes that date back, some of them, to the Bohemia of five centuries ago, and were familiar in Moravian households in the days when John Huss was martyred for the beauty of his faith. There is a spell on southern Salem, the spell not of a dead past but of a living one, constantly revitalized, so that as one walks these uneven red-brick pavements, one is haunted by memories of long-past Christmases, thoughts of those far times, when in secrecy and fear, the Hidden Seed kept its feast of candles and of anthems, thoughts of happier festivals in Saxony where young Count Zinzendorf offered the heretics the refuge city of Herrnhut, thoughts of brave long-ago love-feasts right here, when a tiny, intrepid band of colonists sang its Christmas chorales in the midst of endless miles of wilderness, while wolves nosed and howled at the cabin door. Along with these Moravian memories come thronging recollections of one's own childhood Christmases in all their unforgotten wizardry, so that here in Christmas Salem, I seem to be walking again the midnight aisle which leads through a great wood of fir trees looming black beneath high stars.
Just as at five years old, I am aware again of mystery and danger and bewilderment lurking far off in the forest, but along the Christmas roadway, there is no fear, only joy and magic, for it lies straight as a shaft of silver through the black wood, and along it troops of youngsters go dancing onward. At the instant that the children pass, each dark, bordering fir tree becomes bright with tinsel and candles, and along the spicy twigs gay little bells stir and tinkle. From time to time there come snatches of happy chants echoed among the tall dim trunks. Since the wayfarers are children, they know that the soft, unearthly radiance upon the road before them is the long beam from a star not yet seen because it hangs so low above a stable cave, and they know, too, that their silver path is leading all child feet toward that star. Small difference for children between that spirit-light of Bethlehem and the merry twinkle of Christmas-tree candles. For them, readily enough, their own carol-singing mingles with the voices of herald angels, and even Santa Claus, himself, all ruddy and kind, may steal to the stable door and gaze in on a divine baby. Even so is Christmas faith and Christmas fancy interwoven in old Salem, where white-headed men and women still have their Christmas trees, and still with their own hands construct beneath the green boughs, the wonderful Christmas " putzes," for while we who are visitors must retread in stumbling unfamiliarity the Christmas path, the Moravians of old Salem have always kept straight and clear within their hearts the child-road toward the star.
When, a few days before Christmas, I arrived in Salem, people told me I had missed what for Moravians is always the opening key to the Yuletide season. For unnumbered years there has always been sung on the Sunday before Christmas the anthem of " The Morning Star," written in the latter seventeenth century, and set to music in the nineteenth. Although I never heard choir and congregation unite in its mighty joy, I seemed, during my two weeks' visit, always to be catching itsechoes, as if the strains of Christmas minstrels had come floating back to me where, unseen in the distance, they had passed on before along the silver-lit highway, so that the words and the music of "The Morning Star " voice for me the innermost spirit of a Moravian Christmas.
The anthem has both the quaintness of old Germany and the vigorous confidence of the new world, so that the old words and the new are equally expressive of the unchanging faith of present-day Salem, while the music vibrates with the sheer child-gladness of its praise.
" Morgenstern auf finstre Nacht, Der die Welt voll Freude macht.
Jesulein, O komm herein, Leucht in meines Hertzens Shrein."
When in stanza two, music and words swell out into grandeur it is as if, out of the black forest mystery of life, some hidden joyous congregation suddenly pealed forth a psalm to the mounting Christmas dawn:
" Morning star, thy glory bright Far exceeds the sun's clear light ; Jesus be, constantly. More than thousand suns to me."
For the holiday guest there slowly emerges upon that glamorous woodland roadway of his child memories a silver-lighted city, gradually shaping into the everyday reality of actual Salem. As I look out from the window of the little gray cottage that harbors me, there become sharply etched against the mistiness of dreams the tall water-oaks of the old red-brick Square, the domes of boxwood against old walls of buff stucco or of brick, the stretching flat white rows of gravestones holly-trimmed, the white belfry of the Home Church, where in Christmas week I heard little boys, high up there in the soft December sunshine, sound the trombone announcement of death. So unobtrusive and yet so sweet were those strains out of the sky, so blent with the Christmas air, that I listened to them for some time, supposing them merely carol-singing floating out from some home where the family had regathered for Christmas.
On one side the little cottage looks forth on the sunny graveyard where Moravians keep their dead too close to life for any sadness, and on the other it nestles to the prouder, taller buildings ofthe Square, laid out in the seventeen-sixties by founders who established Salem as the central city of their Wachovian grant of seventy thousand acres, to be built and to be kept a city meet for their faith. The solid eighteenth century houses still remain, skilfully adapted to modern usage, or unobtrusively altered. Half of Salem traces its ancestry back to those earlier days, and all of Salem keeps alive, both in family life and in public, the traditions and the customs of its unforgotten builders.
Perhaps it is only in our own South that so gentle and half-romantic a faith could have found so gracious a flowering as is typified in the Easter and the Christmas customs of this Salem of North Carolina. There is a blending of native warmth and glow and kindliness in the spirit of this Southern Province of the Moravian Church. The first colonists came seeking a mild climate and friendly neighbors, and found both. For a hundred and fifty years Salem has been true to its first purpose. Long ago it was a little refuge city of peace in the wilderness, and still, today, it offers its benediction for all who seek to penetrate beyond the mere externals of a locality into the inner sanctities of tradition.
Long ago a brave little band kept to their secure daily round of work and worship amid perils of Indian attack and the backwash of Continental armies, and freely gave their hospitality to everyone that asked it, and today the mind of those first settlers still dominates and molds the life of the city. Yesterday and now the people of Salem have possessed both the art of shrewd adjustment to the contemporary and the power to withdraw from all its fever and conflict into the peace of a child-faith. With quaint literalness those early founders looked upon themselves as all members of one family, and today one of the strongest impressions of any visitor is that of a great household, close-bound in sympathy, and all turning toward the old Home Church as to a central hearthside, while up and down the worn old streets there moves the form of one still young at eighty, who in himself is host and shepherd and father of all the city.
One wonders if the inhabitants of Salem fully realize their high privilege of living in a community which both expresses their religion and preserves the finest traditions of their ancestors. In these bewildering days it is the lot of most idealists to live in a solitude, unable, amid the surrounding mists, to distinguish the shapes of their fellow believers. But in Salem people have the sacred advantage of dwelling with those who constantly share and reinforce each other's faith as naturally as they have shared each other's childhood and each other's memories of the old Infant School. Probably Moravians do not dream with what strange nostalgia a visitor listens to persons who treat God conversationally, who talk of Him as spontaneously as a little boy speaks of that splendid comrade he calls Daddy. Normally enough, naturally enough, has the Moravian spirit been able to strike deep roots in our own South, for in our South religion is still a custom unquestioned, and leisure can still be found for an obsolete, old-world culture, and intellect still bows in reverence before the soul. In old Salem of the old South there can be no blur upon the radiant confidence of the Christmas story, no smirch upon the silver purity of that far-lit path toward Bethlehem's cave.
In Salem I feel myself to be sometimes in Cranford, sometimes in Barchester, while all reminiscence of those two familiar home-towns of the fancy is touched by an atmosphere sacred to Salem. From one window of my room I can gaze up the long, silent avenue, forbidden to all vehicles, that skirts the high ivy-hung picket fence of the graveyard. Even in December the graveyard grass is vivid in the sunshine. I am so near that I can almost see the crimson berries of the holly wreaths laid on the little flat marble slabs. Cedar Avenue lies as a white path at the heart of Salem. On one side of it are gateways whose sunny arches, blazoned with texts of hope, stand bright against the shadowy spruce and cedar massed beyond the triumphant marching lines of the little gravestones. Along Cedar Avenue I have watched a funeral procession move with confident tread, while the trombone strains floated forth delicate and clear upon the New Year's morning.
Another window of my room looks toward the old Square, toward the Bishop's home beside the Bishop's church, toward the aging buildings that still bear names witnessing to the deep Moravian reverence for the family as a holy entity, - the Sisters' House, the House of the Single Brethren, the Widows' House. In the cavernous cellar of the most venerable of all these buildings I was shown, one afternoon, the mysteries of the Christmas candle-making. In those great, white-washed catacombs one peers into dark, haunted corridors through wall arches three feet deep. The floor has the stone flagging that was laid a hundred and fifty years ago. In the long kitchen of the Single Brethren the great, hooded fireplace with its built-in Dutch oven stands intact.
Here, in precisely the same molds and with precisely the same methods through unbroken generations, have been made the famous Christmas candles of Salem. The molds hold, some of them, six candles, some a dozen. Into the manufacture last year went two hundred pounds of beeswax and fifty pounds of tallow. From the first melting to the final polishing each candle requires an elaborateprocess of handwork. It took two women six weeks to make the candles, achieving, as they did, six thousand five hundred of the slender wisps of green wax familiar to everyone who has ever known a Salem Christmas. The decorating of the candles, as well as the dipping, is a matter of far tradition. According to methods of cutting and of pasting long in use, each candle is encircled by an outstanding fringe of scarlet paper before it is at last stuck in its hole in one of the long trays and borne off to be kept for the love-feast of Christmas Eve. To visitors and to Moravians take the preparation of the candles is symbolic; when Salem trusts to alien hands the making and the decorating of its Christmas candles, Salem will not be Salem any more.
A simple, vital reverence for tradition is as characteristic of each individual home as it is of the larger home life of the church congregation. In the tiny cottage that offers me hospitality there is a little wooden rocking chair carefully treasured. One turns it up to find on the bottom, in a handwriting too alive ever to be forgotten, these words, "This rocker was used by mother to rock all her nine babies to sleep from 1828-1844. Keep it in the family." There lies on this little chair a touch of that personal, homey immortality that the home-going dead must value, - and yet it is only a little wooden rocker, tawny drab, and finely lined like an old parchment - or an old face. It has no arms, therefore had no bumps for little heads. It has spreading legs and rockers, and on each rocker is painted a bunch of fading wild roses.
All the little home is gentle with old memories. Each morning at the close of breakfast I listen first to the daily reading from the Moravian Textbook for the year, the custom of the Text-book dating back to Count Zinzendorf, and after the Text-book comes the reading from birthday and memory books. As I listen, a kindly past made up of small family events becomes vital for me, the guest. Yet the little cottage is alive to the present as well as to the past. The neighbor children blow in and out all ruddy with ball-playing. The Moravian is a children's church, its services crowded with jolly youngsters, seated as happily beside their parents as seedlings grow around a tree. To Moravian children the story of a children's Friend is no dead tale. The rosy seven-year-old Harold who comes flying so often to our door has a hearty affection for Santa Claus, but with that Other he is even more familiar. A few weeks before this last Christmas a little playmate died. Harold was puzzled by the sorrow of the grown-ups and protested, "But Louise has gone to Jesus, and she will be there for His birthday." Winifred Kirkland, 1924
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Merry Christmas
M is for mistletoe. If you get caught, you know! E is for evergreen. Prettiest tree ever seen. R is for reindeer that draw Santa's sleigh. R is for ringing the bells Christmas Day. Y is for Yule log that makes a bright fire.
C is for Christmas, a day we enjoy. H is for "Hurrah!" when I get my new toy. R is for "Rejoice." Let our songs reach the sky. I is for incense wafted on high. S is for Santa Claus full of good will. T is for "toe" of the stockings he'll fill. M is for music to gladden the heart. A is for angels that watch from above. S is for "star" whose beauty we love.
What if your Teddy bear was Santa Claus? How would you draw him on the roof top with a big bag of toys? Well, you can draw that with just a few shapes and a sharpened pencil. Then color him in and hang the picture over your bed so you can think of a story to go along with the idea...
A step-by-step drawing of Teddy going down the chimney!
