Sunday, May 3, 2009

Julemanden is the gift-bearer in Danish culture.

      Julemanden can be directly translated to "The Christmas Man". In modern Danish culture Julemanden is the equivalent of the English Santa Claus although the roots of the character reaches into Danish folklore and mythology wherein julemanden is a mythical character who is said to bring Christmas presents to children in Denmark on Christmas eve, celebrated December 24th.
      The main differences to the English Santa Claus is that Julemanden lives in Greenland, loves Rice pudding with cinnamon-sugar, and a slice of butter on top, and is assisted by nisser or a tomte.
     A tomte (pronounced [ˈtɔ`mːtɛ]) or nisse ([ˈnìsːɛ]) is a mythical creature of Scandinavian folklore originating from Norse paganism. Tomte or Nisse were believed to take care of a farmer's home and children and protect them from misfortune, in particular at night, when the housefolk were asleep. The Swedish name tomte is derived from a place of residence and area of influence: the house lot or tomt. The Finnish name is tonttu. Nisse is the common name in Norwegian, Danish and the Scanian dialect in southernmost Sweden; it is a nickname for Nils, and its usage in folklore comes from expressions such as Nisse god dräng (Nisse good lad, cf. Robin Goodfellow).
      The tomte/nisse was often imagined as a small, elderly man (size varies from a few inches to about half the height of an adult man), often with a full beard; dressed in the everyday clothing of a farmer. However, there are also folktales where he is believed to be a shapeshifter able to take a shape far larger than an adult man, and other tales where the tomte/nisse is believed to have a single, cyclopean eye. In modern Denmark, nisses are often seen as beardless, wearing grey and red woolens with a red cap. Since nisses are thought to be skilled in illusions and sometimes able to make himself invisible, one was unlikely to get more than brief glimpses of him no matter what he looked like.
      An illustration made by Gudmund Stenersen of an angry tomte stealing hay from a farmer is pictured above.
      Despite his smallness, the tomte/nisse possessed an immense strength. Even though he was protective and caring he was easy to offend, and his retributions ranged from a stout box on the ears to the killing of livestock or ruining of the farm's fortune. The tomte/nisse was a traditionalist who did not like changes in the way things were done at the farm. Another easy way to offend him was rudeness: farm workers swearing, urinating in the barns, or not treating the creatures well would be soundly thrashed. If anyone spilled something on the floor in the house it was wise to shout a warning to the tomte below. An angry tomte is featured in the popular children's book by Swedish author Selma Lagerlöf, Nils Holgerssons underbara resa genom Sverige (Nils Holgersson's Wonderful Journey Through Sweden). The tomte turns the naughty boy Nils into a tomte in the beginning of the book, and Nils then travels across Sweden on the back of a goose.
A tomtenisse made of salty dough. A common
Scandinavian Christmas decoration.
      One was also required to please the spirit with gifts (see Blót) – a particular gift was a bowl of porridge on Christmas night. If he wasn't given his payment, he would leave the farm or house, or engage in mischief such as tying the cows' tails together in the barn, turning objects upside-down, and breaking things (like a troll). The tomte liked his porridge with a pat of butter on the top. In an often retold story, a farmer put the butter underneath the porridge. When the tomte of his farmstead found that the butter was missing, he was filled with rage and killed the cow resting in the barn. But, as he thus became hungry, he went back to his porridge and ate it, and so found the butter at the bottom of the bowl. Full of grief, he then hurried to search the lands to find another farmer with an identical cow, and replaced the former with the latter.
      The tomte is connected to farm animals in general, but his most treasured animal was the horse. Belief had it that you could see which horse was the tomte's favourite as it would be especially well taken care of and healthy. Sometimes the tomte would even braid its hair and tail. (These tomte braids were in fact most likely caused by insufficient brushing.) Sometimes actually undoing these braids could mean misfortune or angering the tomte.
      The heathen tomte was in ancient times believed to be the "soul" of the first inhabitor of the farm. He who cleared the tomt (house lot). He had his dwellings in the burial mounds on the farm, hence the now somewhat archaic Swedish names tomtenisse and tomtekarl, Swedish and Norwegian names tomtegubbe, and the Finnish name tonttu-ukko (lit. "House lot man") tomtebonde (bonde "farmer") and the Norwegian Haugkall "Mound man". Thus can the tradition of giving porridge to the tomte at Christmas be a reminiscence of ancestral worship.
      The tomte was not always a popular figure: Like most creatures of folklore he would be seen as heathen and become connected to the Devil. Farmers believing in the house tomte could be seen as worshipping false gods; in a famous 14th century decree Saint Birgitta warns against the worship of tompta gudhi, "tomte gods" (Revelationes, book VI, ch. 78). Folklore added other negative beliefs about the tomte, such as that having a tomte on the farm meant you put the fate of your soul at risk, or that you had to perform various non-Christian rites to lure a tomte to your farm.
      The belief in a tomte's tendency to bring riches to the farm by his unseen work could also be dragged into the conflicts between neighbours. If one farmer was doing far better for himself than the others, someone might say that it was because of him having tomte on the farm, doing ungodly work and stealing from the neighbours. These rumours could be very damaging for the farmer who found himself accused.
      There is similar folklore of tomte/nisse that shares many aspects with other Scandinavian wights such as the Swedish vättar (from the Old Norse landvættir) or the Norwegian tusser. These beings are social, however, whereas the tomte is always solitary (though he is now often pictured with other tomtar). Some synonyms of tomte in Swedish and Norwegian include gårdbo ((farm)yard-dweller), gardvord (yard-warden, see vörðr), god bonde (good farmer), fjøsnisse (barn gnome) or gårdsrå (yard-spirit). The tomte could also take a ship for his home, and was then known as a skeppstomte/skibsnisse. In other European folklore, there are many beings similar to the tomte, such as the Scots brownie, English Hob, the German Heinzelmännchen or the Russian domovoi. The Finnish word tonttu has been borrowed from Swedish.
      The tomte is one of the most familiar creatures of Scandinavian folklore, and he has appeared in many works of Scandinavian literature. With the romanticisation and collection of folklore during the 19th century, the tomte would gain popularity. In the English editions of the fairy tales of H. C. Andersen the word nisse has been inaccurately translated as "goblin" (a more accurate translation is "brownie" or "hob").
      The modern tomte, a tomtenisse made of wood is a common Scandinavian Christmas decoration. He is no longer worshiped or even thought of in a serious fashion in modern Christian Scandinavian homes. He is merely a folk legend and is taken as seriously as we do fairy tales here in America.
      In the 1840s the farm's nisse became the bearer of Christmas presents in Denmark, and was then called julenisse (Yule Nisse). In 1881, the Swedish magazine Ny Illustrerad Tidning published Viktor Rydberg's poem Tomten, where the tomte is alone awake in the cold Christmas night, pondering the mysteries of life and death. This poem featured the first painting by Jenny Nyström of this traditional Swedish mythical character which she turned into the white-bearded, red-capped friendly figure associated with Christmas ever since. Shortly afterwards, and obviously influenced by the emerging Father Christmas traditions as well as the new Danish tradition, a variant of the tomte/nisse, called the jultomte in Sweden and julenisse in Norway, started bringing the Christmas presents in Sweden and Norway, instead of the traditional julbock (Yule Goat).
      Gradually, commercialism has made him look more and more like the American Santa Claus, but the Swedish jultomte, the Norwegian julenisse, the Danish nisse and the Finnish joulupukki (in Finland he is still called the Yule Goat, although his animal features have disappeared) still has features and traditions that are rooted in the local culture. He doesn't live on the North Pole, but perhaps in a forest nearby, or in Denmark he lives on Greenland, and in Finland he lives in Lapland; he doesn’t come down the chimney at night, but through the front door, delivering the presents directly to the children, just like the Yule Goat did; he is not overweight; and even if he nowadays sometimes rides in a sleigh drawn by reindeer, instead of just walking around with his sack, his reindeer don’t fly - and in Sweden, Denmark and Norway some still put out a bowl of porridge for him on Christmas Eve. He is still often pictured on Christmas cards and house and garden decorations as the little man of Jenny Nyström's imagination, often with a horse or cat, or riding on a goat or in a sled pulled by a goat, and for many people the idea of the farm tomte still lives on, if only in the imagination and literature.
A tomte stars in Jan Brett's story "Hedgie's Surprise."
     The use of the word tomte in Swedish is now somewhat ambiguous, but often when one speaks of jultomten (definite article) or tomten (definite article) one is referring to the more modern version, while if one speaks of tomtar (plural) or tomtarna (plural, definite article) one could also likely be referring to the more traditional tomtar. The traditional word tomte lives on in an idiom, referring to the human caretaker of a property (hustomten), as well as referring to someone in one's building who mysteriously does someone a favour, such as hanging up ones laundry. A person might also wish for a little hustomte to tidy up for them. A tomte stars in one of author Jan Brett's children's stories, "Hedgie's Surprise".

About Nordic Folklore by Anna Bridgland

Père Noël is the gift-giver of France.

       Père Noël is a legendary gift-giver during Christmas in France and French-speaking areas, identified with Santa Claus in English speaking territories.
      According to tradition, on Christmas Eve children leave their shoes by the fireplace filled with carrots and treats for Père Noël's donkey, Gui (French for "Mistletoe") before they go to bed. Père Noël takes the offerings and, if the child has been good, leaves presents in their place. Presents are traditionally small enough to fit in the shoes; candy, money or small toys.
      Père Noël is sometimes confused with another character. In Eastern France (Alsace and Lorraine regions) there is a parallel tradition to celebrate Saint Nicolas on December 6. He is followed by Le Père Fouettard, who exists also in Germany (Knecht Ruprecht), Austria (Krampus), Holland (Belsnickel) and Belgium (Zwarte Piet). Le Père Fouettard is a sinister figure dressed in black who accompanies Saint Nicolas and whips children who have behaved badly.
      In Brazil, due to the influence of French culture in the 19th century, the name of Papai Noel was adopted, opposing for example the name of Pai Natal in Portugal. However he is dressed in the North American style.

Ježíšek brings gifts in the Czech Republic.

      Ježíšek (the Child Jesus) is a Christmas gift-giving figure used in the Czech Republic. Similar gift-giving figures also appear in other countries such as Slovakia (Ježiško) or Hungary (Jézuska).
      Much like Santa Claus, Ježíšek gives gifts to good people - that is, Czech people send gifts to their relatives and friends and say that the gifts are from Ježíšek. The gifts are unwrapped in the family circle on the evening of Christmas Eve. Traditionally, Ježíšek is imaged as a small child - concrete appearance left to each one's imagination. In present time, especially in business advertisements, images of Santa Claus are easier to use, but face quite an opposition from public. In overwhelming majority of Czech families, it is still Ježíšek who brings all the gifts - and the Christmas magic, too.
      Ježíšek comes after the Christmas Eve dinner. This usually consists of fish soup or pea soup with fried bread pieces and fried carp with potato salad. The meal named Kuba is also popular. Before or during dinner parents sneak away to put presents under the christmas tree, then after dinner Ježíšek (one of adults again) rings one of the bells on the tree to announce that gifts are there and children rush in.
      Since the 19th century, the Christmas tree is set up on the morning of Christmas Eve and taken down on Epiphany (January 6). Decorations are usually glass blown ornaments, garlands, and candles, lit right when Ježíšek puts presents under the tree.
      The Czech tradition of Ježíšek delivering presents on Christmas is perfectly distinctive of that of Saint Nicholas who brings his presents (in the form of goodies and sweets - or coal and potatoes) on his own day December 6. He is accompanied by an angel and a devil (who is supposed to scare little children by telling them, he will take them to hell if they were naughty).


Traditions in Czech Republic Compared to The U.S.
by Dream Prague

Saturday, May 2, 2009

The Coming of The Prince, Part II

 Part I is here.

      "What do you see up there, O pine-tree?" asked a little vine in the forest. "You lift your head among the clouds tonight, and you tremble strangely as if you saw wondrous sights."
      "I see only the distant hill-tops and the dark clouds," answered the pine-tree. "And the wind sings of the snow-king to-night; to all my questionings he says, 'Snow, snow, snow,' till I am wearied with his refrain."
      "Oh, yes, said the vine. "I heard the country folks talking about it as they went through the forest today, and they said that the prince would surely come on the morrow."
      "What are you little folks down there talking about?" asked the pine-tree.
      "We are talking about the prince," said the vine.
      "Yes, he is to come on the morrow," said the pine-tree, "but not until the day dawns, and it is still all dark in the east.
      "Yes," said the fir-tree, "the east is black, and only the wind and the snow issue from it."
      "Keep your head out of my way!" cried the pine-tree, to the fir; "with your constant bobbing around        I can hardly see at all."
      "Take that for your bad manners," retorted the fir, slapping the pine-tree savagely with one of her longest branches.
      The pine-tree would put up with no such treatment, so he hurled his largest cone at the fir; and for a moment or two it looked as if there were going to be a serious commotion in the forest.
      "Hush!" cried the vine in a startled tone; "there is some one coming through the forest."
       The pine-tree and the fir stopped quarreling, and the snowdrop nestled closer to the vine, while the vine hugged the pine-tree very tightly. All were greatly alarmed.
      "Nonsense!" said the pine-tree, in a tone of assumed braver. "No one would venture into the forest at such an hour."
      "Indeed! and why not?" cried a child's voice. "Will you not let me watch with you for the coming of the prince?"
      "Will you not tear me from my tree?" asked the vine.
      "Will you not pluck my blossoms?" plaintively piped the snowdrop.
      "No, of course not," said Barbara; "I have come only to watch with you for the prince."
      Then Barbara told them who she was, and how cruelly she had been treated in the city, and how she longed to see the prince, who was to come on the morrow. And as she talked, the forest and all therein felt a great compassion for her.
      "Lie at my feet," said the pine-tree, "and I will protect you."
      "Nestle close to me, and I will chafe your temples and body and limbs till they are warm," said the vine.
      "Let me rest upon your cheek, and I will sing you my little songs," said the snowdrop.
And Barbara felt very grateful for all these homely kindnesses. She rested in the velvety snow at the foot of the pine-tree, and the vine chafed her body and limbs, and the little flower sang sweet songs to her.
      "Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!" There was that noisy wind again, but this time it was gentler than it had been in the city.
      "Here you are, my little Barbara," said the wind, in kindly tones. "I have brought you the little snowflake. I am glad you came away from the city, for the people are proud and haughty there; oh, but I will have fun with them!"
      Then, having dropped the little snowflake on Barbara's cheek, the wind whisked off to the city again. And we can imagine that it played rare pranks with the proud, haughty folk on its return; for the wind, as you know, is no respecter of persons.
      "Dear Barbara," said the snowflake, "I will watch with thee for the coming of the prince."
       And Barbara was glad, for she loved the little snowflake, that was so pure and innocent and gentle.
      "Tell us, O pine-tree," cried the vine, "what do you see in the east? Has the prince yet entered the forest?"
      "The east is full of black clouds," said the pine-tree, " and the winds that hurry to the hill-tops sing of the snow."
      "But the city is full of brightness," said the fir. "I can see the lights in the cathedral, and I can hear wondrous music about the prince and his coming."
      "Yes, they are singing of the prince in the cathedral," said Barbara sadly.
      "But, we shall see him first, "whispered the vine reassuringly.
      "Yes, the prince will come through the forest," said the little snowdrop gleefully.
      "Fear not, dear Barbara, we shall behold the prince in all his glory," cried the snowflake.
       Then all at once there was a strange hubbub in the forest; for it was midnight, and the spirits came from their hiding-places to prowl about and to disport themselves. Barbara beheld them all in great wonder and trepidation, for she had never before seen the spirits of the forest, although she had often heard of them. It was a marvelous sight.
      "Fear nothing," whispered the vine to Barbara,-- "fear nothing, for they dare not touch you."
       The antics of the wood-spirits continued but an hour; for then a cock crowed, and immediately thereat, with a wondrous scurrying, the elves and the gnomes and the other grotesque spirits sought their abiding-places in the caves and in the hollow trunks and under the loose bark of the trees. And then it was very quiet once more in the forest.
      "It is very cold," said Barbara. "My hands and feet are like ice."
      Then the pine-tree and the fir shook down the snow from their broad boughs, and the snow fell upon Barbara and covered her like a white mantle.
      "You will be warm now," said the vine, kissing Barbara's forehead. And Barbara smiled.
       Then the snowdrop sang a lullaby about the moss that loved the violet. And Barbara said, "I am going to sleep; will you wake me when the prince comes through the forest?"
       And they said they would. So Barbara fell asleep.
      "The bells in the city are ringing merrily," said the fir, " and the music in the cathedral is louder and more beautiful than before. Can it be that the prince has already come into the city?"
      "No," cried the pine-tree, " look to the east and see the Christmas day a-dawning! The prince is coming, and his pathway is through the forest!"
      The storm had ceased. Snow lay upon all the earth. The hills, the forest, the city, and the meadows were white with the robe the storm-king had thrown over them. Content with his wondrous work, the storm-king himself had fled to his far Northern home before the dawn of the Christmas day. Everything was bright and sparkling and beautiful. And most beautiful was the great hymn of praise the forest sang that Christmas morning,-- the pine-trees and the firs and the vines and the snow-flowers that sang of the prince and of his promised coming.
      "Wake up, little one," cried the vine, "for the prince is coming!"
      But Barbara slept; she did not hear the vine's soft calling nor the lofty music of the forest.
       A little snow-bird flew down from the fir-tree's bough and perched upon the vine, and caroled in Barbara's ear of the Christmas morning and of the coming of the prince. But Barbara slept; she did not hear the carol of the bird.
      "Alas!" sighed the vine, "Barbara will not awaken, and the prince is coming."
      Then the vine and the snowdrop wept, and the pine-tree and the fir were very sad.
       The prince came through the forest clad in royal raiment and wearing a golden crown. Angels came with him, and the forest sang a great hymn unto the prince, such a hymn as had never before been heard on earth. The prince came to the sleeping child and smiled upon her and called her by name.
      "Barbara, my little one," said the prince, "awaken, and come with me."
      Then Barbara opened her eyes and beheld the prince. And it seemed as if a new life had come to her, for there was warmth in her body and a flush upon her cheeks and a light in her eyes that were divine. And she was clothed no longer in rags, but in white flowing raiment; and upon the soft brown hair there was a crown like those which angels wear. And as Barbara arose and went to the prince, the little snowflake fell from her cheek upon her bosom, and forthwith became a pearl more precious than all other jewels upon earth.
      And the prince took Barbara in his arms and blessed her, and turning round about, returned with the little child unto his home, while the forest and the sky and the angels sang a wondrous song.
      The city waited for the prince, but he did not come. None knew of the glory of the forest that Christmas morning, nor of the new life that came to little Barbara.
      Come thou, dear Prince, oh, come to us this holy Christmas time! Come to the busy marts of earth, the quiet homes, the noisy streets, the humble lanes; come to us all, and with thy love touch every human heart, that we may know that love, and in its blessed peace bear charity to all mankind! by Eugene Fields.

The first half of our story.

The Coming of The Prince, Part I.

      "Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" said the wind, and it tore through the streets of the city that Christmas eve, turning umbrellas inside out, driving the snow in fitful gusts before it, creaking the rusty signs and shutters, and playing every kind of rude prank it could think of.
       "How cold your breath is to-night!" said Barbara, with a shiver, as she drew her tattered little shawl the closer around her benumbed body.
      "Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!" answered the wind; "but why are you out in this storm? You should be at home by the warm fire."
      "I have no home," said Barbara; and then she sighed bitterly, and something like a tiny pearl came in the corner of one of her sad blue eyes.
      But the wind did not hear her answer, for it had hurried up the street to throw a handful of snow in the face of an old man who was struggling along with a basket of good things on each arm.
      "Why are you not at the cathedral?' asked a snowflake, as it alighted on Barbara's shoulder. "I heard grand music, and saw beautiful lights there as I floated down from the sky a moment ago."
      "What are they doing at the cathedral?" inquired Barbara.
      "Why, haven't you heard?'' exclaimed the snowflake. " I supposed everybody knew that the prince was coming to-morrow."
      "Surely enough; this is Christmas eve," said Barbara, "and the prince will come tomorrow."
       Barbara remembered that her mother had told her about the prince, how beautiful and good and kind and gentle he was, and how he loved the little children; but her mother was dead now, and there was none to tell Barbara of the prince and his coming,-- none but the little snowflake.
       "I should like to see the prince," said Barbara "for I have heard he was very beautiful and good."
       "That he is," said the snowflake. "I have never seen him, but I heard the pines and the firs singing about him as I floated over the forest to-night."
      "Whirr-r-r! Whirr-r-r!" cried the wind returning boisterously to where Barbara stood. "I've been looking for you everywhere, little snowflake! So come with me."
      And without any further ado, the wind seized upon the snowflake and hurried it along the street and led it a merry dance through the icy air of the winter night.
      Barbara trudged on through the snow and looked in at the bright things in the shop windows. The glitter of the lights and the sparkle of the vast array of beautiful Christmas toys quite dazzled her. A strange mingling of admiration, regret, and envy filled the poor little creature's heart.
      "Much as I may yearn to have them, it cannot be," she said to herself, "yet I may feast my eyes upon them."
      "Go away from here!" said a harsh voice. "How can the rich people see all my fine things if you stand before the window? Be off with you, you miserable little beggar!"
      It was the shopkeeper, and he gave Barbara a savage box on the ear that sent her reeling into the deeper snowdrifts of the gutter.
      Presently she came to a large house where there seemed to be much mirth and festivity. The shutters were thrown open, and through the windows Barbara could see a beautiful Christmas-tree in the centre of a spacious room -- a beautiful Christmas tree ablaze with red and green lights, and heavy with toys and stars and glass balls and other beautiful things that children love. There was a merry throng around the tree, and the children were smiling and gleeful, and all in that house seemed content and happy. Barbara heard them singing, and their song was about the prince who was to come on the morrow.
      "This must be the house where the prince will stop, " thought Barbara. "How I would like to see his face and hear his voice! --yet what would he care for me, a 'miserable little beggar'?''
       So Barbara crept on through the storm, shivering and disconsolate, yet thinking of the prince.
       "Where are going?" she asked of the wind as it overtook her.
      "To the cathedral," laughed the wind. "The great people are flocking there, and I will have a merry time amongst them, ha, ha, ha!"
      And with laughter the wind whirled away and chased the snow toward the cathedral.
       "It is there, then, that the prince will come," thought Barbara. "it is a beautiful place, and the people will pay him homage there. Perhaps I shall see him if I go there."
      So she went to the cathedral. Many folk were there in their richest apparel, and the organ rolled out its grand music, and the songs, and the prayers were all about the prince and his expected coming. The throng that swept in and out of the great edifice talked always of the prince, the prince, the prince, until Barbara really loved him very much, for all the gentle words she heard the people say of him.
      "Please, can I go and sit inside?" inquired Barbara of the sexton.
      "No!" said the sexton gruffly, for this was an important occasion with the sexton, and he had no idea of wasting words on a beggar child.
      "But I will be very good and quiet," pleaded Barbara. "Please may I not see the prince?"
      "I have said no, and I mean it," retorted the sexton. "What have you for the prince, or what cares the prince for you? Out with you, and don't be blocking up the door-way!" So the sexton gave Barbara an angry push, and the child fell half-way down the icy steps of the cathedral. She began to cry. Some great people were entering the cathedral at the time, and they laughed to see her falling.
      "Have you seen the prince? inquired a snowflake, alighting on Barbara's cheek. It was the same little snowflake that had clung to her shawl an hour ago, when the wind came galloping along on his boisterous search.
      "Ah, no!" sighed Barbara in tears; "but what cares the prince for me?"
      "Do not speak so bitterly," said the little snowflake. "Go to the forest and you shall see him, for the prince always comes through the forest to the city."
      Despite the cold, and her bruises, and her tears Barbara smiled. In the forest she could behold the prince coming on his way; and he would not see her, for she would hide among the trees and vines.
      "Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!" It was the mischievous, romping wind once more; and it fluttered Barbara's tattered shawl, and set her hair to streaming in every direction, and swept the snowflake from her cheek and sent it spinning through the air.
      Barbara trudged toward the forest. When she came to the city gate the watchman stopped her, and held his big lantern in her face, and asked her who she was and where she was going.
      "I am Barbara, and I am going into the forest," said she boldly.
      "Into the forest?" cried the watchman, "and in this storm? No, child; you will perish!"
      "But I am going to see the prince," said Barbara. "They will not let me watch for him in the church, nor in any of their pleasant homes, so I am going into the forest."
      The watchman smiled sadly. He was a kindly man; he thought of his own little girl at home.
      "No, you must not go to the forest," said he, "for you would perish with the cold."
But Barbara would not stay. She avoided the watchman's grasp and ran as fast as ever she could through the city gate.
      "Come back, come back!" cried the watchman; "you will perish in the forest!"
      But Barbara would not heed his cry. The falling snow did not stay her, nor did the cutting blast. She thought only of the prince, and she ran straightway to the forest.

to be continued. . . .

Joel's Talk With Santa Claus

Santa speaks with Joel.
 
      ONE Christmas eve Joel Baker was in a most unhappy mood. He was lonesome and miserable; the chimes making merry Christmas music outside disturbed rather than soothed him, the jingle of the sleigh-bells fretted him, and the shrill whistling of the wind around the corners of the house and up and down the chimney seemed to grate harshly on his ears.
      "Humph," said Joel, wearily, "Christmas is nothin' to me; there was a time when it meant a great deal, but that was long ago-- fifty years is a long stretch to look back over. There is nothin' in Christmas now, nothin' for me at least; it is so long since Santa Claus remembered me that I venture to say he has forgotten that there ever was such a person as Joel Baker in all the world. It used to be different; Santa Claus used to think a great deal of me when I was a boy. Ah! Christmas nowadays ain't what it was in the good old time -- no, not what it used to be."
      As Joel was absorbed in his distressing thoughts he became aware very suddenly that somebody was entering or trying to enter the room. First came a draught of cold air, then a scraping, grating sound, then a strange shuffling, and then, --yes, then, all at once, Joel saw a pair of fat legs and a still fatter body dangle down the chimney, followed presently by a long white beard, above which appeared a jolly red nose and two bright twinkling eyes, while over the head and forehead was drawn a fur cap, white with snowflakes.
      "Ha, ha," chuckled the fat, jolly stranger, emerging from the chimney and standing well to one side of the hearth-stone; "ha, ha, they don't have the big, wide chimneys they used to build, but they can't keep Santa Claus out! Ha, ha, ha. Though the chimney were no bigger than a gas pipe, Santa Claus would slide down it!"
      It didn't require a second glance to assure Joel that the new-comer was indeed Santa Claus. Joel knew the good old saint -- oh, yes -- and he had seen him once before, and , although that was when Joel was a little boy, he had never forgotten how Santa Claus looked. Nor had Santa Claus forgotten Joel, although Joel thought he had; for now Santa Claus looked kindly at Joel and smiled and said: "Merry Christmas to you, Joel!"
     "Thank you, old Santa Claus," replied Joel, "but I don't believe it's going to be a very merry Christmas. It's been so long since I've had a merry Christmas that I don't believe I'd know how to act if I had one."
      "Let's see," said Santa Claus, "it must be going on fifty years since I saw you last -- yes, you were eight years old the last time I slipped down the chimney of the old homestead and filled your stocking. Do you remember it?"
      "I remember it well," answered Joel. "I had mad up my mind to lie awake and see Santa Claus; I had heard tell of you, but I'd never seen you, and Brother Otis and I concluded we'd lie awake and watch for you to come."
      Santa Claus shook his head reproachfully. "That was very wrong," said he, "for I'm so scarey that if I'd known you boys were awake I'd never have come down the chimney at all, and then you'd have had no presents."
      "But Otis couldn't keep awake," explained Joel. "We talked about everythin' we could think of, till father called out to us that if we didn't stop talking he'd have to send one of us up into the attic to sleep with the hired man. So in less than five minutes Otis was sound asleep and no pinching could wake him up. But I was bound to see Santa Claus and I don't believe anything would've put me to sleep. I heard the big clock in the sitting-room strike eleven, and I had begun wonderin' if you never were going to come, when all of a sudden I heard the tinkle of the the bells around your reindeer's necks. Then I heard the reindeers prancin' on the roof and the sound of your sleigh-runners cuttin' and through the crust and slippin' over the shingles. I was kind o' scared and I covered my head up with the sheet and quilts -- only I left a little hole so I could peek out and see what was goin' on. As soon as I saw you I got over bein' scared -- for you were jolly and smilin' like, and you chuckled as you went around to each stockin' and filled it up."
      "Yes, I can remember the night," said Santa Claus. "I brought you a sled, didn't I?"
      "Yes, and you brought Otis one, too," replied Joel. "Mine was red and had 'Yankee Doodle' painted in black letters on the side; Otis's was black and had 'Snow Queen' in gilt letters."
      "I remember those sleds distinctly," said Santa Claus, "for I made them specially for you boys."
      "You set the sleds up against the wall," continued Joel, "and then you filled the stockin's."
      "There were six of 'em, as I recollect?" said Santa Claus.
      "Let me see," quired Joel. "There was mine, and Otis's, and Elvira's and Thankful's, and Susan Prickett's -- Susan was our help, you know. No, that were only five, and, as I remember, they were the biggest we could beg or borrer of Aunt Dorcas, who weighed nigh unto two hundred pounds. Otis and I didn't like Susan Prickett, and we were hopin' you'd put a cold potato in her stockin'."
      "But Susan was a good girl," remonstrated Santa Claus. "You know I put cold potatoes only in the stockin's of boys and girls who are bad and don't believe in Santa Claus."
      "At any rate," said Joel, "you filled all the stockin's with candy and pop-corn balls before you got around. Then you left each of us a book. Elvira got the best one, which was 'The Garland of Frien'ship,' and had poems in it about the bleeding of hearts, and so forth. Father wasn't expectin' anything, but you left him a new pair of mittens, and mother got a new fur boa to wear to meetin'."
      "Of course," said Santa Claus, "I never forgot father and mother."
      "Well, it was as much as I could do to lay still," continued Joel, "for I'd been longin' for a sled, an' the sight of that red sled with 'Yankee Doodle' painted on it jest made me wild. But, somehow or other, I began to get powerful sleepy all at once, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. The next thing I knew Otis was nudgin' me in the ribs. 'Git up, Joel,' says he; 'it's Chri'mas an' Santa Claus has been here.' 'Merry Chris'mas! Merry Chris'mas!' we cried as we tumbled out o' bed. Then Elvira an' Thankful came in, not more 'n half dressed, and Susan came in, too, an' we just made Rome howl with 'Merry Chris'mas! Merry Chris'mas!' to each other. 'Ef you children don't make less noise in there,' cried father, 'I'll hev to send you all back to bed.' The idea of askin' boys an' girls to keep quiet on Chris'mas mornin' when they've got new sleds an' 'Garlands of Frien'ship'!"
      Santa Claus chuckled; his rosy cheeks fairly beamed joy.
      "Otis an' I didn't want any breakfast," said Joel. "We made up our minds that a stockin'ful of candy and pop-corn and raisins would stay us for a while. I do believe there wasn't buckwheat cakes enough in the township to keep us indoors that mornin'; buckwheat cakes don't size up much 'longside of a red sled with 'Yankee Doodle' painted onto it and a black sled named 'Snow Queen.' We didn't care how cold it was -- so much the better for slidin' downhill! All the boys had new sleds -- Lafe Dawson, Bill Holbrook, Gum Adams, Rube Playford, Leander Merrick, Ezra Purple -- all on 'em had new sleds excep' Martin Peavey, and he said he calculated Santa Claus had skipped him this year 'cause his father had broke his leg haulin' logs from the Pelham woods and had been kep' in-doors six weeks. But Martin had his ol' sled, and he didn't hev to ask any odds of any of us, neither."
      "I brought Martin a sled the next Christmas," said Santa Claus.
      "Like as not-- but did you ever slide down-hill, Santa Claus? I don't mean such hills as they hev out here in this new country, but one of them old-fashioned New England hills that was made 'specially for boys to slide down, full of bumpers an' thank-ye-marms, and about ten times longer comin' up than it is goin' down! The wind blew in our faces, jist as if it was a boy, too, an' wanted to play with us. An ol' crow came flappin' over us from the cornfield beyond the meadow. He said: 'Caw, caw,' when he saw my new sled --I s'pose he'd never seen a red one before. Otis had a hard time with his sled -- the black one -- an' he wondered why it wouldn't go as fast as mine would. 'Hev you scraped the paint off'n the runners? asked Wralsey Goodnow. 'Course I hev,' said Otis; 'broke my own knife an' Lute Ingraham's a-doin' it, but it don't seem to make no dif'rence -- the darned ol' thing won't go!' Then, what did Simon Buzzell say but that, like's not, it was because Otis's sled's name was 'Snow Queen.' 'Never did see a girl sled that was worth a cent, anyway,' sez Simon. Well, now, that jest about broke Otis up in business. 'It ain't a girl sled,' sez he, 'and its name ain't "Snow Queen"! I'm a-goin' to call it "Dan'l Webster," or "Ol'ver Optic," or "Sheriff Robbins," or after some other big man!' An' the boys plagued him so much about that pesky girl sled that he scratched off the name, an', as I remember, it did go better after that!
      "About the only thing," continued Joel, "that marred the harmony of the occasion as the editor of the Hampshire County Phoenex used to say, was the ashes that Deacon Morris Frisbie sprinkled out in front of his house. He said he wasn't going to have folks breakin' their necks jest on account of a lot of frivolous boys that was goin' to the gallows as fas' as they could! Oh, how we hated him! and we'd have snowballed him, too, if we hadn't been afraid of the constable that lived next door. But the ashes didn't bother us much, and every time we slid side-saddle we'd give the ashes a kick, and that sort of scattered 'em."
      The bare thought of this made Santa Claus laugh.
      "Goin' on about nine o'clock," said Joel, "the girls come along -- Sister Elvira an' Thankful, Prudence Tucker, Belle Yocum, Sophrone Holbrook, Sis Hubbard, an' Marthy Sawyer. Marthy's brother Increase wanted her to ride on his sled, but Marthy allowed that a red sled was her choice every time. 'I don't see how I'm goin' to hold on,' said Marthy. 'Seems as if I would hev my hands full keepin' my things from blowin' away.' 'Don't worry about yourself, Marthy,' sez I, 'for if you'll look after your things, I kind o' calc'late I'll manage not to lose you on the way.' Dear Marthy-- seems as if I could see you now, with your tangled hair a blowin' in the wind, your eyes all bright and sparklin', an' your cheeks as red as apples. Seems, too, as if I could hear you laughin' an' a-callin', jist as you did as I toiled up the old New England hill that Chris'mas mornin'-- a-callin': 'Joel, Joel, Joel-- ain't ye ever comin', Joel?' But the hill is long and steep, Marthy, an Joel ain't the boy he used to be; he's old, an' gray, an' feeble, but there's love an' faith in his heart, an' they kind o'keep him totterin' tow'rd the voice he hears a-callin': 'Joel, Joel, Joel!'"
      "I know -- I see it all," murmured Santa Claus very softly.
      "Oh, that was so long ago," sighed Joel; "so very long ago! And I've had no Chris'mas since -- only once, when our little one -- Marthy's an' mine -- you remember him, Santa Claus?"
      "Yes," said Santa Claus, "a toddling little boy with blue eyes--"
      "Like his mother," interrupted Joel; "an' he was like her, too-- so gentle an' lovin', only we called him Joel, for that was my father's name and it kind o' run in the fam'ly. He wa'n't more'n three years old when you came with your Chris'mas presents for him, Santa Claus. We had told him about you, and he used to go to the chimney every night and make a little prayer about what he wanted you to bring him. And you brought 'em, too -- a stick-horse, an' a picture-book, an' some blocks, an' a drum-- they're on the shelf in the closet there, and his little Chris'mas stockin' with 'em--I've saved 'em all, an' I 've taken 'em down an' held 'em in my hands, oh, many times!"
      "But when I came again," said Santa Claus------
      "His little bed was empty, an' I was alone. It killed his mother--Marthy was so tenderhearted; she kind o' drooped an' pined after that. So now they've been asleep side by side in the buryin'-ground these thirty years.
      "That's why I'm so sad-like whenever Chris'mas comes." said Joel, after a pause. "The thinkin' of long ago makes me bitter almost. It's so different now from what it used to be."
      "No, Joel, oh, no," said Santa Claus. "'Tis the same world, and human nature is the same and always will be. But Christmas is for the little folks, and you, who are old and grizzled now, must know it and love it only through the gladness it brings the little ones."
      "True groaned Joel; "but how may I know and feel this gladness when I have no little stocking hanging in my chimney corner -- no child to please me with his prattle? See, I am alone."
      "No, you're not alone, Joel," said Santa Claus. "There are children in this great city who would love and bless you for your goodness if you but touched their hearts. Make them happy, Joel; send by me this night some gift to the little boy in the old house yonder -- he is poor and sick; a simple toy will fill his Christmas with gladness."
      "His little sister, too-- take her some presents," said Joel; "make them happy for me, Santa Claus-- you are right -- make them happy for me."
      How sweetly Joel slept! When he awoke, the sunlight streamed in through the window and seemed to bid him a merry Christmas. How contented and happy Joel felt! It must have been the talk with Santa Claus that did it all; he had never known a sweeter sense of peace. A little girl came out of the house over the way. She had a new doll in her arms, and she sang a merry little song and she laughed with joy as she skipped along the street. Ay, and at the window sat the little sick boy, and the toy Santa Claus left him seemed to have brought him strength and health, for his eyes sparkled and his cheeks glowed, and it was plain to see his heart was full of happiness.
      And oh! how the chimes did ring out, and how joyfully they sang their Christmas carol that morning! They sang of Bethlehem and the manger and the Babe; they sang of love and charity, till all the Christmas air seemed full of angel voices.
   Carol of the Christmas morn--
   Carol of the Christ-child born--
   Carol to the list'ning sky
   Till it echoes back again
   "Glory be to God on high,
   Peace on earth, good will tow'rd men!"
      So all this music -- the carol of the chimes, the sound of children's voices, the smile of the poor little boy over the way -- all this sweet music crept into Joel's heart that Christmas morning; yes, and with these sweet, holy influences came others so subtile and divine that in its silent communion with them, Joel's heart cried out amen and amen to the glory of the Christmas time.

by Eugene Field

Lily's Grave by Madge Carrol

December 24-- It is Christmas eve! The third anniversary of Lily's death. Robert is unavoidably absent-- gone a week to be gone a week longer. I sit alone and muse on the little life that blessed and brightened my three happy Christmas tides, then dropped away, almost as though it had never been. Almost as though it had never been, yet there are countless reminders of her hidden away in the house. Hidden away, for not one of them can nestle in my arms, speak to me with her voice, or touch me with the dear, soft touch of her hands.

      I have put away everything that speaks of her except the little high-chair she used at meal-time. It is Robert's fancy to have that and her tiny cup, saucer and plate carved with lilies-of-the-valley, placed between our own at table. Robert's fancy, and he has so few I have humored it under the heart-break of seeing them empty for evermore.
      Flesh and sense gasp at the silence in the house, rebel against the mocking, empty horror in the air; still, wondering dumbly were it ever otherwise.
      Do I not dream I once bore a child? I ask this; then my soul speaks, cries out in its awful agony after that other part of me wrenched away when they laid my frozen lily under the winter snows. Yes, she was mine, she was here; no dream-child, but a warm, living presence. My very own, purchased through suffering -- my only one, knitted close to body, soul, heart, brain-- the very pulse of my being, my love, my pride, my glory, torn from me in very mockery of the claims of motherhood.
      Mrs. Fluffy calls, her arms full of Christmas toys, her eyes of Christmas lights. I hate her, I hate the sound of children's voices in the street, the boys' merry shout, the girls' tuneful laugh. It pleases Mrs. Fluffy to say, "Dear me! How quiet and cozy you are here! Our house is such a hurly-burly from beginning to end, I declare I almost lose my sense. Sam's hammering from garret to cellar. little Jem's tearing 'round like mad, and even Fanny begins to know what Christmas is, and goes wild. They'll be on the watch for me at the window, I bet; and how to get these things in without their seeing me is more than I can contrive. You don't have any of this bother; you look as comfortable as an old maid. Whatever in the world have you got three chairs at the table for? Laws! And a high one at that! Did I ever!"
      She laughs-- a thoroughly silly, care-for-naught laugh--dropping some of her parcels as she does so.
      I do not answer, nor does she notice that I so not, being completely engrossed in herself and her purchases.
      She goes, and I, kneeling beside the empty chair of my dead darling, wrestle afresh with my old, ever-new grief. She too had just begun to know what Christmas is, & died with Christmas toys about her.
      "We're not rich, you know, Abbie, and can't afford to spend much on her grave just now; but suppose we put away for a year or two what we would have spent for her had she lived, and then get one of the handsomest monuments we can find."
      So said Robert while that tiny mound lay fresh under winter snows. There is a blue-and-silver purse in the drawer up-stairs . I was knitting it for him the winter we lost her-- how often her willful, fondling baby hands were tangled in its meshes! Through its unfinished thread gleam the coins that, had she been spared us, would have bought her little frocks and shoes, her dainty embroideries, books, bonbons, dolls.
      Somehow the fancy comes to me to-night, and my lonely, gnawing anguish seizes upon it, to go out and make believe buy her a new baby.
      "Oh yes, my little girl must have a Christmas doll and a tree; I must trim a tree for my darling," I say, clutching at my outdoor wraps with feverish eagerness, and leaving my supper untasted, for Ann to clear or not, as she likes.
      The cold air stings me into something like animation. I find the streets all alive with big and little people; they seem so joyous too, every one; so different from me. Christmas boughs trail on my footpath, Christmas holly burns redly overhead, my sombre garments take on strange colors in the dancing Christmas lights. I am quick to see everything that betrays the warm father and mother heart and the presence of child-treasures in the house. The gayly-painted sleds and wheelbarrows, tiny tippet-boxes, Cinderella skates, great blonde dolls, tea-tables, wash tubs, irons, dustpans, and all the paraphernalia of mimic housekeeping that goes to make up the charm of Christmas-time.
      What hurts me the most of all amid so many cruel pangs, I think, is the knowing, or rather unknowing, looks of these happy parents planning for their children's pleasure. They appear to take it quite for granted that I have stolen out under cover of darkness on bewildering burdens. I t maddens me to recognize this thought, and then remember the little chair I left sitting empty at the table.
      A large, ruddy Irishwoman, with more dolls in her arms and hugged against her broad bosom than she can very well look to, even goes so far as to indicate a bloomy brunette with her fat chin and says to me,
      "Look, only a dollar seventy-five--up at Jones'-- git one fur yours-- I warrant she'll be tickled."
      Following this blind guide I go to Jones'. I have been there before, but they so not know me. I don't mean to give trouble, but I ask in a dreamy way the price of things, and the attendant brings them and places them before me. I look at them without really seeing, and turn to others still.
      The food-natured shuffle and bustle around me, the noise and lights, tend to make me more and more confused, for I am not used to being among people since Lily died. Then, too, the eager, joyous, expectant child faces fill me with passionate pangs. So I let them go on, piling around me all the glittering trifles for a tree; and at last the heap is crowned by a great wax doll dressed for a party in rose color and white.
      "How much is this?"
      I have heard the question repeated some half dozen times; the soft musical underflow of a child's plaintive voice among the busy roll and banter of grown-up men and women's tongues; heard it unheeded like one under the influence of a narcotic; its meaning comes straight home when the blonde beauty of a child's hair straying out from the faded hood touches my listlessly dropped hands.
      "Haven't you got anything for a penny?" she asks despondently of the attendants, who are too busy with pounds to look after pence.
      "Oh, bother your penny! Go somewhere else with it. We don't want it."
The little one turns as if I had addressed her, and looks up into my face with eyes of such piteous grieving my whole soul trembles and leans out toward her.
      "Oh, give me something for a penny-- ever such a little something; I do so want a tiny bit of Christmas."
      "Go along, I tell you; what do you come in here for, anyhow? Here, out with you!" and the attendant's hands swoop down on the small shoulders peeping bare and red through slits in the thin dress. "Jim, set this youngster outside."
      "Lily!"
      It is an older girl who speaks, even more forlorn and ragged that this little transgressor; she has squeezed herself up against the wall and remained unnoticed hitherto.
      "Hah!" blusters the proprietor of the premises, coming to the rescue, not of children, but of his rights, which he firmly believed are endangered. "There's the couple of you, is there? Come to steal, have you? Out with them Jim! Let me see you here again and I'll see you in prison."
The little storm-tossed human blossom-- bearing my angel's-- baby's name, wearing also her golden drift of hair, looking at me with eyes as blue as hers-- is lifted over my listless arms, crying out as she goes,
      "I didn't, indeed I didn't come to steal! My mother's dead, and oh, I did so want a bit of Christmas!"
      The lava torrent of mocked maternal love wells hot within me in answer to that agonizing child-cry. They hustle her out, they set her poor little half-bare feet upon winter snows; but on the instant I am there beside her. I kneel on the cold pavement, I clasp her quivering form; and in this blessed moment, when I vow to shield this motherless one, so help me God, even as I would have my own Lily shielded, something of joy that thrills through heaven over a soul saved comes down into my heart.
      In the next street I find a dead woman in a cellar.
      "She was uppish-like, and rinted our fust floor when she come here six months ago; but laws! I know'd she couldn't hold on; death had her than jist as tight as her has now. You see her man he forgeried and killed hisself in prison. Then his people, they turned her off; she had none, you know. She sewed real smart, and tried to hold together for the young uns' sake, but 'twere no use at all."
      That is the history of these little ones.
      I take the oldest to a kind woman whom I know; I make arrangements fo rhte mother's burial; then I bring the little one home. I cannot help but feel selfish, thankful thrill when Ann, after washing her, says:
      "What'll you be afther puttin' on her? She's to big fur Miss Lily's clothes, though sure an' she'd a-been this big if she'd a-lived."
      Yes, I am thankful, for what it not be wrong to withhold them if their soft folds could shape themselves to these shivering limbs? Yet could I bear to see them thus?
      I take out my little pocket-book, bronze and gold--Robert's gift. I count out the sum that one hour ago I would have assigned to the blue-and-silver purse for Lily's Christmas toys, and Ann is speeding out to a furnishing-house near by for a six-year-old child's outfit; while I, wrapping my warm woollen shawl about the small thing, find myself telling her about my heaven sheltered Lily.
      She listens to me, this motherless, homeless waif, with eyes like newly-opened morning glories, and when I am done sits with one hand holding back her golden fall of hair, while her gaze rests bright and earnest on my face.
      "Of what are you thinking, little one?" I ask.
      A pious mother's lessons make the music of her speech when she answer me:
      "I am thinking that when my mother got to heaven, your little girl must have met her and told her how sorry you was, and then my mother told her all about how sorry I was; and both together they went to Jesus and told him, and he sent me here to comfort you. Don't you think so?"
      With the fire-gleams glancing on that golden head, where all was emptiness and horror, with those infant accents breaking up the awful silence of the house, with that new, strange feeling of rest and unrest, with that delicious, brooding sense of comfort, compensation, just within my grasp, no marvel that I cry, "I do, I do," and feel adown my cheeks a rush of bitter-sweet tears.
      December 28-- I can put nothing more in the blue-and-silver purse. Indeed, with the new and unexpected expense I have assumed, I am even obliged to take something out. I do not regret it. Since I waked to the knowledge that I am not the only one who struggles and suffers-- in my blindness I lost sight of this-- that even children, babes like my lost one, are not spared the chill and the agony of bereavement, and, worst still, privations of which my sheltered life knows nothing; --since, as I say, I waked to a sense of this, there comes a feeling with it, a fear, lest the pride of marble we proposed to rear above our darling would stand betwixt some young head like this and sunshine-- would glitter coldly between some fair child-mouth and daily bread.
      New Year's Eve. Robert comes to-night, this soft, white winter night. He sees close beside our Lily's chair another, not empty, but crowned with a fair child-face, golden hair and lips like a japonica bud.
      It comes upon him a surprise. I meant it should.
      "Robert," I say, half laughing, half crying, "this is Lily's monument."
      He is even better content than I to have it so.
      "Next spring," he says,"we will make of her grave such am alter of bloom and fragrance that all the bees and birds for miles around will seek it out."
      Yes," I reply; "and while our hearts sadden over her memory, let us never fail to be thankful that no glittering shaft of marble stands between us and a starving child."

Forgetting and Remembering.

Forgetting and Remembering

Remember every kindness done
To you, whate'er its measure;
Remember praise by others won
And pass it on with pleasure;
Remember every promise made,
And keep it to the letter;
Remember those who lend you aid
And be a grateful debtor.

Remember all the happiness
That comes your way in living;
Forget each worry and distress,
Be hopeful and forgiving;
Remember good, remember truth,
Remember heaven's above you,
And you will find, through age and youth,
True joys, and hearts to love you.
Youth's Companion.

Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.

      "Many popular Christmas hymns have a most interesting history. Those who have heard the waits and carolers sing "Hark, the Herold Angels Sing!" on Christmas eve will be astonished to know that many years ago it was rendered "Hark, How All The Welkin Rings!" and was sung to the tune of "See the Conquering Hero Comes." When this former wording was adopted in the new hymn book of the "Hymns Ancient and Modern" there was a great storm of criticism from those who prefer the modern version. The hymn was written by Charles Wesley." from How We Got Our Christmas Hymns, 1913
 
Vintage sheet music of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing", CC.
       In 1721, a wealthy Irishman offered to adopt Charles Wesley and make him his legal heir. The thirteen year old boy refused the offer, choosing to continue his way through school under very trying circumstances. This turned out to be one of the most momentous decisions of his life. The boy who was adopted in place of Charles became an earl, and grandfather of the famous Duke of Wellington, while the young Wesley achieved immortal fame through his hymns. He is often called "The Prince of Hymn Writers".
       Charles Wesley and his older brother, John (founder of the Methodist Church) made a brief visit to America in 1735. The two brothers came to Georgia as secretaries to General Oglethorpe. They returned to England the following year. It is said that Charles became interested in hymns on hearing a group of German Moravians singing their hymns aboard ship.
       Wesley is said to have written over six thousand hymns and spiritual songs. His two greatest hymns are: Jesus Lover of My Soul (1740) and Hark! The Herald Angels Sing (1739). The latter, in its original form, opened with the lines "Hark how all the welkin rings. Glory to the King of Kings!" Through the course of time, various revisions have been made.
       It is a curious fact that the Mendelssohn melody, which is so admirably suited to the song, is an adaptation. In 1840, Felix Mendelssohn composed a cantata to commemorate the invention of printing. This cantata, called "Festgesang" (Festival Song), was presented at the great festival held at Leipzig. Fifteen years later (1855), Dr. W. H. Cummings, organist at Waltham Abbey, England, adapted the melody of the second chorus of Mendelssohn's cantata to Wesley's Christmas hymn. He arranged it for his choir and presented it on Christmas day. The new melody was so well received that it was published the following year and soon became the accepted version of the hymn.
       Mendelssohn was not completely satisfied with the original words to this melody in the Festgesang. He thought it ought to have other words — but not sacred words. This is verified by a very definite statement which he made in a letter to his publishers in England concerning a possible English translation. Quotations from this letter were published in 1933, by Dr. Dearmer, in his Songs of Praise.
       Had Mendelssohn lived to hear his melody sung to the sacred words of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, we wonder if it would not have won his enthusiastic acclaim, as it has won the acclaim of millions throughout all Christendom. Kvamme.

 

Bethlehem Town

Bethlehem Town

As I was going to Bethlehem - town,
Upon the earth I cast me down
All underneath a little tree
That whispered in this wise to me :
"Oh, I shall stand on Calvary
And bear what burthen saveth thee!"

As up I fared to Bethlehem - town,
I met a shepherd coming down,
And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sight
Hath spread before mine eyes this night,--
And angel host most fair to see,
That sung full sweetly of a tree
That shall uplift on Calvary
What burthen saveth you and me!"

And as I gat to Bethlehem - town,
Lo! wise men came that bore a crown.
"Is there," cried I, "in Bethlehem
A King shall wear this diadem?"
"Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is He
That shall be lifted on the tree
And freely shed on Calvary
What blood redeemeth us and thee!"

Unto a Child in Bethlehem - town
The wise men came and brought a crown;
And while the infant smiling slept,
Upon their knees they fell and wept,
But, with her babe upon her knee,
Naught recked that Mother of the tree,
That should uplift on Calvary
What burthen saveth all and me.

Again I walk in Bethlehem - town
And think on Him that wears the crown.
I may not kiss His feet again,
Nor worship Him as did I then;
My King hath died upon the tree,
And hath outpoured on Calvary
What blood redeemeth you and me!

by Eugene Field

Silent Night.

Vintage sheet music of "Silent Night" lyrics included, CC.

      "Silent Night" (German: Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht) is a popular Christmas carol, composed in 1818 by Franz Xaver Gruber to lyrics by Joseph Mohr in the small town of Oberndorf bei Salzburg, Austria. It was declared an intangible cultural heritage by the UNESCO in March 2011. The song has been recorded by a large number of singers from every music genre.
      The song was first performed on Christmas Eve 1818 at the St Nicholas parish church in Oberndorf, a village on the Salzach river. The young priest, Father Joseph Mohr, had come to Oberndorf the year before. He had already written the lyrics of the song "Stille Nacht" in 1816 at Mariapfarr, the hometown of his father in the Salzburg Lungau region, where Joseph had worked as a coadjutor.
      The melody was composed by Franz Xaver Gruber, schoolmaster and organist in the nearby village of Arnsdorf. Before Christmas Eve, Mohr brought the words to Gruber and asked him to compose a melody and guitar accompaniment for the church service. Both performed the carol during the mass on the night of December 24.
      The original manuscript has been lost. However a manuscript was discovered in 1995 in Mohr's handwriting and dated by researchers at ca. 1820. It shows that Mohr wrote the words in 1816 when he was assigned to a pilgrim church in Mariapfarr, Austria, and shows that the music was composed by Gruber in 1818. This is the earliest manuscript that exists and the only one in Mohr's handwriting.

 
Lyrics for Silent Night
Silent night! holy night!
All is calm, all is bright.
'Round yon Virgin Mother and Child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent night! holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight!
Glories stream from heaven afar,
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia;
Christ the Savior is born.
Christ the Savior is born.

Silent night! holy night!
Son of God, love's pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face,
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord at Thy birth.
Jesus, Lord at Thy birth.

More Lovely Versions of "Silent Night":

A York Music Box.


A York Music Box

Just out of the window,
Tipped fine with a feather,
Stands a droll little box
Put compactly together.

From May till October
On the boughs it is swaying,
Making happy the heart
With the songs it is playing,

Keeping quick time and tune,
With quaver and quiver,
To the rustle of leaves
And the flow of the river.

No handicraft is finer
From Munich or Zurich,
Than this by the window
Where floats the sweet music,

When the elm branches wave,
And the blue sky discloses
The little red box,
In York's garden of roses.

With the thoughts of God in it,
Its warm breast is throbbing,--
For the droll music-box
Is a gay little robin.

by Sarah D. Clark.