A Little Book for Christmas by Cyrus Townsend Brady

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"Did you think I was not coming?" he asked as he re-entered the cabin.

"I knew you would come back," said the girl and it was Henry's turn to
tingle with pride.

He wrapped her up carefully, and fairly ran back to the car. They found
the boys warm and comfortable and greatly excited.

"If we just had a Christmas tree and Santa Claus and something to eat
and a drink of water and a place to sleep," said the youngest boy, "it
would be great fun."

"I am afraid we can't manage the Christmas tree," said Henry, "but we
can have everything else."

"Do you mean Santy?"

"Santy too," answered the boy. "First of all, we will get something to
eat."

"We haven't had anything since morning," said the girl. Henry divided
the sandwiches into three portions. As it happened, there were three
hard-boiled eggs. He gave one portion to each of his guests.

"You haven't left any for yourself," said Mary.

"I ate before I looked for you," answered Henry, although the one
sandwich had by no means satisfied his hunger.

"My, but this is good!" said George.

"Our mother is dead," said Mary Wright after a pause, "and our father is
awful poor. He has taken out a homestead and we are trying to live on it
until he gets it proved up. We have had a very hard time since mother
died."

"Yes, I know," said Henry, gravely; "my mother died, too."

"I wonder what time it is?" asked the girl at last.

Henry pulled out his watch. "It is after six o'clock," he said.

"Say," broke in George, "that's a funny kind of a uniform you've got
on."

"It is a Boy Scout uniform."

"Oh, is it?" exclaimed George. "I never saw one before. I wish I could
be a Scout!"

"Maybe you can," answered Henry. "I am going to organize a troop when I
get to Kiowa. But now I'm going to fix beds for you. Of course we are
all sleepy after such a hard day."

He had seen the trainmen lift up the bottoms of the seats and lay them
lengthwise of the car. He did this, and soon made four fairly
comfortable beds. The two nearest the stove he gave to the boys. He
indicated the next one was for Mary, and the one further down toward the
middle of the car was for himself.

"You can all go to bed right away," he said when he had made his
preparations. The two boys decided to accept this advice. Mary said she
would stay up a little longer and talk with Henry.

"You can't undress," she said to the two boys. "You'll have to sleep as
you are." She sat down in one of the car seats; Philip knelt down at one
knee and George at the other. The girl, who was barely fifteen had
already taken her mother's place. She laid her hand on each bent head
and listened while one after the other the boys said their prayers. She
kissed them good-night, saw them comfortably laid out on the big
cushions with their overcoats for pillows and turned away.

"Say," began Philip, "you forgot something, Mary."

"What have I forgotten, dear?"

"Why, it's Christmas Eve and we must hang up our stockings."

Mary threw up her hands. "I am afraid this is too far away for Santa
Claus. He won't know that we are out here," she said.

"Oh, I don't know," said Henry, thinking rapidly, "let them hang them
up."

Mary looked at him in surprise. "They haven't any to hang up," she said.
"We can't take those they're wearing."

"You should have thought of that," wailed Philip, "before you brought us
here."

"I have some extra ones in my bag," said Henry. "We will hang them up."

He opened the bag and brought out three stockings, one for each of his
guests. He fastened them to the baggage racks above the seats and
watched the two boys contentedly close their eyes and go to sleep.

"They will be awfully disappointed when they wake up in the morning and
do not find anything in them," said Mary.

"They're going to find something in them," said Henry confidently.

He went to the end of the car, opened his trunk and lifted out various
packages which had been designed for him. Of course he was going on
sixteen, but there were some things that would do for Philip and plenty
of things for George and some good books that he had selected himself
that would do for Mary. Then there were candy and nuts and cakes and
oranges galore. Mary was even more excited than he was as they filled
the boys' stockings and arranged things that were too big to go in them.

"These are your own Christmas gifts, I know," said the girl, "and you
haven't hung up your stocking."

"I don't need to. I have had my Christmas present."

"And what is that?"

"A chance to make a merry Christmas for you and your little brothers,"
answered Henry, and his heart was light.

"How long do you suppose we will have to stay here?" asked the girl.

"I don't know. I suppose they will try to dig us out to-morrow.
Meanwhile we have nuts, oranges, crackers, and little cakes, to say
nothing of the candy, to live on. Now you go to bed and have a good
sleep."

"And what will you do?"

"I'll stay up for a while and read one of these books and keep the fire
going."

"You are awfully good to us," said Mary, turning away. "You are just
like a real Santa Claus."

"We have to help other people--especially people in trouble," answered
the boy. "It is one of the first Scout rules. I am really glad I got
left behind and found you. Good-night."

The girl, whose experience that day had been hard, soon fell asleep with
her brothers. Henry did not feel sleepy at all; he was bright and happy
and rejoiced. This certainly _was_ an adventure. He wondered what Dick
and Joe and Spike and the other fellows of his troop would think when he
wrote them about it. He did not realize that he had saved the lives of
the children, who would assuredly have frozen to death in the cabin.

When he was satisfied that Mary was sound asleep, he put some things in
her stocking and then piled in the rack over her head two books he
thought the girl would like. It was late when he went to sleep himself,
happier than he had dreamed he could be.

He awoke once in the night to replenish the fire, but he was sleeping
soundly at seven o'clock in the morning when the door of the car opened
and half a dozen men filed in. They had not made any noise. Even the big
snow-plough tearing open the way from Kiowa had not disturbed the four
sleepers.

The first man in was the conductor. After the trainmen had discovered
that the coach had been left behind they had managed to get into Kiowa
and had started back at once with the rotary plough to open the road and
to rescue the boy. Henry's uncle had been in town to meet Henry, and of
course the trainmen let him go back with them on the plough. The third
man was Mr. Wright. He had been caught by the storm and, as he said, the
abandoned coach must be near his claim, he asked to be taken along
because he was afraid his children would be freezing to death.

The men stopped and surveyed the sleeping boys and girl. Their glances
ranged from the children to the bulging stockings and the pile of
Christmas presents in the racks.

"Well, can you beat that?" said the conductor.

"By George!" exclaimed Rancher Ives, "a regular Christmas layout!"

"These are my children safe and well, thank God!" cried Mr. Wright.

"Boy," said the conductor, laying his hand on Henry's shoulder, "we came
to wish you a Merry Christmas."

"Father!" cried Mary Wright, awakened by the voice, and the next minute
she was in his arms, while she told him rapidly what Henry had done for
them all.

The boys were awake, too, but humanity had no attraction for them.

"Santa has come!" shouted Philip making a dive for his stocking.

"This is your uncle, Jim Ives," said the conductor to Henry.

"And this is my father," said Mary in turn.

"I am awfully sorry," said Henry to the conductor, "but we had to eat
your dinner. And I had to chop up your kitchen table," he added, turning
to Mr. Wright.

"I am glad there was something to eat in the pail," said one.

"You could have chopped the cabin down," said the other.

"By George!" said the ranchman proudly. "I wrote to your father to send
you out here and we'd make a man of you, but it seems to me you are a
man already," he continued as Mary Wright poured forth the story of
their rescue.

"No, I am not a man," said Henry to his uncle, as he flushed with pride
at the hearty praise of these men. "I am just a--"

"Just a what?" asked the conductor as the boy hesitated.

"Why, just a Boy Scout," answered Henry.

LOOKING INTO THE MANGER

_A Christmas Meditation_

Christmas morning, the day we celebrate as the anniversary of the birth
of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, in the obscure, little hill town
of Bethlehem in the far-off Judaean land, over nineteen hundred years
ago!

It is said:

"When beggars die, there are no comets seen:
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

What is true of the passing of kings is perhaps more true of their
coming; yet in this birth are singular contradictions. The Child was
born a beggar. There lacks no touch which even imagination could supply
to indicate the meanness of His earthly condition. Homeless, His
mother, save for the stable of the public inn--and words can hardly
describe any place more unsuited--was shelterless, unprotected, in that
hour of travail pain.

I love to let my imagination dwell upon that scene. Sometimes I think
wayfarers may have gathered in the tavern hard by and with music and
play sought to while away the hours as travellers have from time
immemorial. Perhaps in some pause in their merriment, a strange cry of
anguish, borne by the night wind from the rude shelter without, may have
stopped their revelry for a moment and one may have asked of another:

"What is that?"

The servant of the house who stood obsequious to promote their pleasure
may have answered apologetically:

"It is the cry of a woman of the people in travail in the inn yard."

I can fancy their indifference to the answer, or I can hear perhaps the
rude jest, or the vulgar quip, with which such an announcement may have
been received, as the play or the music went on again.

Oh, yes, the world in solemn stillness lay, doubtless, that winter
night, but not the people in it. They pursued their several vocations as
usual. They loved or they hated, they worked or they played, they hoped
or they despaired, they dreamed or they achieved, just as they had done
throughout the centuries, just as they have done since that day, just as
they will do far into the future; although their little God came to
them, as never He came before, in the stable in the Bethlehem hills that
night.

And yet, had they but cast their eyes upward like the wise men--it is
always your wise man who casts his eyes upward--they, too, might have
seen the star that blazed overhead. It was placed so high above the
earth that all men everywhere could see to which spot on the surface it
pointed. Or, had they been devout men, they would have listened for
heavenly voices--it is always your devout man who tries to hear other
things than the babble of the Babel in which he lives--they, too, could
have heard the angelic chorus like the shepherds in the fields and on
the hillsides that frosty night.

For the heavens did blaze forth the birth of the Child. Not with the
thunder of guns, not with the blare of trumpets, not with the beating of
drums, not with the lighting of castle, village, and town, the kindling
of beacons upon the far-flung hills, the cry of fast-riding messengers
through the night, and the loud acclaim of thousands which greet the
coming of an earthly king, was He welcomed; but by the still shining of
a silent star and by the ineffable and transcendent voices of an Angel
Choir.

How long did the Shepherds listen to that chorus? How long did it ring
over the hills and far away? Whither went the Wise Men? Into what dim
distance vanished the star?

"Where are the roses of yesterday?
What has become of last year's snow?"

And the residuum of it all was a little Baby held to a woman's breast in
a miserable hovel in the most forlorn and detested corner of the world.
And yet to-day and at this hour, and at every hour during the
twenty-four, men are looking into that chamber; men are bowing to that
Child and His mother, and even that mother is at the feet of the Child.

From the snow peaks of the North land, "from Greenland's icy mountains
to India's coral strand," and on and on through all the burning tropics
to the companion ice of the other pole, the antarctic, and girdling the
world from east to west as well, the adoration continues. It comes alike
from the world's noblest, from the world's highest, from the world's
truest, from the world's kindest, from the world's poorest, from the
world's humblest, from the world's best.

Do not even the soldiers in the trenches upon the far-flung battle lines
pause to listen, look to see as for a moment dies away the cannonade? Do
not even the sailors of war and trade peer across the tossing waters of
the great deep, longing for a truce of God if only for an hour upon this
winter morning?

[Illustration: "The world bows down to a Mother and her Child--and the
Mother herself is at the feet of the Child."]

Yes, they all look into the manger as they look upon the cross and if
only for an instant this war reddened planet comes to "_see and
believe_." What keen vision saw in the Baby the Son of God and the Son
of Man? What simple faith can see these things in Him now? "_Let us now
go even unto Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass_."

That birth is known as the Incarnation. Ye know not "_how the bones do
grow in the womb of her that is with child_." Life itself is
insusceptible of any definition which satisfies, but we know that we
live, nevertheless. Science points out a common origin in protoplasmic
cells and is quite unable to explain so common a fact as sex
differentiation. I care not what methods of accounting for life you
propose, you yet have to refer it to the Author of all life "_in whom we
live and move and have our being_." Why, therefore, should the
Incarnation be thought incredible or impossible because it does not come
within the limitations of our present understanding and it is not
taught by our limited human experience. The sweet reasonableness of the
Incarnation, this conception by Divine power, this birth from the Virgin
mother, should appeal to all who think deeply on these subjects.

And yet perhaps the manner, place, and circumstance of this birth may
awaken wonder. Possibly you would have the King come as other kings
come, in pomp and circumstance, glory and majesty, with heralds
preceding, music playing, blossoms strewn, and people cheering. Oh, no,
that way did not seem the best way to the wisdom of God--a young girl,
an old man, in the stable, no other tendance, no luxury, no
comfort--poverty, humility, absolute.

Let us forget the Angel Chorus and the blazing star and go now even unto
Bethlehem and look into the manger at that Child, while the
uncomprehending cattle stare resentful perhaps at their displacement.
The King comes as a Child, as weak, as helpless, as vocal of its pains
as any other child. Not a Child of luxury, not a Child of consequence,
not a Child of comfort, but a Child of poverty; and in the eyes of the
blind world, if they had been privy to it, without the glorious vision
of the good man, Joseph, a Child of shame! If the world had known that
the Babe was not the Child of Joseph and Mary how it would have mocked.
What laughter, what jeers, what contempt, what obloquy, what scorn would
have been heaped upon the woman's head! Why the world would heap them
there now were it not that that portion of it which disbelieves in the
Incarnation, says that Joseph was after all the father of the Child.

Nor shall we go down to Bethlehem alone. The poor, ignorant shepherds
came to the cradle that night. They could understand. It did not seem
strange to them that their God was poor, for they themselves were poor.
I wonder how much the shepherds reflected. Theirs is a profession which
gives rise to thought; they are much alone in the waste places with the
gentlest of God's creatures. Their paths lead by green pastures and
still waters; they enjoy long, lonely hours for meditation. Did they
say:

"Ah! God has come to us as a poor man, not because there is anything
particularly noble or desirable in poverty, but because so many of us
are so very poor, and because the most of us have been poor all the
time, and because it is probable that most of us will be poor in the
future!"

Many a poor man has looked up into the silent heavens and wondered
sometimes whether God understood or cared about his wretched lot. Of
course God always knew and cared, we cannot gainsay that, but in order
to make men know that He knew and to make them believe that He cared,
He let them see that He did not disdain to be a poor man and humble;
that He sought His followers and supporters in the great majority. _My
God was a Carpenter_! That is why He came to the stable; that is why He
came to the manger. And that is why the poor come to Him.

And there came to that same cradle, a little while after, the Wise Men.
They were professional wise men; they belonged to the learned, the
cultured, the thoughtful class; but they were wise men as well in the
sense in which we use wisdom to-day. That is, they looked beyond earthly
conditions and saw Divinity where the casual glance does not see it. How
many a seamed, rugged face, how many a burden-bent back, how many a
faltering footstep, how many a knotted, calloused hand is perhaps more
nearly in the image of God than the fairer face, the straighter figure,
the softer palm!

The shepherds were not only poor, but they laboured in their poverty;
they were working men and they worshipped Him, the Working Man. The wise
men were not only wise, but they were rich. They brought the treasures
of the earth from the ends thereof and laid them before the Babe and the
mother. How fragrant the perfume of the frankincense and the myrrh, and
how rich the lustre of the gold and silver in the mean surroundings of
the hovel. They took no thought of their costly apparel, they had no
fear of contamination from their surroundings, no question of relative
degree entered their heads. As simply and as truly as the shepherds they
worshipped the Christ. The rich and the poor met together there, and the
Lord was the maker of them all.

Was that baby-hand the shaper of destiny? Was that working-hand the
director of events? Even so. The Lord's power is not less the Lord's
power though it be not exhibited in the stretched out arm of majesty.

Some of you who read this and many more who can not are poor, perhaps
very poor, but you can stand beside that manger and look at that Baby's
face, you can reflect upon the Child, how He grew, what He said, what He
did, until a cross casts its black shadow across your vision--the war is
raising many crosses and many there be that walk the _via dolorosa_ to
them to-day. You shall be counted blessed if you can gaze at that cross
until it is transformed by the glory of the resurrection. And in it all
you can see your God--the poor man's God!--the rich man's
God!--everybody's God!

You can know that your God was poor, that He was humble, that He
struggled under adverse conditions, that He laboured, that He was
hungry, thirsty, tired, cold, that He was homeless, that He was denied
many of the joys of human society and the solace of affection, that His
best friends went back on Him, that everybody deserted Him, and that the
whole world finally rose up and crushed Him down. That he suffered all
things. Only a very great God could so endure. Only one who was truly
God could so manifest Himself in pain.

You can understand how He can comprehend what your trouble is. Oh, yes,
the poor and the bereaved have as great a right to look into that manger
and see their God there as have the rich and the care free.

Now there is a kind of pernicious socialism which condemns riches as
things unholy and exalts poverty as a thing acceptable to God. That Baby
came as well to the rich as to the poor. Do not forget that. It is not
generally understood, but it is true. He accepted gladly the
hospitality, the alms, the gifts, priceless in value, of those who had
great possessions and He loved them even as He loved those who had
nothing. The rich and wise also have a right to look into that cradle to
see their God, too. When we say He is the God of all classes we do not
mean that He is only the God of the poor any more than we mean He is
only the God of the rich.

He came to all the children of men and they can all stand by that cradle
this morning and claim Him as their own; ask, receive, and share in His
blessing. The light that shone in the darkness lighted impartially the
world. Some of you are blessed with competences and some of the
competences are greater than others. What of it? The poor man may serve
God acceptably in his poverty and the rich man may serve God acceptably
in his wealth. There is one God and though He is King of Kings and Lord
of Lords, even though He may lie lowly in a manger, yet the kingdom of
Heaven is like a republic--it is a democracy in which all are equal, or
if there be distinctions they are based on righteousness alone--saving
only the distinctions Divine.

Now there is one other condition into which all men inevitably fall.
Whether they be rich or whether they be poor, they are all bound to be
sorrowful. Sooner or later, we are certain to be troubled. And that is
more true today, doubtless, than in any other period in the long history
of this old world.

These sorrowful ones can go unto Bethlehem and look into the cradle and
claim the Child as their God. For every sorrow that has been yours, He
experienced; every grief that you have bowed before, He was forced to
struggle with. Very tender and compassionate is our Lord. I am quite
sure that He notices your bowed head, that He puts His arms across your
shoulders, that He whispers words of comfort into your ear, or that He
gives you the silent sympathy of His presence, that He takes you by the
hand; that whatever action most appeals to you and is best for you He
takes if you wish Him to.

There are many people belonging to you or your family who are far away,
whom you would fain have with you this Christmas morning. Many of them
are fighting manfully in His cause, too. Do not forget that our Lord
came to the family! that He made a family by coming. These far-off loved
ones are doing what we are doing this morning. And there are some you
love who are still farther away. The sound of their earthly voices is
stilled, we may not clasp their hands, we cannot see them any more.
They are gone from the world, but not from our hearts. If they are not
here I think they are with Him. And we may be sure that it is very
pleasant to them where He is. They are not unmindful of our human
regrets and longings, but I think we ought not to be unmindful of their
peaceful joy in His presence.

And so everybody has a right to come to that cradle, the poor, the
humble, the hard workers, the toilers, the wise, the learned, the easy,
the rich, the joyous, the sad, the sorrowful, the bereaved. They may all
look into the manger and see their God.

He came to a family; He made a family. We are all in that family, the
children of the selfsame Father, the sons of the selfsame God, the
brethren of Him of the manger--German and French, English and Austrian,
Italian and Bulgar, Russian and Turk! Ay, and above all and with all
American and Belgian. Sirs, we be, not twelve, but many brethren! What
does that mean?

There is one musical word with, I think, perhaps the ugliest meaning in
the language. It is _rancour_. Let us do away with it, let us put it
aside. If we are poor let us be brethren to the other poor, if we are
rich let us be brethren to the other rich, if we are wise let us be
brethren to the other wise, if we are foolish let us be brethren to the
other foolish. Ah, that is not difficult; it is an easy task. But that
is not enough. Brotherhood is broader, thank God! Let the poor be
brethren to the rich and the rich to the poor, the wise to the ignorant,
the misguided to the well-directed, the ignorant to the wise, the
foolish to the discreet, the discreet to the foolish, the glad to the
sorrowful, the sorrowful to the glad, the servants of the Lord to the
sinners against Him!

"Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great:
Then lands were fairly portioned;
Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers,
In the brave days of old."

Let us make out of the old pagan ideals present-day realities in our
hearts as we go even unto Bethlehem and look into the cradle of the
King; realities in His own nobler and better words:

"_Jesus answered and said unto them, Go and shew John again those
things which ye do hear and see: the blind receive their sight, and
the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead
are raised up, and the poor have the gospel preached to them. And
blessed is he whosoever shall not be offended in Me_."

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