December 4

The Cobbler and His Guest

A Yuletide Legend, by Anne MuCollum Boyles

There once lived in the city of Marseilles an old shoemaker, loved and honored by his neighbors, who affectionately called him Father Martin. One Christmas Eve as he sat alone in his little shop reading of the visit of the Wise Men to the infant Jesus, and of the gifts they brought, he said to himself, “If tomorrow were the first Christmas, and if this Jesus were to be born in Marseilles this night, I know what I would give him!” He rose from his stool and took from a shelf overhead two tiny shoes of softest snow white leather with bright silver buckles. “I would give him these, my finest work.” Then he paused and reflected. “But I am a foolish old man,” he continued…”The Master has no need of my poor gifts.”

Replacing the shoes, he blew out the candle and retired to rest. Hardly had he closed his eyes it seemed, when he heard a voice call his name…”Martin! Martin!” Intuitively he felt a presence, then the voice spoke again…”Martin, you have wished to see me. Tomorrow I shall pass by your window. If you see me, and bid me enter, I shall be your guest at your table.”

Father Martin did not sleep that night for joy and before it was yet dawn he rose and swept and tidied up his little shop. He spread fresh sand upon the floor, and wreathed green boughs of fir along the rafters. On the spotless linen-covered table he placed a loaf of white bread, a jar of honey, and a pitcher of milk.

When all was in readiness, he took up his patient vigil at the window.

Presently he saw an old street-sweeper pass by, blowing upon his thin, gnarled hands to warm them. “Poor fellow, he must be half frozen.” thought Martin. Opening the door he called out to him, “Come in, my friend and warm yourself, and drink something hot.” and the man gratefully accepted the invitation.

An hour passed, and Martin saw a young, miserably clothed woman, carrying a baby. She paused wearily to rest in the shelter of his doorway. The heart of the old cobbler was touched. Quickly he flung open the door. “Come in and warm while you rest,” he said to her. “You do not look well, he remarked.

“I am going to the hospital. I hope they will take me in, and my baby boy,” she explained. “My husband is at sea, and I am ill, without a soul.”

“Poor child,” cried Father Martin. “You must eat something while you are getting warm. No? Then let me give a cup of milk to the little one. Ah! What a bright, pretty little fellow he is! Why, you have put no shoes on him!”

“I have no shoes for him,” sighed the mother.

“Then he shall have this lovely pair I finished yesterday.”

And Father Martin took down from the shelf the soft little snow-white shoes he had admired the evening before. He slipped them on the child’s feet…they fit perfectly. And shortly the poor young mother went on her way, two shoes in her hand and tearful with gratitude.

And Father Martin resumed his post at the window. Hour after hour went by, and although many people passed his window, and although many people shared the hospitality of the old cobbler, the expected guest did not appear.

“It was only a dream,” he sighed, with a heavy heart. “I did hope and believe, but He has not come.”

Suddenly, so it seemed to his weary eyes, the room was flooded with a strange light and to the cobbler’s astonished vision, there appeared before him, one by one, the poor street sweeper, the sick mother and her child, and all the people whom he had aided during the day. Each smiled at him and said: “Have you not seen me? Did I not sit at your table?” Then they vanished from his view.

At last, out of the silence, Father Martin heard again the gentle voice repeating the old familiar words: “Whosoever shall receive one such in my name, receiveth me…for I was hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in…Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren ye have done it unto me.”

Scripture:

Psalm 24: 9-10 "Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory. Selah."

Carol: "While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks"

While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around
And glory shone around.
"Fear not," said he, for mighty dread
Had seized their troubled minds;
"Glad tidings of great joy I bring
To you and all mankind
To you and all mankind.

"To you, in David's town, this day,
Is born of David's line
A Savior, who is Christ the Lord;
And this shall be the sign
And this shall be the sign.
The heavenly Babe you there shall find
To human view displayed,
All meanly wrapped in swaddling-clothes
And in a manger laid
And in a manger laid."

Thus spake the seraph and forthwith
Appeared a shining throng
Of angels, praising God, and thus
Addressed their joyful song:
"All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace;
Good will henceforth from Heaven to men
Begin and never cease
begin and never cease."

December 3

A Different Kind of Christmas

by Lael J. Littke

Martha had tried to ignore the approach of Christmas. It was fairly easy, what with all the work to do around the cabin—the meals to prepare, the rugs to braid to cover the earthen floors, the lye soap to make, the snow to keep cleared away from the door, and the myriad of other things necessary to sustain life in the bleak valley. She would have kept it almost entirely out of her thoughts if Jed had not come eagerly into the cabin one day, stomping the snow from his cold feet as he said in an excited voice, "Martha, we're going to have a Christmas tree this year anyway. I spotted a cedar on that rise out south of the wheat field, over near the Norton's place. It's a scrubby thing, but it will do, since we can't get a pine. Maybe Christmas will be a little different here, but it will still be the kind of Christmas we used to have."
It was a two-day journey from their home on the floor of the wide valley to the mountains where there were pine trees, and none of the settlers felt they could spare the time that busy first year to go after trees. Besides, the snow was too high to do any unnecessary travel.
As she shook her head, Martha noticed that Daniel glanced quickly up from the corner where he was playing, patiently tying together some sticks with bits of string left over from the quilt she had tied a few days earlier. She drew Jed as far away from the boy as possible.
"I don't want a tree," she said. "We won't be celebrating Christmas. Even a tree couldn't make it the kind of Christmas we used to have."
Jed's face set in lines that were becoming familiar.
"Martha, we've got to do something. For the boy, at least. Children set such a store by Christmas."
"Don't you think I know? All those years of fixing things for Maybelle and Stellie. I know all about kids and Christmas." She stopped and drew a deep breath, glancing over to see that Daniel was occupied and not listening. "But I can't do those things for him. It would be like a knife in my heart, fixing a tree and baking cookies and making things for—for another woman's child when my own girls are back there on that prairie."
"Martha, Martha," Jed said softly. "It's been almost a year and a half. That's all over, and Danny needs you. He needs a Christmas like he remembers."
She turned her back to his pleading face. "I can't," she said. "Besides, what could he remember? He was only a little more than five when his own mother died, and I don't think his pa did much last Christmas."
Jed touched her shoulder gently. "I know how hard it is for you, Martha. But think of the boy." He turned and went back out into the snowy weather.
Think of the boy. Why should she think of him when her own children, her two blue-eyed, golden-curled daughters, had been left beside the trail back there on that endless, empty prairie? The boy came to her not because she wanted him but because she couldn't say no to the bishop back in Salt Lake City last April before they came to settle in this valley. Bishop Clay had brought Daniel to her and Jed one day and said, "I want you to care for this lad. His mother died on the trek last summer and his pa passed away last week. He needs a good home."
Jed had gripped the bishop's hand and with tears in his eyes thanked him, but Martha had turned away from the sight of the thin, ragged, six-year-old boy who stood before them, not fast enough, however, to miss the sudden brief smile he flashed at her, a smile that should have caught her heart and opened it wide. Her heart was closed, though, locked tightly around the memory of her two gentle little girls. She didn't want a noisy, rowdy boy banging around, disturbing those memories, filling the cabin with a boy's loud games.
Yet she had taken him, because she felt she had no choice. Faced with the bishop's request—more of an order, really—and Jed's obvious joy, she couldn't refuse.
He came with them out to this new valley west of the Salt lake settlement and had proved himself a great help to Jed, despite his young age. Sometimes Martha felt pity for him, but she didn't love him.
With Jed it was different. He had accepted Daniel immediately as his own son and enjoyed having the boy with him. They had a special relationship, a secret sharing that sometimes shut Martha out and made her wonder once, when she could bear to think of it, how Jed had felt about somehow seeming to be just outside the charmed circle she and her daughters had formed. Not that she really resented Jed and Daniel's relationship—she was glad Jed gave the boy some attention since she so often ignored him—but sometimes she felt that Jed had grown to love the boy more than he did her. She told him as much one evening after the man and boy had come laughing together into the cabin only to sober up when they saw her, but not before one of those quick smiles from Daniel, the smile she was never sure had actually been there, it was gone so fast.
When Daniel went back outside for a bucket of water, Martha spoke to Jed.
"Seems as if you enjoy the boy's company more than you do mine these days."
Jed didn't look her quite squarely in the eye. "That's not so, Martha."
"The two of you laughing together all the time. You never laugh with me anymore."
His voice was quiet. "You don't seem to find much to laugh about lately, Martha."
It was true, of course. When the girls were with them they had been a happy family, laughing at humor and hardship alike. It just seemed as if all her laughter had also been buried on that grim morning back on the desolate prairie.
"I'm sorry, Jed," Martha said. "I just can't seem to forget my girls. I can't feel that close to that boy. He's always so serious around me. Almost like he's afraid. Calls me ‘Aunt Martha.' I notice he calls you ‘Pa.' Did you tell him to call you that?"
"No. He just started doing it. He's just a little fellow, Martha, but he knows how people feel about him. He needs more than just a full stomach and a place to sleep."
"I know," she said. "I know." She was ashamed that she could deny love to a child. Any child. She tried harder after that, but she found she was always comparing him with her daughters. They had been soft and yielding, a pleasure to hold close. Daniel was bony and wiry, and his small body was hard-muscled from the work he did with Jed. The girls had been golden-curled and had taken pride in keeping their little pinafores neat and clean. Daniel was always grimy; he seemed to attract dirt, and his shirt always hung out from his overalls. The girls had liked to play quietly in the house with their rag dolls. Daniel preferred the outdoors, where he had full-scale, one-man battles, playing the parts of both settlers and Indians and making enough noise for any real fight.
It seemed as if he was always doing something to plague her. Not intentionally, to be sure. At least Jed said not. Just the high spirits and imagination of a boy, Jed said. There was the time he took her best tied quilt outside to build a tepee by the creek bank. By the time she found it, it was muddy and bedraggled and had to be laboriously washed.
Another day he got into the trunk she had brought across the plains and was playing with the carved wooden animals Grandpa Elliot had made for Maybelle and Stellie. She couldn't bear to see them in his hands and had scolded him soundly for opening the trunk. Another day he pulled up most of the flowers she had grown from the precious seeds brought from Nauvoo. He said he wanted to surprise her by pulling the weeds, but he couldn't tell which were weeds and which were flowers. He broke precious dishes and tore clothes that could not easily be replaced. And so Martha told Jed that she wanted him to take Daniel back to Salt Lake on his next trip for supplies and to give him back to Bishop Clay.
Jed looked at her for a long time before he answered, "Yes, maybe that would be best. For the boy's sake. I'll take him when I go in January."
Daniel seemed to sense something, because he tried to please her after that and was careful not to annoy her. When winter came and he had to be indoors much of the time, he tried to play quietly, although occasionally the natural inclinations of a boy took over and he had to be reprimanded. Martha wished that Sister Norton had been able to establish the school for the children of the settlers, but she had been unable to get any slates or copy books and had decided to wait until the next fall.
Daniel mentioned Christmas only once. One day it was too cold and snowy to play outside, and he had been humming softly to himself as he played in his corner. Suddenly he looked up at Martha and asked, "Can you sing, Aunt Martha?"
Martha paused and straightened up from the table where she was kneading bread. She used to sing for her girls all the time.
"No, I can't, Daniel," she said. "Not any more."
"My mother used to sing a pretty song at Christmas," he said. "I wish I could remember it."
He said nothing more, and she did not question him. She didn't want to stir up any further memories of Christmas, since she didn't intend to observe the day. Perhaps he did recall snatches of past Christmases, but certainly he wouldn't remember enough that it would make any difference to him.
Martha couldn't help thinking of Christmases past as the day approached. Three years ago had been the best one, before the persecution of the Saints in Nauvoo got so bad. Maybelle had been seven then, and Stellie five. She had made rag dolls for them with pretty, flouncy dresses and cunning little bonnets. That was the year Grandpa Elliot had given them the carved animals and had also carved a beautiful little toy horse and carriage for Maybelle, promising Stellie he'd make her one when she was seven.
Dwelling as she did in her past memories, Martha paid very little attention to Daniel those last few days before Christmas. He went in and out with Jed and she didn't attempt to keep track of him. On the day before Christmas Jed went through the deep snow to do some chores for Brother Norton, who was ill. Daniel was alone outside most of the day, although he made several rather furtive trips in and out of the cabin. On one trip he took the sticks he had been tying together.
Toward evening Martha went out to the stable to milk Rosie, since Jed had not yet returned. As she approached, she saw there was a light inside. Opening the door softly, she peered within. Daniel had lit the barn lantern, and within its glow he knelt in the straw by Rosie's stall. In front of him were the sticks he had tied together, which Martha recognized now as a crude cradle. It held Stellie's rag doll, all wrapped up in the white shawl Martha kept in her trunk, the shawl she had used to wrap her babies. Her impulse was to rush in and snatch it, but she stopped, because the scene was strangely beautiful in the soft light from the lantern. Rosie and the two sheep stood close by, watching Daniel. He seemed to be addressing them when he spoke.
"The shepherds came following the star," he was saying. "And they found the baby Jesus who had been born in a stable." He paused for a moment, then went on. "And his mother loved him."
Martha felt suddenly that she couldn't breathe. Another mother, another day, had loved her little boy and had told him the beautiful story of the Christ Child with such love that he hadn't forgotten it, young as he was. And she, Martha, had failed that mother.
In the silence she began to sing. "Silent night," she sang. "Holy night."
Daniel didn't move until the song was finished. Then he turned with that quick, heart-melting smile.
"That's the one," he whispered. "That's the song that my mother used to sing to me."
Martha ran forward and gathered the boy into her arms. He responded immediately, clasping her arms tightly around her.
"Danny," Martha said, "it's beautiful. Your cradle and little scene here."
"You never called me Danny before," he murmured, his head against her neck.
"I didn't do a lot of things," she said. As she held him close, the bands around her heart seemed to loosen and break.
"Danny," she said, sitting on the edge of Rosie's manger, "let's go in and get the cabin ready for Christmas. Maybe it isn't too late for Jed—for Pa to get that tree. It might be a little different kind of Christmas, but it will still be a little like the Christmases we used to know. We'll set up your cradle with the Christ Child in it under the tree, because that's what Christmas is all about."
"Do you mind it being different?" Danny asked. "I mean with a boy instead of your girls?"
Martha wondered how long it would take her to make up to him for the hurts she had inflicted these many months. "No," she said. "After all, the Baby Jesus was a boy."
"That's right," he said wonderingly.
"I'll open my trunk," said Martha. "We'll get out those carved animals to put around your manger scene. We'll string some dried berries to put on the tree, and when it's all done the three of us will sing ‘Silent Night' and Pa will tell us the story of the Christ Child."
She thought about the lovely little carved horse and carriage Maybelle had loved so much, and knew it would be the perfect gift to put under the tree for Danny's Christmas morning.
She set him down on the floor and put her arm around his shoulders.
"Merry Christmas," she said. "Merry Christmas, Danny."
He looked up at her with a smile that did not fade quickly away this time, a sweet smile full of the love he had been waiting to give her.
"Merry Christmas," he said, and then added softly, "Mother."

Scriptures

2 Samuel 7:12-14

And when thy days be fulfilled, and thou shalt sleep with thy fathers, I will set up thy seed after thee, which shall proceed out of thy bowels, and I will establish his kingdom. He shall build an house for my name, and I will stablish the throne of his kingdom for ever. I will be his father, and he shall be buy son. If he commit iniquity, I will chasten him with the rod of men, and with the stripes of the children of men.

Psalm 89: 3-4, 28-29, 36-37

3-4 "I have made a covenant with my chosen, I have sworn unto David my servant, Thy seed will I establish for ever, and build up thy throne to all generations. Selah."

28-29 "My mercy will I keep for him for evermore, and my covenant shall stand fast with him. His seed also will I make to endure for ever, and his throne as the days of heaven.

36-37 "His seed shall endure for ever, and his throne as the sun before me. It shall be established for ever as the moon, and as a faithful witness in heaven. Selah.

Carol: "Once in Royal David's City"

Once in royal David's city,
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her baby
In a manger for His bed:
Mary was that mother mild,
Jesus Christ her little child.

He came down to earth from heaven,
Who is God and Lord of all,
And His shelter was a stable,
And His cradle was a stall;
With the poor and meek and lowly,
Lived on earth our Savior holy.

And through all
His wondrous childhood,
He would honor and obey,
Love and watch the lowly mother,
In whose gentle arms He lay.
Christian children all should be,
Mild, obedient, good as He.

For He is our child-hood's pattern,
Day by day like us He grew,
He was little, weak, and helpless,
Tears and smiles like us He knew,
And He feeleth for our sadness,
And He shareth in our gladness.

And our eyes at last shall see Him,
Through His own redeeming love;
For that child so dear and gentle,
Is our Lord in heaven above,
And He leads His children on,
To the place where He is gone.

Not in that poor lowly stable,
With the oxen standing by,
We shall see Him, but in heaven,
Set at God's right hand on high;
When like stars
His children crowned,
All in white shall be around.

December 2

The Symbols of Christmasby Sherry Dillehay

Just a week before Christmas, I had a visitor. This is how it happened. I had just finished the household chores for the night and was preparing to go to bed when I heard a noise in the front of the house. I opened the door of the front room, and to my surprise, Santa Claus himself stepped out from behind the Christmas Tree. He placed his fingers over his mouth so I would not cry out.

“What are you doing…” I started to ask but the words choked in my throat as I saw he had tears in his eyes. His usual jolly manner was gone-gone was the eager, boisterous soul we all know.

“He then answered me with a simple statement of “teach the children.” I was puzzled. What did it mean? He anticipated my question and with one quick movement brought forth a miniature toy boy from behind the tree. As I stood there bewildered, Santa said again, “teach the children.” “Teach them the old meaning of Christmas-the meaning long forgotten.”

I started to say, “How can I…” When Santa reached into the toy bag and pulled out a brilliant shiny star.

“Teach the children the star was the heavenly sign of promise long ages ago. God promised a savior for the world and the star was a sign of the fulfillment of that promise. The countless shining stars at night-one for each man-now show the burning hope of all mankind.” Santa gently laid the star upon the fireplace mantle and drew forth from the bag a glittering red Christmas tree ornament.

“Teach the children red is the first color of christmas. It was first used by the faithful people to remind them of the blood which was shed by the savior for all people. Christ gave his life and shed his blood that every man might have eternal life. Red is deep, intense, vivid-it is the greatest color of all. It is the symbol of the gift of God.”

“Teach the children,” he said as he dislodged a small Christmas Tree from the depths of the toy bag. He placed it before the mantle and gently hung the red ornament on it. The deep green of the fir tree was a perfect background for the ornament. Here was the second color of Christmas.

“The pure green color of the stately fir tree remains green all year round,” he said. “This depicts the everlasting hope of mankind. Green is the youthful, hopeful, abundant color of nature. All the needles point heavenward-symbols of man’s returning thoughts toward heaven. The great green tree has been man’s friend. It has sheltered him, warmed him and made beauty for him.”

Suddenly I heard a soft tinkling sound.

“Teach the children that as the lost sheep are found by the sound of the bell, it should ring for man to return to the fold-it means guidance and return, it further signifies that all are precious in the eyes of the Lord.”

As the soft sound of the bell faded into the night, Santa drew forth a candle. He placed it on the mantle and the soft light from its tiny flame cast a glow about the darkened room. Odd shapes and shadows slowly danced and weaved upon the walls.

“Teach the children” Whispered Santa, “that the candle shows man’s thanks for the star of long ago. Its small light is the mirror of starlight. At first candles were placed on the green trees-they were like many glowing stars shining against the dark green. The colored lights have now taken over in remembrance.”

Santa turned the small Christmas tree lights on and picked up a gift from under the tree. He pointed to the large bow and said, “A bow is placed on a present to remind us of the spirit of the brotherhood of man. We should remember that the bow is tied as Christ meant we should be tied, all of us together, with the bonds of good will toward each other. Good will forever is the message of the bow.”

Santa slung his bag over his shoulder and began to reach for the candy cane placed high on the tree. He unfastened it and reached out toward me with it.

“Teach the children that the candy cane represents the shepherd’s crook. The crook on the staff helps bring back the strayed sheep to the flock. The candy cane represents the helping hand we should show at Christmas time. The candy cane is the symbol that we are our brothers’ keepers.”

As Santa looked about the room a feeling of satisfaction shone on his face. He read wonderment in my eyes, and I am sure he sensed admiration for this night.

He reached into his bag and brought forth a large holly wreath. He placed it on the door and said, “Please teach the children the wreath symbolizes the eternal nature of love; it never ceases, stops or ends. It is one continuous round of affection. The wreath does double duty. It is made of many things and in many colors. It should remind us of all the things of christmas. Please teach the children.”

I pondered and wondered and thrilled at all those symbols. To give, to help, to love and to serve. And Santa, he’s the sign of giving, that jolly old elf, and yes, I shall teach the children.

Moses 1:6 And I have a work for thee, Moses, my son; and thou art in the similitude of mine Only Begotten; and mind Only Begotten is and shall be the Savior, for he is full of grace and truth; but there isno God beside me, and all things are present with me, for I know them all.

Scripture:

Moses 1:33 And worlds without number have I created; and I also created them for mine own purpose; and by the Son I created them, which is mine Only Begotten.

Moses 1:39 For behold, this is my work and my glory - to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.

Deuteronomy 18:15 The Lord thy God will raise up unto thee a Prophet from the midst of thee, of thy brethren, like unto me; unto him ye shall hearken;

Carol: "O Come, All Ye Faithful"

O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem;
Come and behold him
Born the King of Angels:
O come, let us adore Him, (3×)
Christ the Lord.

God of God, light of light,
Lo, he abhors not the Virgin's womb;
Very God, begotten, not created:
O come, let us adore Him, (3×)
Christ the Lord.

Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exultation,
Sing, all ye citizens of Heaven above!
Glory to God, glory in the highest:
O come, let us adore Him, (3×)
Christ the Lord.

Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning;
Jesus, to thee be glory given!
Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing!
O come, let us adore Him, (3×)
Christ the Lord.

December 1

The Gift of the Magi

by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again—you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Scripture:

Moses 6:51-52,57

51: And he called upon our father Adam by his own voice, saying: I am God; I made the world, and men before they were in the flesh.

52: And he also said unto him: If thou wilt turn unto me, and hearken unto my voice, and believe, and repent of all thy transgressions, and be baptized, even in water, in the name of mine Only Begotten Son, who is full of grace and truth, which is Jesus Christ, the only name which shall be given under heaven, whereby salvation shall come unto the children of men, ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, asking all things in his name, and whatsoever ye shall ask, it shall be given you

57: Wherefore teach it unto your children, that all men, everywhere, must repent, or they can in nowise inherit the kingdom of God, for no unclean thing can dwell there, or dwell in his presence; for, in the language of Adam, Man of Holiness is his name, and the name of his Only Begotten is the Son of Man, even Jesus Christ, a righteous Judge, who shall come in the meridian of time.

Carol: "Angels We Have Heard on High"

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing o’er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains

Gloria, in excelsis Deo!
Gloria, in excelsis Deo!

Shepherds, why this jubilee?
Why your joyous strains prolong?
What the gladsome tidings be
Which inspire your heavenly song?

Gloria, in excelsis Deo!
Gloria, in excelsis Deo!

Come to Bethlehem and see
Him Whose birth the angels sing;
Come, adore on bended knee,
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.

Gloria, in excelsis Deo!
Gloria, in excelsis Deo!

See Him in a manger laid
Jesus Lord of heaven and earth;
Mary, Joseph, lend your aid,
With us sing our Savior’s birth.

Gloria, in excelsis Deo!
Gloria, in excelsis Deo!