Ho! Ho! Ho! Santa Claus' Reading List

by A. A. Milne

  In patient waiting, sweet contentment, generous cheer,

  God bless us every one, with the blessing of Jesus.

  By remembering our kinship with all men,

  By well-wishing, friendly speaking and kindly doing,

  By cheering the downcast and adding sunshine to daylight,

  By welcoming strangers (poor shepherds or wise men),

  By keeping the music of the angels' song in this home,

  God help us every one to share the blessing of Jesus:

  In whose name we keep Christmas:

  And in whose words we pray together:

  Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.

  Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil:

  For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

  A Christmas Prayer For Lonely Folks

  Lord God of the solitary,

  Look upon me in my loneliness.

  Since I may not keep this Christmas in the home,

  Send it into my heart.

  Let not my sins cloud me in,

  But shine through them with forgiveness in the face of the child Jesus.

  Put me in loving remembrance of the lowly lodging in the stable of Bethlehem,

  The sorrows of the blessed Mary, the poverty and exile of the Prince of Peace.

  For His sake, give me a cheerful courage to endure my lot,

  And an inward comfort to sweeten it.

  Purge my heart from hard and bitter thoughts.

  Let no shadow of forgetting come between me and friends far away:

  Bless them in their Christmas mirth:

  Hedge me in with faithfulness,

  That I may not grow unworthy to meet them again.

  Give me good work to do,

  That I may forget myself and find peace in doing it for Thee.

  Though I am poor, send me to carry some gift to those who are poorer,

  Some cheer to those who are more lonely.

  Grant me the joy to do a kindness to one of Thy little ones:

  Light my Christmas candle at the gladness of an innocent and grateful heart.

  Strange is the path where Thou leadest me:

  Let me not doubt Thy wisdom, nor lose Thy hand.

  Make me sure that Eternal Love is revealed in Jesus, Thy dear Son,

  To save us from sin and solitude and death.

  Teach me that I am not alone,

  But that many hearts, all round the world,

  Join with me through the silence, while I pray in His name:

  Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.

  Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil:

  For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

  Keeping Christmas

  Henry van Dyke

  Keeping Christmas

  ROMANS, xiv, 6: He that regardeth the day, regardeth it unto the Lord.

  * * *

  It is a good thing to observe Christmas day. The mere marking of times and seasons, when men agree to stop work and make merry together, is a wise and wholesome custom. It helps one to feel the supremacy of the common life over the individual life. It reminds a man to set his own little watch, now and then, by the great clock of humanity which runs on sun time.

  * * *

  But there is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.

  * * *

  Are you willing to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you; to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world; to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground; to see that your fellow-men are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy; to own that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life; to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

  * * *

  Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear on their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

  * * *

  Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world--stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death--and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.

  * * *

  And if you keep it for a day, why not always?

  * * *

  But you can never keep it alone.

  The First Christmas Tree

  Henry van Dyke

  The Call of the Woodsman

  The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722.

  * * *

  Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks of the river Moselle; steep hill-sides blooming with mystic forget-me-not where the glow of the setting sun cast long shadows down their eastern slope; an arch of clearest, deepest gentian bending overhead; in the centre of the aerial garden the walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, steel-blue to the east, violet to the west; silence over all,--a gentle, eager, conscious stillness, diffused through the air, as if earth and sky were hushing themselves to hear the voice of the river faintly murmuring down the valley.

  * * *

  In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset hour. All day long there had been a strange and joyful stir among the nuns. A breeze of curiosity and excitement had swept along the corridors and through every quiet cell. A famous visitor had come to the convent.

  * * *

  It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman tongue was Boniface, and whom men called the Apostle of Germany. A great preacher; a wonderful scholar; but, more than all, a daring traveller, a venturesome pilgrim, a priest of romance.

  * * *

  He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he would not stay in the rich monastery of Nutescelle, even though they had chosen him as the abbot; he had refused a bishopric at the court of King Karl. Nothing would content him but to go out into the wild woods and preach to the heathen.

  * * *

  Through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along the borders of Saxony, he had wandered for years, with a handful of companions, sleeping under the trees, crossing mountains and marshes, now here, now there, never satisfied with ease and comfort, always in love with hardship and danger.

  * * *

  What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a spear and strong as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the smooth skin was bronzed by wind and sun. His gray eyes, clean and kind, flashed like fire when he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil deeds of the false priests with whom he contended.

  * * *

  What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacred reli
cs; not of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though he knew much of these things. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings by sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears, and fierce snowstorms, and black nights in the lonely forest; of dark altars of heathen gods, and weird, bloody sacrifices, and narrow escapes from murderous bands of wandering savages.

  * * *

  The little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had grown pale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted lips, entranced in admiration, twining their arms about one another's shoulders and holding closely together, half in fear, half in delight. The older nuns had turned from their tasks and paused, in passing by, to bear the pilgrim's story. Too well they knew the truth of what he spoke. Many a one among them had seen the smoke rising from the ruins of her father's roof. Many a one had a brother far away in the wild country to whom her heart went out night and day, wondering if he were still among the living.

  * * *

  But now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hour of the evening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were assembled in the refectory.

  * * *

  On the dais sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King Dagobert, looking a princess indeed, in her purple tunic, with the hood and cuffs of her long white robe trimmed with ermine, and a snowy veil resting like a crown on her silver hair. At her right hand was the honoured guest, and at her left hand her grandson, the young Prince Gregor, a big, manly boy, just returned from school.

  * * *

  The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown rafters and beams; the double row of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the ruddy glow of the slanting sunbeams striking upward through the tops of the windows and painting a pink glow high up on the walls,--it was all as beautiful as a picture, and as silent. For this was the rule of the cloister, that at the table all should sit in stillness for a little while, and then one should read aloud, while the rest listened.

  * * *

  "It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day," said the abbess to Winfried; "we shall see how much he has learned in the school. Read, Gregor; the place in the book is marked."

  * * *

  The lad rose from his seat and turned the pages of the manuscript. It was a copy of Jerome's version of the Scriptures in Latin, and the marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians,--the passage where he describes the preparation of the Christian as a warrior arming for battle. The young voice rang out clearly, rolling the sonorous words, without slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter.

  * * *

  Winfried listened smiling. "That was bravely read, my son," said he, as the reader paused. "Understandest thou what thou readest?"

  * * *

  "Surely, father," answered the boy; "it was taught me by the masters at Treves; and we have read this epistle from beginning to end, so that I almost know it by heart."

  * * *

  Then he began to repeat the passage, turning away from the page as if to show his skill.

  * * *

  But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of the hand.

  * * *

  "Not so, my son; that was not my meaning. When we pray, we speak to God. When we read, God speaks to us. I ask whether thou hast heard what He has said to thee in the common speech. Come, give us again the message of the warrior and his armour and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so that all can understand it."

  * * *

  The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to Winfried's seat, bringing the book. "Take the book, my father," he cried, "and read it for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though I love the sound of the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines of our faith, and the life of priests and nuns in the cloister, for which my grandmother designs me, though it likes me little. And fighting I know, and the life of warriors and heroes, for I have read of it in Virgil and the ancients, and heard a bit from the soldiers at Treves; and I would fain taste more of it, for it likes me much. But how the two lives fit together, or what need there is of armour for a clerk in holy orders, I can never see. Tell me the meaning, for if there is a man in all the world that knows it, I am sure it is thou."

  * * *

  So Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping the boy's hand with his own.

  * * *

  "Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers said he, "lest they should be weary."

  * * *

  A sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring of sweet voices and a soft rustling of many feet over the rushes on the floor; the gentle tide of noise flowed out through the doors and ebbed away down the corridors; the three at the head of the table were left alone in the darkening room.

  * * *

  Then Winfried began to translate the parable of the soldier into the realities of life.

  * * *

  At every turn he knew how to flash a new light into the picture out of his own experience. He spoke of the combat with self, and of the wrestling with dark spirits in solitude. He spoke of the demons that men had worshipped for centuries in the wilderness, and whose malice they invoked against the stranger who ventured into the gloomy forest. Gods, they called them, and told weird tales of their dwelling among the impenetrable branches of the oldest trees and in the caverns of the shaggy hills; of their riding on the wind-horses and hurling spears of lightning against their foes. Gods they were not, but foul spirits of the air, rulers of the darkness. Was there not glory and honour in fighting them, in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in putting them to flight with the sword of truth? What better adventure could a brave man ask than to go forth against them, and wrestle with them, and conquer them?

  * * *

  "Look you, my friends," said Winfried, "how sweet and peaceful is this convent to-night! It is a garden full of flowers in the heart of winter; a nest among the branches of a great tree shaken by the winds; a still haven on the edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religion means for those who are chosen and called to quietude and prayer and meditation.

  * * *

  "But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are raving to-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are still? who knows what haunts of wrath and cruelty are closed tonight against the advent of the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you what religion means to those who are called and chosen to dare, and to fight, and to conquer the world for Christ? It means to go against the strongholds of the adversary. It means to struggle to win an entrance for the Master everywhere. What helmet is strong enough for this strife save the helmet of salvation? What breastplate can guard a man against these fiery darts but the breastplate of righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of these journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?"

  * * *

  "Shoes?" he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had struck him. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide boot, laced high about his leg with thongs of skin.

  * * *

  "Look here,--how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen the boots of the Bishop of Tours,--white kid, broidered with silk; a day in the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the sandals that the monks use on the highroads,--yes, and worn them; ten pair of them have I worn out and thrown away in a single journey. Now I shoe my feet with the toughest hides, hard as iron; no rock can cut them, no branches can tear them. Yet more than one pair of these have I outworn, and many more shall I outwear ere my journeys are ended. And I think, if God is gracious to me, that I shall die wearing them. Better so than in a soft bed with silken coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a woodsman,--these are my preparation of the gospel of peace.

  * * *

  "Come, Gregor," he said, laying his brown hand on the youth's shoulder, "come, wear the forester's boots with me. This is the life to which we are called. Be strong in the Lord, a hunter of the demons, a subduer of the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith. Come."
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  * * *

  The boy's eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. She shook her head vigorously.

  * * *

  "Nay, father," she said, "draw not the lad away from my side with these wild words. I need him to help me with my labours, to cheer my old age."

  * * *

  "Do you need him more than the Master does?" asked Winfried; "and will you take the wood that is fit for a bow to make a distaff?"

  * * *

  "But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for him. He will perish with hunger in the woods."

  * * *

  "Once," said Winfried, smiling, "we were camped on the bank of the river Ohru. The table was set for the morning meal, but my comrades cried that it was empty; the provisions were exhausted; we must go without breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could escape from the wilderness. While they complained, a fish-hawk flew up from the river with flapping wings, and let fall a great pike in the midst of the camp. There was food enough and to spare! Never have I seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread."