The Christmas Megapack

by Reginald Robert

  There was silence for a moment on the slopes of Peacefield, and then over the encircling hills a cool wind brought the sound of chains clanking in prisons and galleys, the sighing of millions of slaves, the weeping of wretched women and children, the blows of hammers nailing men to their crosses. Then the sound passed by with the wind, and Uriel spoke again:

  “Power corrupts itself, and might cannot save. The Earth is full of ignorant strife, and for this evil there is no cure but by the giving of greater knowledge. It is because men do not understand evil that they yield themselves to its power. Wickedness is folly in action, and injustice is the error of the blind. It is because men are ignorant that they destroy one another, and at last themselves.

  “If there were more light in the world there would be no sorrow. If the great King who knows all things would enlighten the world with wisdom—wisdom to understand his law and his ways, to read the secrets of the earth and the stars, to discern the workings of the heart of man and the things that make for joy and peace—if he would but send us, his messengers, as a flame of fire to shine upon those who sit in darkness, how gladly would we go to bring in the new day!

  “We would speak the word of warning and counsel to the erring, and tell knowledge to the perplexed. We would guide the ignorant in the paths of prudence, and the young would sit at our feet and hear us gladly in the school of life. Then folly would fade away as the morning vapor, and the sun of wisdom would shine on all men, and the peace of God would come with the counsel of the angels.”

  A murmur of pleasure followed the words of Uriel, and eager looks flashed around the circle of the messengers of light as they heard the praise of wisdom fitly spoken. But there was one among them on whose face a shadow of doubt rested, and though he smiled, it was as if he remembered something that the others had forgotten. He turned to an angel near him.

  “Who was it,” said he, “to whom you were sent with counsel long ago? Was it not Balaam the son of Beor, as he was riding to meet the King of Moab? And did not even the dumb beast profit more by your instruction than the man who rode him? And who was it,” he continued, turning to Uriel, “that was called the wisest of all men, having searched out and understood the many inventions that are found under the sun? Was not Solomon, prince of fools and philosophers, unable by much learning to escape weariness of the flesh and despair of the spirit? Knowledge also is vanity and vexation. This I know well, because I have dwelt among men and held converse with them since the day when I was sent to instruct the first man in Eden.”

  Then I looked more closely at him who was speaking and recognised the beauty of the archangel Raphael, as it was pictured long ago:

  “A seraph winged; six wings he wore to shade His lineaments divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad came mantling o’er his breast, With regal ornament; the middle pair Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold And colors dipped in Heav’n; the third his feet Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail, Sky-tinctured grain. Like Maia’s son he stood And shook his plumes, that Heavenly fragrance filled The circuit wide.”

  “Too well I know,” he spoke on, while the smile on his face deepened into a look of pity and tenderness and desire, “too well I know that power corrupts itself and that knowledge cannot save. There is no cure for the evil that is in the world but by the giving of more love to men. The laws that are ordained for earth are strange and unequal, and the ways where men must walk are full of pitfalls and dangers. Pestilence creeps along the ground and flows in the rivers; whirlwind and tempest shake the habitations of men and drive their ships to destruction; fire breaks forth from the mountains and the foundations of the world tremble. Frail is the flesh of man, and many are his pains and troubles. His children can never find peace until they learn to love one another and to help one another.

  “Wickedness is begotten by disease and misery. Violence comes from poverty and hunger. The cruelty of oppression is when the strong tread the weak under their feet; the bitterness of pride is when the wise and learned despise the simple; the crown of folly is when the rich think they are gods, and the poor think that God is not.

  “Hatred and envy and contempt are the curse of life. And for these there is no remedy save love—the will to give and to bless—the will of the King himself, who gives to all and is loving unto every man. But how shall the hearts of men be won to this will? How shall it enter into them and possess them? Even the gods that men fashion for themselves are cruel and proud and false and unjust. How shall the miracle be wrought in human nature to reveal the meaning of humanity? How shall men be made like God?”

  At this question a deep hush fell around the circle, and every listener was still, even as the rustling leaves hang motionless when the light breeze falls away in the hour of sunset. Then through the silence, like the song of a far-away thrush from its hermitage in the forest, a voice came ringing: “I know it, I know it, I know it.”

  Clear and sweet—clear as a ray of light, sweeter than the smallest silver bell that rang the hour of rest—was that slender voice floating on the odorous and translucent air. Nearer and nearer it came, echoing down the valley, “I know it, I know it, I know it!”

  Then from between the rounded hills, among which the brook of Brighthopes is born, appeared a young angel, a little child, with flying hair of gold, and green wreaths twined about his shoulders, and fluttering hands that played upon the air and seemed to lift him so lightly that he had no need of wings. As thistle-down, blown by the wind, dances across the water, so he came along the little stream, singing clear above the murmur of the brook.

  All the angels rose and turned to look at him with wondering eyes. Multitudes of others came flying swiftly to the place from which the strange, new song was sounding. Rank within rank, like a garden of living flowers, they stood along the sloping banks of the brook while the child-angel floated into the midst of them, singing:

  “I know it, I know it, I know it! Man shall be made like God because the Son of God shall become a man.”

  At this all the angels looked at one another with amazement, and gathered more closely about the child-angel, as those who hear wonderful news.

  “How can this be?” they asked. “How is it possible that the Son of God should be a man?”

  “I do not know,” said the young angel. “I only know that it is to be.”

  “But if he becomes a man,” said Raphael, “he will be at the mercy of men; the cruel and the wicked will have power upon him; he will suffer.”

  “I know it,” answered the young angel, “and by suffering he will understand the meaning of all sorrow and pain; and he will be able to comfort everyone who cries; and his own tears will be for the healing of sad hearts; and those who are healed by him will learn for his sake to be kind to each other.”

  “But if the Son of God is a true man,” said Uriel, “he must first be a child, simple, and lowly, and helpless. It may be that he will never gain the learning of the schools. The masters of earthly wisdom will despise him and speak scorn of him.”

  “I know it,” said the young angel, “but in meekness will he answer them; and to those who become as little children he will give the heavenly wisdom that comes, without seeking, to the pure and gentle of heart.”

  “But if he becomes a man,” said Michael, “evil men will hate and persecute him: they may even take his life, if they are stronger than he.”

  “I know it,” answered the young angel, “they will nail him to a cross. But when he is lifted up, he will draw all men unto him, for he will still be the Son of God, and no heart that is open to love can help loving him, since his love for men is so great that he is willing to die for them.”

  “But how do you know these things?” cried the other angels. “Who are you?”

  “I am the Christmas angel,” he said. “At first I was sent as the dream of a little child, a holy child, blessed and wonderful, to dwell in the heart of a pure virgin, Mary of Nazareth. There I
was hidden till the word came to call me back to the throne of the King, and tell me my name, and give me my new message. For this is Christmas day on Earth, and today the Son of God is born of a woman. So I must fly quickly, before the sun rises, to bring the good news to those happy men who have been chosen to receive them.”

  As he said this, the young angel rose, with arms outspread, from the green meadow of Peacefield and, passing over the bounds of Heaven, dropped swiftly as a shooting-star toward the night shadow of the Earth. The other angels followed him—a throng of dazzling forms, beautiful as a rain of jewels falling from the dark-blue sky. But the child-angel went more swiftly than the others, because of the certainty of gladness in his heart.

  And as the others followed him they wondered who had been favored and chosen to receive the glad tidings.

  “It must be the Emperor of the World and his counselors,” they thought. But the flight passed over Rome.

  “It may be the philosophers and the masters of learning,” they thought. But the flight passed over Athens.

  “Can it be the High Priest of the Jews, and the elders and the scribes?” they thought. But the flight passed over Jerusalem.

  It floated out over the hill country of Bethlehem; the throng of silent angels holding close together, as if perplexed and doubtful; the child-angel darting on far in advance, as one who knew the way through the darkness.

  The villages were all still: the very houses seemed asleep; but in one place there was a low sound of talking in a stable, near to an inn—a sound as of a mother soothing her baby to rest.

  All over the pastures on the hillsides a light film of snow had fallen, delicate as the veil of a bride adorned for the marriage; and as the child-angel passed over them, alone in the swiftness of his flight, the pure fields sparkled round him, giving back his radiance.

  And there were in that country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo! the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them: “Fear not; for behold I bring you glad tidings of great joy which shall be to all nations. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

  And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward men.” And the shepherds said one to another: “Let us now go, even to Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass.”

  So I said within myself that I also would go with the shepherds, even to Bethlehem. And I heard a great and sweet voice, as of a bell, which said, “Come!” And when the bell had sounded twelve times, I awoke; and it was Christmas morn; and I knew that I had been in a dream.

  Yet it seemed to me that the things which I had heard were true.

  CHRISTMAS: A STORY, by Zona Gale

  I.

  It was in October that Mary Chavah burned over the grass of her lawn, and the flame ran free across the place where in Spring her wild flower bed was made. Two weeks later she had there a great patch of purple violets. And all Old Trail Town, which takes account of its neighbors’ flowers, of the migratory birds, of eclipses, and the like, came to see the wonder.

  “Mary Chavah!” said most of the village, “you’re the luckiest woman alive. If a miracle was bound to happen, it’d get itself happened to you.”

  “I don’t believe in miracles, though,” Mary wrote to Jenny Wing. “These come just natural—only we don’t know how.”

  “That is miracles,” Jenny wrote back. “They do come natural—we don’t know how.”

  “At this rate,” said Ellen Bourne, one of Mary’s neighbors, “you’ll be having roses bloom in your yard about Christmas time. For a Christmas present.”

  “I don’t believe in Christmas,” Mary said. “I thought you knew that. But I’ll take the roses, though, if they come in the Winter,” she added, with her queer flash of smile.

  When it was dusk, or early in the morning, Mary Chavah, with her long shawl over her head, stooped beside the violets and loosened the earth about them with her whole hand, and as if she reverenced violets more than finger tips. And she thought:

  “Ain’t it just as if Spring was right over back of the air all the time—and it could come if we knew how to call it? But we don’t know.”

  But whatever she thought about it, Mary kept in her heart. For it was as if not only Spring, but new life, or some other holy thing were nearer than one thought and had spoken to her, there on the edge of Winter.

  And Old Trail Town asked itself:

  “Ain’t Mary Chavah the funniest? Look how nice she is about everything—and yet you know she won’t never keep Christmas at all. No, sir. She ain’t kept a single Christmas in years. I donno why....”

  II.

  Moving about on his little lawn in the dark, Ebenezer Rule was aware of two deeper shadows before him. They were between him and the leafless lilacs and mulberries that lined the street wall. A moment before he had been looking at that darkness and remembering how, once, as a little boy, he had slept there under the wall and had dreamed that he had a kingdom.

  “Who is’t?” he asked sharply.

  “Hello, Ebenezer,” said Simeon Buck, “it’s only me and Abel. We’re all.”

  Ebenezer Rule came toward them. It was so dark that they could barely distinguish each other. Their voices had to do it all.

  “What you doing out here?” one of the deeper shadows demanded.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Ebenezer, irritably, “not a thing.”

  He did not ask them to go in the house, and the three stood there awkwardly, handling the time like a blunt instrument. Then Simeon Buck, proprietor of the Simeon Buck North American Dry Goods Exchange, plunged into what they had come to say.

  “Ebenezer,” he said, with those variations of intonation which mean an effort to be delicate, “is—is there any likelihood that the factory will open up this Fall?”

  “No, there ain’t,” Ebenezer said, like something shutting.

  “Nor—nor this Winter?” Simeon pursued.

  “No, sir,” said Ebenezer, like something opening again to shut with a bang.

  “Well, if you’re sure—” said Simeon.

  Ebenezer cut him short. “I’m dead sure,” he said. “I’ve turned over my orders to my brother’s house in the City. He can handle ’em all and not have to pay his men a cent more wages.” And this was as if something had been locked.

  “Well,” said Simeon, “then, Abel, I move we go ahead.”

  Abel Ames, proprietor of the Granger County Merchandise Emporium (“The A. T. Stewart’s of the Middle West,” he advertised it), sighed heavily—a vast, triple sigh, that seemed to sigh both in and out, as a schoolboy whistles.

  “Well,” he said, “I hate to do it. But I’ll be billblowed if I want to think of paying for a third or so of this town’s Christmas presents and carrying ’em right through the Winter. I done that last year, and Fourth of July I had all I could do to keep from wishing most of the crowd Merry Christmas, ’count of their still owing me. I’m a merchant and a citizen, but I ain’t no patent adjustable Christmas tree.”

  “Me neither,” Simeon said. “Last year it was me give a silk cloak and a Five Dollar umbrella and a fur bore and a bushel of knick-knicks to the folks in this town. My name wa’n’t on the cards, but it’s me that’s paid for ’em—up to now. I’m sick of it. The storekeepers of this town may make a good thing out of Christmas, but they’d ought to get some of the credit instead of giving it all, by Josh.”

  “What you going to do?” inquired Ebenezer, dryly.

  “Well, of course last year was an exceptional year,” said Abel, “owing—”

  He hesitated to say “owing to the failure of the Ebenezer Rule Factory Company,” and so stammered with the utmost delica
cy, and skipped a measure.

  “And we thought,” Simeon finished, “that if the factory wasn’t going to open up this Winter, we’d work things so’s to have little or no Christmas in town this year—being so much of the present giving falls on us to carry on our books.”

  “It ain’t only the factory wages, of course,” Abel interposed, “it’s the folks’s savings being et up in—”

  “—the failure,” he would have added, but skipped a mere beat instead.

  “—and we want to try to give ’em a chance to pay us up for last Christmas before they come on to themselves with another celebration,” he added reasonably.

  Ebenezer Rule laughed—a descending scale of laughter that seemed to have no organs wherewith to function in the open, and so never got beyond the gutturals.

  “How you going to fix it?” he inquired again.

  “Why,” said Simeon, “everybody in town’s talking that they ain’t going to give anybody anything for Christmas. Some means it and some don’t. Some’ll do it and some’ll back out. But the churches has decided to omit Christmas exercises altogether this year. Some thought to have speaking pieces, but everybody concluded if they had exercises without oranges and candy the children’d go home disappointed, so they’ve left the whole thing slide—”

  “It don’t seem just right for ’em not to celebrate the birth of our Lord just because they can’t afford the candy,” Abel Ames observed mildly, but Simeon hurried on:

  “—slide, and my idea and Abel’s is to get the town meeting to vote a petition to the same effect asking the town not to try to do anything with their Christmas this year. We heard the factory wasn’t going to open, and we thought if we could tell ’em that for sure, it would settle it—and save him and me and all the rest of ’em. Would—would you be willing for us to tell the town meeting that? It’s tonight—we’re on the way there.”