She, too, had sought the Christ Child. She, too,
desired to bring him gifts. But she had nothing to
offer, for she was very poor indeed. In vain she
had searched the countryside over for one little
flower to bring Him, but she could find neither
bloom nor leaf, for the winter had been cold.
And as she stood there weeping, an angel
passing saw her sorrow, and stooping he brushed
aside the snow at her feet. And there sprang up
on the spot a cluster of beautiful winter roses,--
waxen white with pink tipped petals.
``Nor myrrh, nor frankincense, nor gold,'' said
the angel, ``is offering more meet for the Christ
Child than these pure Christmas Roses.''
Joyfully the shepherd maiden gathered the
flowers and made her offering to the Holy Child.
THE WOODEN SHOES OF LITTLE WOLFF
BY FRANCOIS COPPEE (ADAPTED)
Once upon a time,--so long ago that the world
has forgotten the date,--in a city of the North of
Europe,--the name of which is so hard to
pronounce that no one remembers it,--there was a
little boy, just seven years old, whose name was
Wolff. He was an orphan and lived with his aunt,
a hard-hearted, avaricious old woman, who never
kissed him but once a year, on New Year's Day;
and who sighed with regret every time she gave
him a bowlful of soup.
The poor little boy was so sweet-tempered that
he loved the old woman in spite of her bad treatment,
but he could not look without trembling at
the wart, decorated with four gray hairs, which
grew on the end of her nose.
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