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 Class. 
 
 Copyright }1°. 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 
 
The Manger 
 
THE MANGER 
 
 A MIRACLE PLAY 
 IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 Clarke Smith 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1913 
 BY CLARKE SMITH 
 
 THE JENSON PRESS, PHILADELPHIA 
 
^\o 
 
 ^^ 
 
 DEC27l9i3 
 
5^^ 
 
 To 
 
 Chaeles N. Nelson, 3d 
 
A limited edition of this book printed 
 by The Jenson Press in Philadelphia, 
 for private distribution. 
 
 This Book No.-t::/ 6^.?- 
 
PLACE 
 Act I. A Room in the Aunt's House. 
 Act II. The Cross-Roads. 
 Act III. The Carter's Home. 
 
 TIME 
 
 Christmas Eve. 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 The Woman 
 The Aunt 
 The Child 
 The Voice 
 The Carter 
 The Drover 
 The Shepherd 
 The Peddler 
 The Young Man 
 The Waits 
 Celestial Voices 
 The Horse 
 The Dog 
 The Fox 
 The Donkey 
 The Goat 
 The Bird 
 The Pheasant 
 The Grouse 
 The Hare 
 The Rabbit 
 
ACT I 
 
THE MANGER 
 
 ACT I 
 
 (The interior of the living-room of The Aunt's 
 house. 
 
 The room is 'plainly furnished. Over the mantel 
 is a large copy of Rubens' "Descent from the Cross." 
 A fire hums on the hearth. A door in the center of 
 the hack opens directly into the yard. 
 
 When the curtain rises. The Aunt is seated in a 
 rocking-chair in front of the fire.) 
 
 Aunt. — What a fearful night ! The wind is piling 
 up the snow and soon will block the roads. God 
 help the travelers abroad this Christmas Eve! 
 
 {A knock is heard. The Aunt heside the fire does 
 not hear it. A second knock, a little less timid than 
 the first. The woman turns her head a/nd listens. A 
 third knock, this time quite audible ahove the noise 
 of the wind.) 
 
 Aunt {starting up, then hesitating). — What is 
 that sound.'' Maybe some one outside is seeking 
 shelter from the storm. 
 
 {A fourth knock. The Aunt rises and walks to- 
 ward the door, then hesitates, as if afraid to open.) 
 
 Aunt. — Who can it be.'* Some stranger, likely, 
 who has wandered from the way. 'Tis Christmas 
 
 17 
 
Eve. The storm grows worse. A dog would perish 
 on a night like this. I'll open and admit whoever is 
 outside. 
 
 (The Aunt starts to draw the bolt.) 
 
 Voice (outside). — Open, open in the Christ- 
 Child's name. 
 
 (The Aunt draws the bolt. The door opens 
 slowly and a woman, wet, bedraggled, and covered 
 with snow, staggers in and leans, breathvng heavily, 
 against the wall inside the room. The door, through 
 
 ft 
 
 which the falling snow can be distinctly seen, remains 
 open. ) 
 
 Aunt. — Come near the fire and warm yourself. 
 Your garments and your feet are soaked. Sit here 
 beside the blaze. I'll fetch you something warm to 
 drink and then a bite to eat. 
 
 (The Woman stands motionless. The Aunt 
 looks at her in astonishment, unable to understand 
 The Woman's failure to accept her invitation. She 
 walks up to her and takes her by the arm.) 
 
 Aunt. — Come. 
 
 (The Aunt leads her toward the fire. The fire- 
 light shines upon The Woman's face. The Aunt 
 suddenly removes her hand from The Woman's arm 
 and starts as though stung by a poisonous reptile.) 
 
 Aunt (hoarsely). — You.'* You.'' 
 
 The Woman (^faintly). — Yes, Aunt, 'tis I. 
 
 Aunt (with rising anger). — How dare you cross 
 the threshold of this house.'' 
 
 i8 
 
WoMAX. — O, Aunt, for pity's sake ! 
 
 Aunt (pointing to the door). — Begone! 
 
 Woman (raising her hands before her face, as 
 though warding off a blow). — O, no, no, no! My 
 strength is spent. I have no place to go. For God's 
 sake, give me shelter for to-night ! 
 
 Aunt (sternly, pointing to the door). — Go! 
 
 Woman (falling upon her knees). — For God's 
 sake, let me stay ! 
 
 Aunt. — Rise from your knees and go! 
 
 Woman. — My hour has come. My woman's hour. 
 
 Aunt (hoarsely). — Shameless, begone! 
 
 Woman. — My frame is racked with pain. My 
 hour has come. O, let me stay ! 
 
 Aunt (stamping angrily). — Begone, I say, be- 
 gone ! 
 
 Woman. — My child will perish in the snow ere it 
 begins to live. O, let me stay ! 
 
 Aunt. — 'Twere better so; begone! 
 
 Woman (stretching her arms toward the picture 
 of the Crucifixion above the mantel). — Then for the 
 sake of Him on yonder cross, who, too, was bom on 
 Christmas Eve, have mercy on the little life beneath 
 my heart and let me stay. 
 
 Aunt. — Blasphemous wanton, leave this house! 
 Your presence is pollution. 
 
 Woman. — O, say not so. I've done no wrong. 
 (Pointing toward the picture.) I swear it by yon 
 thorn-crowned head. 
 
 19 
 
Aunt {wringing her hands in impotent fury). — O, 
 sacrilege! O, shameless blasphemy! How dare you 
 take that sacred name upon your sinful lips? Be- 
 gone, begone ! 
 
 Woman (imploringly). — O, do not turn me out to 
 die ! O, let me stay ! 
 
 Aunt. — If such as you can die, then die 1 
 
 Woman. — Have you no heart within your breast? 
 I am your sister's child. 
 
 Aunt. — You are no kin of mine. 
 
 Woman. — You, too, have felt beneath your heart 
 a little life, and by this memory, so sweet to woman, 
 let me stay just for to-night. 
 
 Aunt. — I was a wife — 
 
 Woman. — And so am I. 
 
 Aunt. — Show me your ring. 
 
 Woman. — I pawned it to get here. 
 
 ArxT {laughing mockingly). — She pawned her 
 wedding-ring ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Woman. — It was too far to walk with the burden 
 that I bear. 
 
 Aunt. — Where is your document to prove you 
 are a wife? 
 
 Woman {despairingly). — Alas! dear Aunt, I've 
 lost it, too. I had it here {pointing to her breast), 
 pinned fast, but it is gone. 
 
 Aunt. — No wedding-ring — no document ! ( With 
 intense scorn.) And yet you call yourself an honest 
 
 20 
 
woman? Away! Begone! My roof shall never 
 shelter such as you. 
 
 Woman. — You loved my mother once. For her 
 sake let me stay! 
 
 Aunt. — Not for a single hour ! 
 
 Woman. — Then by your mother's anguish when 
 you entered life, her travail and her pain — 
 
 Aunt {shaken, hut determined). — Begone at once! 
 Woman, — Think of your hour so long ago, and 
 yet so sweet. Think and be merciful to me ! 
 
 Aunt. — Once more I tell you, go! 
 
 Woman {throwing her arms around the Aunt's 
 knees). — Be merciful! Not for myself, but for the 
 little child to be! 
 
 Aunt {struggling to free herself). — Unloose your 
 arms ! Unloose and go ! 
 
 (The Aunt finally succeeds im freeing Jierself and 
 moves away from The Woman. The latter continues 
 kneeling, with her face buried in her hands. She re- 
 moves them and stretches her arms toward the pic- 
 ture above the mantel. ) 
 
 Woman. — O, Thou who camest to earth on Christ- 
 mas Eve, whose ear is never deaf to pity's cry, in 
 pain and want I turn to Thee. My hour has come, 
 my woman's hour! No home, no shelter from the 
 wintry blast, except beneath this roof, where my 
 unhappy girlhood days were spent. I never knew a 
 father's love. My mother died while I was but a 
 child and left me to her elder sister's care. She 
 gave me food and clothes, but never love. I grew 
 
 21 
 
to womanhood, friendless, alone. And when love 
 came, mj frozen heart was melted like the ice in 
 spring, and I began to live. All Nature was trans- 
 formed beneath love's glow. This house became a 
 palace wherein I dwelt, a princess — a willing slave, 
 who loved her fetters and found bondage sweet. I 
 kept my secret hidden in my heart. It was my first, 
 my only one. I had no friend in whom I could con- 
 fide. I dared not share my secret with my Aunt, 
 and so I loved, as I had always lived — alone. 
 
 (She remains silent for a moment, gazing intently 
 at the face of the Crucified. The Aunt stands mo- 
 tionless, her features seem turned to stone. After a 
 brief silence. The Woman continues.) 
 
 Woman. — Nay, I was wrong. There was One 
 Friend, the Friend of all who turn to Him. I turned 
 to Thee as plants turn toward the sun, and there was 
 nothing hid. At length, I told my Aunt and asked 
 her blessing and consent. She drove him from her 
 door and woke me from my dream with threats 
 of curses and of banishment. At length one night, 
 when all things were asleep, I fled, two hours before 
 the dawn, and ere the sun rose o'er the eastern hills 
 we two before God's altar were made one. A year 
 of happiness, and then, before the crowning joy of 
 motherhood, they brought him lifeless to our humble 
 home. 
 
 (The Woman, overcome, buries her face in her 
 hands. The Aunt stands, cold and pitiless, without 
 a trace of sympathy on her cou/ntenance.) 
 
 22 
 
Woman. — In my despair, I turned once more to 
 beg for shelter at the hands of one who shared the 
 same maternal breast with my dead mother. Her 
 heart is hard: O, soften it! She thinks me vile: O, 
 prove me pure ! She drives me forth : O, bid her let 
 me stay ! 
 
 (The Woman gazes imploringly at the Crucified. 
 The Aunt's countenance reveals the various emo- 
 tions at war within her. Pity and hatred struggle 
 for the mastery. She hesitates, makes an involuntary 
 movement toward the kneeling woman, and then, as 
 if ashamed of her momentary weakness, assumes her 
 former cold and pitiless expression. She approaches 
 The Woman and takes her by the arm.) 
 
 The Aunt. — Enough ! I'll hear no more. The air 
 within this room is poisoned by your blasphemy. 
 Begone, at once! 
 
 (The Woman rises from her knees and walks 
 slowly toward the door, casting one last despairing 
 glance at the picture above the mantel. As she 
 reaches the door and sees the fallvng snow, she recoils 
 with a shudder. The wvnd sends a flurry of snow into 
 the room.) 
 
 Woman. — *Tis death to venture forth. 
 
 Aunt. — Begone ! 
 
 Woman (m desperation, turning with clasped 
 hands to the aunt). — O, let me stay.'' 
 
 Aunt {thrusting her through tJie door). — Be- 
 gone! 
 
 23 
 
(The Woman, with a cry of anguish, disappears 
 m the snow and darkness. The Aunt closes the door 
 and holts it, after which she approaches the fire and 
 stands, facing the flames. She lifts her eyes gradu- 
 ally from the fire and fastens them on the picture. 
 Slowly, but without removing her eyes, she sinks 
 upon her knees. The eyes in the picture grow stern. 
 The Aunt, unable to bear their mute accusation, 
 covers her face with her hands. A J:rembling seizes 
 her. She rocks to and fro, half moaning, half sob- 
 bing. Suddenly she rises and rushes to the door. 
 With feverish Juiste she draws the bolt and flings 
 the door wide open. The snow enters in big gusts 
 and the wind shrieks fiercely. The Aunt, unmindfid 
 of the snow and cold, stands in the center of the door 
 and calls out into the darkness.) 
 
 Aunt. — Come back ! Come back ! 
 
 (The wind echoes Iter words, or seems to do so, 
 mockingly. ) 
 
 Aunt {wildly). — I wsis mad! I did not mean it! 
 Come back ! 
 
 {The wind shrieks mockingly.) 
 
 Aunt {sobbing and wringing her hands). — Alas! 
 she hears me not ! God help us both ! 
 
 {She returns to tJie fire, leaving the door wide 
 open. She throws herself on her knees and raises her 
 arms toward the picture. The eyes of the Crucified 
 are full of mournful reproach.) 
 
 Voice. — Suffer little children — 
 
 Aunt {sobbing). — Oh, oh, oh! 
 
 24 
 
Voice. — To come unto me, — 
 
 Aunt (wringing her hands). — Oh, oh, oh! 
 
 Voice. — For of such is — 
 
 Aunt (moaning convulsively/). — Oh, oh, oh! 
 
 Voice. — Is the Kingdom — 
 
 Aunt (rocking to and fro). — Oh, oh, oh! 
 
 Voice. — Of Heaven. 
 
 Aunt (tearing at the neck of her dress). — I am 
 choking! Give me air! 
 
 Voice. — Inasmuch as ye did it not — 
 
 Aunt (gasping). — I am stranghng! 
 
 Voice. — To one of the least of these — 
 
 Aunt. — I am dying! 
 
 Voice. — Ye did it not — 
 
 Aunt. — Have mercy ! 
 
 Voice. — To me. 
 
 Aunt ( throwing herself prostrate on the floor and 
 bowing her head on her clasped hands). — Lost! 
 Lost ! Lost ! 
 
 Voice (repeating very slowly). — To me. 
 
 Aunt. — O, say not so ! Not unto Thee ! 
 
 Voice (sadly). — To me. 
 
 Aunt (raising her head). — I will atone. 
 
 Voice. — Too late, too late! 
 
 (The wind dies down. Suddenly a low, wailing 
 sound is heard. The Aunt raises herself to a sitting 
 
 25 
 
position and listens. The wailing continues "with brief 
 intervals of silence. She covers her ears with her 
 hands to shut out the sound. After a few moments, 
 she rises and staggers toward the open door. She 
 leans against the side of the door, her chin resting 
 on her breast. The wailing becomes more distinct. 
 The Aunt raises her hands as if trying to ward off 
 the sound.) 
 
 Aunt (shuddering). — It is a feeble infant's cry. 
 
 Voice. — Wrapped in swaddling clothes — 
 
 Aunt (listening attentively). — A little, helpless 
 child— 
 
 Voice. — Lying in a manger — 
 
 Aunt. — Dying in the snow ! 
 
 Voice. — For unto us a Child is bom — 
 
 Aunt. — I drove the child away. 
 
 Voice. — Unto us a Child is given — 
 
 Aunt. — I spurned the gift. 
 
 Voice. — He shall gather the lambs with his arm — 
 
 Aunt. — I mocked its helplessness. 
 
 Voice. — And carry them in His bosom — 
 
 Aunt (overcome by the enormity of her deed). — 
 I am undone! 
 
 (She staggers to the center of the room, raises 
 her white, despairing face toward the Crucified, and 
 extends her arms.) 
 
 Aunt (slowly). — There came to me, on Christmas 
 Eve, a woman and a child. They came, too, in 
 
 26 
 
Thy Name, but I was blind and could not see. 
 Hungry — I fed them not; thirsty — I gave no drink; 
 sick — no ministry. I drove them forth. She said, 
 "To venture forth is death," and I refused her shel- 
 ter on her bended knees. And now I know with them 
 I drove Thee forth, refused Thee food and drink and 
 ministry. I sent them to their death and now — O, 
 woe is me! — I also Thee have crucified! 
 
 (She sinks slowly down, shudders, and lies mo- 
 tionless.) 
 
 Voice. — I will not cast thee off forever. 
 
 (The room grows gradually darker. As the dark- 
 ness increases, the face of the Crucified becomes 
 brighter and brighter until it glows with dazzling 
 brilliancy. The rays fall on the upturned face of 
 The Aunt, whose features assume a peaceful ex- 
 pression. The eyes of the Crucified lose their re- 
 proachful look and reveal nothing but pity. The 
 glow on the face of the Crucified fades imperceptibly 
 as the curtain descends.) 
 
 (Curtain) 
 (Soft music) 
 
 27 
 
ACT II 
 
ACT II. 
 
 {Time, Christmas Eve. Place, cross-roads in the 
 country. The snow is falling. A man, in the dress 
 of a shepherd, approaches the cross-roads and stops, 
 as if in doubt whether to continue. He examines the 
 guide-post, hut fails to make out the inscription.) 
 
 Shepherd. — It must be near. He said two miles, 
 and I've gone three. The light I seek cannot be far 
 away. A seat beside the fire and somethink from the 
 pot would warm me in and out. 
 
 {He examines the guide-post closely, trying to 
 decipher the lettering.) 
 
 Shepherd. — My old eyes find it hard enough to 
 read by day; they are no good at all by night. I 
 think I'll trudge along a bit, and, if I find I'm wrong, 
 I can put back and take the other road, 
 
 {A feeble, wailing sound is heard). What's that.? 
 (Listens.) It was the wind. What could it be, on 
 such a night as this? Here comes another way- 
 farer, belated like myself. He'll set me on my road. 
 
 {A man, in the dress of a drover, approaches. He 
 does not notice The Shepherd until almost upon 
 him.) 
 
 Shepherd. — Evening, brother. 
 
 Drover {startled, hut quickly recovering from his 
 surprise ) . — Evening. 
 
 Shepherd. — What seek ye? 
 
 Drover. — A light. 
 
 Shepherd. — Whither bound? 
 
 31 
 
Drover. — The Carter's stable. 
 
 Shepherd. — I'd been there now but for the snow. 
 
 Drover. — Why do you tarry here? 
 
 Shepherd. — I only wait to know which road to 
 take. 
 
 Drover. — Methinks I see a light through yonder 
 trees. 
 
 Shepherd. — How far think you we have to go? 
 
 {A wailing sound is heard.) 
 
 Drover (listening). — What is't.'' 
 
 Shepherd. — The wind. 
 
 Drover. — 'Tis somethink else. 
 
 Shepherd. — What say'st thou? 
 
 Drover. — Somethink alive. 
 
 Shepherd. — Somethink alive? What, pray? 
 
 Drover. — I'm puzzled, but 'tis alive. 
 
 Shepherd. — 'Tis nothing with split hoofs. 
 
 Drover {listening attentively to the wailing 
 sound). — Nor paws. 
 
 Shepherd (surprised). — What think you then? 
 
 Drover (cautiously). — There may be things 
 abroad to-night. 
 
 Shepherd. — Why, man, 'tis Christmas Eve! 
 
 Drover. — Didst think I thought it was All-Hal- 
 lows ? 
 
 Shepherd. — What meant ye then? 
 32 
 
Drovee (slowly). — 'Tis said the barnyard cattle 
 all have speech this night. 
 
 Shepherd. — Well ? 
 
 Drover. — If such be true, there might be other 
 things. 
 
 Shepherd {laymg his hand on The Drover's 
 arm). — Not so loud. What mean you? Speak. 
 
 Drover (glancing apprehensively about hvm and 
 lowering his voice). — Spirits. 
 
 Shepherd (nervously). — ^What kind? 
 
 Drover. — The kind that — Look! There comes 
 somethink. (Draws nearer his companion.) 
 
 Shepherd. — 'Tis human, man. There's naught 
 to fear. 
 
 (A man dressed as a carter approaches.) 
 
 Shepherd. — Evening. 
 
 Carter. — Evening. 
 
 Drover. — Evening. 
 
 Shepherd (recognizing the newcorner) . — 'Tis The 
 Carter. 
 
 Drover. — So it is. 
 
 Carter. — 'Tis The Shepherd! How goes it? 
 (Turning toward The Drover.) And The Drover! 
 Whither are ye going? 
 
 Shepherd. — To seek a place beside your fire and 
 sommat from the pot. 
 
 Drover. — I saw your light and would there, too, 
 same as The Shepherd, 
 
 33 
 
Carter. — Saw my light? Ye're daffy, man! 
 
 Drover. — I saw it there between the trees. I 
 showed it to ye, Shepherd; didn't I? 
 
 Shepherd {nodding vigorously). — That's what 
 ye did. 
 
 Carter {angrily). — I tell ye no! Ye could not 
 see my light ! 
 
 Drover. — 'Twas there {pointing toward the 
 trees), between the trees. 
 
 Carter {more angrily). — I tell ye no! 
 
 Shepherd. — He did. He showed it me. 
 
 Carter {looking at the two men curiously). — 
 What ails ye.^* My light's not there. {Pointing in 
 an entirely opposite direction.) 'Tis just bc^'ond the 
 hill. 
 
 Drover {stuhhornly). — I saw the light through 
 the trees. 
 
 Shepherd {emphatically). — And so did I. 
 
 Carter. — There is no dwelling hereabouts but 
 mine, within three miles. 
 
 Drover {unconvinced). — I saw the light. 
 
 Shepherd {nodding solemnly). — And so did I. 
 
 Carter {listening). — Hark! There it is again! 
 
 didst hear it? 
 
 Drover. — What ? 
 
 Carter. — That cry. 
 
 Shepherd {drawing near the two others). — What 
 is't? 
 
 34 
 
Drovee. — 'Tis alive. 
 
 Carter. — I heard it as I sat beside the fire. 'Tis 
 the wind, says I. It came again and louder. 'Tis 
 the wind, says I. At last I left my place beside the 
 fire and opened just a bit the door. 'Tis not the 
 wind, says I. I'll go outside and see. I could na' 
 rest until I knew. I've tramped about to find what 
 'tis. It is no wind. 'Tis somethink else — 
 
 Shepherd {nervously). — What? 
 
 Drover. — Somethink alive? 
 
 Carter {slowly). — Yes, alive. 
 
 Drover. — With neither hoof nor paws. 
 
 Carter. — ^What are ye saying. Drover? 
 
 Drover. — 'Tis spirits, I believe. 
 
 Shepherd {to Carter). — I was telling him, as 
 you came up, 'tis Christmas Eve and not All-Hal- 
 lows. 
 
 {The cry becomes more plaintive. The men listen 
 and look at one another, as though the same thought 
 had occurred to each one at the same moment.) 
 
 Shepherd {nervously). — What think you, Car- 
 ter? 
 
 Carter {gazing steadily toward the clump of 
 trees, ignoring The Shepherd's question). — See 
 there! between the trees! {Excitedly.) Look! what 
 can it be? There's neither hut nor dwelling here 
 save mine! 
 
 Drover. — Perhaps some tramp or gipsy folk's en- 
 camped among the trees. 
 
 35 
 
Carter. — There be none here this season, man. 
 They'd perish in the snow ! 
 
 Shepherd {eagerly). — What is't then? 
 
 Carter {thoughtfully). — Somethink I can't make 
 out. 
 
 Drover. — Spirits. 
 
 Carter. — Alive or dead, I'll soon find out. 
 
 Shepherd. — Better leave well enough alone. A 
 place beside the fire and sommat from the pot for me. 
 Not so, Drover.? 
 
 Drover. — I think with Carter, it were well to 
 know what 'tis. 
 
 Carter. — Well said. Come on ! 
 
 (The Carter starts toward the group of trees, 
 through which a glow is distinctly visible, followed by 
 The Drover.) 
 
 Shepherd {anxiously). — Don't leave me here 
 alone ! 
 
 Carter. — Come on, then. 
 
 Shepherd. — Let's to jour roof ! 
 
 Carter. — The roof can wait till after. 
 
 Drover. — Let us be off to see what lies behind the 
 trees. 
 
 Shepherd. — Let's to the fire and sommat from the 
 pot. 
 
 Carter {impatiently). — Come, else I go alone. 
 
 Drover {to Shepherd). — Don't play the woman. 
 
 36 
 
Shepherd {resignedly). — Go on. I'll follow. 
 
 Carter. — I'll lead the way. 
 
 (The Carter and The Drover walk toward the 
 group of trees from which issues the mysterious glow. 
 The Shepherd follows reluctantly. They pause m 
 front of the clump, as if in doubt whether to venture 
 in. After a brief hesitation. The Carter starts for- 
 ward. ) 
 
 Carter. — Come, let's in. 
 
 Drover (to Shepherd). — Come! 
 
 Shepherd {trembling visibly). — It's worse to stay 
 behind alone than go with them. {To Drover.) Go 
 on! rU follow. 
 
 (The Carter and The Drover disappear among 
 the trees, but The Shepherd's courage fails him at 
 tlie very last moment, and he remains behind. The 
 wailing has ceased. The stage becomes dark, except 
 the clump of trees, which is lighted sufficiently to 
 enable The Shepherd to be seen.) 
 
 Shepherd {glancing over his shoulder). — Mayhap 
 The Drover's right. There may be things abroad, 
 on Christmas Eve we know naught of. And yet I 
 thought, on Holy Night, no evil thing could cast its 
 spell on those who make the sign and go to church, 
 whene'er they can {glancing around). I wonder 
 where they be and what they've found. I'd go and 
 see, but 'tis better I stay here {reassuring himself). 
 I'm not afraid! Why should I be.? And yet {doubt- 
 fully) this glow ! I like it not. Once, while the sheep 
 were grazing on the moor, I fell asleep. When I 
 awoke, the gloaming had come on, and it grew dark 
 
 37 
 
afore I got the sheep in fold. As we came home I 
 saw a willj-wisp. 'Twas somethink like this glow, 
 and yet 'twas not. I could not leave the sheep, or I'd 
 have gone to chase the willy-wisp. I know the fish, 
 the fowl, and furry things that live outside beneath 
 the sky. I know them all, their seasons, and their 
 ways. The fields, the wood, the sky arc like a book 
 which I can read as well as the old Vicar does the 
 big, red-covered ones upon his shelves. I saw them 
 once — more than a hundred — the time he sent for me 
 to ask about the lad that perished in the snow upon 
 the moor. I'm not afraid of all the willy-wisps that 
 ever was, but somehow I feel queer (^impatiently). 
 Why don't they come? I wish that I'd gone, too. 
 How still it is ! The wind is down. I'm glad that 
 sound's no longer in my ears (looking about him). 
 There's something strange about this place. I never 
 felt this way before. Not when we found the Farrier 
 buried in the bog, up to his chin, and three weeks 
 dead! They left me all alone with him two mortal 
 hours, but I did not feel as I do now. (He glances 
 about him and then looks at the sky.) The clouds 
 have disappeared. The stars will soon be out. Why, 
 there is one I never saw before (gazing silently at 
 the star). Why, yes, of course, I have. It's Holy 
 Night, and that's the Bethlehem Star — the one the 
 shepherds saw at night among the hills. A better 
 name for it would be the Shepherds' Star. They 
 saw it first and heard the angels singing "Peace on 
 earth." It was their star. I've heard my mother 
 tell of the Wise Men. Let's see. How many were 
 there? Three, I think, she said — who followed close 
 behind the Bethlehem Star. I learned a Christmas 
 
 38 
 
hymn, when I was but a child. Let's see, how did it 
 go? 'Tis many a year since I have tried to sing it. 
 'Twas somethink such as this : 
 
 {Shepherds' Song) 
 Into the dark Judean skies 
 The shepherds gazed with awestruck eyes. 
 And heard the Heavenly chorus sing 
 The praises of the new-bom King. 
 
 And by the following of the star 
 The Wise Men coming from afar 
 Within the Manger find the Child, 
 Amid the oxen meek and mild. 
 
 They kneel and worship Him as King, 
 Present the royal gifts they bring. 
 The gifts for centuries foretold — 
 Of myrrh, of frankincense and gold. 
 
 (After a brief pause, exultantly.) There! What 
 would the old mother say to that.'' 'Tis many a year 
 since I learned it at her knee. She gave me a cake 
 each time I learned a verse, and when I knew it all, a 
 big tart all my own — a gooseberry tart it was — it's 
 all as plain as 'twere but yesterday. 'Tis Christmas 
 Eve, but there've been other Holy Nights than this 
 a-plenty, and I've never sung the hymn. Why then 
 to-night? 'Tis strange. Somethink is in the air, I 
 know not what {gazmg thoughtfully at the star). I 
 wonder if that's the star the other shepherds saw on 
 Holy Night, nigh on two thousand years ago ! The 
 Bethlehem Star did move, they say, until it stood 
 above the stable. Just as this star now stands above 
 my head. How bright it shines ! How large ! It 
 looks almost as big as a new moon, seen through a 
 
 39 
 
pair of sleepy eyes. The Bethlehem Star! The 
 Shepherds' Star! It seems much nearer than the 
 rest. 
 
 (A rabbit issues from the thicket and grazes The 
 Shepherd's legs in passing. He gives a start.) 
 
 Shepherd. — What's that? (Peering anxiously 
 after the rabbit.) Why (in a tone of relief), it's 
 only a cony. I wonder what keeps them so long! 
 Let's see. What was I thinking of? Oh, yes, the 
 star. 
 
 (A dark object passes within ami's length. The 
 Shepherd jumps back in alarm, and utters a cry of 
 fear. ) 
 
 Shepherd (peering anxiously at the object). — 
 Why, 'tis only a red deer after all. The timid thing 
 would never harm a child. What brings so many 
 creatures out ? The wood is all alive ! 
 
 (Something whizzes past his head, nearly knocking 
 off his cap. He jumps back with a cry.) 
 
 Shepherd (recovering from his fright). — 'Twas 
 just a grouse roosting among the trees. Perhaps 
 a big-homed owl or something else disturbed it. 
 Once, when I was young, my mother told me of a 
 man — 
 
 (Something runs between The Shepherd'* legs. 
 He starts so suddenly, he loses his balance, trips and 
 falls into the snow. He picks himself up with diffi- 
 culty, and sees a fox sitting on his haunches nearby 
 and watching tlie glow shining through the trees.) 
 
 Shepherd. — He gave me a start, he did, that fox ! 
 
 40 
 
{A whirring sound is heard. The Shepheed 
 listens. A golden pheasant alights close hy.) 
 
 Shepherd {suddenly). — Hark! I hear somethink 
 moving among the trees. They're coming! Now, 
 I'll know what kept them both so long. 
 
 (The Carter appears, carrying the body of a 
 ■woman in his arms. The Woman is thinly clad and 
 has no outer garment. Her head rests on The Car- 
 ter's shoulder, her eyes are closed, giving the appear- 
 ance of a person either asleep or unconscious. 
 
 The Drover next appears, carrying a small bur- 
 den, wrapped in a woman's cloak. He holds it awk- 
 wardly, as though afraid of dropping it. 
 
 The glow follows them to the center, leaving the 
 rest of the stage in partial darkness. Tlu star 
 changes its position, and stands directly above them. 
 
 The Shepherd gazes at the men in speechless 
 amazement. The various animals form a semicircle 
 vn the snow as near to tlie men as possible, and then 
 remain motionless during the dialogue which follows.) 
 
 Shepherd (dazed). — What have ye there.? What 
 kept ye? 
 
 Carter. — We found her in the snow — and waited. 
 
 Shepherd. — For what? 
 
 Carter (pointing to the bundle in The Drover's 
 arms). — That. 
 
 Shepherd. — That ? 
 
 Carter. — Don't ye understand? 
 
 Shepherd ( bewildered) . — No. 
 
 41 
 
Drovee. — Ye heard it crying, man. 
 
 Shepherd. — You don't mean — 
 
 Drover (nodding). — Yes. 
 
 Shepherd. — Is it a boy? 
 
 Drover. — Yes. 
 
 Shepherd. — 'Tis many a lamb I've found amid the 
 snow, but {turning to The Carter) how fares the 
 mother.'* Is she safe? 
 
 Carter. — She's nearly in, poor thing. 'Twas ter- 
 rible ! 
 
 Drover. — 'Twas so indeed, and all alone. 
 
 Shepherd. — Alone? The light? Who built the 
 fire? 
 
 Carter. — There was no fire. 
 
 Shepherd, — We saw the light a-shining through 
 the trees. 
 
 Drover. — There was no fire, I tell ye, man. 
 Shepherd {puzzUd). — No fire? Whence came 
 the hght? 
 
 Carter. — I tell ye there was none. 
 Drover. — No, nothink. 
 
 Shepherd (angrily). — Think ye to play the fool 
 with me? I saw it. 
 
 Carter. — Come now, enough of this ! We must be 
 off. 
 
 Shepherd. — Whither are ye bound? The hour 
 grows late. 
 
 Carter. — To seek the shelter of my roof. 
 
 42 
 
Shepherd. — Is't far? 
 
 Carter. — Hard by. 'Tis but a rough place, but 
 she's welcome to it. Come ! 
 
 Shepherd ( approaching The Carter and making 
 a motion to relieve him of his burden), — Give her to 
 me and rest awhile. 
 
 Carter. — No, follow me. 
 
 Shepherd (to Drover). — Give me the child. 
 
 Drover. — I'll carry it myself. 
 
 Carter. — Make haste. She's like to die. Her 
 clothes are frozen stiff. Let's go ! 
 
 Shepherd. — I've naught to do but follow. 'Tis 
 many a lamb I've carried in my breast. 
 
 (The Carter with his burden leads the way. The 
 Drover follows with The Child, The Shepherd 
 la^t of all. 
 
 The glow accompanies them and the star moves 
 with them directly above their heads. 
 
 The deer crosses the stage and follows the proces- 
 sion. Rabbits, hares, plieasants, grouse and smaller 
 birds issue from among the trees and follow the deer 
 until they disappear among the trees. The fox brings 
 up the rear. 
 
 A band of Waits enters from the opposite side, 
 singing, and halts in the center of the stage. The 
 star has disappeared, but a soft light suffuses the 
 scene.) 
 
 43 
 
"0, All Ye Beasts and Cattle.'* 
 
 The mild and patient oxen 
 
 Stand awestruck at the sight, 
 The manger rude that holds their food 
 
 Holds something else to-night. 
 A little babe amid the kine, 
 
 Upon its mother's arm, 
 Around its head and lowly bed 
 
 A light shines pure and calm. 
 
 The mild and patient oxen 
 
 Stand spell-bound by the sound. 
 For voices clear each list'ning ear 
 
 With melody surround; 
 The little babe amid the kine 
 
 Smiles on its mother's breast; 
 Above its head with wings outspread 
 
 The heavenly chorus rest. 
 
 The mild and patient oxen 
 
 The Wise Men now behold ; 
 As for a king rich gifts tliey bring, 
 
 M3rrh, frankincense and gold; 
 The little babe amid the kine 
 
 They worshij) and adore, 
 Wliile o'er its head with wings outspread 
 
 The holy angels soar. 
 
 The mild and patient oxen 
 
 Kneel down amid the straw 
 About the bed, within the shed, 
 
 In wonder mixed with awe ; 
 The little babe amid the kine 
 
 They hear acclaimed a King, 
 And from afar they see the star 
 
 And hear the angels sing. 
 
 44 
 
Come let us, too, adore Him 
 
 On this most holy night; 
 The star will guide us to His side 
 
 If we but seek its light; 
 The little babe amid the kine 
 
 We, too, may hail as King, 
 Like men of old, our myrrh and gold 
 
 And frankincense may bring. 
 
 (While the Waits are singing the last stanza the 
 rear of the stage opens and discloses the interior of 
 the Stable at Bethlehem. Mary and Joseph are seen 
 with the Child in their midst. The Wise Men are 
 kneeling in front of the Manger, while oxen and 
 sheep are grouped about them. 
 
 Celestial Voices are heard singing "Adeste Fideles." 
 
 The Waits kneel in the snow. ) 
 
 (Tableau.) 
 
 (Curtain) 
 
 45 
 
ACT III 
 
ACT III. 
 
 (The interior of The Carter's home, a combina- 
 tion of stable and dwelling. A fire is burning in a 
 rude stone fire-place in the back. On either side of 
 the fire-place are shelves containvng dishes, pots and 
 pans. From the rafters hang pieces of harness, rope 
 and chains; near the fire are sides of bacon, strings 
 of onions, herbs, and woolen sacks, containing meal 
 and flour. In the corner farthest from the fire is a 
 pile of hay. On the side opposite is a manger, about 
 six feet long and three feet wide, one end of which 
 abuts against the wall, the other extends into the 
 room, affording space on each side for two animals 
 to feed at the same time. The manger is filled with 
 hay. A donkey and a goat are standing, eating hay 
 from the manger as the curtain goes up. 
 
 The door opens and The Carter enters, carrying 
 The Woman. He is followed by The Drover with 
 The Child. The Shepherd enters last.) 
 
 Carter (goi/ng straight to the manger and de- 
 positing The Woman on the hay inside, thrusting 
 aside the two animals). 
 
 Drover. — What shall I do with it? 
 
 Carter. — Sit down by the fire ! 
 
 (The Drover seats himself beside the fire with 
 The Child in his arms and uncovers its face.) 
 
 Carter. — I'll light a tallow dip. 
 
 Shepherd (in amazement). — Look! 
 
 49 
 
(He points to The Drover and The Child, The 
 Carter turns and glances in the same direction. 
 Both men stand petrified. A glow comes from the 
 group by the fire sufficiently bright to light the in- 
 terior, making the additional light unnecessary.) 
 
 Carter {recovering from his astonishment) . — 'Tis 
 nothink to hurt us. Drover's not afraid. Let's have 
 a look! 
 
 {He approaches The Child, followed by The 
 Shepherd. They gaze in silence on the infant's 
 countenance. While they are gazing, the donkey and 
 the goat approach the group and stand motionless.) 
 
 Drover. — Didst ever see so fine a child? 
 
 Carter. — I'm no judge, but I'm of your opinion. 
 
 Shepherd. — The same with me. 
 
 Carter {going to the pot beside the fire and lifting 
 the lid). — The Woman yonder must have sommat 
 hot. Take off her shoes and wrap her feet in my old 
 blanket while I stir the broth. 
 
 {He busies himself preparing the broth. Mean- 
 while The Shepherd hastens to carry out The Car- 
 ter's instructions.) 
 
 Shepherd. — Her feet be like two lumps of ice. 
 
 Carter {bending over his cooking) .—Kuh them, 
 but have a care ! 
 
 (The Shepherd takes The Woman's feet i/n his 
 hands and endeavors to restore the circulation by a 
 gentle friction. When he has finished he wraps them 
 in a blanket.) 
 
 50 
 
Carter (approaching the manger, cup m hand). 
 — Raise her head and hold it while I feed her with the 
 spoon. Not so roughly, man ! Women are not sheep. 
 There now, steady! 
 
 (The Carter succeeds, after several failures, in 
 forcing some of the hot broth down The Woman's 
 throat. The two Tnen wait anxiously to see the 
 effect.) 
 
 Shepherd. — She's not so white. There's color in 
 her cheeks. 
 
 Carter. — Hush ! She's coming to. I'll fix a pillow 
 for her head. 
 
 (He takes a small sack hanging from the rafters, 
 thrusts hay inside, and brings it to the manger.) 
 
 Carter. — There! rest her head on this. That's 
 better. Fetch me that smock hanging on yonder 
 peg, to wrap around her shoulders. (The Shep- 
 herd fetches the smock. ) There, now ! We'll bide a 
 bit and then more broth. 
 
 (They leave The Woman and return to the fire. 
 The Carter takes three bowls and spoons from the 
 shelf, places them on the hearth, fills them from the 
 pot, and motions to the others.) 
 
 Carter. — Draw up and eat. 
 
 Shepherd. — Give me The Child. I'll hold liim 
 while you eat. 
 
 Drover. — I've neither hunger nor thirst. 
 
 Shepherd. — Give me The Child and rest your 
 arms. 
 
 51 
 
Drover. — There is no weight upon them. 
 
 Shepherd. — 'Tis many a lamb I've carried in my 
 breast. Give it to me. 
 
 Carter. — Your broth is cooling. 
 
 Shepherd. — I'd rather hold The Child. 
 
 Carter. — Eat first. 
 
 (The Shepherd takes his bowl and empties it in 
 silence.) 
 
 Woman (feebly). — Water. 
 
 Carter {approaching the manger with a cup). — 
 Drink ! 
 
 Woman {draining the cup). — Thank you. 
 
 Carter. — Now try to sleep. 
 
 {She closes her eyes. The Carter watches her for 
 a few minutes and then goes hack to join the others 
 near the fire.) 
 
 Shepherd {laying the empty howl on the hearth). 
 — Give me the child and eat. 
 
 Drover. — I want nothink. 
 
 Shepherd. — Ye said ye'd hunger a while back. 
 
 Drover. — I had. 
 
 Shepherd. — And now.'' 
 
 Drover. — 'Tis gone. 
 
 {A sound is heard outside. A door between the 
 manger and the fold opens and a young man enters, 
 followed by a draft-horse wearing a heavy harness. 
 The young man advances a few steps, then stops 
 
 52 
 
suddenly and stands gazing at the group near the 
 fire. The horse, instead of going directly to the 
 manger, stands motionless within the frame of the 
 door. A hare and a rabbit enter and run straight 
 toward the spot wJiere the donkey and goat are stand- 
 ing. They sit upon their haunches and appear to 
 have lost all fear of men. A moment later a fox 
 issues from beneath the body of the cart-horse and 
 joins the other animals. The hare and rabbit do not 
 notice him, and the fox does not appear to be con- 
 scious of their presence. 
 
 The silence is finally broken by a knock on the 
 outer door. The Carter goes to the door and opens 
 it. A man with a peddler's pack stands on the door- 
 stone.) 
 
 Carter. — Well ? 
 
 Peddler. — Shelter. I have wherewith to pay. 
 
 Carter. — Enter ! I turn no one this night away. 
 'Tis Christmas Eve. 
 
 (The Peddler enters and makes directly for the 
 fire. Halfway across the room he hesitates and comes 
 to a standstill. 
 
 A pheasant and a grouse come in through the open 
 door and join the animals by the fire before the door 
 closes.) 
 
 Carter. — Draw near the fire. There's still some- 
 think in the pot. Hast supped? 
 
 Peddler. — I've nothink since the morn, and yet 
 the hunger, keen enough a short bit back, is gone. 
 
 Carter. — Gone ! 
 
 S3 
 
Peddler. — Since I stepped 'cross your threshold, 
 'tis as though I'd never known the pangs. 
 
 Shepherd {to Peddler). — Come nearer. 'Tis a 
 bonny Child. As fine a boy as ever was. Come look ! 
 
 Peddler. — A child? I'll have a look. 
 
 (He approaches The Child in The Drover's 
 arms and bends over the infant.) 
 
 Shepherd. — Didst ever see so fine a boy? 
 
 Peddler {gazvng silently, and then turning slowly 
 to The Carter). — Whence came The Child? 
 
 Shepherd {interrupting). — Didst ever see its 
 like? 
 
 Carter. — Born in the snow, this night. 
 
 Peddler. — The mother? 
 
 Carter {pointing toward the manger). — There. 
 
 Peddler {turning and observing the sleeping 
 Woman for the first time). — She sleeps. 'Tis well. 
 
 Shepherd. — 'Tis many a ewe I've seen die in the 
 snow. 
 
 Peddler. — Poor creatures ! 
 
 Shepherd. — The lambs I've carried in my bosom 
 to the kitchen fire, only to find them dead. 
 
 Peddler. — 'Tis a miracle they lived. 
 
 Shepherd {misunderstanding). — They died more 
 often than they lived. 
 
 Carter. — But not this night. 
 
 Drover. — Five minutes more, and 'twere too late. 
 
 54 
 
Shepherd. — We've done a good night's work. 
 
 Young Man. — If the old mare had not gone lame 
 I'd given ye all a lift 
 
 Shepherd {to Drover). — Give me The Child! 
 
 Drover. — Hush ! 'Tis fast asleep. 
 
 Carter {to Peddler). — How comes it I have 
 never seen you here before .^ 
 
 Peddler. — Our paths have never crossed until to- 
 night. 
 
 Carter. — I know the people hereabouts for thirty 
 mile or more. None pass my door without a stop to 
 rest themselves and chat. 
 
 Shepherd. — What have you in your pack.'' 
 
 Peddler {to Carter). — Didst say you found 
 them in the snow.'' 
 
 Carter. — Seated beside the fire, I heard the in- 
 fant's wail, and ventured forth. I could not rest, 
 and sought until I found them there, among the trees. 
 
 Peddler. — How ? 
 
 Carter. — The glow. The same as is here now. 
 We saw the light and followed it. 
 
 Peddler. — As did the three Wise Men. 
 
 Carter. — ^The Child was wrapped inside her 
 cloak. 
 
 Shepherd. — The lamb bom in the snow. 
 
 (The Peddler, stepping hack far enough to allow 
 his glance to include The Woman and the group 
 
 55 
 
about The Child, lets his pack slip from his shoulder 
 to the grou/nd.) 
 
 Peddler {slowly). — Born in the snow, on Christ- 
 mas Eve! {Resuming, after a brief i/nterval.) Full 
 many a year I've tramped it with my pack, beneath 
 the summer suns and winter stars. Strange are the 
 sights I've seen and stranger yet the men I've met ! 
 There's many a tale between the covers of a book, not 
 half so weird and fear-compelling as the living ones 
 of which I was a part. I've tramped it in strange 
 lands and crossed wide seas. I've bargained with 
 strange people in strange tongues, and everywhere 
 I've found that men, however much they differ in 
 their dress and speech, at heart are brothers. And 
 red blood flows within the veins of all. Their loves 
 and passions are the same. Gold, honor, fame are 
 everywhere the ends for which men strive. While 
 now and then, some great soul lifts its voice and 
 points its finger toward the higher, upward way. 
 Such souls are rare. They come and go and leave a 
 trail of light behind to mark their progress. Not 
 like the conquerors of the world, whose path to glory 
 was outlined by smoking roofs and bleeding forms, 
 by ghostly trails of whitening bones, by ruined cities, 
 and by woman's moans, but by the power of an idea 
 these souls have wrought. They came not to enslave, 
 but to set free, and gave their all — yes, life itself — 
 to help advance their cause. I've seen such men in 
 other lands, and known them for my brothers. Yes, 
 brothers of the Man who came to earth, a little child 
 on Christmas Eve, two thousand years ago. I 
 thought of Him to-night as I was tramping through 
 
 56 
 
the snow. I raised my eyes, and lo! I saw the star 
 above my head — the Bethlehem Star — and, as I 
 walked, it went before, until at last I came unto this 
 place. With senses all alert I heard sounds until now 
 unheard, and saw sights hitherto unseen. As I ap- 
 proached this roof, the trees were all alive with birds. 
 Across my path ran hares and tiny rabbits, often- 
 times so close they brushed my garments, and seemed 
 to know no fear. I passed a noble buck with spread- 
 ing horns, beside his mate, and neither moved. They 
 stood outside, a few feet from the door; and as I 
 passed did not vouchsafe a look at me. Upon the 
 eaves, above the door, a snow-white owl was perched, 
 and everywhere were tracks of tiny, furry things, all 
 leading to the door. It was as though some magnet 
 drew them hence; and there they sat, some on their 
 haunches, others on all fours, facing the door and 
 listening, as it were. I paused and waited ere I 
 knocked, and wondered why so many enemies were 
 crouched like friends, instead of tearing at each 
 other's throats. I've wandered far in many lands, 
 but never have I seen the like before. 
 
 Woman. — Carter. 
 
 Carter (approaching the manger). — What is't? 
 
 Woman. — The Child? 
 
 Carter. — 'Tis well. It sleeps. 
 
 Woman. — ^The Cheld? 
 
 Carter (going to the fire and returning with a 
 cup of broth). — Here, drink. Then sleep. 
 
 Woman (refusing the cup). — No, no. The Child. 
 
 57 
 
Carter {offering the cup again). — Drink first! 
 
 (The Woman swallows a little of the broth un- 
 willingly/, then pushes the cup away.) 
 
 Woman. — The Child. 
 
 Carter (m a tone of authority) . — Let her have it ! 
 
 (The Carter takes The Child from The Drover 
 and places it in The Woman's arms. The manger is 
 suffused by a glow emanating from The Woman 
 and The Child. The corners of the room are dark. 
 The Carter, The Shepherd and The Drover 
 stand side by side facing the manger. The Young 
 Man advances, followed by the horse, and takes a 
 like position behind the manger. The Peddler 
 gathers up his pack and stands with his back toward 
 the door, facing the manger and the three men. The 
 donkey and the goat, with the fox, hare and rabbit, 
 group themselves along the manger opposite the feet 
 of The Woman. The pheasant and grouse perch 
 on the edge of the manger. The Woman uncovers 
 The Child's face and gazes in silent rapture upon 
 its features. After a brief interval she opens the 
 cloak in which The Child is wrapped. The glow 
 becomes instantly more intense and increases until 
 the faces of the mother. The Child, the men and 
 the animals^ forms are distinctly visible. The re- 
 mainder of the interior is in the shadow. 
 
 The Peddler opens his pack and takes out a fine 
 gold chain. He aproaches the manger and lays it in 
 The Child's hands. The Woman lifts her eyes to 
 The Peddler's face and smiles gratefully. 
 
 58 
 
The Carter goes to the shelf beside the fire-place, 
 opens a box, takes out a candle made of bees' wax, 
 and returning to the manger, places it beside The 
 Child. The Woman gives him a smile of thanks. 
 
 The Drover draws a large, greasy leathern wallet 
 from his inner breast-pocket, opens it, and carefully 
 removes a small package wrapped in white paper, 
 containing a few grains of musk, taken from the 
 wild musk ox. He lays the package beside the candle. 
 The mother smiles her thanks. 
 
 The Shepherd draws a moss-agate stone from 
 his pocket. The stone has a smooth polish and has 
 evidently been treasured carefully for years. One 
 side is beautifully mottled; on the other in the cen- 
 ter are lines forming a perfect cross. The Shep- 
 herd approaches the manger and starts to place the 
 stone beside the candle and the packet, but drops it. 
 The stone falls upon The Child's breast, on which 
 its tiny arms are folded. As soon as it touches The 
 Child's body, one of the small hands opens, grasps 
 the stone, and closes tightly. The Woman turns 
 pale, gives The Shepherd a frightened look, and 
 closes her eyes, while a tear rolls dozem each cheek. 
 The Child looks up into The Shepherd's face and 
 smiles. The Woman tightens her hold upon The 
 Child as if to ward off an impending danger. 
 
 The Young Man behind the manger takes a 
 ruddy-cheeked apple from his pocket and lays it 
 beside the other offerings. 
 
 The pheasant spreads his wings. His largest, 
 most brilliantly colored feather floats slowly down- 
 ward and lies across The Woman's limbs.) 
 
 59 
 
Peddler. — Who gives the thing he holds most 
 dear receives more than he gives. We toil and save 
 — for what? To spend upon ourselves. We hoard 
 our treasures. Why? To lose them, soon or late. 
 'Tis only when we give with generous hand and will- 
 ing heart that we retain our own. For thieves break 
 through and steal the things we hoard and hide. 
 Time crumbles and corrodes the shining things that 
 please the eye. We give our youth, our manhood, 
 even age, to gain the glittering spoils, torn from 
 the breast of Mother Earth. For what? When 
 Death comes knocking at our door and bids us open, 
 what avails the treasure we have sweat and toiled 
 for through the years. Naked and empty-handed as 
 we came, we go from earth. It matters little then 
 how full or empty all our coffers are. Can gold and 
 lands and earthly honors for one instant stay the 
 hand that knocks on each man's door, purchase a 
 moment's respite, grant reprieve? Too late, alas! 
 too late! 
 
 (The Peddler pauses and his head sinks sadly on 
 his breast. After a brief interval of silence he re- 
 sumes.) 
 
 Peddler. — Too late for those who only stood 
 with hands outstretched to take, whose livelong 
 cry of "More!" was ever on their lips. 
 
 Woman {lifting her head slightly). — But what of 
 those who gave? Not gold alone, but, better still, 
 their strength, their lives, their love?. 
 
 Peddler. — All that they gave, they had — and 
 more. 
 
 60 
 
(The Woman's head falls hack. She breathes a 
 sigh of content.) 
 
 Carter. — The Child is welcome to the candle. 
 
 Drover. — And to the scent. 
 
 Young Man. — And to the apple. 
 
 Shepherd. — And to the little stone. 
 
 {The door opens slowly to admit a bird mid then 
 closes. The bird flies into the room, circles above the 
 heads of the 'people for a moment, and then perches 
 on the edge of the manger near The Woman's head. 
 From there it hops to her wrist, and drops some- 
 thing from its beak into her hand. The Woman 
 looks at the object doubtfully and then suddenly 
 recognizes it. Her face flushes and a smile radiates 
 her countenance.) 
 
 Woman. — My ring! 
 
 (She toys with it lovingly, and then slips it on the 
 fourth finger of her left hand. The bird meanwhile 
 perches on the edge of the manger near The Wom- 
 an's head. The Woman turns and gives it a loving 
 glance.) 
 
 Woman. — Dear little bird! 
 
 {The bird bursts into a flood of melody. The 
 Child looks up at the bird and smiles.) 
 
 Peddler {listening, then turning toward the 
 door). — There's something trying to get in! 
 
 {He opens the door. A huge dog bounds into the 
 room, carrying a paper in his mouth. He goe» 
 straight to the manger and drops the paper in The 
 
 6i 
 
Woman's lap. She glcmces at the paper, then utters 
 a cry of joy.) 
 
 Woman. — My marriage lines ! I lost them in the 
 snow. {Laying her hand on the dog's head.) Dear, 
 noble beast! 
 
 {She allows her hand to rest motionless on the 
 dog's head. The animal evinces his delight by wag- 
 ging his tail violently and uttering a half a dozen 
 deep-toned barks. The Child looks up at the dog 
 and smiles. As soon as the latter perceives this, he 
 ceases barking and draws as close to the manger as 
 possible, whimpering beside himself with delight.) 
 
 Peddlee. — Man, bird and beast hath given of his 
 best unto this Child, born in the snow on Christmas 
 Eve, and to the mother that which, next her Child, 
 is dearer far than all — her ring and marriage lines, 
 the seal and patent of maternity. Despite man's 
 cruelty and selfishness, which drove her forth to die 
 alone at night amid the storm, she shall live on for 
 ages, wearing woman's crown with sweet humility. 
 Forgotten now the bitter anguish and the pain; 
 nothing remains but joy because her Child is born. 
 
 (The Woman clasps her Child more closely in 
 her arms and gazes at its face with rapture.) 
 
 Peddler (continuing). — This Child shall also 
 live, and with its tiny hands bind all mankind into 
 one brotherhood. Its smile shall banish grief and 
 lighten weary hearts. Its fingers shall point out the 
 path that leads to life beyond this eartlily vale of 
 tears. The road its tiny feet shall travel shall be 
 forever free from pitfalls and from harm. The light 
 
 62 
 
about its head a beacon on the endless shores of Time 
 to guide the weary traveler on his way. 
 
 {During the apostrophe to The Child, the glow 
 becomes brighter and brighter, until of dazzling 
 •whiteness. The Carter, The Drover, The Shep- 
 herd fall upon their knees. The Young Man 
 emerges from behind the manger and kneels back 
 of the other men. The animals and birds retain their 
 previous positions as if carved from stone. The 
 Peddler alone remains standing with arms out- 
 stretcJied.) 
 
 Peddler (slowly, with great solemnity). — A little 
 Child shall lead them. So long as this endures, the 
 world shall live. Against its tiny form the waves of 
 doubt, of sin, of death, shall beat in vain. 
 
 Woman {straining The Child to her breast). — 
 My Child, my little Child ! 
 
 Peddler. — Within its tiny hands the world's hope 
 rests, a hope that never dies, yet born anew each 
 Christmas Eve, revives within men's hearts the spark 
 of faith, which keeps their feet from stumbling in 
 the midnight darkness of the soul. Man's strength 
 is feeble at the most. The way is long and dark, 
 with perils manifold. Hope is the light that shines 
 upon the way, and in this Child I see the promise of 
 the life to be. 
 
 Woman. — My Child, my little Child. 
 
 Peddler {very slowly). — Its tiny hands must yet 
 be pierced by nails. Its little brow must grow to 
 fit the thorns. Its tender feet must bleed to mark 
 the way. Its feeble shoulder bared to scourging 
 rods. 
 
 63 
 
Woman. — O, say not so! It cannot, must not be! 
 
 Peddlee {sadly). — It can and must! 
 
 Woman. — Is there no other way.^ 
 
 Peddler. — None. 
 
 Woman. — But he is innocent. 
 
 Peddler. — It matters not. 
 
 Woman. — Too innocent to suffer so. 
 
 Peddler. — By suffering alone he may attain 
 
 Woman. — He is my Child — 
 
 Peddler. — His Father's also. 
 
 Woman. — His father's dead. 
 
 Peddler. — His Father lives. 
 
 Woman. — He's all I have. 
 
 Peddler. — It is the only way. 
 
 Woman. — The only way? 
 
 Peddler. — To keep your Child. 
 
 Woman {dreamily). — His tiny hands pierced by 
 the nails! {Pausing.) His little forehead crowned 
 with thorns! {Pausing.) His little, tender feet all 
 bruised and bleeding! {Pausing.) His dimpled 
 shoulders scourged with rods! {Shuddering.) I 
 cannot, O ! I cannot ! 
 
 Peddler. — Alas ! poor mother ! 
 
 Woman. — I'll flee at da\^Ti and hide him safe from 
 all who wish him harm. 
 
 Peddler. — There is no hiding-place. 'Twere 
 vain to try. 
 
 64 
 
Woman. — Take me and let him go ! 
 
 Peddler. — It cannot be. 
 
 Woman. — Take me, take me, but let him go! 
 
 Peddler. — The cup is for his lips alone. 
 
 Woman. — Give it to me. I'll drain it to the 
 dregs. 
 
 Peddler. — 'Tis not for you. 
 
 Woman (firmly). — He's my Child. 
 
 Peddler. — To give, but not to keep. 
 
 Woman. — What if I should refuse? 
 
 Peddler. — You would not dare — 
 
 Woman {interrrwptmg) . — A mother dares all for 
 her Child — 
 
 Peddler. — Destroy the whole world's hope. 
 
 (The Woman trembles violently and raises The 
 Child's hand containing the stone to her lips.) 
 
 Woman (humbly). — I kiss the cross submissive 
 to my fate. 
 
 Peddler (extending his arms and gazing toward 
 the ceiling above the manger). — And for this sacri- 
 fice I see thee sitting, crowned, amidst the heavenly 
 hosts, the Queen of Heaven, blessed above, beyond 
 all womankind. Thou gav'st the world the thing to 
 thee most dear, and what thou gavest thou hast still, 
 and mortals through thy gift, this Holy Night, shall 
 do thee homage for all time. 
 
 (The roof above the manger opens. Three angels 
 are seen hovering above The Woman and The 
 
 65 
 
Child. One of them carries a cross, another a 
 scepter, and the third a crown. 
 
 The Peddler falls upon his knees, his arms open 
 and outstretched, his face radiant with joy and 
 ecstasy. 
 
 Celestial Voices are heard chanting the '"Gloria 
 m Excelsis.") 
 
 {The curtain descends very slowly.) 
 The End. 
 
 66 
 
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