Christmas Eve in Paris. A Story

CHRISTMAS EVE IN PARIS, BY LYDIA D. ALDER. It is Christmas eve, in the great city of Paris. From early in the afternoon, the flakes of snow have been falling steadily, until now the Toofs of the houses are well covered; it is thick on the pavements, too, and sticks in balls to one's heels. Then, falling off, more is added, caus- ing annoyance and discomfort. Outside of the city, the trees are fantastically dressed, in the fleecy garb of winter. Far away, the vine-clad hills of France appear like huge cities, the clouds and hills meeting, so that it is almost impossible to distinguish where one begins or the other ends. Though the storm still continues, pedestrians plod up and down the wide thoroughfares, scarcely realizing the uncomfortable situation, their minds fully occupied, in the purchase of presents which shall make the hearts of loved ones happy on the morrow. Quickened heart-beats keep out the cold, and shorten the distance that has to be traveled. Seven o'clock chimes from Notre Dame, then from Mary Magdalene, then from St. Sulpice. As the chimes die away, a woman poorly protected from the inclement weather, slowly ascends the steps of the last named house of worship, and enters the dimly-lighted aisle. Snow is on her hair, which is also silvered with the snows of time; and her thin black dress is bedraggled with it. On her shoulders it rests like a trimming on her cape. Once inside, she wends her way to the front of the altar, where she sinks on her knees, weary and almost exhausted. In her hands she firmly holds a few parcels — all that her store of means will allow for the coming morrow, which should bring joy into the world — love and happi- ness for some, but only tears and memories for others. Why is the world thus divided? Why should the same time bring both joy and pain? Alas! it was ever so, since the portal of Eden closed on the first wanderers, and the cold, barren world met their anxious view— the stern world where the glad Christmas bells never had rung.

208 IMPROVEMENT ERA. Inside, the edifice wears a sombre aspect. Here and there a few are kneeling, whose thoughts are not in keeping with the season's bustle and merriment. Lowly they kneel, their lips, where smiles are strangers, move slowly as they pour out their griefs, at the fountain of peace and resignation, whose flowing waters are for the healing of the nations. In the gilded chapels, which closely adjoin either side of the church, others are praying to their patron saints; and in some of the confes- sionals, penitent sinners are pouring out the burden that oppresses them, ere the joyous Christmas chimes shall thrill the world with melody that shall awake from slumber the hearts which are glad that a Messiah 16 born. The solemn voice of the priest penetrates the semi-darkness, while he administers comfort to the trangressor. The beads sometimes clink as they fall from the trembling hand of one who has almost lost hope, on whom the world's coldness has fallen, shutting out the glad rays of a happy tomorrow. Almost noiselessly, figures move like spectres up and down the long aisles, some emerging again into the snowy atmosphere of the winter night. Before the altar still kneels the black-robed woman upon whom the tall candles shed a mellow light. Evening service is being sung. Faintly, then more clearly, the Angelus sounds, re-echoing through the vaulted ceiling. The service ends, but the woman moves not. Those who have gathered mingle together as they pass out of the swinging door. The picture over the altar almost startles the beholder as the light flickers over it. The world seems suspended in the air. Does it really move? Ah! yes it seems to, and there is the Western continent almost clasping hands with the Eastern. The woman, slightly raising her head, sees the globe, high up, so clearly defined. It rivets her attention as she tries, first wearily, then with more interest, to decide which is the land of Palestine. Ah! Pales- tine, she thinks, when I was a little girl, how I loved to read of the mountains of Palestine, of the sea of Galilee, where Jesus sat in a boat just a little distance from the shore, speaking wonderful truths to the multitudes who gathered to hear him. That must be the sea, just there, but the Savior she cannot discover. Well, no matter, he did walk on the shore and teach his disciples the way of life. And he walked on that same sea to reach his apostles in the boat. Peter, that ever boastful Peter, thought he could walk (m the sea, too, so over the side he steps and tries to go to Jesus. But soon he began to sink, and then cried out for Jesus to save him. Then he heard the rebuke, "0 ye of little faith!" How clear the sea is! the waves dance along, while clouds, through which the light of another day is

CHRISTMAS EVE IN PARIS 209 reflected, hover above the horizon. How peaceful the hour as Jesus and Peter join the other disciples in the boat. Then the scene changes. She sees the waves mount high, white-capped, angrily dashing against each other. And there is a little boat. But see! it goes down out of sight. Then it rises on the next wave, the wind tossing it about as if it were a thing of naught, and no human life were at stake. The war of the storm drowns the cries of the fishermen. 0, will they perish? Who is that standing with arm uplifted like one of majesty and power? "I know," she said to herself "that is Jesus. And see! the waves begin to subside, the winds to blow less fiercely; the dark storm-clouds lift from over the sea, and lo! all is still.' "Peace, be still." Sheknowg the words. "0, why does he not say, 'Peace, be still,' to troubled hearts, as he did to the sea?" And this is Christmas eve, she thinks, — not on the sea! No; as the picture and the time confuse themselves in her brain. They were happy Christmases, long ago. Then she was a wife and proud mother. Then warm baby hands were clasped around her neck, and baby kisses thrilled her heart. How radiantly beautiful was all the world! how full was life! The sun shone in gladness all the day long. How eagarly she listened for the welcome footfall of the husband, returning after his day's absence! She shivers, as a cold draft blows on her from the opening door. Long ago, the grave had closed over him, she had loved. The heart, whose beats were only for her and the babe, was stilled forever. Tears course down the furrowed cheek. Almost they blot out the picture upon which she has been gazing. The years pass by like ghosts. Each one seems to press more heavily upon her heart. The baby grew to manhood, but so restless, so impetuous that he had gone away like thousands of others, to win glory in fighting the battles of his country. "Five years," she moans, "five years tonight, since he said goodby, and sailed away from sunny France." The world had seemed a blank. Letters one, two, three, had come, saying he was well was achieving fame, which brought him happiness; and that some day he was coming home to live and cherish his darling mother. "Some day,"' she wearily sighed, "how much longer can I wait? Will ray heart bear the separation? Can life's cords bind me yet longer to earth?" Then the dreary home rises in her mind, and more closely she holds the few comforts she had purchased. Again her eyes rest upon the painting. Yes, there is the Madonna, the babe close in her embrace just stepping onto the world. "0, happy mother," she cries, mother of that Glorified One, have mercy on me!"

210 IMPROVEMENT ERA. The lights are burning more brightly, more people are passing to and fro. The whole building is suddenly ablaze into light, for lo! the mother and babe are stepping on to the world. The world where cruel people sought his life. The world where he grew in grace and stature, finding favor with God, but hated of men. See! there is the land of Palestine, and "the green hill far away" drenched with blood. Between earth and sky, on the cross he hangs! 0, Palestine, 0, Palestine! 0, pity the weeping mother, she too has lost a son. The woman's reverie is broken. Louder now the music sounds; quicker, more happy. Light, like day, fills the church. Lifting herself up, she almost drops upon the chair. Sweet voices fill the place. She listens to the heavenly strains, the rare melody, that seems floating all around and above her. Is that the angels singing on the plains of Judea? "Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth, good will to men."' The voice is a deep, wonderful one. Then others take up the strain. "Glory to God, Glory to God." Is an invisible choir chanting the words? The organ again pleads out its glad notes. "Hallelujah, hallelujah, Christ is born." The joyous strains are repeated over and over again^ Once more the dark robed woman looks upon the picture. The world looks so beautiful; its atmosphere, hazy, gray and blue, and the Madonna's face is illumined with floods of light reflecting as it were the glories of the unseen world. How gracefully in her clinging drapery, and caressing the babe, she steps on to the world. The whole scene is transfigured. The Immaculate One has come to earth. The Christmas mass is ended. One by one the people arise and leave the building. What is that sudden rush? What those hurried commands? "Only a woman has fainted." Some press forward to gaze upon her, a tall, well-dressed man among the number; carelessly h& looks to ascertain the cause of the confusion, when his eye rests upon her still, white face. Quickly he springs forward, hurriedly bends down, "Mother,, mother!" he cries and chafes her cold hands in his own. Her eyes open, then wearily close again. "Mother!" he whispers, "mother!" "What a lovely dream," she faintly says. "I dreamed my boy was here." "He is, mother, he is!" cried the stranger. "Only, look upon me, your own boy." Love, the inspirer of life, quickens her pulse, and she hears the blessed word, "mother." "At last, at last!" she cries, and clinging to him, bursts into happy tears. It was Christmas day, and joy had come into the world. . As the lights faded, the painting over the altar seems more distinct,.

CHRISTMAS EVE IN PARIS. 211 seems to stand out as though hung in space. How wondrously beauti- ful! The face of the Madonna, perfect in outline, is soft with mother love. The eyes look down upon the throng as they leave the building, fascinating the beholder. The story of the birth of Christ is thus beauti- fully depicted. The church is almost empty, as mother and son, so long separated, but now so happily re-united, pass over the threshold, into the darkness without. They go to her humble home, where it is long before his story is told, and he learns of her sorrows and grief. The faint rays of the glad Christmas day are glowing in the East, before they retire to rest. A glorious sun succeeds the stormy night. Kneeling, they offer their gratitude to the Good Giver, and thank him for "blessed Christ- mas day." Years have passed away since then. To the unknown land, they have journeyed on, but others remain, who plead for a joyous Christmas day, — a day when no creed or false doctrine shall cause a thought of cold distress, a day when Jesus shall come to earth again, and with him the righteous ones, to eat with him at the marriage supper of the Lamb. A day when the Church, no longer widowed, shall in all her glory become the Lamb's bride; when peace shall extend from sea to sea, and all shall know liim from the greatest unto the least, and the Church of Jesus Christ is triumphant. Come, day, when scoffs and scorn are no more known; But arrayed in white before the great high throne, We'll sing the songs of his redeeming grace. And forever worship before his face.