Then Robber Father stood there pale and speechless, but Robber Mother said in his name, “Abbot Hans has indeed kept his word, and Robber Father will keep his.”

When the robber and his wife left the cave, the lay brother moved in and lived all alone in the forest, in constant meditation and prayer that his hard-heartedness might be forgiven him.

But Goeinge forest never again celebrated the hour of our Saviour’s birth; and of all its glory, there lives to-day only the plant which Abbot Hans had plucked.  It has been named CHRISTMAS ROSE.  And each year at Christmastide she sends forth from the earth her green stalks and white blossoms, as if she never could forget that she had once grown in the great Christmas garden at Goeinge forest.

FELIX

By EVALEEN STEIN

A very long while ago, perhaps as many as two hundred years, the little Provencal village of Sur Varne was all bustle and stir, for it was the week before Christmas; and always, in all the world, no one has known better how to keep the joyous holiday than have the happy-hearted people of Provence, the southeastern corner of France.

Everybody was busy, hurrying to and fro, gathering garlands of myrtle and laurel, bringing home their Yule logs with pretty old songs and ceremonies, and in various ways making ready for the all-important festival.

Not a house in Sur Varne but in some manner told the coming of the blessed birthday, and especially were there great preparations in the cottage of the shepherd, Pere Michaud.  This cottage, covered with white stucco, and thatched with long marsh-grass, stood at the edge of the village; olive and mulberry trees clustered about it, and a wild jasmine vine clambered over the doorway, while on this particular morning all around the low projecting eaves hung a row of tiny wheat-sheaves, swinging in the crisp December air, and twinkling in the sunlight like a golden fringe.  For the Pere Michaud had been up betimes, making ready the Christmas feast for the birds, which no Provencal peasant ever forgets at this gracious season; and the birds knew it, for already dozens of saucy robins and linnets and fieldfares were gathering in the Pere’s mulberry-trees, their mouths fairly watering with anticipation.

Within the cottage the good dame, the Mise Michaud, with wide sleeves rolled up and kirtle tucked back, was hard at work making all manner of savory goodies, while in the huge oven beside the blazing hearth the great Christmas cakes were baking, the famous pompou and fougasse, as they were called, dear to the hearts of the children of old Provence.

Now and then, as the cottage door swung open on the dame’s various cookery errands, one might hear a faint “Baa, baa!” from the sheepfold, where little Felix Michaud was very busy also.

Through the crevices of its weather-beaten boards came the sound of vigorous scrubbing of wool, and sometimes an impatient “Ninette!  Ninette!—­thou silly sheep!  Wilt thou never stand still?” Or else, in a Softer tone, an eager “Beppo, my little Beppo, dost thou know?  Dost thou know?” To all of which there would come no answer save the lamb’s weak little “Baa, baa!”