Then the people understood that the beautiful sleeping child, near whom were the carpenter’s tools, was the Christ-child in person, become for an hour such as he was when he worked in his parents’ house, and they bowed themselves before that miracle that the good God had seen fit to work, to reward the faith and charity of a child.

THE LITTLE FRIEND

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

“Oh!  I am so cold, so cold!” sobbed little Pierre, as he stumbled through the snow which was drifting deep upon the mountain side.  “Oh, I am so cold!  The snow bites my face and blinds me, so that I cannot see the road.  Where are all the Christmas candle-lights?  The people of the village must have forgotten.  The little Jesus will lose His way to-night.  I never forgot to set our window at home full of lights on Christmas Eve.  But now it is Christmas Eve, and there is no home any more.  And I am so cold, so cold!”

Little Pierre sobbed again and stumbled in the snow, which was drifting deeper and deeper upon the mountain side.  This was the stormiest Christmas Eve which had been seen for years, and all the little boys who had good homes were hugging themselves close to the fire, glad that they were not out in the bleak night.  Every window was full of flickering tapers to light the expected Holy Child upon His way through the village to the church.  But little Pierre had strayed so far from the road that he could not see these rows and rows of tiny earth-stars, any more than he could see through the snow the far-off sky-stars which the angels had lighted along the streets of heaven.

Pierre was on his way to the village from the orphan boys’ home at the Abbe’s charity school.  And that was not like a happy real home, for the little Brothers were rough and rude and far from loving one another.  He had started at dusk from the school, hoping to be at the village church before curfew.  For Pierre had a sweet little voice, and he was to earn a few pennies by singing in the choir on Christmas morning.  But it was growing late.  The church would be closed and the Cure gone home before Pierre could reach it; and then what should he do?

The snow whirled faster and faster, and Pierre’s legs found it harder and harder to move themselves through the great drifts.  They seemed heavy and numb, and he was growing oh, so tired!  If he could but lie down to sleep until Christmas Day!  But he knew that he must not do that.  For those who choose this kind of soft and tempting bed turn into ice-people, and do not wake up in the morning.  So he bent his head and tried to plough on through the drifts.

Whish!  A soft white thing flapped through the snow and struck Pierre in the face, so that he staggered and almost lost his balance.  The next moment he had caught the thing as it fell and was holding it tenderly in his numb hands.  It was a beautiful dove, white as the snow from which it seemed to come.  It had been whirled about by the storm until it had lost strength to fly, and it now lay quite still, with closed eyes.  Pierre stroked the ruffled feathers gently and blew upon its cold body, trying to bring it back to life.