Читать книгу Little Folks' Christmas Stories and Plays - Various - Страница 6

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When the Christ Child was born in Bethlehem of Judea, long years ago, three kings rode out of the East on their camels bearing gifts to him. They followed the Star, until at last they came to the manger where he lay—a little, newborn baby. Kneeling down, they put their gifts beside him: gold, frankincense, and myrrh; they kissed the hem of the little, white mantle that he wore, and blessed him. Then the kings rode away to the East again; but before ever they went they whispered a promise to the Christ Child.

And the promise? You shall hear it as the kings gave it to the Christ Child, long years ago.

“As long as there be children on the earth, on every Christmas Eve we three kings shall ride on camels—even as we rode to thee this night; and even as we bore thee gifts so shall we bear gifts to every child in memory of thee, thou holy Babe of Bethlehem.”

In Spain they have remembered what the Christmas kings promised; and when Christmas Eve comes, each child puts his sapatico—his little shoe—between the gratings of the window that they may know a child is in that house, and leave a gift.

Often the shoe is filled with grass for the camels; and a plate of dates and figs is left beside it; for the children know the kings have far to go and may be hungry.

At day’s end bands of children march out of the city gates—going to meet the kings. But always it grows dark before they come. The children are afraid upon the lonely road and hurry back to their homes; where the good madres hear them say one prayer to the Nene Jesu, as they call the Christ Child, and then put them to bed to dream of the Christmas kings.

Long, long ago, there lived in Spain, in the crowded part of a great city, an old woman called Doña Josefa. The street in which she lived was little and narrow; so narrow that if you leaned out of the window of Doña Josefa’s house you could touch with your fingertips the house across the way; and when you looked above your head the sky seemed but a string of blue—tying the houses all together. The sun never found its way into this little street.

The people who lived here were very poor, as you may guess; Doña Josefa was poor, likewise. But in one thing she was very rich; she knew more stories than there were feast days in the year—and that is a great many. Whenever there came a moment free from work; when Doña Josefa had no water to fetch from the public well, nor gold to stitch upon the altar cloth for the Church of Santa Maria del Rosario; then she would run out of her house into the street and call:

“Niños, niñas, come quickly! Here is a story waiting for you.”

And the children would come flying—like the gray palomas when corn is thrown for them in the Plaza. Ah, how many children there were in that little street! There were José and Miguel, and the niños of Enrique, the cobbler—Alfredito and Juana and Esperanza—and the little twin sisters of Pancho, the peddler; and Angela, Maria Teresa, Pedro, Edita, and many more. Last of all there were Manuel and Rosita. They had no father; and their mother was a lavandera who stood all day on the banks of the river outside the city, washing clothes.

When Doña Josefa had called the children from all the doorways and the dark corners, she would sit down in the middle of the street and gather them about her. This was safe, because the street was far too narrow to allow a horse or wagon to pass through. Sometimes a donkey would slowly pick its way along, or a stupid goat come searching for things to eat; but that was all.

It happened on the day before Christmas that Doña Josefa had finished her work, and sat as usual with the children about her.

“To-day you shall have a Christmas story,” she said; and then she told them of the three kings and the promise they had made the Christ Child.

“And is it so—do the kings bring presents to the children now?” Miguel asked.

Doña Josefa nodded her head: “Yes.”

“Then why have they never left us one? The three kings never pass this street on Christmas Eve; why is it, Doña?”

“Perhaps it is because we have no shoes to hold their gifts,” said Angela.

And this is true. The poor children of Spain go barefooted; and often never have a pair of shoes till they grow up.

Manuel had listened silently to the others; but now he pulled the sleeve of Doña Josefa’s gown with coaxing fingers: “I know why it is the kings bring no gifts to us. See—the street—it is too small, their camels could not pass between the doorsteps here. The kings must ride where the streets are broad and smooth and clean; where their long mantles will not be soiled and torn, and the camels will not stumble. It is the children in the great streets—the children of the rich—who find presents in their sapaticos on Christmas morning. Is it not so, Doña Josefa?”

And Miguel cried: “Does Manuel speak true; is it only the children of the rich?”

“Ah, chiquito mio, it should not be so! When the promise was given to the Nene Jesu, there in Bethlehem, they said, ‘to every child,’—yes, every little child.”

“But it is not strange they should forget us here,” Manuel insisted. “The little street is hidden in the shadow of the great ones.”

Then Rosita spoke, clasping her hands together with great eagerness: “I know; it is because we have no shoes, that is why the kings never stop. Perhaps Enrique would lend us the shoes he is mending—just for one night. If we had shoes the kings would surely see that there are little children in the street, and leave a gift for each of us. Come, let us ask Enrique!”

“Madre de Dios, it is a blessed thought!” cried all; and like the flock of gray palomas they swept down the street to the farthest end, where Enrique hammered and stitched away all day on the shoes of the rich children.

Manuel stayed behind with Doña Josefa. When the last pair of little brown feet had disappeared inside the sapateria he said softly:

“If some one could go out and meet the kings—to tell them of this little street, and how the niños here have never had a Christmas gift, do you not think they might ride hither to-night?”

Doña Josefa shook her head doubtfully. “If that were possible—but never have I heard of any one who met the kings on Christmas Eve.”

All day in the city people hurried to and fro. In the great streets flags waved from the housetops; and wreaths of laurel, or garlands of heliotrope and mariposa hung above the open doorways and in the windows. Sweetmeat sellers were crying their wares; and the Keeper-of-the-City lighted flaming torches to hang upon the gates and city walls. Everywhere was merrymaking and gladness; for not only was this Christmas Eve, but the King of Spain was coming to keep his holiday within the city. Some whispered that he was riding from the north, and with him rode his cousins, the kings of France and Lombardy; and with them were a great following of nobles, knights, and minstrels. Others said, the kings rode all alone—it was their wish.

As the sun was turning the cathedral spires to shafts of gold, bands of children, hand in hand, marched out of the city. They took the road that led toward the setting sun, thinking it was the East; and said among themselves: “See, yonder is the way the kings will ride.”

“I have brought a basket of figs,” cried one.

“I have dates in a new panuela,” cried another.

“And I,” cried a third, “I have brought a sack of sweet limes, they are so cooling.”

Thus each in turn showed some small gift that he was bringing for the kings. And while they chatted together, one child began to sing the sweet Nativity Hymn. In a moment others joined until the still night air rang with their happy voices.