Sometimes it
was the tiny waxen Bambino, in its pathetic helplessness; sometimes
the Babe Miraculous, standing with outstretched arms awaiting the
world's embrace--Mary's Son, held up in loving hands to bless; or
the Heavenly Child-King with crown and lily sceptre, borne high by
Joseph, that gentle, faithful servitor. It was the festival of
Bethlehem, feast of never-ending keeping, which has its crowning
splendour on Christmas Day.
A Sister passed with a fat, rosy little girl in either hand; they
were chattering merrily of the gift they were to buy for the dear
Christkind, the gift which Sister said He would send some ragged
child to receive for Him. They came back to the poor booth close
to where I was standing. It was piled with warm garments; and
after much consultation a little white vest was chosen--the elder
child rejected pink, she knew the Christkind would like white best-
-then they trotted off down a narrow turning to the church, and I
followed.
The Creche stood without the chancel, between the High Altar and
that of Our Lady of Sorrows. It was very simple. A blue paper
background spangled with stars; a roughly thatched roof supported
on four rude posts; at the back, ox and ass lying among the straw
with which the ground was strewn. The figures were life-size, of
carved and painted wood: Joseph, tall and dignified, stood as
guardian, leaning on his staff; Mary knelt with hands slightly
uplifted in loving adoration; and the Babe lay in front on a truss
of straw disposed as a halo.
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