One little lad, with a pinched white face, and with only an empty
certainty to look forward to, was singing shrilly in the sharp,
still air, "Zu Bethlehem geboren, ist uns ein Kindelein," as he
gazed wistfully at a shop window piled high with crisp gingerbread,
marzipan, chocolate under every guise, and tempting cakes. A great
rough peasant coming out, saw him, turned back, and a moment later
thrust a gingerbread Santa Klaus, with currant eyes and sugar
trimming to his coat and cap, into the half-fearful little hands.
"Hab' ebenso ein Kerlchen zu Haus'," he said to me apologetically
as he passed.
I waited to see Santa Klaus disappear; but no, the child looked at
the cake, sighed deeply with the cruel effort of resistance, and
refrained. It was all his Christmas and he would keep it. He
gazed and gazed, then a smile rippled across the wan little face
and he broke out in another carol, "Es kam ein Engel hell und klar
vom Himmel zu der Hirten Schaar," and hugging his Santa Klaus
carefully, wandered away down the now brilliant streets: he did
not know he was hungry any more; the angel had come with good
tidings.
As I passed along the streets I could see through the uncurtained
windows that in some houses Christmas had begun already for the
little ones. Then the bells rang out deep-mouthed, carrying the
call of the eager Church to her children, far up the valley and
across the frozen river. And they answered; the great church was
packed from end to end, and from my place by the door I saw that
two tiny Christmas trees bright with coloured candles burnt either
side of the Holy Child.
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