clumsy fingers only made such discord that his companions laughed
at him and mocked him, and called him a madman because he would
not give it up, but would rather sit apart by himself, with his
arms about his harp, looking up into the sky, while they gathered
around their fire and told tales to wile away their long night
vigils as they watched their sheep on the hills. But to him the
thoughts that came out of the great silence were far sweeter than
their mirth; and he never gave up the hope, which sometimes left
his lips as a prayer, that some day he might be able to express
those thoughts in music to the tired, weary, forgetful world. On
the first Christmas night he was out with his fellow shepherds on
the hills. It was chill and dark, and all, except him, were glad
to gather around the fire. He sat, as usual, by himself, with his
harp on his knee and a great longing in his heart. And there came
a marvellous light in the sky and over the hills, as if the
darkness of the night had suddenly blossomed into a wonderful
meadow of flowery flame; and all the shepherds saw the angels and
heard them sing. And as they sang, the harp that the young
shepherd held began to play softly by itself, and as he listened
to it he realized that it was playing the same music that the
angels sang and that all his secret longings and aspirations and
strivings were expressed in it. From that night, whenever he took
the harp in his hands, it played the same music; and he wandered
all over the world carrying it; wherever the sound of its music
was heard hate and discord fled away and peace and good-will
reigned. No one who heard it could think an evil thought; no one
could feel hopeless or despairing or bitter or angry. When a man
had once heard that music it entered into his soul and heart and
life and became a part of him for ever. Years went by; the
shepherd grew old and bent and feeble; but still he roamed over