the woods, gathered fearlessly together and fed at the hand of
their common enemy--a millennial banquet truly.

The market-place was crowded, and there were Christmas trees
everywhere, crying aloud in bushy nakedness for their rightful
fruit. The old peasant women, rolled in shawls, with large
handkerchiefs tied over their caps, warmed their numb and withered
hands over little braziers while they guarded the gaily decked
treasure-laden booths, from whose pent-roofs Father Winter had hung
a fringe of glittering icicles.

Many of the stalls were entirely given over to Christmas-tree
splendours. Long trails of gold and silver Engelshaar, piles of
candles--red, yellow, blue, green, violet, and white--a rainbow of
the Christian virtues and the Church's Year; boxes of frost and
snow, festoons of coloured beads, fishes with gleaming scales,
glass-winged birds, Santa Klaus in frost-bedecked mantle and
scarlet cap, angels with trumpets set to their waxen lips; and
everywhere and above all the image of the Holy Child. 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