o-morrow to the workman's
blouse and chisel, but his memory lives in many minds and may form a
part of Christmas for the fancy of men as yet unborn.

The next drawing of the curtain shows us the stable of Bethlehem
crowned by its star. There kneels Mary, and Joseph leans upon his
staff. The ox and ass are close at hand, and Jesus lies in jewelled
robes on straw within the manger. To right and left bow the
shepherds, worshipping in dumb show, while voices from behind chant
a solemn hymn. In the midst of the melody is heard a flourish of
trumpets, and heralds step upon the stage, followed by the three
crowned kings. They have come from the far East, led by the star.
The song ceases, while drums and fifes and trumpets play a stately
march. The kings pass by, and do obeisance one by one. Each gives
some costly gift; each doffs his crown and leaves it at the
Saviour's feet. Then they retire to a distance and worship in
silence like the shepherds. Again the angel's song is heard, and
while it dies away the curtain closes, and the lights are put out.

The play is over, and evening has come. The people must go from the
warm church into the frozen snow, and crunch their homeward way
beneath the moon. But in their minds they carry a sense of light and
music and unearthly loveliness. Not a scene of this day's pageant
will be lost. It grows within them and creates the poetry of
Christmas. Nor must we forget the sculptors who listen to the play.
We spoke of them minutely, because these mysteries sank deep into
their souls and found a way into their carvings on the cathedral
walls. The monk who made Madonna by the southern porch, will
remember Gabriel, and place him bending low in lordly salutation by
her side. The painted glass of the chapter-house will glow with
fiery choirs of angels learned by heart that night. And who does not
know the mocking devils and quaint satyrs that the humorous sculptor
will carve among his fruits and flowers? Some of the misereres of
the stalls still bear portraits of the shepherd thief, and of the ox
and ass who blinked so blindly when the kings, by torchlight,
brought their dazzling gifts. Truly these old miracle-plays, and the
carved work of cunning hands that they inspired, are worth to us
more than all the delicate creations of Italian pencils. Our homely
Northern churches still retain, for the child who reads their bosses
and their sculptured fronts, more Christmas poetry than we can find
in Fr