r way, Francis grew light of heart again.
The sight of the shepherds sleeping on the grass had given him a new idea,
and he was planning a surprise for his friends at Greccio. For at Greccio
all were his friends, from Sir John, his host, down to the babies in the
street. In the valley of Rieti he was almost as well known and as dearly
loved as in his own valley of Assisi. The children of Greccio had never
heard of Christmas trees, nor, perhaps, of Christmas presents. I am not
sure that, in the thirteenth century, Italians had the beautiful custom
which they now have of giving presents at Twelfth Night, in memory of the
coming of the three kings with their gifts to the Christ Child; but in the
thirteenth century, even as now, Christmas was the happiest festival of
the year. This year all the folk of Greccio, big and little, were happier
than usual because their beloved Brother Francis was to help them keep
their Christmas-tide. Next day Francis confided his plan to his friend,
Sir John, who promised that all should be ready on Christmas Eve.

On the day before Christmas, the people came from all the country around
to see and hear Brother Francis. Men, women and children, dressed in their
holiday clothes, walking, riding on donkeys, crowding into little carts
drawn by great white oxen, from everywhere and in every fashion, the
country folk came toward Greccio. Many came from far away, and the early
winter darkness fell long before they could reach the town. The light of
their torches might be seen on the open road, and the sound of their
singing reached the gates of Greccio before them. That night the little
town was almost as crowded as was Bethlehem on the eve of the first
Christmas. The crowds were poor folk, for the most part, peasants from the
fields, charcoal burners from the mountains, shepherds in their sheepskin
coats and trousers, made with the wool outside, so that the wearers looked
like strange, two-legged animals. The four shepherds who had slept so
soundly a few nights before were of the company, but they knew nothing of
their midnight visitors. The white dogs knew, but they could keep a
secret. The shepherds were almost as quiet as their dogs. They always
talked and sang less than other people, having grown used to long silences
among their sheep.

Gathered at last into the square before the church, by the light of
flaring torches, for the moon would rise late, the people saw with wonder
and delight the su