A very long while ago, perhaps as many as two hundred years, the little
Provencal village of Sur Varne was all bustle and stir, for it was the
week before Christmas; and always, in all the world, no one has known
better how to keep the joyous holiday than have the happy-hearted people
of Provence, the southeastern corner of France.

Everybody was busy, hurrying to and fro, gathering garlands of myrtle and
laurel, bringing home their Yule logs with pretty old songs and
ceremonies, and in various ways making ready for the all-important
festival.

Not a house in Sur Varne but in some manner told the coming of the blessed
birthday, and especially were there great preparations in the cottage of
the shepherd, Pere Michaud. This cottage, covered with white stucco, and
thatched with long marsh-grass, stood at the edge of the village; olive
and mulberry trees clustered about it, and a wild jasmine vine clambered
over the doorway, while on this particular morning all around the low
projecting eaves hung a row of tiny wheat-sheaves, swinging in the crisp
December air, and twinkling in the sunlight like a golden fringe. For the
Pere Michaud had been up betimes, making ready the Christmas feast for the
birds, which no Provencal peasant ever forgets at this gracious season;
and the birds knew it, for already dozens of saucy robins and linnets and
fieldfares were gathering in the Pere's mulberry-trees, their mouths
fairly watering with anticipation.

Within the cottage the good dame, the Mise Michaud, with wide sleeves
rolled up and kirtle tucked back, was hard at work making all manner of
savory goodies, while in the huge oven beside the blazing hearth the great
Christmas cakes were baking, the famous _pompou_ and _fougasse_, as they
were called, dear to the hearts of the children of old Provence.

Now and then, as the cottage door swung open on the dame's various cookery
errands, one might hear a faint "Baa, baa!" from the sheepfold, where
little Felix Michaud was very busy also.

Through the crevices of its weather-beaten boards came the sound of
vigorous scrubbing of wool, and sometimes an impatient "Ninette!
Ninette!--thou silly sheep! Wilt thou never stand still?" Or else, in a
Softer tone, an eager "Beppo, my little Beppo, dost thou know? Dost
thou know?" To all of which there would come no answer save the lamb's
weak little "Baa, baa!"

For Ninette, Beppo's mother, was a silly old sheep, and Beppo was a very
young li