I A CHILD'S CHRISTMAS IN FRANCE. T was Christmas Eve, and the streets of the old French city of Tours were thronged with people hurrying to the Cathedral for the Christmas mass. It lacked but fifteen minutes of midnight, and a few belated peasants from the adjoining village of St. Symphorien quickened their pace as they approached the great stone bridge. Among them was a sweet-faced young woman, Félicie Garnier, proprietress of a tiny vegetable shop in the street of the Tranchée. She led by the hand her little eight-year-old son who at that moment was standing perfectly still in the surprise of his new experience. "Come, my little man,' said the good Félicie, smiling down proudly upon her brave Pierre, "we must walk faster. The bridge, the Rue Royale and voilà, we are at the Cathedral." The child's face was radiant. It was the first time in his life that he had been beyond their little shop door after dark. The scene was far more wonderful than any he had pictured to himself, as his mother had described it, over her washing by the river-side. "The river 66 NOT LIKE THIS," SAID FELICIE. will not look like this," she had said one day, straightening back for a moment of rest from bending over the linen which she was vigor ously beating on a smooth stone. "See, now it is blue, like the sky; but at night when the sky is black above it, the river too grows black." "How then can we find our way?" queried the boy. "Ah, by the lamps, my Pierre. The lamps shine bright on the bridge and a thousand lights are in the windows of the great houses, and the good God will guide us safely to the Cathedral, that we may kneel before the beautiful manger and pray for the soul of the beloved papa." And Pierre sat silent, wondering how his own beautiful Loire could grow black and ugly and dark. And now the evening of his long anticipation had come. There lay the river below, dark and mysterious but beautiful still, its ripples gleaming like burnished metal in the half darkness, and shimmering merrily in the bright light cast from the bridge lamps. Beyond lay the old town with its many lights - an enchanted city, and over all stretched the great starry heavens. The city, the river, the sky were all wrapped in solemn darkness made visible by myriad lights. Pierre's little heart beat fast till it seemed to clatter in his bosom as loudly as did his wooden sabots on the stone pavement. Presently he began to find familiar objects among the city towers, the tower of Charlemagne, St. Martin's tower, and finally, the Cathedral spires. Lifted black against the sky, they were like hands outstretched to Heaven. Pierre's eyes followed them and lo, the fingers pointed to a bright star! "But yes, my little man," said the mother Félicie, "the star stands always over the manger to lead the wanderers to the Holy Child." They turned at last into the Cathedral Square, into which all the narrow streets were pouring throngs of people. Pierre clung fast to his mother's hand and they mingled in the crowd pushing their way through the doors. Félicie paused at the nearest bénitier to dip her fingers in the holy water and cross herself. Then advancing a few steps along the central aisle, she bowed her knee toward the grand altar, Pierre gravely following her example. AT THE BENITIER. The boy had often been to the Cathedral before, on bright Sunday mornings, and it had always been with a lingering sigh of regret for the sunny square, that he had turned into the cold dark interior. But as to-night he had found his whole world changed, so too the Cathedral on a Christmas Eve was totally unlike the Cathedral of a Sunday morning. The mysterious gloom of the vast interior, illumined by glimmering lights from the burning tapers seemed to the poetic child's mind like the solemn grandeur of the midnight through which he had just been led, and his vague feeling of awe was quickened into genuine reverence. In the cathedral of Nature he had learned how to enter the cathedral of stone. With a serious air he walked by his mother's side toward the manger which was the ultimate object of this Christmas pilgrimage. By the steps of an altar in the transept chapel was a rude wooden structure filled with hay in representation of the manger in the Bethlehem inn which received the infant Saviour. In the midst of this straw cradle lay a large waxen doll, smiling out of bright blue eyes upon the surrounding worshipers. None were more devout than Félicie and Pierre. The boy, young as he was, had caught something of the true Christmas spirit. The river and the starry sky had taught unspeakable things to the child heart; and now, as he began to whisper softly his Pater Nosters, his prayers seemed to him to be rising on the wings of the beautiful Christmas music which soared up from the choir and lost itself amid the arches of the Cathedral. Félicie hardly knew how she got her sleepy Pierre over the bridge and up the steep street of the Tranchée, home again to the little shop. The savory odor of soup seemed to arouse the drowsy child. He suddenly found himself in the little parlor in the center of a merry group of familiar faces. There was the dear grandmamma kissing her boy on both cheeks, and kind Madame Bonnier from the bakery over the way; there were Father and Mother Dupin from the next house and all the good neighbors who had made up the party to and from the Cathedral. And what a fine cake it was in the center of the table, larger, it seemed to Pierre than any he had ever seen in the windows of the grand pastry cooks of the Rue Royale, and gorgeous with pink and white icing. He clapped his hands with delight at the marvel. And how happy they all were to see him happy. The pastry cakes (pâtés) were delicious, his favorite honey-cake (pain d'épice) more spicy than ever before, and Madame Bonnier's Christmas biscuits (estevenous) were baked, so they said, as no one in Tours knew how. It was a merry supper. Grandmamma bustled around to see that all were bountifully served, and over the good things many a pleasant tale of bygone times was related by Father Dupin, many a gay laugh rang through the little room. Pierre was kissed and petted and feasted to his heart's content, until the gray light of dawn peeped in through the back window and the party began to disperse. The day brought no stockings filled with the gifts of a Santa Claus, no tree decked with candles and tinsel. These are unknown delights to all French children of the provinces educated in the Romish Church. Pierre had learned the story of the Christ-child's birth from the celebration of the midnight mass in the Cathedral, and the neighborhood feast had been his Christmas merry-making, his share in the "peace on earth, good will to men." |