THE CHRISTMAS PEARL

New Zealand Tablet, 21 December 1911, Page 8 (Supplement)

THE CHRISTMAS PEARL

I. The old priest had finished his short address at the children's afternoon instruction. The morrow would be Christmas when the Infant Jesus came down to earth to be with us for all time. Looking at the many little faces turned toward him the white-haired priest's

every Christmas we give presents to each other. So remember to love Him with all your hearts, and if you are troubled or sorrowful now is the time to ask the dear Christ Child for all the blessings you wish for.' There was a rustling throughout the vast edifice as the old priest turned to the altar, and in another moment, clear and sweet, the children's voices re-echoed in a Christmas hymn. Then Benediction was given, and presently the hundreds of children were pouring out on Sixth Avenue, whence they dispersed in every direction. A little girl who had been hidden behind a pillar near the door was among the last to leave. Outside the church she paused, looking up and down the busy street. There was the rumble of elevated trains overhead, the cry of street peddlers, and the laughter of the moving throng of belated Christmas shoppers; but among the active, pulsating life surrounding her, the child stood uncertain and solitary. It was real Christmas weather, intensely cold, with snow piled up in the streets and white flakes coming down. A heavy bank of clouds in the west presaged more snow before the Christmas morn would break over the city. The little girl was poorly but warmly dressed; and tight in one hand she held a quarter that a kind woman on the Island had given her that morning. Her mother had died on the Island a few days previous,

concluding words were solemn and impressive; some fleeting thought of the grain of mustard seed floated across his mind. In another hour all these eager tumultuous little hearts would be scattered abroad in homes where Christmas trees and Christmas cheer would be dominant; should he not then speak the word in season about the zeal significance of this holy time ? The Christian Christmas meant more than the giving and receiving of presents. His rich, musical voice, with just a slight tremor of age in its tones, was heard in the farthest corner of the building as he spoke. ‘ And remember, my dear children, that this little Christ Child is the Pearl of great price. You must seek and find Him, this Pearl; and having found Him, hold Him fast and love Him. He was the first gift of God to man, and it is because of this that

and had been buried in the pauper’s cemetery; at 11 o’clock she had left the Island, in charge of a city official, to be placed in a state asylum. That was over four hours ago. Dreading being placed in an asylum, her heart aching for her mother, the child had made use of a golden opportunity and slipped away from the city employee when he had stopped to speak to a friend. In the crowd near the ferry it had been easy to get lost to sight. A moment later she was walking toward the west, and by the time the two men were through with their conversation she was several blocks away. At Sixth Avenue she boarded a car, swept on by a crowd of merry children, and with them she had left the car near Washington Square, and had entered St. Joseph’s Church, attracted thereto by the children entering its doors from up and down the avenue. In

the crowd on the car the conductor had passed her by, or thought she was too small to call for a fare, so the precious quarter was still in her hand. She had never before been in a church nor had she the least idea what the old priest was talking about; but one thing seemed clear. To-morrow would be a special day for children, and somewhere there was a pearl of great price, a little baby called Jesus, who could give her anything she wanted. Perhaps if she found Him He would give her back her mother. The wind whistled sharply around the corner cutting her little face like a knife. What had he said, that old man, with the gentle voice? Oh, yes, seek and find Him. She would never find this wonderful

closing, then turning, she trotted up Sixteenth Street in the direction of Fifth Avenue. A few steps further on she paused again. It was getting dark now, and for the first time the child was seized with fear —whither in that great city should she go ? A laughing voice made itself heard. ' Run home now, Etta, child, and I will come in a few moments.' She turned and saw a stout, motherly woman watching a little girl across the street until she entered a house opposite. Then the woman ascended some steps, opened a door and disappeared. After a moment's hesitation the child followed. The door opened on a wide vestibule paved with marble, and at the south

pearl by standing still in the street, so she began moving northwards. Then nature asserted itself in pangs of hunger. The child had eaten nothing since seven that morning, and now it was nearly four. Entering a bakery, she laid her precious quarter on the counter, and asked for several buns from a tempting pile spread out before her. In another moment she was on the street again, a paper bag in one hand and a bun in the other, her change for safe keeping in the bag with the buns. She proceeded on her way, munching a bun as she went along. Four buns had been disposed of when sbe reached Sixteenth Street. She stood for a moment on the corner, looking up at the bank that was just

end were a few more steps and three wide doors. Quickly the little girl ascended the steps, and pushing open one of the doors, entered Within all was dim, mysterious beauty. There was no light anywhere save for a red lamp that burned before a white marble altar that gleamed in the dusk, and a soft white haze of light at a point at the extreme south-west end of the building. The child glanced around timidly. This was like the place where she had beard the old priest talk, only it was almost empty. A few shadowy forms seemed to be scattered here and there, but all was quiet, and it was warm, and sheltered from the bitter weather without. Since she did not know where else to go, she would stay here. She crept

into one of the pews near the wall, and presently the warmth began to have its influence on the tired little limbs. Almost unconsciously the child stretched herself out on the wooden bench on which she had been sitting, the brown eyes closed, the muscles relaxed. She was fast asleep. No one saw her, and, tired out with her long day, she slept soundly till nearly six o'clock. 11. ' Let us talk this over dispassionately, Henry. We will never get on together. Therefore I suggest as the end of all this that we get a divorce.' ' Our Church doesn't allow that, Annie.' She gave an impatient movement with her foot that almost became a stamp, ' You are a constant irritatation, always reminding me of duty, duty. Well, if not a divorce, then a separation.' ' And what about Margaret ?' ' Margaret will stay with me. It is my right as her mother. You can see her at stated times. She will be well cared for, and I shall devote myself to her education. ' And her home, Annie, what of it ? Did you see how happy the child was to-day? She is brimful of Christmas, full of plans of how she is going to surprise us both. Can't we adjust this miserable business for her sake, and not add another to the hundreds of broken homes all over the land?' ' No, no. I am at the end of my patience. I know what everyone will say. They will throw up their hands at a convent-bred girl doing what I am going to do, but I don't care. You can live at your club, and I will go abroad with Margaret to spend a few years in Paris till people have stopped talking.' The man arose. ' Very well,' he said; ' but remember this is Christmas Eve. For forty-eight hours I stipulate that things go on as usual. I will not have my little Pearl made miserable on Christmas day. And the child will feel it, Annie. She is sensitive and wise beyond her years.' The beautiful woman opposite him also arose, and presently she swept from the room. Descending the stairs she entered her carriage and was soon whirling toward Broadway for some last shopping. It was nearly six o'clock when she returned, her husband meanwhile having also gone out. A little child with golden hair and deep blue eyes —a child with a purity of beauty that suited her nickname of Pearl—had heard all the conversation between her father and mother. She was in the next room, sitting between the window and some heavy curtains, with her dolls. What did it mean ? Mamma was very angry, and her beloved father was unhappy, and worst of all she was to leave her home and go to some place called Paris. She remembered that Amelie, her nurse, came from Paris, and it was very far awayacross the ocean. Dropping her dolls the little girl looked out on the street where snowflakes were beginning to fall, and where the dusk was descending. Then her eye travelled down the street to where she could just see the massive granite walls of St. Francis Xavier's. An inspiration seized her. She would go down to the Crib. The Infant Jesus would listen when she told Him that she did not want to go to Paris. Amelie had gone down to the basement sitting-room to have some tea with a friend who had come in, so the coast was clear. Quickly the child put on her coat and bonnet, tying the strings as well as she could. Then she slipped downstairs and was out of the house and running down the street without having been discovered. With Monsieur and Madame both out, the butler made himself agreeable to the French nurse and her friend. It was not until six o'clock brought the mistress of the house home, that Amelie, taking a hasty farewell of her caller, hurried up the back stairs to rejoin her young charge.

111. The Angelus bell sounded just as the last penitent left the confessional. Father F waited a moment, then coming out of the box, he glanced around the apparently empty church, walked up the aisle and disappeared through a side door leading to the college. In another moment the sexton issued from the north door leading to Fifteenth Street, hurried across the wide aisle and disappeared outside the front door, which he closed and locked behind him. He would go home for supper; then be back about 7.30 to open the church again for evening confessions; after that would come the midnight Mass. As the massive door closed behind him the Angelus ceased ringing. Was it some re-echo of the chimes, or the subtle subconscious sense of being alone that awoke the child who for over an hour had slept so soundly, undiscovered, in her corner of the transept ? She was wide awake now, gazing around the vast shadowy spaces in fear. Where was she ? Yes, she remembered now. It was dark in her corner, let her move forward to that soft radiance of light quite far from her, and yet so near that she would not have

to cross the shadowy aisles. In another moment she was standing before the most wonderful thing she had even seen. With a flash of illuminating memory she recalled all that the old priest had said of the little Jesus who came down to earth, Mother, and St. Joseph, I lis foster-father, of the cattle that warmed Him with their breath, and the shepherds, who, leaving their flocks on the plains, had come to see Him. There it all was and it was beautiful beyond anything of which she could have dreamed. She did not know that she was looking at one of the finest representations of the Christmas Crib to be seen in the country. The figures were so nearly life size, and the setting of the stable, manger, and figures so artistically carried out that it might have been a picture by an old master that claimed the child's attention. Her eye wandered to the star overhead, which shone soft and brilliant above the manger. So this was the Divine Child of the Crib, and lav in a manger, of His Virgin Pearl of great price tint the old priest had bidden her seek. Well, she had found Him, and now surely He would give her a home and a mother. ' Little girl, who are you V

She turned suddenly. Before her stood another angelic vision—a little girl like herself, and perhaps nearly the same age, a child with lovely rumpled golden curls. She was dressed in dark velvet coat, trimmed with beautiful soft fur. In one hand she held a bonnet that was dangling on the marble floor, by its strings. ' My name's Margaret.' ' How funny, so is mine—and my other name is Walsh; what is yours?' ' I don't know.' ' Perhaps you've forgotten. Your mother can tell you. I ask mine if I don't know things, or else I ask Amelie.' At this the little girl in the brown woollen dress which matched her brown eyes and rough brown coat, sat down on the step that bordered the sanctuary rail, and began to weep. The fair-haired Margaret dropped her bonnet and threw her arms around the forlorn little stranger. 'Don't cry, little girl. What is the matter?'

A moment later she had found the precious paper bag and, sitting close together, the children divided the contents. Between mouthfuls the little apostle, who had already found out that her companion was not a Catholic, explained all about the Crib'and the blessed Christ Child, and that the figures she saw were not real people, though they did look like it. And then the child of poverty told about her mother, and again the tears welled into her brown eyes. They had lived, she said, for a long time somewhere in the city, she didn't know where. But her mother sewed all the time, and often she was hungry. Then one day they went to a place called the Island, where her mother was a scrubwoman in a big house with many rooms, until suddenly she was taken sick and died. She knew she had no father or brothers or sisters, or anyone in the world belonging to her, for she had heard the woman on the Island say so. By and by the brown eyes and the blue began to get heavy with s'eep, and then suddenly Margaret

'l— no —and—no—mother.' The tender heart of Margaret Walsh responded to the need. ' I have a home, and it's big enough for two of us. You shall come home with me and be my sister. I always wanted a sister.' Brown-eyed Margaret stopped weeping to smile. 'Keally?' Yes, really. My papa is kind and good, and mother lets me have what I want if I don't bother. We will go home now; and to-morrow we will have a lovely Christmas tree.' Hand in hand the children made their way to the front door, only to find it was locked. Margaret understood. ' The sexton has gone home,' she said, but he'll come back in a little while. We'll just have to wait. Let us go back to the Crib.' 'The what?' 'Why, the Crib. Don't you know what that is? No? Well, I will tell you, but I'm getting awfully hungry.' Brown-eyed Margaret suddenly remembered. 'Oh!' she said, ' I have some buns. I left them in the place where I went to sleep, but I can find them.'

Walsh glanced at the Crib and clapped her little hands softly. - * 'Let us go in there,' she sail. ' See, Margaret, there is a lot of hay, and it is nice and warm. Let us get behind the Crib and cover all un with the hay, and we will be near the Christ Child. Then when the door is opened again we will go home.' Softly the children stepped into the sanctuary. The light of the star shone on the fair head and the dark one, and almost it seemed that the Child in the manger smiled on the litfe faces that -paused for a moment to gaze on Him lovingly. Ten minutes later, two sleepy, tired little bambini were snuggled close together under the hay, and presently thev were both sound The great door of the church was opened and crowds formed in line near the confess for over an hour. Then again the church was deserted as midnight drew nearthe Holy Night that would usher in the Prince of Peace—and still the children slept, the deep dreamless sleep of blessed childhood. IV. ' Mon Dieu, Madame, I cannot find Mademoiselle Marguerite. I have searched the house from top to

bottom, but she is gone, vanished. Perhaps Monsieur le Pere came and took her out.' ' He would not do that without telling you, Amelie. Look again. The child may have fallen asleep somewhere. Look behind the window curtains, it is her favorite place to go with her doll.' But Amelie was fast becoming nervous and unstrung. ' Ciel, Madame! I have examined every window, every corner, and Rogers has been looking also. Mademoiselle Marguerite is not in this house.' In spite of herself the pretty young mother blanched with fear, and fear made her angry. ' Ring the bell for Rogers, Amelie; your carelessness has besn unpardonable. If Margaret is lost it will cost you dear.' The butler, who seemed to be within earshot, appeared immediately, but he could throw no light on the subject. Again the house was searched from top to bottom, all the maids and the footmen joining in the search. It developed that Margaret's coat and bonnet had also disappeared, proving conclusively that she had gone out. Inquiry at surrounding houses presently brought out the fact that at about five o'clock their next-door neighbor, in passing the house on her way to Fifth Avenue, had seen and spoken to the child, who had just come out. Supposing that the nurse was to follow, Mrs. S had hurried on, to attend to her Christmas shopping. Amelie had become hysterical, and the now thoroughly frightened mother convinced that her child had been kidnapped, turned for help and comfort to the parlor maid, a young girl whose reserve and quiet had hitherto rather irritated her. It was this girl, Mary, who .. suggested telephoning to Mr. Walsh. ' Call him up at once,' said the distracted mother, and in half an hour he was at the house. In another half an hour a force of detectives and police were on the scene, and every police station in the city had been notified. Henry Walsh's words were few before hurrying away, but the look on his face cut his wife like a knife. Left alone again she clung to the maid, and another miserable hour dragged on. At nine o'clock it seemed to Annie Walsh as if she had lived an eternity. Unable to sit still, she paced the room, and then suddenly she broke down. Her cry of desnair was the cry of Rachel who would not be comforted. Care 1 ess, indifferent, worldly, was she not still a mother ? The maid drew near, her own eyes full of tears. ' We can pray, Madame,' she said simply. And then, side by side, mistress and maid, forgetting the differences in rank, prayed for the lost child. Then the maid arose. You are worn out, Madame. You must have a cup of tea. I will get it, and be back in a moment.' She was gone, and the mother was left alone. Back and forth she paced. Was not conscience smiting her, regret knocking at her heart ? Who was to blame for all the trouble of the past few years? She, she only. Her husband had been good, patient, and kind. She had been spoiled, exacting, careless of her religious duties, selfish about everything that did not concern herself. Viewed in the light of her present agony and self-abasement, the whole question of her relations with her husband was threshed outand resolved itself into the fact that she had made no allowance for the cardinal principle that the married state, even the most ideal, calls for some forbearance on each side. And because she had not fulfilled her share she had been ready to wreck their home and separate her child from its father. Afterward, in the years that followed, Annie Walsh carried with her as long as she lived a deep inner conviction that half the divorces in the world could be prevented if husband and wife practised the mutual forbearance and pat'.ence that their relation calls for. Presently her rest 1 ess walk up and down the room brought her to a door that opened into the sitting-room at the back. Involuntarily she passed from one room to the other and, turning on the electric light, stood

silently looking at the magnificent Christmas tree that Amelie, with true artistic taste, had dressed that morning. The scent of the evergreen branches in the cool room revived her. How beautiful the tree was with its wax Christ Child fastened to the topmost branch. On every side presents for the household were piled on tables and chairs. That this was a Catholic household, in spite of trouble and worldliness, was demonstrated by a creche which Amelie had arranged on a separate table, right under a picture of the Madonna. Involuntarily the mother lit the candles in front of the crib, and in another moment she was on her knees before the Divine Child, imploring the safe return of her own little one. I will be a better mother,' she said. ' Mother of Christ, pray for me. You who lost and found your only Son.' So soundly did the children sleep that not even the soft undertone at the altar, and the rustle among the congregation, at the Midnight Mass, woke them. It was a young Jesuit Father who, coming to the creche for a last glance before retiring for a few hours' sleep, saw to his astonishment a small foot, followed by a black stockinged leg, suddenly appear from the depths of a pile of hay behind the Crib. He called another priest, and the two Fathers were presently gazing down at the sleeping children. The news of the lost child had reached them, and the church had been searched soon after nine o'clock, but to no purpose. Very gently the sleeping bambini were awakened. In ten minutes, well wrapped up, they were carried through the wintry streets "to the Walsh home, a block away. Five minutes earlier Henry Walsh had come home from a fruitless quest, to be greeted by a wife who seemed the reincarnation of the woman he had wooed and won ten years ago. There was a ring at the bell as the two stood in the hall. Before the butler 'could appear, the door was opened by the father. There was a flash of light on a golden head, as the long black cloak loaned by a good Jesuit Father, fell from the little one's shoulders, and father, mother, and child, were all locked in one embrace. 'Oh mother, dear, were you frightened ? I went to church to pray for you at the Crib and got locked in, and then I went to sleep. But never mind. I have found a new sister, and I want her to live with me for ever and ever.' How everyone talked, and how gently and lovingly the forlorn little stranger was welcomed to the reunited home! 'She shall live here and be our child, if you say so, Annie,' said Henry Walsh, and the mother, with happy tears in her eyes, assented. Had not the Christ Child and the Blessed Mother heard her prayers, and could she do less than adopt this child? Four happy hearts assisted at Mass the next morning, and perhaps the happiest was the child who had found her Pearl of Great Price, the thrice-blessed little Margaret Mary.— The Magnificat.