Christmas Stories from French and Spanish writers

ánimas,[1] as they

the ringing of bells admonishes the fait

s from the world, nestling in a fold of the Sierra Nevada!

r on such an occasion we all represented the home, and it seemed fitting that one fire should warm us all. I remember, however, that our men remained standing, and that our maids squatted or knelt. Their respectful humility forbade their occupying a chair. The cats slept in the centre of the circle, their tails turned to the fire. A

he Mulhacem? Well, that was the music that constituted the concert. The maid-servants to

is Chris

is Chris

tch the j

merry whi

cherry brandy were freely passed around. There was much talk of going to midnight Mass, to the Nativity play at dawn, to see the

t I was struck by the deep meaning of thes

stmas

tmas

all shall

e back-

dium of poetry; it was my first inspiration. I saw and understood at a glance, with marvellous lucidity, the inevitable fate of the three generations present. It occurred to me that my grandparents, my parents, and my brothers were like a marching army who

stmas

tmas

llating in space, the indifferent repetition of events, in

e all shall

e back-

dress, their remote youth, the memories thereof that crowded upon them; my parents' childhood, the first Christmas celebration in our home, all the happiness that had preceded me! Then I could imagine, I could foresee, a thousand more Christmas Eves recurring periodically and robbing us of our life and hope,-future joys in which we should not all take part together, my brothers scattered over the earth,

ingly sent to bed. Here was another motive for weeping, and so it happened that my first philosophical tears and my last childish ones were mingled. That night of insomnia which I spent listening to t

hether the projects of going to midnight Mass, the Nativity play, a