The Christmas Kalends of Provence

heir gallant train of servitors, and the hump-backed camels on which they have ridden westward to Bethlehem guided by the Star. The Proven?al children believe that they come at sunset, in pomp an

royal progress to their village is to be made. But Mistral has told about all this far better than I can tell about it, and I shall quote here,

ant to see them, little ones, go quickly to meet them-and take presents fo

e whole of their glittering royal suite to adore the Christ-Child in our church in Maillane! All of us together, little chaps with curly hair, pretty little girls, our sabots clacking, off we would go along the Arles roa

e Cévennes; leafless trees, red in low sun-rays; black lines of cypress; in the fields an old w

you going,

h tower would drop away and be hidden behind the trees. We could see far, far down the wide straight road, but it would be bare! In the cold of the winte

you going,

he Kings! Can you tell

over there behind the cypresses. The

rapidly, the sun dropping down into a great cloud-bank above the mountains, the wind nipping us more shrewdly as it grew still more

ING OF T

from the dark cloud above the mountains would burst forth a splen

es!" we would cry. "They are

bleak country, sorrowful, alone. Fear would take hold of us. To keep up our courage a little, we would nibble at the figs which we had hoped to give to the pages, at the foug

gain our mothers would ask: "We

he other side of the Rh?

road did

oad to

e missed! Oh, how beautiful it was when they came marching into Maillane-the drums, the trumpets, the pages, the camels! Mon Dieu, what a commotion! What a sight it

Barely would we be entered there when the organ would begin, at first softly and th

early

t a

ings who were go

ither from the East: old white-bearded King Melchior with his gift of incense; gallant young King Gaspard with his gift of treasure; black King Balthazar the Moor with his gift of myrrh. How reverently we would

ey were at la

ver beyond the Rh?ne, is dipping toward the Cévennes; the leafless trees are red in the low sun-rays; across the fields stretch the black lines of cypress; even

sunset I no longer see the dazzl

went they,

the mo