How The Christ-Flower Bloomed

(From a German Legend)

Dark was the sky that Christmas Eve, The heavy clouds hung low; The charcoal burner scarce could trace His pathway through the snow.

Black Forest trees stood thick and tall, Black Forest drifts were deep; Yet light of heart he hastened home The Christmas feast to keep.

A cheese of goat’s milk, coarse black bread-- The morrow’s scanty meal, From prying frost and envious sleet He struggled to conceal.

He stumbled on, when through the blast A piteous cry was heard, And close beside him, heaped in snows, A wailing infant stirred.

“Now, who has laid thee here, sweet babe, To perish in the storm? ’Tis Christmas Eve; I’ll take thee home, My cloak shall wrap thee warm.”

The tiny creature, as he spoke, He gathered to his breast, And there beyond, his cottage shone, In Christmas firelight dressed.

Within the good-wife’s tender arms The shivering waif was set, And children’s faces bent above, And eyes with pity wet.

Warm and content, the stranger babe Gazed wondering o’er the room, And spied at last the children’s tree, A Christmas rose in bloom.

Eager they ran to show the lights, And round their treasure pressed; When lo! a glimmering cloud of mist Enwrapped the wondrous guest.

On silver-shining wings he rose, His fair head bore a crown, And vanishing, with baby hands He wafted blessings down.

Next morning, where amid the snows The Babe had made his bed, Fair as a star, and dazzling white, The Christ-Flower raised its head.

They bore it home, and every year In depths of winter wild, Chrysanthemums bloom in that cot, Where came the Holy Child.