The Little ’Prentice Lad

(A German Legend)

Long ago, in an old-world town, ’Mid old-world houses, dusk and brown, With red-tiled roofs pulled over their eyes, Half-hiding the shine of the blessed skies, In a clockmaker’s shop in a crooked street, Lived a ’prentice lad. There was naught so sweet In the width of the world as the orphan child, Flow’r of the Fatherland, Hermann styled.

Blue shone his eyes through his locks of lint; White were his cheeks. There was more than a hint From the gossips who met in the public square, That Hermann would scarce be so saintly fair If the clockmaker’s wife would be more free With her porridge and milk. It was plain to see He was not half-nourished. Such things were shame To a rich old town and a shop of name!

Times there were in that shop of name When each separate clock in its shining frame To Hermann’s hearing, the whole of the day, “So hungry!” “So hungry!” seemed ever to say. And hours there were in the winter’s chill, In the dead of the night, when the town was still, When their bells with resonant clamor tolled, “Cold! A-cold! Little Hermann is cold!”

Yet the innocent lad asked never for more Of the rosy good-wife, with her ample store, Contented to toil at the clockmaker’s will, With errand and parcel, to shop and to mill, If only but once through the crowded day To the church they would let him to kneel and pray, To gaze at the sculptured Mother there, And the dear Babe Jesus, so marble-fair.

The clock-maker jeered at him. Hermann, the Saint, He scornfully called him and strangely quaint And as strangely fitting, the gossips said, Was the name for the lad of the lint-white head, “Saint, if I might be!” so Hermann thought, ’Mid the whisp’ring clocks as he gently wrought, “Would I had treasure to serve my King, But only its love has my heart to bring!”

Christmas Eve in the old-world town, Snow-white and shining came softly down. Master and mistress, all gayly bedight, Leaving the ’prentice to fare as he might, Sped to the Councillor’s annual feast, Food being most to them, worship the least, “Supperless, fireless,” yet thought the lad, “Still have I ample to make me glad.

“Now I have no one to say me nay Straight to the church will I run and pray. Would I had aught I could take to Him there, On this Holy Night, to my Christ-child fair!” Like an angel vision, so white, so sweet, He was hast’ning on through the snowy street, When a kindly dame at her apple-stand Pressed a golden pippin into his hand.

Happiest soul ’neath the round moon’s light, The ’prentice lad, on that bitter night. Here was his gift for the Blessed Child, A fitting gift, and he softly smiled. Kneeling down where the candles’ glow Flushed rosy the marble, he whispered low, “Loveliest Christ-child, take from me, The only treasure I have for Thee!”

Wonder of wonders! The sculptured hand Slowly unfolded at his command; Caught was the fruit in a swift embrace, While a smile shone out on the marble face. Raptured, adoring, the boy knelt on, While a whisper stole from the lips of stone,-- “Little Saint Hermann, to-night with me, Shalt apples eat from the Heav’nly Tree!”

* * * * *

’Twas dusk of dawn on the Christmas Day, When the hoary sacristan passed that way, And glimpsing the statue, stopped, amazed, Half-doubting the marvel on which he gazed. The Christ-Child, radiant seemed to stand, The apple glowed in His marble hand, And close to His feet, in the morning gray, Haloed, all-glorious, Hermann lay!