The Little Review, January 1917 (Vol. 3, No. 8)

EUNICE TIETJENS

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We have had grand opera in Chicago for several weeks. I am going to write here of grand opera, not of singing classes.

Grand opera, like a great hand whose fingers are the different arts, is trying to give us what the closed hand holds. Galli-Curci has undone the critics for adjectives of praise, has fulfilled the hopes of managers, and filled the Auditorium with the sleep-walking public. We have had Muratore with his beautiful voice and his treacle personality. We have had efficient and awful Wagnerian singers. We have had satisfaction in our opera. And now comes Mary Garden, so surcharged with life that she sends a thrill of it before her—Mary Garden who outsings the composer in her feeling, who outpaints the painter in her acting, who outsculpts the sculptor with her body. Mary Garden gives us grand opera; she gives what the closed hand holds.

And so the fight will begin again and the old favorite record will be put on all the cheap human talking machines: “Of course Mary Garden can’t sing, but she can act.”

Grand opera by its very character is outside such simple criticism as this; it is outside all talk of voice production or singing off key or distracting the conductor. There is a measurable value in the component parts of any art, but the test that cannot be analyzed lies in the unity of these parts. This unity is the principle of Art. But grand opera is a composite of the arts, and the true test for it should lie in the unity of the employed arts, not in weighing any part of any one art. People will rave for days if Mary Garden fails in a note, although the aesthetic and emotional experience of the whole was unmarred; but the same people will never be disturbed if Galli-Curci moves about the stage like a lost cloak-model and breaks up the picture of the whole illusion by holding her body in positions not possible in human awkwardness; and is so intent on breathing that she almost forgets to attend to Juliet’s funeral. So long as she sings according to a fixed standard she need go no further than a moving-picture screen. And Mary must be decried, though her performance hold in color like a tapestry and move in rhythm like a frieze.

When anything is as far from life as sung dialogue it must have a different treatment than either pure song or pure drama. Decoration should be the design for opera: a libretto that is a dramatic poem, music working itself out in a decoration for the poem, scenery a design of the matter and feeling of the libretto, and actors that can point the design not in the realistic day-life manner of the drama but with decorative acting. With this we might have great grand opera. One thing we have now: the great decorative actress and singer, Mary Garden.

Mary Garden is the biggest thing on our horizon today. To think that flesh could be so intelligent! She gives as generously of her undraped body as a Rodin statue; and the audience gives her back their applause, grudgingly, not knowing the great art of her. To put Rodin into inspired motion, but to do more than that even—! In the next issue I shall try to write of all she does,—Mary Garden,

When Tagore first gave his lecture on Art in Chicago I was not here, and all I could read about it or find out about it by asking was that it was anti-Tolstoyan. But I got the whole truth of it in a sentence when I asked a pupil of Tagore’s, a young artist, “What does Mr. Tagore say in his lecture on Art?”

“What does he say? Oh, he just says what it is, this Art.”

Every layman in this country who finds it necessary to establish himself a critic of Art and artists should hear that lecture and try to understand it, if only in parts. But I suppose they wouldn’t accept Tagore’s word for it because he doesn’t take them in on the ground floor, in the manner of The Seven Arts, for instance.

I can’t quote directly, as the lecture is not yet published, but he has said all the things that one longs to say oneself. He defines the artist as one who says to the world: “I see you where you are what I am.” Art is the most personal thing in the world. Man reveals himself and not his objects in Art. Matter and manner find their harmonics in our personality. The artist does not particularize through peculiarity, which is the discord of the unique, but through the personality, which is its harmony. Art is man’s answer to the “Supreme Person.” Art is personal and beyond science. So, too, is beauty. Beauty is not a fact but an expression. “Facts are like wine-cups that carry it.” To all the confusion and misconceptions about beauty in Art he answers: The creation of beauty is not the object of Art. Beauty in Art has merely been an instrument and not its complete and ultimate significance. And to those who demand teaching or utility in Art there is this answer: The stage of pure utility is like a state of heat which is dark. When it surpasses itself it becomes white heat and then it is expressive; and when man thwarts his desire for delight, wanting to make it into good or into knowledge, it loses its bloom and healthiness.

Taking up the old controversy of Art for Art’s sake, the fact that the phrase has fallen into disrepute is a sign of the return of the ideals of the puritanic age when enjoyment as an end in itself was held to be sinful. The idea of Art for Art’s sake had its origin in a surplusage of life, not in asceticism or decadence. When our personality is at its flood-tide with love or other emotion it longs to express itself for the sake of expression, and we forget the claims of usefulness and the thrift of necessity.

After all the fighting and arguing one has to do up and down the world over what is Art, and Art for Art’s sake, one comes from this lecture feeling: “He leadeth me beside the still waters; he maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he restoreth my soul.”

Last month the Chicago Little Theatre strayed down into the Playhouse with Mrs. Warren’s Profession. I won’t say anything about the acting, nor even of Mrs. Warren and her Oak Park vulgarity—Mrs. Warren of London, Brussels, Budapest! But I can’t let the scenery go by without a protest.

There is a subtle but definite sense of analogy of line which goes through all the arts. It is obvious in acting and painting. Why shouldn’t it be sought in decoration when decoration is dependent upon words? Bernard Shaw has perhaps but one line—the straight horizontal line. He cuts through clear and straight—a cross-section of life. He brings people and all their relations out upon this broad flat plane. That’s Shaw. I didn’t mind that the text of Mrs. Warren called for period architecture; it was the insistence on the long perpendicular line that maddened me. And the color! There, too, was a chance for line. But—well, who can tell how bad the performance was with the futile effort of the denying horizontal lines of the play against the asserting perpendicular lines of the scenery?

I have been reading Frank Harris in Pearson’s on George Moore’s The Brook Kerith. What Mr. Harris really does is to jump on George Moore for not writing a history of the life of Christ—the sociology, biology, and geology of Jerusalem.

Only in books of information and science does the writer have to submerge his personality and let the facts have first place. But Mr. Moore thought he was making a work of art, and here no one will deny the first right to the personality of the artist. Mr. Harris cavils about types, landscapes, customs, etc.

Almost the only presentation of Christ outside the Bible has been in painting. Have those painters “defiled our most sacred spiritual possessions” who, from the day when Florence knelt in her streets before Cimabue’s Madonna, have painted every incident in the life of Christ and of the Holy Family in every setting from an Italian pasture to a Medici palace, using Italian types, Italian dress, Italian gestures? Has the great El Greco defiled the Christian religion because he painted Spanish Christs and saints in tomb-damp colors? Did Michael Angelo dethrone God because in his Creation he painted him with beard and flowing robe on his own authority? And the Germans and the Dutch? They must have been all leagued together to “misrepresent through ignorance,” according to such critics as Mr. Harris. But who can say that they have not raised the tradition to a height the old Jews dared not dream?

There is a great interest in America just now over A. E.—poet, painter, mystical teacher, labor leader, economist, and editor. There are lectures by Colum, reviews of his books, studies of his life, a revival of the reading of George Moore’s Salve where he is portrayed with such love, and in January we are to have an exhibition of his paintings brought from Ireland by a Chicago woman at her own expense and loaned to the Art Institute. To my knowledge only once before have any of A. E.’s paintings been seen in Chicago. There were two with the “Cubists.”

The coming exhibitions will have pictures in several manners: a group of wood interiors where gay young things sport—the trees human and the girls wild; joyous sea pictures with cockle-gatherers and bathers; and one frankly symbolic. One is called Dove-Grey Sands: The Face of Brooding Love in the Sky. I love most those close-toned ones in which he has seemed to paint the very spirit of the air to create his subject—a painted intuition of mood. Most painters do no more than paint the nature of the atmosphere to give the mood of their subjects. There seems to be in all A. E.’s painting a sense of a living divine soul in all things that make up the universe, and their unity with the soul of man.

Kreisler came and played the piano!—accompanying a young Russian baritone, de Warlich. It was a lesson for all pianists and accompanists; but of course they were not there. Very few were there, so excited are people in Chicago over music.

It was good to see how Kreisler subdued the strength of his own personality and the sound of the piano and let the boy sing. But he did more than that: he subdued the authority of a great violinist and let the piano play.

It would have made you glad to see how he came to the instrument. He reached out as if he were drawing it to him; with hands and feet at once he seemed to swing it into place.

At a recent exhibition in the Art Institute a committee granted honorable mention to Stanislaw Szukalski, the young Polish sculptor, and it is told that he tore up the H. M. before their faces. He would undoubtedly have thrown back the thousand-dollar prize to them.

Well, who of them all is able to give him place? Better be free of their praise for his work if he cannot be free of their criticism for his personality. The newspapers take it up and call him the eccentric young sculptor. A citizen may be eccentric—so eccentric that his fellows may shut him up in an asylum; but that’s a game among themselves. How on earth can a sculptor be eccentric? It’s a waste of terms. One who creates as indirectly as through Art must always seem eccentric to society; but he is not eccentric to life: he creates as an artist: he exists as an artist.

The new Arts Club opened its galleries with an exhibition of Sargent and Dearth—just wild enough contrast for great interest: Sargent resting back on old methods, expressing himself only in his subjects; Dearth vitalizing his method with feeling and creating a manner full of life-stuff to express himself in his peculiar subjects.

Next came an exhibition of Henri, Bellows, and Sloan—a matter of men, not of manner.

The courtesy with which Mr. Henri treats all his subjects stamps his technique and his color with that final necessary thing. In Mr. Bellows the organization stands the test, but Bellows seems to be wanting. Mr. Sloan, with his humpy line, makes one feel a soul that has never blown out like an unfurled scroll.

There is an unintentional explanation in the German pronunciation of Mr. Stock’s name as to why the Orchestra programs never “move on” with new music or with much variation of the old.

He lived on the side of a mountain near a dark pine forest. His house was built of great pine logs and the cracks were so well plastered with clay that the wind could never blow in. When it blew very hard the little house laughed and sent the smoke gaily up the chimney which had once been a stove pipe. There was only one room in the house, with one window, but the sun loved the little room and shone in always when the day was at its height.

Friedel lived here almost alone, for his father was dead and his mother washed clothes for strangers. With the money she earned every day she bought bread and a little butter for her boy, and every year trousers or a coat; but she could not earn enough to send Friedel to school. This gave him no sorrow, and that they were so poor had no meaning for him. In the summer he grazed his goat on the mountain-side—a willful goat who always sought his feed where it was steepest and always ran away; but Friedel knew that at last he would come back and so he sat quietly by the brook which sprang zig-zag down the mountain and through the thickets of slender pines. The pines tried to catch the water but they were not quick enough; and the little stream leaped down to a great city which lay not far away in the valley. As it dashed over the bare feet of the little boy it said, “Come, little Friedel, run with me, run with me and help turn the great water-wheel of the mill.”

“I’m not so stupid as that,” answered Friedel. “I wouldn’t get a penny for it. But you will wash away a few shovels of yellow clay for me, won’t you?”

Out of the clay he made all kinds of curious things: Meckerbart, his goat, and Hans, the miller’s boy, who always let him ride on his donkey; or even the donkey himself. And as he worked he thought of nothing but his work; he saw nothing, heard nothing—not even the blackbird singing like a flute.

So it was in the summer. But when winter came Friedel sat in the room on a chair which he had made himself, and in the stove crackled the fir-wood which he had gathered. At his feet lay Miez, the cat, who was so old and lazy that she could scarcely make her spinning-sound. When the clouds would allow it the sun looked in through the window and wondered over the boy who carved such lovely things. He carved with a knife which had belonged to his father—a knife so sharp that he could have cut both hair and beard with it.

It was the day before Christmas and Friedel was working on a Wonder-Beautiful horse which held one foreleg lifted and threw back his head proudly. One would not be surprised to hear him neigh the next moment. With three feet he stood upon a smooth board on which were wheels so that he could run. He had no saddle but there was a bridle, a narrow strip of brown leather. As the sun went down Friedel’s work was finished and his eyes shone with joy. “Now will I ride out, old Miez,” he said; “will you come with me?”

“No,” said the cat, “it is too cold outside for me and this evening it will snow; then I couldn’t find my way back home again when you fall off your steed.”

“Do you really think I shall fall off?”

“Of course,” muttered the cat; “you have no claws: with what will you hold fast?”

Then the mother came home from work and said, “Lay your knife away, Friedel. Holy Evening is here, when one must not whittle and carve or the great Mountain Chopper will come and carry you off.”

“No, mother, when it grows dark two little angels will very softly open heaven’s door, which is there where the sun is gone down, and the Christ-child will ride down to earth on a silver white horse and visit the good children.”

“Yes,” said the woman, and turned away to light some pine chips; then she opened the cupboard and placed bread and butter upon the table. Friedel said very thoughtfully, “Why doesn’t he come to us? We have always been good!”

But the mother sunk her eyes and whispered, “Because we are too poor. The Christ-child comes only to people who have money and we have none.”

“But that’s a shame,” said the little fellow. And when his mother heard that she began to cry bitterly. Friedel ran to her, put his head in her lap and said, “I have a big horse called Huppdiwupp which I will sell. I shall get much money for him, and then the Christ-child will come.”

When he had said this he took his horse and went out of the room; his mother, crying softly, did not watch after him; and then, because she was so very tired, she closed her eyes and sank into a deep sleep.

The little boy opened the door very gently, put his horse outside, got upon it and cried, “Hü!” But the horse didn’t understand: he was still too young; and besides he had a hard head and would not run.

“If I only had a whip!” said Friedel; and because he had none he dismounted and dragged his steed by the bridle behind him.

When the sun had gone down there rose slowly a great cloud mountain, but the greater part of the sky was still clear. There the dear moon wandered. She shone brightly but she was no longer full, for she had given of her light to the young stars as she rose over them. In return they let her cling to them a little, for it is no small thing to walk there above much higher than the highest church tower and not grow dizzy. In all the air a solemn silence ruled; the dark pines stood motionless; they held their breath, as though they waited for a king to pass. But the earth trembled softly; she was freezing and she longed for a soft white covering in which she might wrap herself to sleep. At first the little boy froze too, but soon he grew warm from running and his heart beat fast with the desire to sell his precious horse. As he trotted along he met a fox.

“Where are you going, Friedel?”

“To sell my horse. Will you have him? I hear that you are a rich man and eat roast goose every day. You should not go on foot.”

“Of course not,” said the fox. “But I see what you hold there is a white horse. I prefer to ride my own red-brown one.”

“Oh well, pardon,” said Friedel, and went on. Soon he came upon a raven who wore a heavy black coat and called out in a deep voice: “Trot, trot!”

“Yes,” answered Friedel, “but he won’t trot, and alas, I have no whip. But tell me, won’t you buy my horse?”

“I don’t want it,” croaked the raven, very much hurt. “I have wings and can fly.”

“That’s different,” said Friedel, “I didn’t know that.”

A little farther on he came upon a sparrow and he asked again: “Master Greyhead, you have so much to do on the streets, won’t you buy my horse?”

“Yes, if it were only summer,” said the sparrow, “I could make good use of him; now in winter I find it very difficult to get enough food together for my own span of horses. But we will go down into the city: there it’s easy to get rid of a horse like this any day. See how it shines out there with her thousand lights. Come, I will guide you. I must visit a few courtyards which are under my care.” Friedel was glad in his heart, for where could he have found a better guide or one who knew the world so well?

The street sloped down rapidly. The sparrow and Friedel stepped along lightly, the horse close upon their heels. “Now you may see how well he can run, if he only will,” said Friedel; and Master Greyhead said very calmly: “One must have much patience with such unreasonable animals.”

They went past the water-mill: the great wheel had made a holiday and was standing still, so the brook had nothing to do and called out to Friedel:

“Hear what he’s trying to make you believe,” said the sparrow. “You mustn’t give heed to him; he is one who is always coming down. He who would rise in the world must have no fears.”

The boy intended to remember this good advice but as he saw the brightly-lighted windows of the miller’s house he thought: “Now they sit within by the warm stove having Christmas.”

It was not long before they were in the city. There stood high houses, crowded so close together that the street could scarcely pass through, and the little fellow was afraid. Sometimes his mother had taken him with her to the city, but that had always been in bright day. He had never wanted to wander about the streets alone; he would rather be where the leaves rustled and the birds sang. Now all the windows were bright and behind the polished panes stood the loveliest things. Along the footpaths hurried many people, all carrying packages and bundles under their arms. Fortunately there were no more wagons, so Friedel chose the street. But even there he was not safe. First a fat woman crossed over the way; she carried on either side a great pack, puffed like an old steam engine, and gave him such a shove that he fell to the ground—and his horse too. But he stood up quickly and helped Huppdiwupp to his feet. “One mustn’t make anything of that,” said the sparrow; “that happens every day. But there come some dangerous fellows; we must pass them very cautiously.”

But this didn’t happen. Three street urchins came along who could see more with one eye than ten men with two. The first two seized Friedel by the jacket and the third planted himself impudently in front of the boy and said: “You wooden-shoe fellow, are you taking your horse to the blacksmith? You can get it done cheaper here; we’ll shoe him for nothing.”

“That’s not necessary,” said Friedel, “I wish to sell him.” Then the three shouted and the boldest one began to talk again: “Listen, you, you can’t sell your horse; we won’t have it. Give it to me and I won’t tell that you stole it.” And then he reached out for the bridle and tried to snatch away from the boy the only thing that he owned. Then the sparrow whispered: “Take off your wooden shoe and give him one on the head.” Friedel thought this good advice and followed it. There began a great battle, and even though there were three of the others they lacked a weapon and got many blows. Perhaps it might have gone badly with the boy at the end, but like thunder and lightning a man came between them. He had a polished helmet on his head and a sword at his side; under his nose he wore an enormous mustache which always trembled as though in fear of the frightful words that flew past it. He shouted: “Separate, you boys! keep the peace or I’ll pepper and salt your backs! Who started this?”

“He!” cried the three, as one mouth.

“No, they!” peeped the sparrow; but no one heard him.

“You see, Watch Master, he still has his wooden shoe in his hand,” said the boldest one; “he attacked us with that.”

“Be silent!” thundered the man, “we’ll get the right of this. You, put on your shoe, and tell me what you want here in the street with the horse.”

“He has stolen the horse,” said one of the boys.

“No,” said Friedel, very boldly and clearly, “the horse belongs to me; I made it myself.”

The man couldn’t well believe that and said: “That’s very suspicious. Follow me, we’ll soon find out.”

So Friedel had to follow him and the bad boys exulted. They gave a howl of joy and started after; but he with the helmet motioned toward his sword and they gladly ran away.

The man stalked ahead while Friedel, the sparrow, and Huppdiwupp followed as fast as their legs would carry them. The poor little fellow was very disheartened and thought it a bad adventure. But the sparrow whispered to him: “This is nothing; I can manage it.” At the next corner he gave Friedel a sign and they swung to the right, unnoticed, while the man of law went straight ahead, seeing nothing, intent only on his own steps.

“That’s the way to manage such people,” said the sparrow. “You must never follow their orders if you wish to be a clever fellow. But wait! Here we are at the right place. In this old house lives a merchant who deals in cats and dogs, donkeys and horses. Take a look; his window is full of them. Go in and try your luck.”

The small boy opened the door, went into the shop, and asked the merchant: “Here is my horse Huppdiwupp. I want very much to sell him. Will you take him?”

“Why not?” said the merchant. “What does he cost?”

“A thousand thaler.”

“That’s too dear for me,” said the merchant, and made a very thoughtful face. “Just look, my horses are much handsomer than yours and even then much cheaper than a thousand thaler.”

“Yes,” said Friedel, “I believe that. But your horses are dead and mine is alive. I should know, I made it myself. But tell me, what will you give me?”

“Half a pfennig.”

“That’s much too little,” said the boy and went quickly out the door. Huppdiwupp sprang over the threshold, as enraged as he. Little Greyhead was much annoyed when he heard the story and peeped very distinctly: “Such a common fellow! It’s a pity I didn’t go in with you, so that I could have given him a piece of my mind. But wait! See that strange fellow coming there? Notice how his spider legs bend under him. His body is so thin that he throws no shadow, and his face looks as though it were plastered with copper money. Ask him, he is surely a horseman. I tell you the best horse deals are always made in the street.”

Friedel waited until the man came up and then said, very shyly: “Dear Sir, won’t you buy my little horse? My mother and I have no money.” But the man merely said, “Beggar!” and passed on, leaving the three not knowing what to do.

“Don’t cry,” said the sparrow, who recovered quickest; “that’s the way with people. I know them from my grain deals.”

“I’m not crying,” said Friedel bravely, but he was as sad at heart as a horse who has won a race and waits in vain for his rider to pat his neck. “I shall stay no longer in the city, and I shall have nothing more to do with these people. I know very well what I must do. Tell me, Master Greyhead, have you already seen the Christ-child this evening?”

“To be sure. I see him every year. Today he came riding in from the door of the East and he will go out again at the West door. If you wish to speak with him we must hurry and reach the bench by the spring where he will surely pass.”

And now the three went together out of the city. There was no one to be seen and Friedel’s wooden shoes made klapp, klapp on the hard frozen road. He pulled his fur cap down over his ears, because he was so cold, and thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. “Shall I lend you my handkerchief, Master Greyhead?” he asked. “Out of it you can make some stockings for your bare legs.”

But the sparrow laughed. “Never mind; even in winter my feet are quite comfortable. Now look about you—this is the place. Sit down on the bench and rest, but take care not to go to sleep. Meanwhile I’ll watch and tell you when the Christ-child comes.”

The little fellow sat down, and the sky grew darker and darker. The stars put out their lights and the moon disappeared. Then it seemed to Friedel that the world grew stiller, and he himself grew wearier, and soon there came fluttering down through the air, very softly, thousands and thousands of butterflies. They settled on the bare branches of the trees, and when there was no more room there they sank down on the road and the ground, covering the whole earth. “They have woven a white cloth,” said the sparrow; “that is really too bad. But what can one do? The Christ-child has given away his horse and stockings and shoes and must not walk on the bare ground. See, there he comes.”

Great heavens, Friedel had fallen asleep. But he had to open his eyes again. He saw a shimmering light coming nearer and nearer. Then Friedel stood up and walking was so easy for him, so wonderfully easy, that he moved toward the light. At last came an angel’s child with long hair and a blue robe, with nothing in his hands, who went with bare feet and stepped so lightly that not a trace of him remained in the snow. All the light which Friedel had seen came from his two eyes, and about his mouth played a smile as though the Mother Maria had just kissed his lips.

“Are you the Christ-child?” asked Friedel.

“Yes,” answered he, and looked so long at Friedel that a strange warmth ran through the boy’s whole body.

Then the little fellow took heart and asked fervently: “Dear Christ-child, people will have nothing to do with me and no one sees my need. Buy my little horse Huppdiwupp. I have carved him with my own hand. You cannot go back to heaven on foot. You can pay me what you will.”

“Oh,” said the Christ-child. “I have no money.”

Friedel was astonished: “No money? And yet you bring such lovely things to the children? Every year you’ve gone to the rich miller; of course you have never known where we poor people live.”

“Yes, little boy,” said the Christ-child and smiled so strangely. “How that comes to be I cannot say. And then you are not poor.”

“But mother says so.”

“Give me your hand. Did you carve that beautiful horse with this hand?”

“Yes.”

“There is a gift in your hand,” said the Christ-child, “which a rich man cannot buy for a whole sack of gold,” and he stroked his hand and blessed him. But Friedel was not content and pleaded: “Haven’t you one more nut in your pocket or at least a fig or a cake?”

Then the Christ-child said sadly: “I really didn’t think of you and I have given everything away. But if you will lend your little horse Huppdiwupp to me then you shall see a lovelier Christmas tree than any child on earth has owned tonight.”

Friedel was satisfied. The Christ-child seated himself on the horse, took the little boy in his arms, and before them, between the ears of the horse, Master Greyhead perched himself. And now it was wonderful to see how the horse grew larger and larger. It was as if wings grew to him, and he rose slowly up and left the earth beneath. It snowed no more, the sky had become clear again, and the stars gleamed like diamonds in the dark hair of a queen. And as they kept rising steadily higher and higher the heart of the boy rose too. It was wide with joy, but it was strange that he could not feel it beating. His body was so light that he felt he could jump to the stars; he could not feel when his foot touched the neck of the horse. But he thought no more of this for he was so happy: his own work was bearing him up to the highest places. Far below he saw meadows and forests which shone whitely up; there, too, were the mountains and the cliffs stretching up like giants and yet unable to reach him. From the distance the bells toned very softly—as if their clappers were wound round with velvet. They were calling to Holy Festival. Friedel flew higher and higher and the earth grew as small as the wheel of the water-mill, and even smaller. Finally they went past the moon who was polishing her lamp which had almost gone out. She nodded to Friedel very kindly: “Bravo! You’ll soon be able to fly yourself!”

And then they came into heaven, a place so splendid that one cannot tell of it. There stood a great palace of transparent blue crystal; in it was a hall with walls of white marble and a table which gleamed like a single diamond. Upon this table was a green pine tree and on it hung a thousand stars: five hundred of them burned with a quiet light, the other five hundred glittered and flamed like children of the sun.

“Is it not lordly, Master Sparrow?” asked the boy.

The other answered: “Yes, but a full cherry-tree with the fruit showing dark red through the green—I do not know but what I should prefer that.”

Then the Christ-child led them to the table, for under the pine tree, in a very simple arm chair, sat the dear God. He was stone old but he looked about him as kindly as a father looks at his children. Upon his left knee he rocked a little angel who sang.

“Ah, dear God,” said Friedel very shyly, “now that I am up here I should like so much to see my father again.”

“I believe he is not here,” said the Christ-child. “He has gone to another place because he scolded and beat your mother.”

“Oh,” said Friedel, “that doesn’t make any difference. Mother has often beaten me, but I love her just the same.”

“That’s very different,” said the Christ-child, and the dear God smiled a very little. Friedel was near to tears but he took heart and said: “See, dear God, I have brought a beautiful horse with me. His name is Huppdiwupp. He is without, before the door, for it is too slippery for him in here, as he has no iron hoofs. But he is no common horse. He has brought us all up to heaven. The people would not buy my horse. They did not know what he was worth. The Christ-child has no money, so you take it and give me for him what I beg you.”

And as Friedel finished the dear God set the little angel on the floor and it tripped away. Then he stretched out his right hand and drew the little boy toward him; and Friedel knew that he was to receive his wish.

At ten o’clock a lusty fellow knocked at the window of Friedel’s mother. “Wash Margaret, get up! It’s I, the miller’s Hans. I found your youngster down below by the fountain almost frozen to ice.”

How frightened the mother was! But she rubbed her little boy with snow and he grew slowly warm again. She held him the whole night through and kept saying, “My poor boy! My poor boy!”

But Friedel stammered, sleepy and snow-drunk: “I am not poor. I can make the Christ-child out of snow-white stone and he will shine like the sun.”

The poor woman did not know what to say but she clasped her child with both arms to keep him warm; for outside the wind had risen and was slashing the roof.

Finally they both fell asleep, mother and son; and at their right stood Need and at their left stood Sorrow, watching over them. For these are the angels of the poor, and whom they lift up they make the Conquerors.

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[1] Retold from the German.