THE HERMIT’S CHRISTMAS [Illustration] THE HERMIT’S CHRISTMAS DAVID DE FOREST BURRELL AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY 150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK Copyright, 1912, by AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY THE HERMIT’S CHRISTMAS On Christmas Day the solitude of the hermit Theodore was broken in upon. The hermit, a gaunt, austere figure of a man in a long robe of goat’s hair, stood before the door of his cave upon the heights, looking out over the wooded slopes and the shining waters at their feet, when the first intruder made his appearance. The sunlight glanced from his armor where he came out from the forest shadows on a bare shoulder of the mountain far below. The gleam caught the hermit’s eye, and, without moving, he watched while the man drew nearer. He climbed but slowly under the weight of his armor. About his head a white cloth was wrapped as security against the hot sun, while his helmet was slung at his back. His great sword he used for a staff. At length, stumbling over the last stone in utter weariness, he reached the hermit’s side and threw himself upon the ground, calling hoarsely for water, in the name of all the saints. The hermit brought it, a gourd full, which the Crusader drank dry in great gulps. He wiped his face, red and shining from the exertion of his climb. “God bless thee for that kindly draft, good father.” “Nay, my son, ’tis but a small Christmas gift, since it cost me naught save a journey to the spring below.” The knight started. “I had forgot! Christmas Day, in sooth! and what a place to keep it in!” “The place matters not, my son, so that thy heart be right for the feast.” The other’s eyes twinkled for a moment. “And dost thou feast on Christmas Day, father? Methought dried peas and, perchance, a cut of goat’s flesh would be dainties fitted to thy scruples.” The hermit smiled. “Why, so they are; but truly the food matters little more than the place.” Then the knight sighed loudly. “Ah, but I bethink me,” he said, “of a great hall in Merry England, and the boar’s head and the foaming ale and the songs and laughter! I would I were there, across yon blue sea!” The hermit smiled again. “Truly, Sir Knight, dried goat’s flesh is not a boar’s head, and this gourd I take from thee is not a horn of ale; but this is Christmas Day, and thou art welcome.”