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. ---------- [1] _Retold from the German._ The Reader Critic “Mutable Emotions” _Alan Adair, Fovant Camp_: