Evening Star Newspaper, December 23, 1923, Page 64

- THE SUNDAY' ST; . O, DECEMBER - 23, 1923—PART 5. ‘WASHINGTON. - PRRRE The True Christmas Spirit Which Came in the Midst of Loneliness in the New Home BY KING DAVIS J¢ RS. CLARENCE WALLING- FORD RENSHAW put down her coffee cup with & plaintive littlo sigh of resignation. “Well, T should think Mother Renshaw would be glad and thankful that she bas a place to come to.” For the love of Mike, mother, have heart! Who wants Gram here to lve ‘It doesn’t make about wanting, Roland and 1 have decided it thing to do.” ' “I think it would be just fine to bave grandma here to live Small Gwendolyn nodded her curly with much satisfaction. “Yes, sissy! Grandma's always pattin’ you on the back. If you stick a pin in your finger she thinks you're half killed." “She don't, either! Grandma’'s aw- ful nice! Y'd be ‘shamed to treat her as you do, smartie Roland.” “If mother eomes here to liv nounced Mr. Renshaw sonorousl “sou children will treat her with proper respect. And I won't have all his wrangling at the table—under- stand? Beatrice, you might go and see mother this morning and—tell her. The Carleys will buy the place furniture and all, just as it stands Mrs. Renshaw folded her napkin and rose hurriedly. “I'll do that very ‘ihing. Run along, children, it's time tor school. Clarence Renshaw hesitated a moment, fussing with his watch fob. “Be kind of easy with mother, Be- strice. Remember, she's mighty fond of the old place.” “Leave it to me, Clarence! hope mother had some sense * ¥ x % IT ‘was one of those clear, exhilarat- ing mornings in late October. Abby Renshaw, her old gray sweater buttoned tightly about her, was out ‘in her garden gathering a last bou- quet of fragrant hardy chrysanthe- mus. The old lady sighed & bit as sho sniffed the curly blossoms. “Bob- by's tavorite flowers! I never pick ‘em without I think of him. His hair was almost as bright as gold. Poor little Bobby—his father was too hard, too hard! Always had this sorrow cast fts shadow over Abby Renshaw's heart Her younger son, in direct contrast to hle pragmatical brother Clarence. had plaved such daring pranks and been the victim of so many reck- lese oscapades that his stern father had finally lost all patience with the hoy and driven him from home, with the final admonition that he never wanted to see or hear of him agaln. And they never had! When Father Renshaw died Abby cherished a long- ing hope that then her boy would come home, but the vears slipped away and there was no message. Thought of him brought lines of paln to her fac She looked old, frail, so that Beatrice, parking h car at the gate, thought, “Wel, it time we did something. I don’t be- Heve she'll live through the winter.” Abby came forward with a glad smile of welcome. Rare indeed were its from her fashionable daughter- in-law. ‘Beatrice! You have come to dinner with me. I =aid to my self this morning when I dropped the dishcloth. ‘There, somebody's coming!” So I went right to work and made a johnny-cake and an apple pie. Come in and take off your things. Beatrice slipped off her veavy coat and sank down in the red-cushioned rocker. “No, not my hat, mother. T really can't stay but a minute. I've the most exciting news. You're com- ing to live with us!” Abby dropped the glove she was about to lay upon the table. Stoop- ing to recover it, she lifted a face 2 bit flushed with exertion. “Why, Beatrice, I 'spose you mean visit. I had been thinking I might go and stay with you a day or two.” “No, mother, not & day or two. but always. You simply can't stay on here alons another winter. Clarence ‘worries about you all the time. And mow we have the new house there’'s no reason at all why you shouldn't ©ome.” *“That's kind of you and Clarence, ‘Beatrice, just as kind as it can be,” exclaimed Abby appreciately, “but, my child, T couldn't do it. I've got my chickens to,lock after, and I must keep a fire in the house or the ‘water would freeze, and my flowers. Clarence needn’t worry about me, I'm all right. When I don’t feel just Tight T tell the milk boy, and Phoebe Shorter is always glad to come and stay with me.” Beatrics straightened: “Mother, you must know that Father Renshaw hardly left any money at all but this place. It's been five years since he dled.” Finance was a blank page to Addby Renshaw. Clarence had taken entire charge at his father's death. He had t0ld her there was money enough for her to stay on at the old place. He had paid the bills; she had never questioned or given it thought. “You mean that there's no more money—that I can’t stay hers becau there’s. no money?” Beatrice nodded. *“But you will have more money. Mother, for Clarence has had the most wondertul opportunity to sell the place. It's so old he never dreamed any one would ever buy it; but thess people not only ‘want the house, but the furniture and everything!” . Abdby rose stifiy. “I—I think I left the drafts open on the kitchen stove, Wait a minute—I'll go and sea’” any difference Your father is the best 1 should * %k % TP alone, Beatrice looked about the room. It was a homey kind of room, with the low windows, the straight-backed chairs, the old-fash- loned mahogany tadle, the rag rugs, the couch with its qullted blue cover- let. She remembered that Clarence had sald that the Carleys were to use the place for & summer home, that ** Mrs. Carley was enthusiastic over the quatnt old furniture. Beatrice shrug- ged her shoulders. She hated old fur- niture!? ‘When Abby returned, Beatrice glanced at her and breathed a little sigh of relief. There wasn't golng to be & scene after all. . “Tell-me_more -about- it,"~the- old. head | lady said quletly. And when her daughter-in-law had explained that the Carleys would not take posses- slon until the following spring a bit of a smile came into her face, “Oh, so I can stay here till then!” Which necessitated Beatrice's explaining that Clarence dtdn't dare put the sale off 2 day, for fear.the Carleys would back down, and they had offered sucn & price! The corners of Abby's mouth tight- ened. “I think I remember her. She stopped last summer for a drink of water. I asked her in. She exclaimed |over evefything and I showed her all around. I wish now. I hadn't. Beatrice's eves widened. “Wish you hadn't! It was the lucklest day of your life. They will make over the place beautifully! In a few years you will be proud to say you ever owned it She roee, and commenced pulling on her coat. It seemed & propitious mo- ment to leave. “I wish I could stay of things to do today. this thing over, be out the first of the week.” You just think Beatrice. Driving out of the yard, Mrs. Clar- ence Renshaw drew a long breath. “Thank goodness. that's over!” Abby went slowly into her spotless kitchen. The old clock on the mantel chimed 12. Mechanically she plac- {ed a solitary ' plate and cup and saucer on the table. She brought from the pantry a golden-brown john- ny-cake, an apple pie with flaky crust. Then she sat down and, leaning forward, buried her face in her arms. The next day Phoebe Shorter con- fided to a passing neighbor, “T guess Abby Renshaw's:clean gone crazy! 1 saw her feeding those chickens a perfectly good-lookin' Jjohnny-cake and a whole apple ple! Now, what | do you think of that?" e A BBY Renshaw had been in her son’s home two weeks. To all appearance she had contentedly fitted into her niche, that niche being a comfortable room at the back of the house. From one window was a view of a well-kept driveway leading down to the garage. The other stared blankly at the closely curtained win- dows of the house next door. Abby wished that some time those curtains might be drawn aside, if only for a moment. Not that Abby was curious but often the lonely ache in her heart was a bit hard to bear. That first week she had made some dreadful mistakes. After breakfast she had put on a clean gingham apron | and gone out into the kitchen to help | with the dishes and perhaps bake a loat of gingerbread. But the girl who had waited on the table was wiping | dishes, and another woman whom she had never seen was deftly rolling out ple orust. Beatrice had appeared like a whirlwind. “Why, Mother Ren- shaw! whatever are you doing out heret” | Then, as they safely gained the liv- | {ing-room, “Bridget is such an old fuss! I hardly dare offer a sugges- tion. But she is a dream of a cook! For goodness' sake, Mother, don't ever go into the kitchen—you would upset the whole system. The next day Abby had tentatively suggested helping with the mending. “Well, I don't belleve you coul sighed her daughter-in-law regret- fully. “You see, I put everything in the sewing room and Miss Robinson comes in once a week. She is so efficient; I never have to g0 near her.” At table the old lady soon learned to maintain a discreet silence. The family usually talked of things she knew nothing whatever about, or the children wrangled and the entire din- ner hour was devoted to discipline. Roland ignored her with the blase nonchalange of sixteen. But Gwendo- lyn often found her way to her grandmother's room. “Tell me what vou did when you were a little girl, grandma.” The stories thus evoked were sure to be fascinatingly entertaining. It was Gwendolyn who brought | news Of expected guests. ‘tNext week'll be Thanksgiving, and Uncle Fred and Aunt Clara and Rosamond and Hazel and Junlor are coming” she announced gleefully. Aunt Clara was Beatrios' “That's fine,” she said. g0od time you will have! “Mother don’'t know what she is going to do with you. She wants to use this room. She wonders if you'd mind being put in the attic room. It's nice, but kind of cold.” Abby gazed down the gravel drive- way for a moment. Then she turn- ed with & smile: “Why, of course T wouldn't mind. Did your mother tell | you to ask me?” “She said I might sound you." Abby's eyes twinkled. “Well, run away and tell her that I sounded—all right” So Abby was moved up another flight of stairs. “It's a shame to ask you to do it, mother,” declared Beatrice coo- ingly. “Anyhow, it will only be for a few days.” But after Thanksglving Aunt Clara stayed on, and Abdy Reushaw also stayed on in the attio room. In spite of the ofl stove it was rather cold, and Abby developed a slight cough, and one morning after a restless, slespless night felt too miserable to go down two flights of stairs to the dining room. Beatrice sent Gwendolyn up to find out the reason. . Then & doctor came, pronounced it a case of grip, wrote & prescrip- tion and sald he would ocall agaln the next day. ‘Dow, mother,” exclaimed Beatrice, ‘aren’t you thankful that you are here? Just suppose you had been out at the old place all alone.”” Abby nodded gently and closed her eyes. Her thoughts went back to her sunny, cosy sitting room, with the big cosl stove, to the warm, snug kitchen. Her bedroom had been off the sitting room and it had always been warm. She had never before had an attack of grip. Beatgice, thinking that she slept, siipped out. ABIY'! thoughts were very busy. It was nearing the close of the year, almost Christmas. She had ot spent a Christmas away from the old place in fifty years. = After a time she became conacious of heavy steps on the stairs, the sound of voices outside the door. Clarence came in. “Well, mother, how are you feeling? Fine enough to see & visitor?” Her eves brightened: “Phoebe?’ He shook his head. *No, some one you've not seen in a long, long time.” “Why, how .strange,” she mur- mured. “Some one I've nof seen in a long, long time.” Suddenly she started and ralsed her head from the pillow. “You don't mean—you can't mean——" longer, Mother, but I've simply loads | and Clarence wll!‘ “It doesn’t need any thinking over. | I will bo ready to go to your house any time you ! SUDDENLY SHE STARTED AND A MAN CAME A man came across the ropm. “Mother!” he cried, and his volce vibrated with &ll the love and long- ing of thirty years. “Bobby ™ The next thing Abby heard was Beatrice's voice and it sounded wmiles away. “Of all the stupidity! Clar- ence, T should have thought vou would have known better.” Then a strange volce, yet somehow faintly familiar, “T didn’t realize she was so poorly. Clarence sald she was just used up with a cold.” Clarence, defensively: “I came in and told her he was here.” Again the strange voice, coming around al! right.” “Get out of sight, Bob” cried Beatrice, sharply. “When she sees you she will go off again. Abby's eyes flew open. “No, T want him right here,” she whispered. And when her hand was caught and held tightly in both of his she gave a little sigh of perfect peace and hap- piness. At last they were left alone “Tell me about it,” Abby said. ‘Why have you stayed away all these years?” “I don’t know why, mother." voice broke. “I don't see how you can forgive me. At first T was angry. Father never understood me at all and he wouldn't let you, and Clarence w uch a prig and tattle- tale. Those first years—well, some time T'll tell you all about them. One place, then another, finally west. and, at last, luck. 1 got interested in ‘business and so busy making money that I almost forgot. Then came Mary and we were married, and she made up to me all I'd lost and longed for, except, perhaps, you! I kept thinking of you and one day I sald to Mary, T'm going east. I don't care much about seeing father or Clarence. but T must find out if “She's His | plac (nearly fell over when I told him I ‘see, lanting Mother | wn RAISED HER HEAD. ACROSS THE ROOM. “YOU DON'T everything's all right with mother.’ So I came and I went out to the old | and, of course, found it all closed up. 1 saw Abe Parker. He | Bobby Renshaw. He told me| about father's death and how you had come in to the city to live with Clarence and Beatrice. Believe me! I wasn't long in getting here 1 walked in on Clarence at his office and we came right up. 1 couldn't wait 2 minute!” He looked around the room, at the lighted oil stove. “Say, why in the deuce are you up here in the top gal- lery? I always hated those smelly oil stoves. Haven't they a room on the next floor?” “It's a nice room, Bobby,” said Abby hastily, “and quiet. You see, Beatrice's sister is here with her three little childven, and they like to play in the hails™ Did you want to come hers to live?” asked Bob with his old-time abruptness. “Abe said the place was sold. How did you happen to sell?” The thin-veined hand in his quiv- ered slightly. “Clarence sold it, Bob- by. I couldn't stay on there. You vour father didn't leave any mone “Didn’t leave any money? Well, from the looks of things Clarence s making plenty. Did you want to sell the old homestead?" Abby Renshaw looked away those clear, penetrating blue eyes. “It—it seemed best, Bobby. But, my dear, you haven't told me a thing about—Mary?” And from the look that came into her son's face Abby instantly knew much about Mary. “You see, mother, T got typhoid, and Mary was the nurse who pulled me through; and she's been pulling me through ever since. I just wish she from S | face MEAN— YOU CAN'T MEAN—" “MOTHER!” HE CRIED. could get her hands on you. You'd be well in a jiffy! Abby smiled happily. “I'm 'most well now. son; the sight of vour dear My! * % % ¥ THAT evening Bob Renshaw had a little conversation with his broth- er and sister-in-law. “You say the Jameson Carleys bought it?" Clarence carefully flicked the ashes from his cigar. “Mrs. Jameson Car- ley bought it and a mighty good deal it was, t00.” . Bob glanced down pensively at the thick velvet rug. “You don’t think mother would rather have stayed on there? Fifty vears! Like uprooting an oak.” “She couldn’t have stayed on there,” Clarence sald sharply. “Yes" interrupted Beatrice. “it meant hiring some one to go there and stay with her. besides paying for keeping up the place—- “Oh, a question of—money Clarence nodded. “Father didn't leave anything. This selling of the place gives mother enough to live comfortably all the rest of her days.” “Oh, of course” agreed Bob. ‘“Her expenses can't be very heavy. Clothes and—board.” Hiy brother flushed slightly. “Beat- rice attends to all of that. I have felt it a fine thing of Beatrice to be willing to have mother come here to live.” “Yes, indeed, old people are a prob- lem, and, unfortunately, if we live, we all grow old.” He lookeu at his watch. “Well, I think Il go down to the hotel and turn in. It's been a strenuous day.” In the hall Clarence spoke apolo- getically: “Sorry we can't put you up, old man. “Oh, that's all right. By the way, I'm going to phone the doctor to.) send up a nurse. Good-night” A o He chuckled as he went down the steps. “Guess that'll hold ‘em.” But his lips curled scornfully as he lighted his cigar. He sighed and looked up at the starlit sky. “Oh, Mary, Mary, we've got some work to do, believe me Came a wondertully bright and glorious Christmas morning. Abby Renshaw had left the attic room and was comfortably settled in 2 big leather chair in the library. The old lady’s face beamed with hap- piness. She had just finished open- ing her Christmas gifts. “You shouldn’t have done it,” look- ing up at Bob in loving reproach, as she fingered caressingly the beautiful fur coat in her lap. Beatrice glanced down a bit en- viously. “T'll have to borrow it mother, when I go to the opera. It makes mine look positively shabby. She went over to Clarence. He was frowning angrily: “You ought to have given mother something better than that gray ki- mono. Beside Bob's gift it looks .cheaper than dirt.” Beatrice tossed her head. I guess he can afford to give her a fur coat. He hasn't given her anything in thirty years.” Bob bent over his mother's chair. “You are going to christen that coat today. I have a car coming at 11 o'clock to take you for a little ride.” * k¥ ¥ “THIS is a real pleasur: Abby Renshaw leaned back in a cor- ner of the limousine and beamed at her son. “I feel rich.’ “You are rich, mother.” She glanced out of the window. “Why, we're 'most, out to the old place. Good land! If there ain’t Abe Parker!” She waved frantically. The 6ld man took off his cap and waved back. “Bobby, how did you know I'd ra- ther ride out here than any place in the world?" She craned forward. “There's the house, and, why—there’s smoke coming out of the chimney? She turned tremulously. “I didn't know those people were Eoing _to move In so soon.” The car stopped at the gate, and Bob sprang out and opened the door. Abby drew back. “I don’t believe I want to stop, Bobby. You see, we don't own it any more." * % % x Then the door of the house flew open and out ran Phoebe Shorter, Jennje Holcombd, Fanny Reed and all the neighbors round about. “Merry Christma: “Welcome home, Abby!” “Glad to see ve back, Abby Renshaw! “Should think ‘twas time you came home They almost carried the bewildered old lady up the walk and into the sitting room. The same' sitting room, with the coal fire glowing redly; and from the kitchen came the deliclous odor of cooking turkey. They placed Abby in the old red rocker. Bob came forward with a tall woman, a stranger. “This is Abby's face between white, strong, capable hands. ‘Dear Mother Ren- shaw!” “There's something in mother,” Bob said, gently. A folded white paper. With trem- bling fingers Abby opened it: “Kath- ryn Carley to Abby Renshaw. ADDby raised tear-wet eves. “T don't understand,” she whispered brokenly. Mary caught her trembdling hand. “The old place is yours, mother, for always. Bob bought it back from Mrs. Carley. She was very lovely about it when she understood. Then he sent for me and I'm going to stay with you till you're well and strong and Phoebe Is golng to live with you. Hear how happy she is! Then next summer Bod and I will come for sev- eral weeks and always at Christmas. your lap, s I'll bet Phoebe s letting that turkey burn. Come and sft in the kitchen, mother, and boss things. And do tell me where to find the best tablecloth; I've hunted ev- erywhere.’ That night Abby Renshaw, strstched ; ; out in her feather bed under her patchwork Qullts, couldn't sicep for teppiness. At length the eyelids drooped. old kitchen clock slowly chimed 1 It was the closo of Christmas day. (Copyright, 1923.) Mistletoeand ItsMagic Lured A. (Continued from Second Page.) kitchen; made them “light a fire and burn a stinking mess’ of leaves, ber- ries and broken branches, and “her- self said incantations” (probably she sald prayers!)—all considered out- rageous. But the wise woman was honest. Each kid brought home a little “luck bag” of those ashes, “Make the children throw those things away!” exclaimed the bourse man to the worried parents. They did so. Then, when none looked, the bourse man sneaked out, hunted carefully and found the “luck bags,” which he put into his pocket. Since then he has made eight mil- lons! . The priest, down there, has periodic trouble with the peasant young folk of his parish—who “put pagan prac- tices” into the fnnocent holiday cult of mistletoe. When done as should be, boys and girls go out in merry bands, into the old oak forest, seeking mistletoe where rare boughs of it are discov- ered with difficulty. “There’s no fun in apple-tres mis- tletoe!” Such is the queer judgment of the local young folks as to the stuff they cut, as a matter of buusi- ness, for shipment to London at holi- day time. Slooploads of it go out, in particular, from the port of St. Mals. F course, our American Expedi- tionary Force boys went out on theso trips for the girls' sake. All the same, they went out! Wandering (i the girle) in the mysterious old forests where white-whiskered Druids wandered, muttering, eyes uplift- ed, seeking. our home boys, mod- ern, free-minded, got the magic riant, all right! The lad who sees the first bough of oak mistletoc must ciimb and cut it Rightly, it is hacked with a sharp fiint—now, there's a queer thing! He is carried back in triumph s&nd be- comes “king” for the afternoon. The bough is hung above the en- trance door. As the girls pass be- neath it, they are kissed, in some- thing of a scramble, with much trick- ery—the well known “malice and fn- Justice of girls” alding. Whence, the saying: “Jean can catch her, with his feet tied!” Here creep the forbidden pagan recollections. How can young folk recollect 3,000 years? Thelr parents never told them. (But their parents knew it. the same way, when they were kids). The early fathers, some 1,600 years ago, sup- posed that they had switched off the pagan part on to an innocent feast of hot chestnuts—popping, fragrant, on the ancient buckwheat cake, griddl gradation from burnt mistletoe in antique days; but the young folk knew nothing of such detail, ever! Yet, now, down the centuries, the thing s with them—to sneak In a hot tile or a saucepan, break up mis- tletoe upon it, and make it burn, stink and siszle for the luck bag! MAGINE the barren hills of Gali lee, clear and cold on the win ter's night, while “shepherds watch their flocks.” Then recall the well known legend of Mexico, of the appearance of the Virgin to a | Mexican Indian lad in the hills out- side of the gates of the City of Mex~ ico, exhorting the young shepherd to £0 to the bishop of the city and tell him that he was to build a church upon the spot where she stood, and you have the setting and story for & Christmas observance of the pastoral Spanish people of New Mexico in the year 1923. ‘Throughout the Spanish villages of this section of the southwestern part of the United States the “feast” of | our Lady of Guadalupe, on December 12, commemorating this anclent mir- acle and opening the religious cele- bration of the Christmas season, has been observed for generations and | generations, and probably will con- tinue on as long as the religious zeal ot the Spanish people lasta ‘While it 1s distinctly religious in nature, it has the festival elements of a Spanish saint's day. Most note- worthy of all is the pastoral play, “La Apariencia de Muestra Senora de Guadalupe,” enacted in a great num- ber of villages by the people of that village. At twilight on the evening of De- cember 18, against the wide horizon line up and down the valleys and in the mountains, one may see a number of sudden fires starting up. These bonfires, fed by dry weeds and bits of wood gathered by the hand of mother, father and children, are lighted not many yards from the house. The “luminaria” to Our Lady of Guadalupe is the devotion of that household for that special day, and every day at that hour until Christ- mas Eve its flame shoots up against the darkening sky. The air is clear, cold and dry, and the silent places of this stupendous country hold with impressive ‘al tinctness the crackle of the flame: and carry far the Vvoice of a parent to his child as he admonishes him or gives him some direction in Spanish. In some mountain yillages these beacons dot with points of fire some sigzag road that follows a cluster of adobe houses over the shoulder of the hill, and the pungent smell of burning pine or cedar penetrates the alr. Down on the “mesa,” or flat table- land, perhaps one home, isolated E. F. Boys Aunts and mothers hold th hands up, horrified and frightened Fathers, uncles, grin, uneasy, and keep their eyes open. ‘Incantations being forgotten, the young folk (herc is another queer thing!) go through @ wordless ceremony while the stuff burns, sort of low, triumphant mur- mur, arms up-flung high in the air. while prancing, two-by-two, in curv- ing lines, before the heathen cooker:. And there you are. * % % ¥ THEY keep the bags. The parisi priest can't get them f the mothers, sisters, aunts sery- ants. They are contraband, pase underhand, like a sneaking “button button, who has the buotton?” The bags are good to bury field, to make it fruitful. Good wiies (here, put a pin), keep a luck bz against thelr husband’s jags. A pinch of ash mixed with 1 drink, on bad days, prevents his go- Ing “over the top” entirely: or makes him drink less, or get less stewed or drink slower and see pink mi earlier, while there is yet time. What will not good women do? They even keep tradition straight, on the dead quiet, among themselves! Here 1s the last, queerest detall antique belief so mixed up in the 2,000 years that it has come to c tradict itself! The mistletoe, originally, whe properly burnt, conferred the power to see ghosts—in those days whey men desired to see them, and as them for tips upon the races. Hundreds of generations tried pass the word along. Ghosts! Some- thing about ghosts! So, still, the mistietoe bough hangs outside of Breton tavern. What for? Why, to guarantee the drinkers that they will not see things on their way home, sorcerers, demons, pink mics, and babes that come whizzing through the air to clutch you by your black hair! When Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon and copped out his good job in Rome, he told them of the Gaulish Druids and their magic mistletoa Among his friends was Publius Syrus, capadle young writer who desired s sinecure. Now, Publius was good at maxims. Caesar being willing, & big priza from the state treasury. was offered for the best maxim. Publius did this “You need not hang up the Ivy branch above the wine that will sell!” It is to be found maxim. at!" said Publius to Julius, in & neat bit of flattery. “I remembered what you said about the Gauls and their bough hung outside of taverns.” It made Caeser tired. “You've got it wrong.” he said, with weariness, “the thing’s not 1vy.” answered Publius, “but fplks in Rome haven't got any mistie~ toe, so I said ivy. You know, what is called poetic license.” “But, my gosh!" sald “where's the point with 1 as his 985th Caesarn, New Mexico’s Special Christmas Observance far as the eve can reach or the ear can hear, sends its fire heavenward, with only the arching sky to testiry to its fealty. Another featurs of the flesta dure ing these days that terminate in La Noche Buena—Christmas Eve—when solemn high mass is said, is arreste fhg to the traveler among these adobe settlements. Clean-cut against the darkening sky of evening, these small, square-cornered roofs will be adorned on each square corner with a light, made by placing a taper in & paper sack which has been partially filled with sand. These lights gleam llke the steady glowing eéyes of a watchful household god during the night until the candle finally fiickers down fn the sand and goes out. A remnant of the old miracle play which was the origin of the Spanish drama remains in these communia ties on the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The scenes, the stage, the costumes, the lines, are crude adaptations, devised by the eople, handed down by generations and generations of custom, with the limie tations of an isolated, simple people. But the spirit of the actors and the interest of the onlookers need no apology. They are an expression of the religious fervor that marks the Spanish people. For example, In one community— Los Griegos—Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe was the patron saint of the town and December 12 the vil. lage feast day. Early on that day the dusty, narrow roads and lanes of the little settlement were filled with men and women, boys end girls, babies walking, bables in arms and bables In buggies, all in their gayest color and proudest raiment, on their way to “La Misa"—the mass—in the adobe church. Proparations for days and asdicie pation for weeks led them first to their obligation to their patron, and thus dancing, plays and feasting waited on prayer. Shortly after noon a knot of people began to gather around a small house with a narrow wooden balcony in front. A glimpse of red carpets and portieres, draped over the rails ing. suggested the unususl, and shortly, as dances and food were de- rted, practically the whole village stood before this improvised stage ‘walting for the appearance of the playe: It the actors were awkward, they ‘were earnest, and the spirit of the play, waa serious and inteat,