Christmas Light Part 1

Christmas Light.

by Ethel Calvert Phillips.

CHAPTER I

NAOMI'S GARDEN

It was in a little garden in the village of Bethlehem, many and many a year ago, that four scarlet poppies stood side by side and swayed gently back and forth upon their slim green stalks in the soft afternoon wind.

A little girl came running over the gra.s.s and halted before the poppies.

"How beautiful you are!" said the little girl, whose name was Naomi, and who was eight years old.

She clasped her hands before her in delight, and stood smiling down upon the flowers that seemed to nod courteously in reply.

This little Jewish girl had dark curling hair and gentle brown eyes. Her cheeks were as rosy as the poppies, and she wore a gay little robe of scarlet and yellow striped stuff, while upon her bare brown feet were tied soft leather sandals.

"How beautiful you are!" said Naomi again to the poppies. "You are mine, for I made you grow, and you are the most beautiful flowers in all our lovely garden."

And she looked as proudly round the tiny garden plot as if it were as s.p.a.cious and as wonderful as the famous gardens of the wicked King Herod, or even those of the Temple High Priest himself.

In the center of the gra.s.s plot stood an orange-tree, and under it, in the shade of its glossy leaves, had been placed a light wooden bench. A tall hedge of p.r.i.c.kly thorns prevented pa.s.sers-by on the narrow village street from peeping in. At one end a heavy grapevine clambered over a trellis, while at the other there were several rich clumps of myrtle that showed dark against the surrounding gra.s.s. Below the thorn hedge stood a row of bold flaunting tulips, and there were two flower-beds, one of white, the other of tall red lilies.

The garden was indeed a pleasant place, and Naomi's happiest hours were spent here, whether playing peacefully alone, or amusing baby Jonas, or when the family gathered together under the orange-tree, Father and Mother, brother Ezra, baby Jonas, and herself.

To be sure there were vines and flowers growing on the roof of Naomi's house, which was often used as a place to sit in the cool of the day and even to sleep when the house grew unbearably warm. For Naomi's dwelling looked like nothing so much as a square box turned upside down with only a door cut in the front and not a window to break the smooth white sides.

Within, there was a single room, round which ran a bench where were kept the gay quilts, tightly rolled, which made the only beds Naomi knew.

Here, too, lay the cushions upon which the family sat when at meals round the table, which was then pulled out from the wall. There was a great carved chest in which were kept the Sabbath clothes, the crescent of coins which belonged to Naomi's mother and which she wore upon her head as an ornament on festive occasions, and the long parchment rolls of Scripture in which Naomi's father took the keenest pride. At the door stood a tall water-jar with herbs floating on the top to keep the water cool.

In a niche in the doorpost hung a small roll of parchment in a case.

Naomi was used to seeing her father and his friends touch it reverently when pa.s.sing in or out, and then kiss the fingers that had touched the Name of the Most High. She could even recite as well as Ezra the verses she knew were written there, beginning, "Hear, O Israel: Jehovah our G.o.d is one Jehovah," and ending "and thou shalt write them upon the doorposts of thy house and upon thy gates."

In a small building near by stood the oven where Naomi's mother did her baking and which she used in common with several other families. It was often a meeting-place for the children, who hung about the door on baking-days hoping for hot crumbs--stout Solomon from across the road; Rachel and Rebekah, Naomi's particular friends; little Enoch, who walked with a limp and who would never grow any taller, though he might live to be ever so old.

"I would that my Aunt Miriam used our oven," Naomi often thought, "for she bakes every day, and, oh, such good things as she makes."

Naomi's aunt kept the village inn or khan that stood just outside the city gates on one of the little hills upon which Bethlehem was built.

Many travelers stopped the night at the khan and even longer, for the village lay only one mile to the right of the great road which led from Jerusalem, six miles away, to the old town of Hebron, and then down into the far-away, mysterious land of Egypt itself. Where the road from Bethlehem joined the Jerusalem highway stood the tomb of Rachel, and many a time had Naomi, loitering in the courtyard of the inn, heard pious pilgrims, fresh from the spot, tell the stories of Rachel and Jacob, and their sons Joseph and Benjamin.

Naomi's little head was packed full of the stories of the great people of her race. Ezra, eleven years old, went to school in the synagogue every day with the other boys of the village, and diligently studied the Law and the Prophets. At home, Naomi was taught by her mother, not only the care of the house, but the history of the Hebrew people, their songs, their prayers, and their hopes.

"I know ten hymns without a mistake," Naomi would boast, and by hymns she meant what we call psalms. "I can recite the Song of Deborah and the Song of Hannah. I can tell all the story about them, too, and, oh, ever so many more."

Her favorite story was that of the Naomi for whom she had been named.

But this summer afternoon she was thinking of nothing save of the pretty blossoms that now swung before her after so many days of patient toil and care.

She caught sight of her mother in the doorway and eagerly called her to come and see the sight.

"Come, Mother, come," she called. "My poppies are all out, every one.

Four of them in a row! See--even the smallest one that I feared would not bloom at all. There is one for each of thee: Father, Mother, Ezra, Jonas. The smallest one is for Jonas, and verily it is the prettiest one of all."

Naomi's mother came smiling down the path. She carried a water-pitcher or urn, and astride her left shoulder sat baby Jonas, steadying himself by clutching his mother's thick dark hair.

"The flowers are beautiful, Naomi," said she pleasantly. "They well repay thee for all thy patience and care. I go now to the fountain for water. It lacks but half an hour to sundown. Watch thy little brother Jonas well and keep him happy until I return."

And slipping Jonas from her shoulder to the gra.s.s, and pulling her white linen veil into place, she stepped quickly out into the village street, her urn securely balanced upon her head.

Jonas had already crept over to the bench, and, dragging himself up upon his unsteady legs, he looked into his sister's face with a smile.

"The smallest poppy is thine, Jonas," Naomi told him, "but thou must touch it not. Come now with me and see the pigeons."

Behind the house, a step out of the garden, stood a dove-cote made of mud. Inside were two wide-mouthed earthen jars that served as nesting-boxes. The pigeons were stepping majestically about on the ground, the sun touching their soft gray feathers with blue and green and rose. Jonas made several lunges at them in the hope of capturing a new plaything, but he succeeded only in stubbing his toe and sitting down hard upon the ground.

"No, neither must thou touch them," said Naomi, helping him tenderly to his feet and brushing off the dirt. "It seems to me that there are a great many things that thou must not touch. But I know something that thou canst do. It is my secret, but I do not mind telling thee because thou canst not talk. Thou mayst help me dig a well!"

Naomi's voice sank mysteriously as she guided the tottering Jonas back into the garden and over to a bare spot of ground behind the largest of the myrtle bushes.

"Sit ye down, Jonas," said Naomi, sinking cross-legged to the ground.

"I mean to dig the well here, it will be so handy for Mother. Then never will she have to walk down to the fountain unless she likes. You take that stick and I will use this one."

For a few moments the little girl worked industriously, loosening the dry sun-baked soil, while Jonas scratched vigorously with his sharp-pointed stick.

"It is hard work, Jonas," sighed Naomi, pausing to shake back her curls.

"But it will be worth it when once the well is made. It will be called 'Naomi's well' for me, and years and years from now my great-great-grandchildren will be proud of me because I made it. And when I am an old woman, all thin and brown and dried-up like lame Enoch's grandmother, I will say to my grandchildren, all standing round and listening to every word I say--I will say, 'Grandchildren, I well remember the day thy dear uncle--that is thou, Jonas--and I dug this'--Oh! Oh!" And Naomi screamed aloud and jumped to her feet.

Something cold and wet had been placed against the back of her neck, and little shivers were running over her as she turned and saw her brother Ezra behind her, smiling at her fright. In his arms he held a small white lamb, and it was this little animal's nose that had been pressed to Naomi's neck, and that had brought her day-dreaming to such an abrupt close.

"Wilt thou not tell the grandchildren anything about their dear Uncle Ezra?" inquired Ezra with a comical look. "Who sharpened those sticks for thee, I would fain know, and thou didst not even tell me what use they were for. How dost thou think the grandchildren would like to hear that?"

"How unkind thou art to listen and then laugh at me," said Naomi, putting out her under lip. "I would have told thee, Ezra, about the well only it was a secret. Do not tell Mother, wilt thou? I would fain surprise her. Promise thou wilt not tell, Ezra! Promise!" And Naomi laid an imploring hand upon her brother's arm.

Ezra's only answer was to laugh and shake his head. Though he had no intention of telling, he wanted to tease Naomi a little before making any promises. He was fond of his little sister, and was far more gentle and kindly than many another brother would have been in those days in old Palestine.

For in the Jewish family, girls were not valued so highly as boys, and were made to feel their unimportance in many ways that would be highly displeasing to little sisters of to-day. Girls were taught to wait upon their brothers and to treat them with respect. It was impressed upon them that the duty of a girl was to be useful and modest and quiet, and that her chief pleasure should lie in making home happy and comfortable for her father and brothers.

But in the household of Samuel the weaver, Naomi's lot had not been quite that of the ordinary Jewish girl. Her father was proud of his bright, lovable little daughter and had made her his special pet. Her mother, who had been well taught by her own mother, a "wise woman" of her day, was careful that Naomi seldom missed the daily lesson that kept the little girl, to her great delight, only a short way behind Ezra on the hard road of knowledge.

So Ezra, though he felt his superiority as a boy and the first-born of his family, could not long resist Naomi's pleading glance nor the pressure of her little brown hand.

"What wilt thou give me if I do not tell?" asked Ezra, not wishing to seem to relent too quickly.

"The first bright shekel I find in the highway," answered Naomi saucily.

She was smiling now, and her hand was gently stroking the little lamb's nose.

"What lamb is this, Ezra?" she asked. "And why hast thou brought it home? It seems sleepy, poor little creature. Look, its eyes are half shut."