242 RURAL SOCIOLOGY 



hem, the transfigured Mother, the pondering Joseph, the dumb 

 brutes, the night, the stars, the shepherds keeping watch over 

 their flocks by night, the glory of the Lord, the heavenly hosts. 

 the miracle of miracles. Our impulse was toward the wonderful 

 reality. We did not approach the undertaking without trepida- 

 tion. With material so heterogeneous could we maintain the 

 solemnity of our subject, sacred in itself and wrapt round with 

 centuries of mystical beauty ? 



Our shepherds were boys from the farms; our angelic hosts 

 were made up of girls in their teens ; our wise men were, one a 

 Frenchman, one a Moor, and one a native of New England stock; 

 by trade they were a plumber, a day laborer and the village 

 storekeeper and postmaster ; the retinues of the Magi were school 

 boys as full of life and spirit and mischief as the average boy ; 

 Joseph was an Italian laborer, Mary a young Irish girl. The 

 only representative of the brute world was Laddie, our beautiful 

 collie, typical of the shepherd's calling. Laddie had had no 

 more dramatic training than the others, but his instinct proved 

 like theirs, perfect. When, a few months later, he died, he 

 was mourned far and wide as the ' ' dog that came with the shep- 

 herds to see the Babe in the manger. ' ' 



The event proved that faith in our people, however great, was 

 still less than their due. Nothing more beautiful came of our 

 miracle play than the devout spirit of our young actors. It 

 seemed to our Italian workman an astounding thing that he 

 should take the role of San Giuseppe but no art could have taught 

 him the profound gravity that he assumed. It came from 

 within, from the solemn realization of the verities. There is 

 sometimes in human nature a certain simplicity that responds 

 like the heart of a child to the elemental without. This quality 

 nurtured beyond any doubt by country life, has shown itself 

 more and more to be a characteristic of our people. 



When the curtain fell upon the last scene of our little drama 

 there was silence a silence of deep emotion. The lights came 

 on with an incongruous glare, thrusting us with a rude jolt 

 forward into the twentieth century. They disclosed an audience 

 unable to speak. The "Silent Night" melody that still filled 

 the air resolved itself again into words in an effort to make ar- 

 ticulate the spell that kept us dumb. Haydn, even in his great- 



