To H. C. Bunner 
651 
I was sent to the Oak as your daysman, to 
set you at one with Emmanuel, and to turn 
your awful Yuletide into Christmas.” 
“ Christmas—what is Christmas ? ” asked 
Dunwallo. 
“ Christmas is redeemed childhood,” an¬ 
swered the white-haired Caradoc. “ It was 
the unknown touch of Christmas in my 
heart that set you free from Taranis a score 
of years ago”—and he told them the story 
of the manger. 
“Christmas is redeemed motherhood,” 
the wise old evangelist went on, thinking of 
the pitiful Myfanwy; and he pictured to 
their minds the Virgin Mother. 
“ Christmas is a redeemed world,” the 
king continued; “and chiefly it is the re¬ 
demption of our joy. It turns our ugliness 
to beauty, our slavery into sonship, and all 
our outward sorrow to an innermost de¬ 
light. It takes the whole wide world and 
makes it new again, with a gift like the 
ministry of snow. There was that in your 
old religion, faithful Coran, which it will 
possess and transform. A Father takes the 
place of Taranis, and Christ shall become 
your Druid. There is never a truth or 
beauty in the world but Christmas will wel¬ 
come them and mould them to itself with 
fragrant freshness. So the coming centu¬ 
ries will cherish the sacrament of sacrifice, 
though Christmas altars shall never feel the 
stain of blood. Even your Oak”—and he 
waved his hand lovingly upward—“will 
surrender his sacred All-Heal, and the Yule 
log will bum in the chimney, and the green¬ 
ery of forest gods will wave—not as signs 
of dark and helpless fear, but to bid the 
cheerful world a merry Christmas.” 
And he told them how the trembling 
shepherds heard the first Christmas words, 
“Fear not!” 
Coran was sobbing like a child whose 
breast has been eased by the mother. The 
four burly Britons let the salt tears roll 
down their swarthy faces, unabashed. A 
light shone in the eyes of Dunwallo. 
“Listen!” whispered Caradoc: 
“Hear ye not the sounds of heavenly 
music?” 
But it was only the wind in the woven 
harp of the boughs of the ancient oak tree, 
with a soft shy promise of snow. Six men 
shouldered heavy burdens, Caradoc taking 
that of Coran. The seven stole together 
down the hill-side to their huts, through the 
first falling flakes of Christmas weather. 
In the morning all the world was wintry 
white, and the dread of threatened plagues 
had passed away. The White Christ had 
come with Caradoc to Britain—Who covers 
the sins of the world. 
TO H. C. BUNNER 
By Robert Louis Stevenson 
You know the way to Arcady 
Where I was born; 
You have been there, and fain 
Would there return. 
Some that go thither bring with them 
Red rose or jewelled diadem 
As secrets of the secret king: 
I, only what a child would bring. 
Yet I do think my song is true; 
For this is how the children do: 
This is the tune to which they go 
In sunny pastures high and low; 
The treble pipes not otherwise 
Sing daily under sunny skies 
In Arcady the dear; 
And you who have been there before, 
And love that country evermore, 
May not disdain to hear. 
*** This poem, written about 1887, is now first published, by the permission of Mr. Bunner 
of Mrs. Stevenson. 
r’s family with the approval 
