EDITOR! 
THE FEAST OF THE T T is one of the happy paradoxes 
OPEN DOOR A of this contrary old world that 
in our Christmas hospitality we 
celebrate an act of unparalleled inhospitality. Wide open we 
fling our doors and bid the stranger welcome, as though to make 
reparation for the night when all doors save those of a stable 
were closed against a Stranger. We would make all children 
happy on Christmas Day, because of a Child unhappily received 
ages ago. What dumb cattle saw, what face lowly shepherds 
gazed upon, we strive to trace out in the faces of those who come 
to us at Christmas time. Sophisticated are we, hardened to senti¬ 
ment and schooled to logic, yet who of us would close his door on 
Christmas Day lest mayhap he shut out someone bearing good 
tidings of great joy? 
One likes to think that the inhospitality was perhaps not so 
wretched ; that things were made a mite less uncomfortable in that 
stable that night. Perchance a thoughtful one smoothed down 
the straw in the manger and covered it with a cloth so all would 
be soft and sweet. Perchance a shepherd hung his cloak over the 
doorway, that no unruly draft come in. 
And there must have been — this in all reverence — a striking 
contrast between the lowliness of the scene and the kingliness of 
the Wisemen’s gifts. Gold, the unbelieving eye would see, and 
frankincense and myrrh; though from their sight would be with- 
holden the symbolism. 
Readily could the pen run on to tell of other possible contrasts 
and contradictions then, of contrasts to-day and contradictions. 
This alone remains for us to know, however: that those gifts and 
ours were, and are, more than their substance, and that the 
greatest gift of all is hospitality. We keep at Christmas time the 
Feast of the Open Door. 
Hospitality is difficult to define. In each corner of the world 
it bears a different aspect. By the New Englander it is expressed 
in one fashion; by the Westener, another; by the Southerner, still 
another. What is hospitality on the desert is foolish recklessness 
in the home; what in the home, scant welcome on the desert. 
Because of those varied interpretations we can nevei make a 
general ruling for it, save to say that it is an intangible thing mani¬ 
fested mostly along tangible lines. It is a thing so tangible as to 
do with mundane matters, like chairs and doorways and cushions; 
a thing so intangible as to hide behind a smile. 
In their endeavor to make each room express its proper indi¬ 
viduality, decorators have endowed certain tasks to certain parts 
of the house. Thus the hallway must lend an air of welcome, 
and with studied effort are dark hallways made light and little 
ones large. The guest room must bring the boon of comfort to 
the tired stranger and the cheer of one's best possessions. 
The development of this expression of hospitality has had a 
devious climb up to its present-day perfection. It has grown 
with the spirit of democracy into a distinct part of the home life. 
There was the guest chair of the mediaeval household, a huge 
affair set near the hearth. There was, in the past century, the 
front parlor — discreetly shuttered and darkened — whose opening 
was the manifestation of great welcome on the part of the host. 
To-day the spirit of hospitality has grown to include the entire 
house. We have learned that the best way to entertain a friend 
is not to entertain him at all, but to throw open the entire estab¬ 
lishment to him. Let him browse among our books if he will; let 
him wander in our garden; above all things, let him not feel that 
only the guest room has been reserved for him. 
Hospitality of such generous proportions is a far cry from the 
day when primitive man offered the stranger his best bear-skin 
rug in his hut. What was once offered a king is now offered an 
ordinary mortal. It would seem that the world can’t quite for¬ 
get that once it let a King sleep in a stable. 
Another thing have we learned about hospitality-—that its high¬ 
est aspect is attained only when the labor and the joy, the thought¬ 
fulness and the unselfishness, are shared alike by him who wel¬ 
comes and him who is welcomed. 
We cannot gainsay it, there are guests whose coming is im¬ 
portune and often unwelcome. But if the call is unsuccessful for 
the host, how much less successful is it for the caller? No, it 
still remains true that, welcome or unwelcome, the act of hospi¬ 
tality is a thing shared, a giving and a taking. Reams have been 
written on what the host should do; what devices he should use 
to give the aspect of hospitality and cheer to his home. And 
somehow the conception has gone abroad that all the stranger 
must do is to accept what is offered him. Perhaps it was part of 
the wisdom of the Wisemen that they brought gifts. Surely it is 
the wisdom of the guest that he also bring gifts. 
Princely gifts are there to bring as a guest. Silent apprecia¬ 
tion is one. Let us as guests ever feel more than we say; ever 
understand and appreciate more than we voice. For it is one of 
the singular returns of silence that it gives us greater apprecia¬ 
tion and understanding — and that it is the basis of true friendship, 
whereon hospitality is founded. 
Acceptance we can bring. And by this is meant more than the 
acceptance of things as they are — the pleasant surprises that inti¬ 
macy will vouchsafe. We must accept the atmosphere of that 
place and make it ours for the time we are there. Being a guest 
constitutes the act of looking through another person’s eyes, and 
one of its finest returns is the ability to see life — the life of home, 
its burdens and its happy tasks — from another angle. Before we 
can attain this we must be mentally malleable to our hosts. The 
inscrutable guest is a contradiction in terms. 
And joy, too, we can bring — the joy that springs from little 
things; from such things as the host may have long since forgot¬ 
ten or tired of. To find a book, to catch a glimpse that has be¬ 
come familiar to the host; to see a little trait and to be happy for 
it; such a gift of joy makes almost divine merriment in a house¬ 
hold. 
Each of these gifts brings its own reward, but the greatest of all 
rewards for the guest is the ability to depart. By such is not 
meant to depart in the manner society terms “gracefully,” but to 
depart knowing that ever afterward that door is open unto you. 
For the secret of doors is that they never were intended to be 
closed at all; their being shut is but an incident in their careers. 
They were made to pass through; they were made to look 
through. Perhaps the latter is also true of the window, but the 
vista through a doorway and the vista through a window differ 
radically. The one frames a vision that is to be beheld ; the other, 
one to be attained. The window shows no way for the feet to 
tread. You see the far horizon, but the beginning of the journey 
thither is hidden. Through a door you see both the horizon and 
the path that leads to it. If one be outside the house there is 
also a radical difference between the door and the window. To 
look in at a window and see the cheer and light rarely aiouses 
more than a feeling of curiosity. You pass on your way. To 
look in through an open door is almost an invitation to enter. 
You feel impelled to go in. 
Here is a saying of Rabiah — a quaint touch of mysticism. A 
man who was beside himself cried out: “O, God! Open a door 
through which I may come to Thee!” Rabiah happened^ to be 
sitting near, and said: ‘Thoughtless one, is the dooi shut? 
