Oh Bethlehem!

0 on Christmas morning last year our family left our
burned out Bethlehem for Egypt, singing “Lo How a
Rose Ere Blooming” together.

Haven’t i told you how it happened that we spent Christmas
Eve in the barn? Well, on December 20th, our farmhouse caught
fire from some bad wiring in due cellar, and by the time the fire-
fighters came from town, the whole inside of the house was pretty
much charred and melted.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Father, Mother, Paul, and
I went ollt to milk Milk Cow and feed the hogs and ewes and heif»
ers and the horse. when we chores were done, and we were stand-
ing in the bamyal'd looking across at the blank windows of the
house, Father got a shiny look in his eye.

“I think we’ll move into the barn loft for Christmas this year,
What do you say to that, Ruth?”

“Is that practical, now, Simon?" Mother gave it some thought,
and Visions of bothers danced in her head, I guess.

I thought of sleeping on the haystack and hearing the animals
stamping on the barn floorl ”Father let's do it. Let’s decorate
the barn with greens and candles!”

Paul dibsed the goosedown sleeping bag. And so we moved
into the loft that afternoon.

Father closed the gaping trap-window of the loft to keep out
the dry whipping wind, and ollr sparrows fidgeted and checked
under the rafters, not sure whether to stay in or fly out.

Mother commented, “I wouldn’t say this is a good idea;
but there really isn't room for us at the Inness’ place. And you
all have your hearts set on it,” She left to cook us a supper in
Mrs. Inness’ kitchen.

Paul was supposed to hunt in the tool shed for the long ex-
tension Cord for the Coil heater, but he dilly-dallied around, look
ing for his special hole in the hay, and stirring up alfalfa dust.

Houndie, our beagle, had gone mad with infectious excite-
ment, and yipped around in the stalls below, upsetting Milk Cow
and making the ewes panicky. Gilbert, our gelding. was down
there, too, but paid no attention

Father and l hoisted two sawhorses and two planks up the
ladder and made a long table in the empty side of the hay loft.
Quilts covered bales of hay for us to sit on. It was already getting
dark, and the one light bulb was at the other end Of the haystack.
Some grains of snow were shaking down in gusts outside, and a
few came in over the sills.

“Get the trouble light out of the tool shed — it should he on
the bench, and the gas lantern is hanging in there too. It’s too
bad the kerosene lamps burned in the attic.”

Father hugged my shoulders and grinned at me, making
creases on his wind-burned cheeks.

”Do you think your father is crazy to ask his beasts to take
in his family on Christmas Eve?”

“They won’t complain if you keep hay in their mangers.”

he?

Paul popped his head up through the floor, “Well, Father, if
you’re going to get all Bethlehemmy about it, we could ask
Mother to drop a baby in Gilbert's manger,”

Father cocked his head and laughed. “We’ll ask her about that
when she gets back. In the meantime, maybe I should work on
my taxes."

"Father,” i asked, “can I go over to inneas‘ and get some
candles for the table?”

He looked around at the dry hay and wooden walls. “Yes, i
guess so. I would like candles. it is right to have candles on
Christmas Eve. But we’ll all have to he really careful about
them This barn would burn in five minutes."

As I climbed down the ladder, I heard Father singing the

By Lynn Adams

Carol of the Beasts, “I, said the COW all white and red, I gave
Him my manger for a hed. 1 gave Him my hay to pillow his
head. I, said the cow, all White and red.”

Mother and I came back from the Inness’ place With a box
of juniper boughs from their shelterbelt, and candles of all shapes
and colors. Mother brought plum pudding, lamb roast, Pfeffernes-
sen, Liebkuckchen, and hot cider.

We covered the table with greens and meat and sugarplums.
I felt like dancing as I lit candles among the dishes, Father
took a tall taper over to the window sill and made drippings to
stand it in. The drafts made the Candles ﬂicker, and our sha-
dows danced.

Mother started Caroling, “Deck the hall with boughs," and
Paul purposely muddled up the Falalalala’s. The sheep bloated
peacefully in the intervals We ate well and happily in the gentle

light

A couple of hours later, as Momer and I picked up scraps and
Paul teased Houndie with a rock—hard Pfeffemessen, and Father
lay on the stack listening to the storm pick up momentum, a
violent howl of wind startled us, found every crack in the barn,
and shook it thoroughly. In the flickering of candles we didn’t
notice that the candle on the sill broke from its wax base and
fell down in the chaff.

In a moment, names trickled toward the hay and lapped
against the wall.

We all stood for a moment, fascinated, and then Father
whirled through the smoke and snatched at a quilt to beat down
the fire. The quilt was caught under the leg of the sawhorse lt
upset, throwing several more candles into the scattered hay.
Smoke was choking our eyes.

“Get down the ladder!“ Father shouted. “It‘s going to burn.
Go quickly but be careful.” His voice was suddenly as big as the
storm, and it had an enforced calm. “Paul, push the dog down
into a manger.”

I could see Mother‘s shadowy ﬁgure by the ladder.

She screamed. "Where are you, my daughter?"

“Here!”

”Get down! Get down!”

I groped for the ladder with my foot and rolled down to the
barn floor. Houndie scrambled out of a manger. The sheep made a
blanket of bleating, and I could feel Milk Cow and Gilbert
thrashing in panic. The barn door stuck for an eternal instant
as I pounded it with my shoulder.

i broke out into the billowing cavern of snowflakes. No one
else was there . . . no one else was there and an unsteady glare
came from above.

Then Mother and Paul and Houndie arrived beside me.

“Father! Get out!" Paul shrilled.

”Simon," Mother bellowed.

There was a great commotion of stamping and bumping,
and a mixed-up bundle of woolies, horse, and cow jumbled around
us. A sparrow flicked out and disappeared in the snowy air. The
fire creaked and whooshed.

Then as sedately as Joseph himself, Father walked out Of the
smoking barn door, carrying the gas lantern.

He set it down in the snow a few yards farther from the barn,
and he gathered us all under the arch of his arms, He coughed a
couple of times, and then rang out the first notes, as traditional
as he knew how to be.

“Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o'er the
plain.” Barefooted Paul threw snowballs into the collapsing lire.
we sang every carol we knew, while the barn burned down.

 

