I saw him moving among the throngs of men in populous Egypt, seeking everywhere for traces of the household that had come down from Bethlehem, and finding them under the spreading sycamore-trees of Heliopolis, and beneath the walls of the Roman fortress of New Babylon beside the Nile—traces so faint and dim that they vanished before him continually, as footprints on the hard river-sand glisten for a moment with moisture and then disappear.

  I saw him again at the foot of the pyramids, which lifted their sharp points into the intense saffron glow of the sunset sky, changeless monuments of the perishable glory and the imperishable hope of man. He looked up into the vast countenance of the crouching Sphinx, and vainly tried to read the meaning of the calm eyes and smiling mouth. Was it, indeed, the mockery of all effort and all aspiration, as Tigranes had said—the cruel jest of a riddle that has no answer, a search that never can succeed? Or was there a touch of pity and encouragement in that inscrutable smile—a promise that even the defeated should attain a victory, and the disappointed should discover a prize, and the ignorant should be made wise, and the blind should see, and the wandering should come into the haven at last?

  I saw him again in an obscure house of Alexandria, taking counsel with a Hebrew rabbi. The venerable man, bending over the rolls of parchment on which the prophecies of Israel were written, read aloud the pathetic words which foretold the sufferings of the promised Messiah—the despised and rejected of men, the man of sorrows and the acquaintance of grief.

  “And remember, my son,” said he, fixing his deep-set eyes upon the face of Artaban, “the King whom you are seeking is not to be found in a palace, nor among the rich and powerful. If the light of the world and the glory of Israel had been appointed to come with the greatness of earthly splendor, it must have appeared long ago. For no son of Abraham will ever again rival the power which Joseph had in the palaces of Egypt, or the magnificence of Solomon throned between the lions in Jerusalem. But the light for which the world is waiting is a new light, the glory that shall rise out of patient and triumphant suffering. And the kingdom which is to be established forever is a new kingdom, the royalty of perfect and unconquerable love.

  “I do not know how this shall come to pass, nor how the turbulent kings and peoples of earth shall be brought to acknowledge the Messiah and pay homage to Him. But this I know. Those who seek Him will do well to look among the poor and the lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed.”

  So I saw the Other Wise Man again and again, traveling from place to place, and searching among the people of the dispersion, with whom the little family from Bethlehem might, perhaps, have found a refuge. He passed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land and the poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities where the sick were languishing in the bitter companionship of helpless misery. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in the gloom of subterranean prisons, and the crowded wretchedness of slave-markets, and the weary toil of galley-ships. In all this populous and intricate world of anguish, though he found none to worship, he found many to help. He fed the hungry, and clothed the naked, and healed the sick, and comforted the captive; and his years went by more swiftly than the weaver's shuttle that flashes back and forth through the loom while the web grows and the invisible pattern is completed.

  It seemed almost as if he had forgotten his quest. But once I saw him for a moment as he stood alone at sunrise, waiting at the gate of a Roman prison. He had taken from a secret resting-place in his bosom the pearl, the last of his jewels. As he looked at it, a mellower lustre, a soft and iri-descent light, full of shifting gleams of azure and rose, trembled upon its surface. It seemed to have absorbed some reflection of the colors of the lost sapphire and ruby. So the profound, secret purpose of a noble life draws into itself the memories of past joy and past sorrow. All that has helped it, all that has hindered it, is transfused by a subtle magic into its very essence. It becomes more luminous and precious the longer it is carried close to the warmth of the beating heart.

  Then, at last, while I was thinking of this pearl, and of its meaning. I heard the end of the story of the Other Wise Man.

  A PEARL OF GREAT PRICE

  Three-and-thirty years of the life of Artaban had passed away, and he was still a pilgrim, and a seeker after light. His hair, once darker than the cliffs of Zagros, was now white as the wintry snow that covered them. His eyes, that once flashed like flames of fire, were dull as embers smouldering among the ashes.

  Worn and weary and ready to die, but still looking for the King, he had come for the last time to Jerusalem. He had often visited the holy city before, and had searched through all its lanes and crowded hovels and black prisons without finding any trace of the family of Nazarenes who had fled from Bethlehem long ago. But now it seemed as if he must make one more effort, and something whispered in his heart that, at last, he might succeed.

  It was the season of the Passover. The city was thronged with strangers. The children of Israel, scattered in far lands all over the world, had returned to the Temple for the great feast, and there had been a confusion of tongues in the narrow streets for many days.

  But on this day there was a singular agitation visible in the multitude. The sky was veiled with a portentous gloom, and currents of excitement seemed to flash through the crowd like the thrill which shakes the forest on the eve of a storm. A secret tide was sweeping them all one way. The clatter of sandals, and the soft, thick sound of thousands of bare feet shuffling over the stones, flowed unceasingly along the street that leads to the Damascus gate.

  Artaban joined company with a group of people from his own country, Parthian Jews who had come up to keep the Passover, and inquired of them the cause of the tumult, and where they were going.

  “We are going,” they answered, “to the place called Golgotha, outside the city walls, where there is to be an execution. Have you not heard what has happened? Two famous robbers are to be crucified, and with them another, called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works among the people, so that they love him greatly. But the priests and elders have said that he must die, because he gave himself out to be the Son of God. And Pilate has sent him to the cross because he said that he was the ‘King of the Jews.'”

  How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban! They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came to him darkly and mysteriously like a message of despair. The King had arisen, but He had been denied and cast out. He was about to perish. Perhaps He was already dying. Could it be the same who had been born in Bethlehem thirty-three years ago, at whose birth the star had appeared in heaven, and of whose coming the prophets had spoken?

  Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that troubled, doubtful apprehension which is the excitement of old age. But he said within himself: “The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it may be that I shall find the King, at last, in the hands of His enemies, and shall come in time to offer my pearl for his ransom before He dies.”

  So the old man followed the multitude with slow and painful steps toward the Damascus gate of the city. Just beyond the entrance of the guardhouse a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street, dragging a young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the Magian paused to look at her with compassion, she broke suddenly from the hands of her tormentors and threw herself at his feet, clasping him around the knees. She had seen his white cap and the winged circle on his breast.

  “Have pity on me,” she cried, “and save me, for the sake of the God of purity! I also am a daughter of the true religion which is taught by the Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I am seized for his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than death.”

  Artaban trembled.

  It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem—the conflict between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawn from his hand to the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the ultimate probation, the final and irrevocable choice.

  Was it his great opportunity or his last temptation? He could not tell. One thing only was clear in the darkness of his mind—it was inevitable. And does not the inevitable come from God?

  One thing only was sure to his divided heart— to rescue this helpless girl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the light of the soul?

  He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand of the slave.

  “This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which I kept for the King.”

  While he spoke the darkness of the sky thickened, and shuddering tremors ran through the earth, heaving convulsively like the breast of one who struggles with mighty grief.

  The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened and crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air. The soldiers fled in terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom he had ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium.

  What had he to fear? What had he to live for? He had given away the last remnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last hope of finding Him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But even in that thought, accepted and embraced, there was peace.

  It was not resignation. It was not submission. It was something more profound and searching. He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that he could, from day to day. He had been true to the light that had been given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had not found it, if a failure was all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best that was possible. He had not seen the revelation of “life everlasting, incorruptible and immortal.” But he knew that even if he could live his earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.

  One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through the ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck the old man on the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head resting on the young girl's shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound. As she bent over him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice through the twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a distance, in which the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned to see if someone had spoken from the window above them, but she saw no one.

  Then the old man's lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heard him say in the Parthian tongue:

  “Not so, my Lord: For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger, and took thee in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee? Three-and-thirty years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered to thee, my King.”

  He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it, very faintly and far away. But now it seemed as though she understood the words:

  “Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me.”

  A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like the first ray of dawn on a snowy mountain-peak. One long, last breath of relief exhaled gently from his lips.

  His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man had foundthe King.

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  Peter A. Danzig

  It was Christmas Eve and such a long, lonely time ago. As I look back upon it now, it seems more than just years, perhaps it was lifetimes. I was 19, an orphan, and had just dropped out of college. All my roommates had left several days before to spend the school's Christmas vacation at home. Alone then took on a dimension all its own.

  I wandered the streets for a while, feeling very sorry for myself. There was so little to do in a small college town during Christmas vacation, especially when one latches himself closed to the rest of the world.

  I knew a little black dog on a street near the center of town. When I was feeling depressed or lonely, I would seek his companionship. He would come rollicking about my feet while prying his way into my heart, sharing my sorrows as a friend who might help lighten a heavy burden. I needed a friend, and so I went there. We talked for some time. I, sitting in the snow; he, laughing with life's joys and hopes. By and by, having bared my soul and been bathed with affection, I took my leave and departed.

  There was a new storm coming. Huge snowflakes ornamented my lashes and tingled my nose. The sky seemed quilted with the sparkling drapes of night, silencing everything but the tinkling of the falling snow.

  I hated times like these. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to be surrounded with friends. I wanted to be loved. Oh, how I longed to be needed and wanted.

  As I passed tinsel-decorated windows, the loneliness of my trek grew deeper. Everyone seemed shuttered in a world I had not known for such a long, lonely time. Gifts were gaily wrapped and hidden. Final touches were made to tree ornamentation, and stockings were hung and filled. It seemed the spirit of Christmas was everywhere but in my heart.

  I was searching, as a falling leaf seeks the earth for a place of belonging, for someone to warm my soul with companionship. In desperation, I telephoned the switchboard operator at the university. Though we were total strangers, we shared a mutual comradery of loneliness that helped pass the time.

  I took to walking again. What a horrid thing it is to be lonely and worse yet—to fear it.

  As I approached the northern end of town, I ran into old acquaintances from when I worked at the school cafeteria. I have long forgotten their names, though I recall in fond memories the relief they supplied.

  We talked for a while about everything that came to mind. Then I was invited to their apartment for some refreshment. They, as poor as I was, shared oatmeal cookies and watered-down punch.

  I look back on it all now, and I wonder how I ever survived those days of irresponsibility and depression. I had dropped out of classes just a few weeks prior to the Christmas vacation. “Counseling” had suggested I needed to learn to cope with myself before I could adapt to school and become a successful student. “Why not get yourself a steady job and build a sense of self- reliance, respect, and self-worth?”

  I took their advice about leaving school—I quit. What few funds I had left I spent on flying lessons at the local airport. I have never regretted spending that money flying. Flying for me was a great therapy. It created a feeling of ecstasy, a euphoria I needed and had never before felt.

  By the time Christmas vacation came, I had been reduced to eating boiled potatoes, wild mushrooms, and dandelion greens. Fortunately for me, I had always loved mushrooms and had an abundant supply growing by a creek near campus.

  Coming home through the storm, I was chilled to the bone. The wind kicked flurries high through the air, like waves tumbling across the shore. As I approached the house, I cursed myself for not leaving a light on to chase away the gloom. That big house stood so awesome in the dark. Oh, what fears it sheltered when only I was there.

  I kicked the snow from my shoes. When I turned the bolt, the wind threw open the door as though we were racing one another to see who would be first inside.

  Even before I reached for a light, a dark object in the center of the room caught my eye. I was so startled by it that, forgetting all else, I moved to investigate. It was a very large box, and although the light was dim, I could make out it was a brightly wrapped package—the biggest I had ever seen. I tried to move the box with my foot but found it to be far too heavy. There was a card on top, but in the subdued light I was unable to read what it said. I went back to close the door and turn on the lights.

  My first impulse was to search the house. I just knew someone must be there witnessing my surprise. Not finding anyone, I returned to the package. The card said, “To Peter, from Santa.” Again I searched. I looked behind furniture and doors. No one! Next I drew the drapes to be certain no one could look in and closed the bedroom and kitchen doors. Only then, in the privacy of my solitude, did I dare to unwrap this gay intrusion, this welcome glimmer of hope, this Christmas gift to me.

  Could it be that someone really cared for me? Could someone have thought enough of me to want to share this Christmas?

  I unwrapped the package and found it contained bottled fruits and vegetables. There were also canned goods and various articles of clothing, including six pairs of socks. Inside the toe of each sock was a new, crisp one dollar bill. There were fruitcakes and candies and everything imaginable to make a wonderful Christmas present. But the two items I remember best were the ones placed there to say I was loved and this gift was especially for me—a toy airplane and a can of mushrooms.

  Even as my mind tried to discover who my benefactors were, my heart became so overfilled with emotion I could contain myself no longer. I ran from the room to kneel at the foot of my bed, where in great sobs I poured out my heart to my Father in Heaven.

  ROSES ARE RED

  Richard M. Siddoway

  Today is December 23. It is on this day each year that I do penance for an act I committed in 1947, when I was seven years old. I was in the third grade at Emerson School and had been blessed with a marvelous teacher named Miss Heacock. She was not much taller than I, and had dark red hair and smiling green eyes. I credit her with any love I have for classical music, because she spent part of every Thursday morning introducing us to the lives of the great composers and playing recordings of music by Beethoven, Brahms, Bach, and other great musicians. I loved school because of the influence of this wonderful woman.