Glass High School - Crest Yearbook (Lynchburg, VA)

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THE' ORITIC' 155 Just four short years you were with me, yet thy little Bngers twined in my very heart strings and then-thou too! She started, Who's there Z she called. It is I! Let me in, my good Woman. I would talk with thee! Ah, this is better than the icy blasts of the night- What a joy a good ire is. I was frozen with the cold. Nay, nay, bother not to make a hot drink for me. But I would, M. le Cure, and there is no trouble. See I will have it done for thee in a minute. What would you talk with me about Z s It is of that hate which is eating away the chance of see- ing le bon Dieu. that I would speak to thee of. Thou hast suf- fered one sorrow after another. Take heed! Take heed! My good woman, thou hast seen the devastation wrought by ces Briches, the 'blond beasts'. That was hate. Listen, soften thy heart, root out that hate. Hate is not good-our Lord said, 'Love thy neighbor' ! . The iirelight tlickered, rose, and fell, a mellowing, soften- ing light, breeding confidences. Ah, M. le Cure, it was a great injury that she did to me. I can never, never forgive her that she stole the love of Thei- bant. Had it not been for her, I and not she would bear the name of Thfibant. But she must needs marry him, and, not satisfied with leaving me desolate, she must buy the farm that I have loved and longed to own since a little girl. She must live on it under my very nose, by her very presence to gloat over me. ' Noi, No! It is not so that to my husband's memory I owe her forgiveness. To him I owe nothing. When he mar- ried me he knew I loved another better and he did not com- plain. I was a good wife to him. I Washed his clothes, kept his house clean and cooked his food, and every day I helped him in the fields. With my aid he made a good living and

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154 THE CRITIO Beats on Qliartb JUDITH GREGORY The hard lines of the clean little hut were for a time rounded out by the rosy glow of the ire on the hearth. A little old peasant woman sat alone by the fire fondling a pair of tiny sabots. In flrelight there is a certain quality that recalls memories. The little old woman, with a habit common to the aged, murmured to herself from time to time. Ah, mon petit Jeannot, I love thee much, I love thee more than my son, thy father. Aye, I love thee more than life 5 gladly would I have laid down my own life hadst thou but lived. If I could weep-if I could but weep-I feel it would be easier to live, now that thou art gone-the last and dearest of my dear ones. It is Christmas Eve. and there is no little Jeannot to put hay in the sabots for the mulets du' Bon homme Noels, he will not come to this house tonight. Thou absent, Noel will bring me only sorrow. Thy father, mon brave Jean, ah, he was like a young tree, so tall, so straight, so strong! But she was a flower, thy little mother, how she drooped, la pauvre petite, when the cruel war carried him off! How she trembled when one even spoke of war! Sobs strangled the words. The tiny sabots were hugged close to the poor, thin chest. At last she swayed slowly back and forth and began to croon as if to a baby. When the cruel news came we thought that Ze bon Dieu had taken her to thy father in Paradise. But even a crushed Hower may live for a while. She lived long enough to lay thy tiny hand in mine.

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156 THE URITIC' laid aside a little for our old age. I nursed him through his long illness, and with his dying breath he blessed me. I owe him nothing! Ah, M. Ze Cure, it is no use. My husband through all his life could not prevail on me to forgive her. My son through all his life could not prevail on me. I hate with an everlast- ing hatred, and I will not, cannot, forgive. She rose and opened the door, he passed through and stood on the other side, his black robe and hat silhouetted 'against the snow. With raised cross he spoke. 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who tres- pass against us! My good woman, on this night we celebrate an event- the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, 'and the Lord gave His only Son that the sins of the world might be forgiven !' I will see thee at midnight mass! Peace be with thee ! But peace was not with her. She sat by the waning fire and her fingers plucked nervously at her apron. Often she said to herself, And the Lord gave His only Son that the sins of the world might be forgiven. At le messe de minuit she knelt at the church. Before her, in a manger, lay the image of the little Christ-child, Ze petit N 061, and in her ears rang the Words, And the Lord gave His only Son that the sins of the World might be forgiven. The Cure elevated. the host. The acolytes struck the bell. The bell to the old Woman intoned, Forgive-forgive. Half startled, she raised her head, and as her eyes rested on the Babe in the manger she saw, what she had not seen before, that the Babe was her little Jeannot. She gazed and marvelled. The choir sang, C'est pour nous tous qu'iZ n-wit, qufil souffre meurt. Peuple, debout! chante ia delivmncefi