THE BEAST

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 76, Issue 303, 23 December 1933, Page 14

THE BEAST

(By Archdeacon J. R. Young, M.A.). It was drawing toward the evening of a hot summer’s day, and the old. plough-ox stood contentedly chewing his cud in the long shade of the olive trees. Near him, with her ridiculously thin little legs doubled up, lay an old she-ass, wagging her long hairy ears to drive away tho evening midges, and nibbling daintily and lazily at near-by blades of the straggling, dryish grass that grew 1 among the trees. “It’s strange,” mused the ox, “how a night U.ke that stays in your mind.’’ “Like what?” asked the ass languidly, with a deft ear-flick at a hard little beetle that came zooming round. “ That night of a winter, years ago,’ ’ ho answered. “Do you remember, Nedda, when the big caravan stable over yonder was so crowded with beasts from all over the country? One had hardly room to swing one’s tail.” “One had room enough,” murmured the ass, cheerfully, “if one swung one’a; back legs. Yes, I remember the time; and the stalls growing fuller and fuller until the whole town must have been choc-a-bloc, and even a few humans were glad to find shelter in the warmth of the stable.’’ “Yes,” said th© ox, shifting the weight of his heavy shoulders on his fore-feet, “the rugged carpenter from down Nazareth way, and the sweetfaced girl-wife of whom ho was taking such care. Do you remember how he patted down the sweet-smelling hillgrass hay for her in the long manger, because she seemed so tired?” “It must have been well on towards morning,” mused the ass, “for I seemed to have been dozing and drowsing for a long time among all the familiar sounds—the pull at the straw, and the shuffle of feet on the earthen floor; the occasional rattle and run of a halterchain over the manger-edge; the snarling groan of a camel—always unmannerly boasts. But I roused to the unaccustomed sound—the murmur of human voices and tho soft fall of hurrying excited feet; the dark forms of the hillshepherds, with a lantern or two and the glimpse of a crook. Then, by the light of a lantern held high, the sight of the child-mother, so white and tired and happy, and the tiny new-born baby all wrapped up in her arms. “But it was queer talk they had,” said the ox. “I could make nothing of it—of a bright shining light, and the Angels of God, and word of the Great One, a Saviour who should bring peace and goodwill. Do you remember how they all talked at once and turned to each other and said: “We have found it even so—a Babe lying in a manger?” “I remember very little of the words,” said the ass, “but the look on the face of the girl-mother stays with one—wide-eyed wonder as she held the little on© very close to her.” “And then,” the slow voice of the ox rambled on. “the shepherds went, keeping close together and still whispering excitedly, out into the cool of the night with their lanterns. But it can’t have been long—for I’d scarcely dozed off—- , before we had tho other visitors. Into my dreaming came the rhythmic pad and jingle of the stately caravan. Out through the doorway the world was bright. At first 1 thought the dawn had come, but it was too dear and white for daylight. I thought the moon had risen, but there was no moon. It was more like starlight, but much too bright. Then the curt order; the halt and the flarc of torches, throwing wild shadows; the startled snort from stall to stall, and the slow majestic procession of the kings—the sheen of purple and scarlet and orange robes; glitter of gold and twingling of groat jewels, like the kind lire in the eyes of an old sheep-dog; the waft of perfumes and incense and spices.” “Yes,” said the ass, “but I remember no words; just the look of quiet, slightly troubled wonder in tho shining eyes of the girl-mother; and yet an expression on her face of calm dignity as if, after all, there was nothing so

strange in the kings of tho earth bending the knee very reverently before this little handful of warm humanity she held.” Tho old ox stood, ruminating peacefully, swinging a slow tail at midges that buzzed round his flanks. Into the evening stillness came the crooning of the doves, and the sleepy twitter of a small bird in the olive trees. “I wonder,” he said, slowly, “into what sort of a man he grows. Born near the earth and the sun-dried grass, he should be one who understands. I see him as one who would care to ease tho yoke to the tired shoulders.” “And yet,” said the ass, “had I a colt and that colt’s colt grown for him to ride on, I would feel that my grandson carried a king—and such a King as tho world should kneel to.” Tho old ox looked at her thoughtfully round his shoulder in the gathering twilight. “There is wisdom,” he said profoundly, “sometimes even in the words of an ass.” And he was right.