his three hundred and sixty-five years were passed as the single day of the
Ephemera. On the morning of Christmas-day, when the sun rose, the storm
had ceased. From all the churches sounded the festive bells, and from every
hearth, even of the smallest hut, rose the smoke into the blue sky, like the
smoke from the festive thank-offerings on the Druids’ altars. The sea
gradually became calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood the
tempest during the night, all the flags were displayed, as a token of joy and
festivity. “The tree is down! The old oak,-our landmark on the coast!”
exclaimed the sailors. “It must have fallen in the storm of last night. Who
can replace it? Alas! no one.” This was a funeral oration over the old tree;
short, but well-meant. There it lay stretched on the snow-covered shore, and
over it sounded the notes of a song from the ship-a song of Christmas joy,
and of the redemption of the soul of man, and of eternal life through
Christ’s atoning blood.
“Sing aloud on the happy morn,
All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;
With songs of joy let us loudly sing,
‘Hallelujahs to Christ our King.’”
Thus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the ship
felt his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer, even as the old
tree had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful dream on that Christmas morn.
