Christmas Eve

Photograph by Epirot

The child Stella lived at Weekaborough Farm in Devon in the early 19th century, her beloved companion the dog Hodge. One Christmas Eve, she fell asleep in the stable, dreamed and then woke:

She was back in the stable again … Outside in the yard the cock was still crowing. It must be midnight! Her heart beat fast. That strange false dawn that comes about two or three in the morning, when the cocks crow and the animals stir and wake, and look about them and sleep again, for no reason of which a mere man is aware, comes early on Christmas night. Then it is at midnight that the cocks crow and the animals wake, and a legend that is alive in nearly every country of the world says that they kneel and pray.

“While all things were in quiet silence, and night was in the midst of her swift course, Thine Almighty Word leaped down from heaven out of Thy royal throne.” She looked about her. Hodge and Daniel and the cats were lying still, but they were all awake and their eyes in the lantern light were uncommonly bright. She could not see the oxen and the horses, but she was intensely aware of their wakefulness. All her short life, since she had been told of the Christmas night legend, she had longed to be in the stable at midnight and see if it was really true that the animals kneeled down, but Mother Sprigg had always seen to it that she should be in her bed at that time. And now here she was. The first stroke of midnight sounded very faintly floating through the still night from the church over the hill, and she covered her face with her hands. She listened to the twelve strokes of the bell and the beating of her heart seemed to keep time to their rhythm. Then the church bells began to ring and it was Christmas Day. She took her hands from her face and met the bright gaze of Hodge. His mouth was open and he seemed to be laughing at her. She looked round and all the animals seemed to be laughing at her, not in ridicule, but with a kindly tolerant tenderness. Well, they seemed to be saying, you were here but you kept your face covered, and you don’t know now whether we kneeled down. I had to, she said, for it was your hour and I had no right to be here.

From Gentian Hill by Elizabeth Goudge