THE COMING OF THE PRINCE

“Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!” said the wind, and it tore through
the streets of the city that Christmas eve, turning umbrellas inside
out, driving the snow in fitful gusts before it, creaking the rusty
signs and shutters, and playing every kind of rude prank it could
think of.

“How cold your breath is to-night!” said Barbara, with a shiver, as
she drew her tattered little shawl the closer around her benumbed
body.

“Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!” answered the wind; “but why are you
out in this storm? You should be at home by the warm fire.”

“I have no home,” said Barbara; and then she sighed bitterly, and
something like a tiny pearl came in the corner of one of her sad blue
eyes.

But the wind did not hear her answer, for it had hurried up the street
to throw a handful of snow in the face of an old man who was
struggling along with a huge basket of good things on each arm.

“Why are you not at the cathedral?” asked a snowflake, as it alighted
on Barbara’s shoulder. “I heard grand music, and saw beautiful lights
there as I floated down from the sky a moment ago.”

“What are they doing at the cathedral?” inquired Barbara.

“Why, haven’t you heard?” exclaimed the snowflake. “I supposed
everybody knew that the prince was coming to-morrow.”

“Surely enough; this is Christmas eve,” said Barbara, “and the prince
will come to-morrow.”

Barbara remembered that her mother had told her about the prince, how
beautiful and good and kind and gentle he was, and how he loved the
little children; but her mother was dead now, and there was none to
tell Barbara of the prince and his coming,—none but the little
snowflake.

“I should like to see the prince,” said Barbara, “for I have heard he
was very beautiful and good.”

“That he is,” said the snowflake. “I have never seen him, but I heard
the pines and the firs singing about him as I floated over the forest
to-night.”

“Whirr-r-r! whirr-r-r!” cried the wind, returning boisterously to
where Barbara stood. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, little
snowflake! So come with me.”

And without any further ado, the wind seized upon the snowflake and
hurried it along the street and led it a merry dance through the icy
air of the winter night.

Barbara trudged on through the snow and looked in at the bright things
in the shop windows. The glitter of the lights and the sparkle of the
vast array of beautiful Christmas toys quite dazzled her. A strange
mingling of admiration, regret, and envy filled the poor little
creature’s heart.

“Much as I may yearn to have them, it cannot be,” she said to herself,
“yet I may feast my eyes upon them.”

“Go away from here!” said a harsh voice. “How can the rich people see
all my fine things if you stand before the window? Be off with you,
you miserable little beggar!”

It was the shopkeeper, and he gave Barbara a savage box on the ear
that sent her reeling into the deeper snowdrifts of the gutter.

Presently she came to a large house where there seemed to be much
mirth and festivity. The shutters were thrown open, and through the
windows Barbara could see a beautiful Christmas-tree in the centre of
a spacious room—a beautiful Christmas-tree ablaze with red and
green lights, and heavy with toys and stars and glass balls and other
beautiful things that children love. There was a merry throng around
the tree, and the children were smiling and gleeful, and all in that
house seemed content and happy. Barbara heard them singing, and their
song was about the prince who was to come on the morrow.

“This must be the house where the prince will stop,” thought Barbara.
“How I would like to see his face and hear his voice!—yet what would
he care for me, a ‘miserable little beggar’?”

So Barbara crept on through the storm, shivering and disconsolate, yet
thinking of the prince.

“Where are you going?” she asked of the wind as it overtook her.

“To the cathedral,” laughed the wind. “The great people are flocking
there, and I will have a merry time amongst them, ha, ha, ha!”

And with laughter the wind whirled away and chased the snow toward the
cathedral.

“It is there, then, that the prince will come,” thought Barbara. “It
is a beautiful place, and the people will pay him homage there.
Perhaps I shall see him if I go there.”

“This must be the house where the prince
will stop,”
thought Barbara.

So she went to the cathedral. Many folk were there in their richest
apparel, and the organ rolled out its grand music, and the people sang
wondrous songs, and the priests made eloquent prayers; and the music,
and the songs, and the prayers were all about the prince and his
expected coming. The throng that swept in and out of the great edifice
talked always of the prince, the prince, the prince, until Barbara
really loved him very much, for all the gentle words she heard the
people say of him.

“Please, can I go and sit inside?” inquired Barbara of the sexton.

“No!” said the sexton gruffly, for this was an important occasion with
the sexton, and he had no idea of wasting words on a beggar child.

“But I will be very good and quiet,” pleaded Barbara. “Please may I
not see the prince?”

“I have said no, and I mean it,” retorted the sexton. “What have you
for the prince, or what cares the prince for you? Out with you, and
don’t be blocking up the door-way!” So the sexton gave Barbara an
angry push, and the child fell half-way down the icy steps of the
cathedral. She began to cry. Some great people were entering the
cathedral at the time, and they laughed to see her falling.

“Have you seen the prince?” inquired a snowflake, alighting on
Barbara’s cheek. It was the same little snowflake that had clung to
her shawl an hour ago, when the wind came galloping along on his
boisterous search.

“Ah, no!” sighed Barbara in tears; “but what cares the prince for
me?”

“Do not speak so bitterly,” said the little snowflake. “Go to the
forest and you shall see him, for the prince always comes through the
forest to the city.”

Despite the cold, and her bruises, and her tears, Barbara smiled. In
the forest she could behold the prince coming on his way; and he would
not see her, for she would hide among the trees and vines.

“Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!” It was the mischievous, romping wind once
more; and it fluttered Barbara’s tattered shawl, and set her hair to
streaming in every direction, and swept the snowflake from her cheek
and sent it spinning through the air.

Barbara trudged toward the forest. When she came to the city gate the
watchman stopped her, and held his big lantern in her face, and asked
her who she was and where she was going.

“I am Barbara, and I am going into the forest,” said she boldly.

“Into the forest?” cried the watchman, “and in this storm? No, child;
you will perish!”

“But I am going to see the prince,” said Barbara. “They will not let
me watch for him in the church, nor in any of their pleasant homes, so
I am going into the forest.”

The watchman smiled sadly. He was a kindly man; he thought of his own
little girl at home.

“No, you must not go to the forest,” said he, “for you would perish
with the cold.”

But Barbara would not stay. She avoided the watchman’s grasp and ran
as fast as ever she could through the city gate.

“Come back, come back!” cried the watchman; “you will perish in the
forest!”

But Barbara would not heed his cry. The falling snow did not stay her,
nor did the cutting blast. She thought only of the prince, and she ran
straightway to the forest.

II

“What do you see up there, O pine-tree?” asked a little vine in the
forest. “You lift your head among the clouds to-night, and you tremble
strangely as if you saw wondrous sights.”

“I see only the distant hill-tops and the dark clouds,” answered the
pine-tree. “And the wind sings of the snow-king to-night; to all my
questionings he says, ‘Snow, snow, snow,’ till I am wearied with his
refrain.”

“But the prince will surely come to-morrow?” inquired the tiny
snowdrop that nestled close to the vine.

“Oh, yes,” said the vine. “I heard the country folks talking about it
as they went through the forest to-day, and they said that the prince
would surely come on the morrow.”

“What are you little folks down there talking about?” asked the
pine-tree.

“We are talking about the prince,” said the vine.

“Yes, he is to come on the morrow,” said the pine-tree, “but not until
the day dawns, and it is still all dark in the east.”

“Yes,” said the fir-tree, “the east is black, and only the wind and
the snow issue from it.”

“Keep your head out of my way!” cried the pine-tree to the fir; “with
your constant bobbing around I can hardly see at all.”

“Take that for your bad manners,” retorted the fir, slapping the
pine-tree savagely with one of her longest branches.

The pine-tree would put up with no such treatment, so he hurled his
largest cone at the fir; and for a moment or two it looked as if there
were going to be a serious commotion in the forest.

“Hush!” cried the vine in a startled tone; “there is some one coming
through the forest.”

The pine-tree and the fir stopped quarrelling, and the snowdrop
nestled closer to the vine, while the vine hugged the pine-tree very
tightly. All were greatly alarmed.

“Nonsense!” said the pine-tree, in a tone of assumed bravery. “No one
would venture into the forest at such an hour.”

“Indeed! and why not?” cried a child’s voice. “Will you not let me
watch with you for the coming of the prince?”

“Will you not chop me down?” inquired the pine-tree gruffly.

“Will you not tear me from my tree?” asked the vine.

“Will you not pluck my blossoms?” plaintively piped the snowdrop.

“No, of course not,” said Barbara; “I have come only to watch with you
for the prince.”

Then Barbara told them who she was, and how cruelly she had been
treated in the city, and how she longed to see the prince, who was to
come on the morrow. And as she talked, the forest and all therein felt
a great compassion for her.

“Lie at my feet,” said the pine-tree, “and I will protect you.”

“Nestle close to me, and I will chafe your temples and body and limbs
till they are warm,” said the vine.

“Let me rest upon your cheek, and I will sing you my little songs,”
said the snowdrop.

And Barbara felt very grateful for all these homely kindnesses. She
rested in the velvety snow at the foot of the pine-tree, and the vine
chafed her body and limbs, and the little flower sang sweet songs to
her.

“Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!” There was that noisy wind again, but this time
it was gentler than it had been in the city.

“Here you are, my little Barbara,” said the wind, in kindly tones. “I
have brought you the little snowflake. I am glad you came away from
the city, for the people are proud and haughty there; oh, but I will
have my fun with them!”

Then, having dropped the little snowflake on Barbara’s cheek, the wind
whisked off to the city again. And we can imagine that it played rare
pranks with the proud, haughty folk on its return; for the wind, as
you know, is no respecter of persons.

“Dear Barbara,” said the snowflake, “I will watch with thee for the
coming of the prince.”

And Barbara was glad, for she loved the little snowflake, that was so
pure and innocent and gentle.

“Tell us, O pine-tree,” cried the vine, “what do you see in the east?
Has the prince yet entered the forest?”

“The east is full of black clouds,” said the pine-tree, “and the winds
that hurry to the hill-tops sing of the snow.”

“But the city is full of brightness,” said the fir. “I can see the
lights in the cathedral, and I can hear wondrous music about the
prince and his coming.”

“Yes, they are singing of the prince in the cathedral,” said Barbara
sadly.

“But we shall see him first,” whispered the vine reassuringly.

“Yes, the prince will come through the forest,” said the little
snowdrop gleefully.

“Fear not, dear Barbara, we shall behold the prince in all his glory,”
cried the snowflake.

Then all at once there was a strange hub-bub in the forest; for it
was midnight, and the spirits came from their hiding-places to prowl
about and to disport themselves. Barbara beheld them all in great
wonder and trepidation, for she had never before seen the spirits of
the forest, although she had often heard of them. It was a marvellous
sight.

So Barbara fell asleep.

“Fear nothing,” whispered the vine to Barbara,—”fear nothing, for
they dare not touch you.”

The antics of the wood-spirits continued but an hour; for then a cock
crowed, and immediately thereat, with a wondrous scurrying, the elves
and the gnomes and the other grotesque spirits sought their
abiding-places in the caves and in the hollow trunks and under the
loose bark of the trees. And then it was very quiet once more in the
forest.

“It is very cold,” said Barbara. “My hands and feet are like ice.”

Then the pine-tree and the fir shook down the snow from their broad
boughs, and the snow fell upon Barbara and covered her like a white
mantle.

“You will be warm now,” said the vine, kissing Barbara’s forehead. And
Barbara smiled.

Then the snowdrop sang a lullaby about the moss that loved the violet.
And Barbara said, “I am going to sleep; will you wake me when the
prince comes through the forest?”

And they said they would. So Barbara fell asleep.

III

“The bells in the city are ringing merrily,” said the fir, “and the
music in the cathedral is louder and more beautiful than before. Can
it be that the prince has already come into the city?”

“No,” cried the pine-tree, “look to the east and see the Christmas day
a-dawning! The prince is coming, and his pathway is through the
forest!”

The storm had ceased. Snow lay upon all the earth. The hills, the
forest, the city, and the meadows were white with the robe the
storm-king had thrown over them. Content with his wondrous work, the
storm-king himself had fled to his far Northern home before the dawn
of the Christmas day. Everything was bright and sparkling and
beautiful. And most beautiful was the great hymn of praise the forest
sang that Christmas morning,—the pine-trees and the firs and the
vines and the snow-flowers that sang of the prince and of his promised
coming.

“Wake up, little one,” cried the vine, “for the prince is coming!”

But Barbara slept; she did not hear the vine’s soft calling nor the
lofty music of the forest.

A little snow-bird flew down from the fir-tree’s bough and perched
upon the vine, and carolled in Barbara’s ear of the Christmas morning
and of the coming of the prince. But Barbara slept; she did not hear
the carol of the bird.

“Alas!” sighed the vine, “Barbara will not awaken, and the prince is
coming.”

Then the vine and the snowdrop wept, and the pine-tree and the fir
were very sad.

The prince came through the forest clad in royal raiment and wearing a
golden crown. Angels came with him, and the forest sang a great hymn
unto the prince, such a hymn as had never before been heard on earth.
The prince came to the sleeping child and smiled upon her and called
her by name.

“Barbara, my little one,” said the prince, “awaken, and come with me.”

Then Barbara opened her eyes and beheld the prince. And it seemed as
if a new life had come to her, for there was warmth in her body and a
flush upon her cheeks and a light in her eyes that were divine. And
she was clothed no longer in rags, but in white flowing raiment; and
upon the soft brown hair there was a crown like those which angels
wear. And as Barbara arose and went to the prince, the little
snowflake fell from her cheek upon her bosom, and forthwith became a
pearl more precious than all other jewels upon earth.

And the prince took Barbara in his arms and blessed her, and turning
round about, returned with the little child unto his home, while the
forest and the sky and the angels sang a wondrous song.

The city waited for the prince, but he did not come. None knew of the
glory of the forest that Christmas morning, nor of the new life that
came to little Barbara.

Come thou, dear Prince, oh, come to us this holy Christmas time! Come
to the busy marts of earth, the quiet homes, the noisy streets, the
humble lanes; come to us all, and with thy love touch every human
heart, that we may know that love, and in its blessed peace bear
charity to all mankind!

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