All night the rain beat against my chamber window, and in the morning
the lower slopes of the mountain were white with new snow. Dark clouds
lay heavily on the Alpine peaks, the air was raw and chilly--still it
was Christmas. I was aroused at daybreak by the chiming of village
bells, and then a procession of choral singers went through the
streets, pausing under the window of each house, and singing Christmas
hymns. As they passed on, the children caught up the refrain, and
joining hands made the halls resound with their gleeful voices.
Before breakfast a huge bowl was passed around with a foaming drink,
not unlike egg-nog in appearance, but differing in taste materially.
"May your Christmas be a merry one," as it passed from lip to lip;
"and a profitable one," was always responded.
Church was open an hour earlier than on ordinary occasions, "so that
the people may have ample time for dinner," said the pastor. Religion
with these mountain worshippers was not a form. The birthday of the
blessed Redeemer was to them a reality. They believed that he was born
and that he died; and it was to commemorate his nativity that hymns
were sung and garlands wound. At an early hour they began to gather,
and before the time of service the house was closely packed. There
were no chains of evergreen, but small fir-trees were occasionally
placed. These were covered with garlands and crowns of bright-hued
flowers, giving a novel and striking appearance, as of some floral
temple or mosque, set in a great pavilion.
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