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# V Nk Jl * The Chronicle Btrires To Be A Clean News paper, Complete, Newsy and Reliable Qflt? (Hinton (Hjronirlf If Yoa Don’t Read " v The Chronicle You Don’t Get the News Volume LI 11 —i Clinton, S. C, Thursday, December 25, 1952 Number 52 * t •K THIS IS THE PROMISE By FAITH BALDWIN (In December 1952 Issue Christian Herald) December—any December—is un predictable. We do not know, in this and never ceased to marvel. In this season the rabbit and the New Hampshire climate, at least, it fax_ and the splender weasel sleep. The woodchuck which came to sit it will be fair or stormy v We cannot anticipate how much snow will tall. But this we do know—that the trees will be bare against the sky, black branch and trunk like a Chinese etching. Now, I miss the holly tree at the old place. It was planted, small, a friend’s gift to us, and it grew large enough to obstruct a view of the garden. By the time we realized this it was too big to* move. As we had only one holly we knew, of course, .that it would not have berries. De- under an apple tree all summer and turn an apple in his little black hands is also sleeping. It is the time for the hibernation of animals. But in the house it is time for the vast excitement, communicable without words, of the Christmas season. Even with the children grown and gone. You’d think that after nearly six ty Christmases I would weary of the little traditibnal home things, the trimmings, so to speak. If not weary, jaai-^ ^QUia aw nave oerries ^-[ at i east f ee l tho. k^n erigp hinted spite “this scientific Fact, berries if] against the“hard shape of sb many years. This is not so. I begin to grow fashioned term, “worldly.” I do not always look at life thrbugh rose- tinted glasses. I am aware of evil as well as of good. I have sometimes written of it. I have written grave stories and t gay stories. In many, I have tried to reflect the changing, superficial standards of my era,* the modes and manners—or lack of man ners—and have always had an ear for the casual conversation which goes 6n about me. But I did not dream that, because of this, any liv ing person would doubt my most treasured, prideful claim. I do not believe that I have ever tried to make evil attractive, nor have failed to indicate the tragedy of error and the bitter payment. And I’ve always tried fb incorporate the hard kernel of truth into the lightest meringue. I write, not very well, not nearly as well as I wish I oould. I write as I see and feel things. In this connection, I want to say that sometimes I write something which is a little better, than my ca pacity. This I know; I believe it is so because upon these very few oc casions I have given up struggling with the limited and recalcitrant mind and surrendered to the spirit. I don’t mean that this help is sus tained. If it were I could indeed be come a great writer. My limitations are such that I cannot hold the spirit fast for very long. Only here a serr- tence or there a clear word. It comes not from me but from elsewhere. I pray for it; and it is given to me. This is the spiritual assistance— ■and I say it in the deepest possible humility—which can come only from God. I believe it is inherent in everyone, writer, artist, teacher, and in those who are not engaged in the arts and professions. It is that which helps us to endure the unendurable, a period of grief, a period of strug gle and despair, and it gives to us the second strength we did not dream we possessed, after our own physical, mental and emotional stamina is utterly exhausted. Now the rain comes down harder. It is like drum beats and the wind blows, but I am lost in a dream of snow and stars. For the Christmas Star is a shining hope, a silver flame which cannot be quenched; not by sorrow or distrust; never by war or rumor of war. This is the month of stars—the month of the Promised Star, which will never fail us who seek it, who experience the healin’ light. Christmas is not happy for every one. There are those who are alone, who have been alone for a- long time/ and those recently left lonely. Thebe are those who suffer great pain, in their own persons, or feeling the knife turn in another’s wound. There are those who are disillusioned, who are in desperate straits, who are con fined, beaten, knowing injustice, knowing~^terrof by day and night.- There are miserable people all over the world and people who have lost everything they own—even hope. Yet, for them, too, the Star shines, if they but look for it. And so, God bless you, and for all a blessed Christmas-tide. did have and in abundance about the fifth year, and every year since. Just below the terrace it made a bright showing of shining green leaves and scarlet fruit which was much loved by the birds. And be cause we are no longer there, it is •not to say that the holly no longer bears inconspicuous white flowers in the summer, followed by the hard green berries which soon turn red. It still bears and grows for the adults and children in that house. Here we have planted alders, the black ones which also bear red ber ries. But this past summer afflicted them with a blight. But never mind, I say to myself, they will be all right again; they will recover. On the little pond, a skim of ice, and it will not be long before the mallards find it. They nest early—in Febru ary, I think. The pond is never froz en solid since it is brftokfed, and there is always a bubble of fresh- running water. Now the winter transient birds come. You may awaken any morning to a strange small chorus of them and see new diners at the feeders. excited in August; by September I am making lists; by October, I am knee-deep in Christmas prepara tions. This has nothing to do with the brutal fact that nowadays be cause of rushed printers I am asked to write my Christmas cards in June, or at the latest in July! All of the past Christmases, near ly thirty of them, which are between me and the children, are like a strong invisible chain, binding yet not im peding. In Ghicago, the eldest born will think of his childhood; and his wife recall her first Christmas un der his mother’s roof. In Nashville, the older daughter will fill the little stockings of two girl babies and re call her own stocking hung by our mantelpiece. Perhaps one of the twins will be jwith us, here. But wherever they are, they will remem ber. This is the gay and lighter face of two faces on a pure gold coin, is sol emn and thrilling. It is promise and hope—the hope of the world. It is the salvation and glory which has At the old place we rarely saw the purple finch—a few times in win— - e H^b.rcd—for—.nearly—two—thousand ter. Here we are a bit blase; we have them nesting all summer long "and singing fit to burst their throats. But I have not forgotten last year’s card inal on December twenty-first nor last year’s bluebird, sitting on top of a pheasant shelter eight days thereafter. This is a place of magic; from any window you may look out and see something strange and something familiar, both welcome. Last sum- years. I write, of course, before Christ mas, but I write myself into Christ mas. The rain I hear as I sit be neath the lamplight, is not rain but the soft purr of falling snow. The stars are this night obscured but I can see them, in this coming Decem ber. For December is a month of stars. Believe me, it is easy to project oneself into Christmas—on the gray- mer, I came quite close to a great i e st, saddest November day, in an blue heron; I could see him without binoculars. And closer still I crept to the smaller green heron. Both posed majestically at the pond. Now is the season of winter sun sets—the apple green, clear and cold, the great sweeping scarlets and gold, the dusky mauves and rose. I run from window to window, from the west panes where the light is like that of another world—and for all I know, may be—to the south and east; yes, even the north flushed and enchanting in the afterglow. No leaves obscure the colors. Straight down from heaven they pour through the naked branches, like oil upon the pond. They warm the snow; they look like tattered banners flying. Now and again on autumn and win ter nights we see the mysterious splendor of the northern lights. The first time I saw these .was during World War I on a country road in Long Island. I got out of the car and stood spellbound not knowing and afraid. In later years, I saw them often on the St. Lawrence river apple orchard, in the rose-white spring, or looking out on blazing Au gust skies. For Christmas is twelve months of the year. It is always with us—the promise, the hope, the salva tion, the wonder and the glory. Christ is born every day, in every month, in every year, in any heart which turns to Him in praise, in thanksgiving, and in love. Some time back a “Christian Her ald” reader, the wife of a clergyman now living in the south, wrote to me. She said, in effect, that she had read my stories and then read an article by me in “Christian Herald”, and she said to herself, "Why, I do be lieve she’s a Christian!” This simple statement startled and, for a moment, wounded me. It had never occurred to me that anyone would doubt this. Of course I have written a great many novels and stories, long and short, which I sup pose people would call, in an old- SUB8GTUBE TO THE CHftONICLJ "The Paper Everybody Reads” In extending our Chrtet-| mas Greeting, we trust | that the road of life ahead | will lead you to muchi health and happiness. i., ^ ^ ■ ^ Young’s Pharmacy *41* Old Reliable” ii JH igJJSNSS ... U-w. ; May tliis liappy Holiday Season bring to you and yours merry-making happiness and every full measure of contentment With all sincerity, your city officials wish for you a very Merry Christmas * and a Happy and Prosperous New Year. CITY of CUNTON JOE P. TERRY, Mayor W. B. OWENS. City Clerk St Treasurer BOARD OF ALDERMEN: MRS. ARTHVR HOW.ARD. Assistant Hash C. Ray, L. S. Reddeck, W. M. McMillan. H. L. Eichelberger. Woodrow L. Wilson. James Crain* AND ALL CITY EMPLOYKEES