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Updated: August 20, 2024
It is a pleasure even to write that delicious possessive pronoun the pleasure of poor Alnascher, the crockery-seller, dreaming his day-dream in the eastern market-place. Can any one know better than I that I shall be no nearer Charlotte Halliday in Yorkshire than I am in London? No one. And yet I am glad my Sheldon's business takes me to the woods and wolds of that wide northern shire.
Because it was Christmas, and because it was freshest in his heart, he sang mostly what he and the blacksmith and the crockery-seller had sung in the castle yard: "The Light of Light Divine, True Brightness undefiled, He bears for us the shame of sin, A holy, spotless Child." They lay that night in a ruined barn with a roof of earth and stones.
Came into the courtyard at midnight the Christmas singers from the town; the blacksmith rolling a great bass, the crockery-seller who sang falsetto, and a fool of the village who had slept overnight in a manger on the holy eve a year before and had brought from it, not wit, but a voice from Heaven. A miracle of miracles. The men-at-arms in the courtyard stood back to give them space.
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