A Christmas Gift to the American Home and the Youth of America. N. P. Gravengaard

THE present volume is a translation from the Danish language of one of Rev. Mr. Gravengaard's books which in its original form has attained a success among Danes in the United States and Americans of Danish descent which is quite unprecedented in the annals of Danish immigrant literature, secular and religious. The book has passed through two large editions and has even found wide reading in far-off Denmark.

The work of rendering this volume into English has been a source of unlimited joy because of the clarity of the author's message; the form in which he has clothed his thoughts, and the immediate humanistic touch evident from beginning to end. It is the hope of the translator that an equal measure of satisfaction and delight may accrue to the public who now for the first time may enjoy the opportunity of becoming familiar with Mr. Gravengaard's writings in the language of the United States.

The Translator

1. The Christmas Angel's: Dost thou remember?

I WAS sitting in my study. Darkness was gathering, and it was Christmas Eve. Then it was as though a kind and soothing voice whispered into my ear: Dost thou remember Christmas Eve at home?

Do I?—Indeed, I remember it as it were but yesterday. I remember so plainly how we, all finely dressed, gathered at the long table. There father was sitting at one end reading aloud from the old hymn book while we all listened, our hands folded.

At the other end of the table grandmother was sitting, and I next to her, for I was "Grandma's boy." The old brass spectacles were sitting astride the very tip of her nose so that I could not quite grasp whether she peered through them or merely glanced above them.

When father had finished reading, grandmother spoke up—she wanted us to sing now this Christmas carol, now that; she had sung on Christmas Eve for so many, many years that she could lead us in singing them. Her voice—well, it was old, for she was past eighty, but if you say it wasn't fine, then you surely are no good as a judge of grandmother's voice.

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Mother—do I remember her? Indeed, I never forget her. Gentle and quiet she sat at the table, slightly pale, her cheeks somewhat haggard. Her mother-eye wandered from one to the other, resting on each of us with a wealth of love. It was a strange look that came from those eyes surrounded by dark edges—it was so filled with love and wistfulness.

Then came that Christmas when her chair stood vacant. O, yes, I remember her so plainly. It was quite near Christmas when she closed her eyes, and her last words to us were: "Follow Jesus!"

Yes, I remember it all, but—O, wait just a little—it was only that—if tonight you visit those dear ones at home, tell them then that I remember it all. And tell them that we also—despite the struggle for money and the increasing lack of veneration for ancient Christian festivals—tell them that we also celebrate Christmas both in our home and in the church.

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Thus I sent my Christmas greetings carried on the wings of the angel.

2. Room for Jesus (Luc. 2, 7)

"There was no room in the inn."

No, neither was there room in the golden regal halls in Jerusalem nor in the palace of the high priest. Therefore the angels—those heavenly messengers—came to neither the inn nor Jerusalem. It is not with the angels as with the invader's hordes in Belgium—they do not intrude

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