Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84Plough Quarterly • Winter 2017 67 Dyhema looked, and looked again. “Who are you, little boy, and how did you come in?” The Christ Child sat down on a chair, opposite Dyhema, near the fire. “I am the Christ Child.” “The Christ Child? So. What do you need?” “I only want to talk to you.” “There is nothing to talk about. I did everything a man can do. I gave five hundred guilders for the Christmas celebration in the church.” “I know,” said the Christ Child, “and two hundred and fifty guilders for the Sunday School celebration.” “Yes,” said the farmer again, “and five hundred guilders for the poor people in the village; and wherever there are sick people, I send my servants to bring them a parcel.” “I know it all,” said the Christ Child, and he sighed. “You are like a king on a throne who gives little presents to all his people. Yet how small these gifts are if you think of the thousands of guilders which you earned this year. And all these gifts were given, not out of love for others, but only out of love to yourself, so that you can sit here, content and satisfied with yourself. Oh, if you only knew the Christmas story!” “I know it. By heart. ‘In the days of the Emperor Augus­ tus . . . ’” “See, you are quite wrong!” “Wrong?” Farmer Dyhema took the Bible which was lying near him. “See, here it is. ‘In the days of the Emperor Augustus . . . ’” “Wrong! I know the story. I am the Christ Child! It was not long, long ago, in the days of Augustus. It happens ­ every year anew. Somewhere every year a child is born, poor and without clothes, waiting to be helped, by you. Sometimes it is a sick child, or a poor man, or a poor woman, waiting to be helped, by you. That is the Christmas story.” “I know that I am a sinner before God,” said Dyhema. “Everyone is a sinner before God. But as far as I was able I did what I could. I cannot give all my money away, or anything like that. That is just nonsense.” “I do not ask only for money. I ask for much more than money. I ask for love! You said that you did everything you could? What about your daughter?” The old farmer stood up angrily. “My daughter is dead. She is dead for me! If you were really the Christ Child you would know that ten years ago she married against my will. She married an artist, a musician, against my will. Children should obey their parents. No, do not speak about her.” “She is poor. She has a son.”