Legend of the Christmas Pickle
When gold was found in Georgia, the government forgot its treaties and drove the Cherokees to Oklahoma. One fourth of them died on the journey west. But God, looking down from heaven, decided to commemorate the brave Cherokees and so, as the blood of the braves and the tears of the maidens dropped to the ground, he turned them into stone in the shape of a Cherokee Rose.
This is why they are so plentiful in Oklahoma, the end of the Trail of Tears.
The first kernel reminds us of the autumn beauty around us.
The second kernel reminds us of our love for each other.
The third kernel reminds us of God's love and care for us.
The fourth kernel reminds us of our friends-especially our Indian brothers.
The fifth kernel reminds us we are free people.
Mary and Jesus were leaving the city to hide from King Herod.They grew very tired so they stopped in a cave to rest. The soldiers came by but did not look into the cave because it was covered in cobwebs.That night as they slept a spider had covered the entrance to the cave to keep them safe. When Mary and Jesus awoke the cobwebs shimmered in the morning sun and they new God had kept them safe. So when you see Tinsel on a tree it symbolizes the spiders web that saved Mary and Jesus.
While the savage and bloodthirsty butchers of King Herod scoured the countryside around Bethlehem, cutting the throats of little children, Mary fled through the mountains of Judea, clutching her new-born tightly against her trembling heart. Seeing a village, Joseph ran ahead to ask for hospitality or even just a little water to bathe the little one. Alas, the nature of the people of this sad country was such that no one was prepared to offer anything, not water, shelter, not even a kind word.
Now while the poor mother was alone, seated by the side of the road nursing the child, her husband took the donkey to drink from a communal well. What did she hear but shouts getting closer as the ground shook under the hooves of approaching horses.
Herod's soldiers !
Where to hide ? Not the slightest cave nor the smallest palm tree was to be seen. The only thing close to Mary was a bush where a rose was beginning to bloom.
"Rose, beautiful rose, begged the poor mother, open out all your petals and hide this infant whom they want to kill and his half-dead mother."
The rose, wrinkling the pointed button which served as its nose, replied:
"Get on your way quickly, young woman, because the butchers could brush by me and blemish me. Go see the clove close by. Tell her to shelter you. She has enough flowers to conceal you."
"Clove, pretty clove, begged the fugitive, spread out so that your mass will hide this child condemned to death and his exhausted mother."
The clove shook the little heads of her flowers and refused without even explaining why:
"On your way, you poor wretch. I don't even have time to listen to you. I am too busy putting out blooms all over. Go see the sage plant close by. She has nothing better to do than dispense charity."
"Ah ! Sage, good sage, begged the unhappy woman, spread your leaves to hide this innocent whose life is in such danger and his mother who is half-dead with hunger, fatigue and fear."
The sage plant then blossomed so abundantly that it covered all the earth and its velvety leaves created a canopy under which the God-child and His mother sheltered.
On the road, the butchers passed by without seeing a thing. At the sound of their steps, Mary shivered in terror but the baby, caressed by the leaves, smiled. Then, as suddenly as they had come, the soldiers were gone.
When they had gone, Mary and Jesus came out from their green and flower-bedecked refuge.
" Sage, holy sage, many thanks. I bless you for your good deed which everyone will henceforth remember."
When Joseph found them, he had a hard time keeping up with the donkey which had been restored by a huge plateful of barley which a decent man had given him.
Mary remounted the animal, hugging her saved child to her. And Michael, the Archangel of God, descended from the realms of Heaven to keep them company and show them the shortest way they could journey in easy stages to Egypt.
Since that time the rose has had thorns, the clove ill-smelling flowers, while the sage plant possesses many curative powers: As the Provencal saying goes:
Legend of Tinsel
The Legend Of The Cat
On the first Christmas, half the world awoke.
Then out of nest and lair
Came thronging to Bethlehem the wordless folk;
Hurried the beasts of the forest, the birds of the air,
To pay the Lord their homage and His due.
And Cat came, too,
Mincing on delicate feet to see the Child.
But being shy and wild,
Approached no nearer than the hearth; lay dumb
And distant there.
While the rest knelt in praise,
The Cat by too much glory overcome
Could not withdraw her gaze
From the Nativity; could only stare
Through slitted eyes as things of fur and feather
(The deer beside the lion, the pheasant, the hare
Safe in the fox's paws) bent down together.
Although their anthems lifted all around,
She, in her throat, made only a trembling sound
And could not bow her head.
Yet as the morning dawned
And one by one the other creatures fled
Each to his habitat--
The eagle to his crag and to his pond
The otter--only Cat
Remained beside the dying fire, unable
To quit the place that was both Crib and Stable.
Then Mary spoke aloud.
"Dear Cat," she said, "dear, stiff-necked, proud
And obstinate beast, I bless you. From this hour
Leave wilderness behind you.
Because you stayed, though none shall have the power
To call you servant, yet the hearth shall bind you
Forever to itself. Both fond and free,
Wherever Man is, you shall also be.
And many a family
Will smile to hear you singing (where you settle)
Household hosannahs like a pulsing kettle."
Some winter night
Observe Cat now. Her eyes will suddenly gleam
Yellow against the light,
Her body shudder in a jungle dream,
Her claws unsheath their sharpness. She remembers
Old times, old barbarous customs, old Decembers
Before she called the tribes of Man her friends.
But the dream ends.
Then, reassured, she curls herself along
The floor and hums her cool, domestic song.
The Legend Of The Rosemary
Kind in the dooryards thrive all three,
But kindest of them is rosemary.
When Mary rode to Egypt
Who bore the Christmas King,
Flowers along the wayside
Began their blossoming.
To fill His path with fragrances
The lilac lifted up
Her proud and plumy branches,
The lily spread her cup,
And only the green rosemary,
Born petal-less and mild,
Grieved that it owned no benison
Of sweetness for the Child.
The evening fell in perfume,
In perfume rose the day.
Said Mary, "Out of weariness
We'll make a moments stay."
"Beside this running river,
Here where the willows lean,
I"ll set the Baby sleeping
And wash His garments clean."
But when the clothes were wholesomer,
Where could she hang them all?
"The lily breaks beneath them,
The lilac stands too tall."
So on the trembling rosemary
She laid them one by one,
And strong the rosemary held them
All morning in the sun.
"I thank you, gentle rosemary.
Hence forward you shall bear
Blue clusters for remembrance
Of this blue cloak I wear,
And not your blossoms only,
I give you as reward,
But where His raiment clung to you
Which clad the little Lord,"
"All shall be aromatic,"
Said Mary, "for I bless
Leaf, stem, and flower
That from this hour
Shall smell of holiness."
Rosemary, lily, lilac tree,
Sweet in the doorways thrive all three,
But sweetest of them is rosemary.
The Legend Of THe Pine Tree
That lift their boughs in the air,
Wearing in summer its green fripperies.
In winter going bare
And desolate of birds.
But that was in an old, forgotten age
Before the words
Of Wise Men stung King Herod to such rage
That his loud armies went
About the land to slay the Innocent.
Then there was consternation and no joy
In Israel. Joseph and Mary, Flying
Into another country with the Boy
Came when the day was dying,
Houseless to the edge of a green wood
Where valorously stood
A needled pine that every summer gave
Small birds a nest.
And half its trunk was hollow as a cave.
Said Joseph, "This is refuge. Let us rest."
The pine tree, full of pity, dropped its vast
Protective branches down
To cover them until the troops rode past,
Their weapons jingling, toward a different town.
All night it hid them. When the morning broke,
The Child awoke
And blessed the pine, His steadfast lodging place.
"Let you and your brave race,
Who made yourself My rampart and My screen
Keep summer always and be ever green.
For you the punctual seasons shall not vary,
But let there throng
A thousand birds to you for sanctuary
All winter long."
The story tells us, too,
That if you cut a pine cone part way through,
You find it bears within it like a brand
The imprint of His hand.
The Legend Of The Stork
The birds and the beasts knelt down to pray.
In wonder all,
Adoring kneeled--
The ox in his stall,
The fox in the field,
While badger and bear and each wild thing
Flocked round the manger where slept a King
Housed in a stable at Bethlehem.
And the long-legged stork was there with them,
With her feathers white,
Her crest held high,
And awe in her bright,
Compassionate eye.
"Alas," mourned she, "how poor His bed
Who rules the universe overhead!"
"Though cozily curled
Sleep all my breed,
The Lord of the World
Lies hard, indeed."
"Unpillowed is He who should wear a crown."
Then out of her bossom she plucked the down.
The plumes from her brest
She tugged and tore
That the Child should rest
Like a beggar no more
But fine on a pallet fit for a prince.
And Blest has the stork been, ever since--
For the gift that she gave of her body's wear,
Blest on chimneys, blest in the air,
And patron of babies everywhere.
The Legend Of The Holly
(Raise high the holly!)
Once was whiter than wheaten bread
(As love is better than folly.)
Whiter than shells along the shore
It blooms on its tree by a stable door.
Villagers come there, half-afraid,
Gifts in their hands for Child and Maid.
And one has nothing of note, so he
Fetches a branch of the holly tree.
Alas, alas, the little Newborn
Has pricked His finger upon a thorn,
Has left His blood on the spiny leaves.
Heavy of heart the holly grieves,
Sees in a terrible vision how
A crown of holly shall bind His brow
When Child is man.
For sorrow and shame
The berries have blushed as red as flame.
Says Mary the Mother,
"Take no blame.
"But be of good cheer as ever you can.
Both foul and fair are the works of man,
"Yet unto man has My Son been lent.
And you, dear tree, are the innocent
"Who weeps for pity what man might do.
So all your thorns are forgiven you."
Now red, rejoicing, the berries shine
On jubilant doors as a Christmas sign
That desolation to joy makes way.
(Hang high the holly!)
Holly is the symbol of Christ's Birthday.
(When love shall vanquish folly.)
The Legend Of The Robin
When times were stranger,
Once a Lady and her Son
Resyed in a manger,
In a manger on the straw.
The night was shrewd, the wind was raw,
And the dull fire, untended, kept
No comfort where the Infant slept.
Then she, too spent to mend the spark,
Spoke to the beast-enfolding dark.
"Oxen, lest He should come to harm,
Rise up and blow these embers warm
With youe great breath, for mercy's sake."
But the rapt oxen did not wake.
"Ass, will you breathe upon the flame?"
But the ass dozed nor heard his name,
While heavy the cart horse dreamed beside
His feeding box that Christmastide.
Then suddenly the midnight stirred.
In from the winter at her word
There flew a brown, south-seeking bird.
Bravest of small created things,
He made a bellows of his wings.
He puffed his feathers to a fan,
Singing, until the ash began
To kindle, to glow, to burn its best.
The flame leaped out. It seared his breast,
But still the robin, loud with praise,
Beat his quick wings before the blaze
So all the stable was beguiled
To warmth. And softly slept the Child.
"Dear robin," then the Lady said,
"Wear from now on a breast of red.
Where the fire was, let fire remain,
A blessed and perpetual stain
Burnt on your heart that all may see
The signature of Charity."
Long ago, long ago
When times were stranger
Once a robin served the Lord
Who rested in a manger.
The Legend Of The Sage Plant
Whosoever uses not sage
Remembers not the Virgin.
St.Patrick was a man of God
Who came to Erin's land
With a loving prayer within his heart,
A shamrock in his hand
He used the three-leafed shamrock
To help all his people see
How there could be three persons
In the Holy Trinity
And the faith the Irish learned from him
Today can still be found
A heritage as lovely
As the countryside around.
Long ago, a holy man, whose name was Valentine,
grew a flower garden with sights and scents divine.
He invited all the children to come there every day,
to frolic in the flowers, to skip and sing and play.
One day this kindly man was led away to prison
for believing in the Savior who had died for us and risen.
Saddened, all the children wished to send their love,
and so they sent a message carried by a dove ...
"To Our Dearest Valentine," the message was addressed,
and with it they sent violets-of all flowers, the most blessed.
They sent him many love notes till his life was sacrificed
for refusing to deny his belief in Jesus Christ.
Today, he tends a garden in heaven up above-
we know him as St. Valentine, the patron saint of love.
We celebrate our love on his feast day every year
by sending cards and flowers to those our hearts hold dear.
As we honor Valentine's Day, we are reminded of its start-
by the man who gave the Lord his love, his life, his heart.
~~author unknown to me~~