Here’s an iris, two narcissus, a daffodil… and here? Nestled in the hedge, a family of daisies, the kind that have been fringed with pink ever since little Jesus kissed a white one. “Do you remember the legend?” asks Mum, coming over to make sure I’m not too hot. “Yes, I do! Nanon told me. I’ll tell it to you again – in French, alas! – word for word: When the Infant Jesus received the Magi’s gifts, he blessed them “out of good manners,” but he didn’t take them. He only caressed them with his little hand, while the all-black king, the all-white old man and the tall one, who’s a bit brown, said their prayers. Gold? Poor us! But what do you expect Jesus to do with it? He doesn’t care about gold, that’s not why He made Himself so very small. Incense? The dear little Jesus was still suckling: it wasn’t time to burn incense at his mother’s feet. Myrrh? That’s for when you’re dead. The good Jesus listened carefully to the three kings and, in gratitude, picked up a white daisy from the straw, a daisy which a pastrihoun (little shepherd) had brought him, gently kissed it and offered it to the oldest of the Magi. Ever since that kiss, daisies have had petal edges the color of Baby Jesus’ lips.”

Marie Gasquet (1872-1960)
Novelist, Reine du Félibrige

“Evening after evening, Sunday after Sunday, Katrina stayed alone, waiting and hoping that her son would come home. But he didn’t. It was a long, heavy winter. On Christmas Eve, she expected Gustav to come home. She had decorated the Christmas tree, she had prepared packages, she had baked spice cakes and wheat men with raisin eyes. She had served the traditional mashed fish and almond rice. Then she sat down and waited for the son. It was Christmas today, he’d be back. She stood on the threshold and listened. It was a beautiful Christmas night. The sky was high and deep and the stars seemed to shine on each other, so tightly were they packed. On the mountain, the snow glistened, untouched, without a trace. Down in the village, there were more lights than usual. It was Christmas in every home but his. Even Beda’s little hut was lit up like a castle. She could see the candles on the tree and the silhouettes of children running and jumping. Lydia had invited her to join them, but she had refused, saying Gustav was coming. How silent everything was, how clear and beautiful. Truly this was the most beautiful place to live in Torsö. She could see every farm, the whole valley right down to the bay. How the stars shone: this was the Big Dipper. The Three Wise Men were in full glory. She wasn’t quite sure about Venus, but she did recognize the North Star, the one far to the north. There should have been another one, a big twinkling star, the Christmas Star. Where was it? “I bring you news that will be a great joy to all the people, that today, in the city of David, the Savior who is Christ, the Savior is born.” Katrina returned. She lit a candle and opened the Bible. She read for a long time, verse after verse. It was as if a gentle, calming hand had rested on her heart. Late in the evening, she closed the book and lit the kerosene lamp on the shelf. It would burn all night. In her childhood, lamps were always left burning on Christmas Eve. Then she went to bed. She got up around four in the morning and hurried to put out the lamp. Then she got dressed, went to milk the cow, drank coffee and put on the clothes she wore to church. She accompanied Beda’s family, and soon a whole small group joined them on the way to church. People were coming out of every farm. Farmers led their families in sleighs, and the sound of bells could be clearly heard in the air. Every estate, down to the poorest hut, was illuminated; candles glowed softly in the windows. Christmas trees were full of candles. The barns were lit up too, as those who remained in the houses took care of the animals and gave them the extra Christmas ration. The stars were still in the sky, and snow lay immaculate on the fields and meadows. The dark trees of the Söderöjen forest seemed to be sleeping a magical sleep, and the snow weighed down on their spreading branches. People walking slowly along the path would sometimes hear the faint sound of snow falling from a branch as it slowly straightened. Bells rang out, their sound mingling with the echo of bells that faded away into the silence of the winter night. It was as if the whole space was filled with one song, just one, the old eternal song “Peace on Earth.” The very next day, guests began inviting themselves to the farms, and Katrina was delighted that the festivities were so advanced, as time passed more quickly. Even so, she didn’t feel unhappy. This Christmas had been beautiful and unforgettable in its own way. It had purified her, it had lifted her up to the Eternal.”

Sally Salminen (1906-1976)
Author of Katrina (a Swedish novel)