Every Month a Picture

He is a simple peasant; one of the dwellers of the Lebanese villages that hang like pearls upon the breasts of the lofty mountains...

That evening he was walking toward his humble house, guarded by a procession of the faithful animals that turn his labor... and keep him company in his loneliness through his long days in the fields...

That night was not like his other nights: he hears from afar the pealing of the little village's bells, and feels a joy his breast can scarcely contain.

And he goes on his way, his eye on the ground, his heavy shoes tickling the dust.

Here he is, nearing the door of his hut, the sound of the bells still in his ears, beginning now to mingle with the voices of the merry boys... He was like them years ago — but no matter, he is still among them. Are not his own small children some of these? Then he need not fear old age, nor will dread of passing away enter him, so long as this ever-new generation carries the torch of life...

Here is the mother of his children, appearing to welcome him, to wipe the dust from his shoulders and feel his rough cheeks and his cracked fingers, then to take from him the pick, the jug, and the provision bag, and carry them into the house...

— "Here is the hot water waiting for you... and a rich supper too... It is Christmas Eve."

Yes — he had almost forgotten even the merry pealing of the bells the moment she appeared, with her pure, blessed face... the face of the mother

of his sons...

She has prepared for him every kind of food, and sweets, all from the bounty of his field... from his wheat, and his oil, and the grapes of his vines... His land will forever teem with good things, so long as his brow runs with sweat...

And when the family gathered around the table that night, the pealing of the bells fell silent, and the boys' voices died away; then

an awesome stillness closed over the house, and even the storm roaring outside was struck dumb. Tonight the storms grow calm, the crying quiets, and the trees bow down in worship... just so, as the peasant and his wife and his children bowed around the supper table.

And tomorrow he will not go out to his field; he may sleep, then, until midnight comes... and bow down with the trees.

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