Trans-Siberian Orchestra – A Story (Written Word)


This marks the last day for the “Christmas Around the World” stories. I hope you enjoyed them as much as I have.  It was a pleasure to be able to post them on this blog for your enjoyment.

Trans-Siberian Orchestra – Official website.

Trans-Siberian Orchestra - Official website

On a snow blessed Christmas Eve a young man found himself alone in the back of an old city bar in the rundown section of town. Using his solitary drink as something of a moat between himself and the rest of the world, he was surprised when an elderly gentleman asked to join him at his table. Reluctantly, he nodded his permission but within minutes he found himself engrossed in a story that the old man related to him; a story about another Christmas Eve when the Lord looked down from above at all his children. It had been nearly two thousand years since the birth of His son and turning to His youngest Angel the Lord said, “Go down to the Earth and bring back to me the one thing that best represents everything good that has been done in the name of this day.”

The Angel bowed to the Lord and spreading his wings, descended from heaven to the world of man, all the while contemplating his mission. So much had been done in the name of honoring the birth of the Christ Child. For this day wars had temporarily ceased, cathedrals had been built and great novels had been written. With so little time, what could he possibly find to represent all this?

As he soared above the Earth, he suddenly heard the sound of church bells below. Their tone was so beautiful that it reminded him of the voice of God.

Looking down, he saw a small church whose bells were ringing out the carol, “Silent Night.” As the final note died away, it was replaced by one lone voice singing inside the church. It was shortly joined by a second voice that embraced the first in perfect harmony, and then another and another until a choir of voices rose through the night. Enchanted by the magic of what he was hearing, the Angel found himself listening until the song was finished. As he resumed his flight through the night, he was delighted to hear these sounds everywhere, from the largest cities to the smallest villages. He heard melodies from massive orchestras and in the voices of single soldiers alone at their posts. And any place where he heard these songs, he found hope in the hearts of men. Grasping a song out of the air, he held it in his hand (angels are able to do this) and thought that maybe, these songs could be the one thing that best represented Christmas. They seemed to give voice to man’s greatest joys as well as hope to those deepest in despair.

But, though at first glance it appeared to be the answer he sought, his heart told him that this music was not enough. There had to be something more. So he continued his flight through the night until he suddenly felt the touch of a father’s prayer on its way to heaven. Once again looking downward, he saw a man who was praying for his child; a child whom he had not heard from in a long time and who would not be home that Christmas. Seizing upon the prayer, the Angel followed it until it reached the lost child.

She was standing on a corner, in a quiet snowfall, looking very small in a very large city. Across from her was an old city bar, the kind that only the lost seemed to know how to find.

The patrons of this establishment rarely looked up from their drinks and so seemed not to notice the young girl. Now, the bartender in this bar had been working in there longer than anyone could remember. He believed in nothing except his bar and his cash register. He had never married, never took a vacation and as a matter of fact, had never been seen out from behind his counter by most of his patrons. He was there when they arrived and he was still there when they left. He gave no credit and for seventy-five cents, served shots of un-watered whiskey to people who used their drinks like a wall around their lives. For them, he provided a safe, unchanging world. Suddenly, the door opened wide and into this world walked a small child. The bartender could not remember the last time that a child had been in this place, but before he could ask the child what he was doing there, the child asked him if he knew that there was a girl outside their door who could not get home. Glancing out the window, he saw the girl standing across the street. Turning back to the child, the bartender asked him how he knew this. The child replied: “On this night of all nights, if one could be home, they’d be already there.” The bartender looked back toward the young girl as he reflected on what the child had said. After several seconds of thought, he slowly went over to the cash register and removing most of the money, came out from behind the bar and followed the child across the street.

Everyone in the bar watched as he spoke with the girl. After a few moments, he called over a cab, put the girl inside and told the driver, “J.F.K. Airport.” As the cab pulled away, he looked around for the child, but the child was gone. And what was stranger still, even though his own tracks leading from the bar were still clearly marked in the snow, the child’s were nowhere to be found. Returning back inside, he asked if anyone had seen where the child had gone, but like himself, no one had, for they also had been watching the departing cab. And then, some would later say that the most miraculous thing of all happened, when for the rest of the night, no one
paid for a drink. Later that night the Angel returned back to heaven and placed in the Lord’s hand, the wish of a soul for the happiness of another. And as the
heavenly host looked on, the Lord smiled.

At the end of his story the old man then told the youth that he had enjoyed their time together but that it was time for him to leave. After the old man had left,
the youth found himself rushing out the door only seconds behind the elderly gentleman’s exit so that he might ask his name, but not only was there no one in sight but there wasn’t even a single track in the snow. The young man stood there for a moment perplexed but then he suddenly felt a sense of gentle peace and contentment flow through his body. Buttoning his coat the youth slowly walked home where for the first time since his childhood he dreamed a Christmas dream.

Click here to read yesterday’s “Christmas Around the World” story.

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The Night Before Christmas


The Night Before Christmas – A Descriptive Bibliography of Clement Clarke Moore’s Immortal Poem – Nancy H. Marshall.

According to Legend, Clement Clarke Moore wrote his immortal poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas, also known as The Night Before Christmas, for his family on Christmas Eve 1822. He never intended that it be published, but a family friend, Miss Harriet Butler, learned of the poem sometime later from Moore’s children. She copied it into her album, and submitted it to the editor of the Troy (New York) Sentinel where it made its first appearance in print on December 23, 1823. Soon, the poem began to be reprinted in other newspapers, almanacs and magazines, with the first appearance in a book in The New York Book of Poetry, edited by Charles Fenno Hoffman, in 1837.

It was not until 1844, however, that Moore himself acknowledged authorship in a volume of his poetry entitled Poems, published at the request of his children. One hundred and eighty years later it is the most-published, most-read, most-memorized and most-collected book in all of Christmas literature.

Sample Poem Text and Graphics, Click to see more detail.

Click here to read yesterday’s “Christmas Around the World”: Mumming – a Yuletide Tradition – Irish Customs World Cultures European

Good King Wenceslas – Storynory free audio story


Good King Wenceslas – Storynory download a free audio story.

Good King Wenceslas - Storynory free audio story

Many people love the Christmas Carol Good King Wenceslas and sing it every year without quite figuring out the story that it tells.

This Musical Christmas Double brings you the story and the song together so that you can compare the two.

Listen out for the beautiful rendition of the carol sung at the end of the story by Gabriella Burnel with Jamie McCredie on the guitar.

And the story is told by our very own Natasha. You can read Natasha’s reflections on this special Christmas story in her Post Recording Review.

The adaptation of the tale for Storynory is by Bertie.

A bit of history….

King Wenceslas (or Wenceslaus) was the Duke of Bohemia in the years 921-935. He is now patron Saint of the Czech Republic and is statue stands Wenceslaus Square in Prague. His feast day is September 28.

The chronicler Cosmas of Prague, writing in about the year 1119, says

Rising every night from his noble bed, with bare feet and only one chamberlain, he went around to God’s churches and gave alms generously to widows, orphans, those in prison and afflicted by every difficulty, so much so that he was considered, not a prince, but the father of all the wretched.

The episode in our story involving the pagan woman is a bit fanciful, by the way, and not history – although it was a time of conflict between Christians and pagans. The Duke’s mother, Drahomíra, was the daughter of a pagan tribal chief of Havolans and was baptised at the time of her marriage.

Audio hosted by SoundCloud.

On Christmas day as was his custom, on this special day every year, Duke Wenceslas visited each of the servants and soldiers in his castle, and pressed a gold coin into his or her hand.

The Duke walked through the cold stone passageways in the lower depths of his castle. As he stepped kitchen through the door, a fierce heat struck his face, and the smell of roast meat filled his nostrils. Two servants were turning swans on a giant spit over the fire. Elsewhere men and women, young and old, were busy with fetching, rolling, shouting, stuffing, stirring, scouring, scraping, and all the other tasks of the kitchen. Those who saw him enter stopped their work and bowed deeply. His page called out:

“Line up, line up for the Duke.”

And the kitchen staff scuffled around arranging themselves in order of rank, from the head cook to the young scullery maid who was just eleven years old.

Each of the servants received gold coin from the hand of their ruler with the words: “May the Lord Jesus Christ, our Saviour who was born on this day, bless you and watch over you.”

After the kitchen, the Duke proceeded to the guard house, and then to laundry, and then to maids of the bed chambers, and then to the stables. Last of all, he visited the dungeons. The jailers received his blessings and gold, and the prisoners received just his blessings.

He spoke last to an old woman prisoner:

“May the Lord Jesus Christ, our Saviour who was born on this day, bless you and watch over you.”

He looked into the woman’s eyes and saw that they were piercing blue. She must have been quite a beauty in her youth. He felt sorry that her life and folly had brought her to this dark prison cell on Christmas Day.

“What is her crime?” he asked the Jailor.

“My Lord, she is a priestess of the old school. She performed pagan rites and lead the people in the worship of false gods.

At this Duke Wenceslas said sadly:

“Tis a pity. Had she been guilty of a lesser crime…. had she been guilty of even murder, I would have set her free to go home and to die in her bed among her family.” And then he turned to the old woman:

“Do you not see now how the Christian religion teaches mercy and kindness? This Christmas Day I have pressed gold into the hands of the lowliest servant in my castle. Are you not impressed by my good works in the name of Jesus Christ? Do you not renounce the devil and your gods and come to the true Savior?. Only say the words “I do” and you shall be rid of your chains this Christmas Day.”

And the priestess lifted her gray head and fixed the Duke with her blue eyes:

“The scummiest jailor in your castle is a lord in comparison to peasants outside. You have no idea what it means to live in a hovel, to freeze in depths of winter, to have rags for clothes and a few sticks for a fire. Throw coins to your groveling servants if it makes you feel good before you stuff yourself with rich food. But don’t talk to me of your false charity.”

As it was Christmas Day, the Duke did not order the woman to be whipped. He just shook his head at her insolence and her missed chance of freedom.

But as he climbed the winding stone stair back to the lighter world of his busy castle, her words were turning in his heart. And when he saw his servants going about their work, briskly, but smiling, he thought “Yes, you are the lucky few.”

He no longer felt satisfied with his Christmas routine. He ordered his servant to bring him his fur lined cloak, boots gloves and hat. Another servant strapped a sword to his side. The head stable boy brought his horse out into the courtyard and placed a small ladder against its side. Snow was already flecking the Duke’s beard as he stood and waited for all to be ready. And then he clambered onto his mount and rode through the gates of the castle followed by just a page on a gray mare.

“Boy,” he called back to the page,”Were you born in a village?”

“Oh no sire. I was born in the castle,” replied the boy.

“Do you have any relatives in a village?”

“Oh yes sire. My grandmother lives in a village not far from here.”

“Well take me there.” said the Duke.

And when they arrived in village, they found the boy’s grandmother at the drinking well, known as the fount of St. Agnes. She was using a long pole – a branch broken off a birch tree – and ramming it down into the well to break the ice.

“Here, give the good lady some gold,” said the duke. Which the page gladly did. At this, the other peasants of the village, who until now had been plodding through the snow on their business, came rushing over from all sides to beg the Duke for money.

“Back Back!” cried the paige boy. The Duke took a handful of coins and scattered them on the ground. The peasants dived on them like a flock of birds on some crumbs of bread.

The duke returned to the castle to resume his Christmas worship and festivities, but instead of feeling better for his generosity, he somehow felt troubled by it. As he celebrated the last Christmas of the millennium, the image of the priestess in the dungeon was always in his mind.

The next day – the feast day of St. Stephen – there was boxing and jousting in the tiltyard. Music, dancing and merrymaking continued throughout the afternoon and evening. But the Duke’s heart was still not fully in the celebrations. He stood up from his place in the banqueting hall, and went up onto the ramparts of the castle to take in the cold fresh air. It was a clear moonlit night. He looked out towards the village that he had visited the day before. He saw a peasant wandering across the fields, bending down every now and then to picked up sticks for the fire.

“Page, Page!” he called out – for his attendant was never far away – bring me food from from the table, the best bits, and bring wine, and fetch some logs for the fire. I intend to go out and give these things to that man – hurry hurry now. I shall wait for you by the gates of the castle.”

The Duke took the winding stairs down to the courtyard. Servants brought him his fur-lined clothes and boots – “No No,” he said. “I shall go without them”. And instead he took off his shoes and stood on the snow covered cobble stones. His feet were entwined in woolen strips – but that was their only covering.

The stable boy stood by with the Duke’s horse.

“Follow me,” the Duke said to the paige, “We are going on foot.” And seeing that that his master was not wearing a coat or hat, the poor paige felt that disrespectful as he put on his own clothes – but the master did not seem to take notice.

The Duke and the boy, walked out through the gates of the castle, their arms filled with gifts. The servants shook their heads, convinced that not only had their Duke gone mad, but that he would catch his death of cold.

The peasant was heading for the village, and the Duke and the boy hurried after him. The Dukes almost bare feet sank deep into the snow, but he did not seem to notice the cold. He strode on, propelled by some sort of super-human strength. The poor paige boy felt the chill coming up through the soles of his boot and through his whole body. The wind cut into his face and he rubbed his nose to stave off frost bite.

“Sire, Sire,” he called out. “My strength is failing me.”

At first the Duke did not hear him. Only when the boy called out: “I cannot go on.” did he halt his progress across the snow. He turned round and saw the boy had fallen to his knees.

Duke Wenceslaus looked back to the castle. Although the night had grown darker, he could clearly see his footsteps all the way back. They were luminous like the moon.

“Good boy,” he said. “Stand up and place your feet in my footsteps.

And paige, who was used to obeying his duke’s every command, gathered his strength and rose to his feet.

“Here, here,” said the Duke. “This is my step. Place your foot on top of it.”

And the boy, seeing the pale blue glowing footsteps, placed his foot on the spot where thje Duke’s foot and sunk into the snow. Then he lifted his other foot and placed it in the footstep behind. Instead of cold, he felt warmth and energy rising through his body. The Duke carried on ahead, and the boy, followed behind, now feeling as as full of life and energy as if he was striding across a meadow full of lambs one day in spring.

The Duke and the paige caught up with the man just before he reached his village. They gave him their gifts, for which he thanked and blessed them. And on his return to the castle, the Duke set the pagan priestess free from the gaol.

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath’ring winter fuel

“Hither, page, and stand by me
If thou know’st it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”

“Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear him thither.”
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind’s wild lament
And the bitter weather

“Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, my good page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.”

In his master’s steps he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.

Click here to read yesterday’s Christmas Around the World story: Santa in Cyprus (Ayios Vassilis, or Saint Basil)