‘i was the “rich shepherd” and this was my school’
ny
by Scott Young
AND SO IT CAME to pass that in the little country school (when these were still in style) the Christmas concert was planned as usual for Christmas Eve.
This was not considered a stupid idea, as it might be in some communities, because here it was a longheld custom.
From experience, people knew that the concert would end early enough for them to hang up stockings and do the last-minute wrapping. And in the community also it had been found that when a man knew he was going to face his neighbors and the neighbor children on Christmas Eve he tended to limit severely his stay at the beer parlor on the way home.
Everybody arrived at the little school at about the same time, 7 P.M.: Joseph, Mary, the shepherds, the parents, the wise men, the kids too little to go to school, the rhythm band, carol chorus, and the old people who had grandchildren in the concert (and had been in it themselves, long ago).
The costumes were all the responsibility of the players. Therefore, they depended a good deal on such matters as which homes had sewing machines, and which mothers had the time or the talent—or even whether a child had thought to tell anybody at home that he was in the show, and needed a costume, before the last minute.
This was apparent in one conversation as all hands milled about in the foyer, saying Merry Christ mas. The shepherds were shoving and tickling each other. The mother of one had worked all week on his outfit, and he looked like a gorgeous bit player from an old Cecil B. De Mille Bible western, while the other shepherds were dressed in superannuated dressing gowns, with towels for turbans, if any.
And the father of the well-dressed shepherd drew him aside and worriedly said unto him: “Does it bother you to be in such a fancy outfit when all the other shepherds aren’t?”
The boy shrugged. “So? I’m a rich shepherd, that’s all.”
The schoolroom was nicely decorated. The Christmas tree stood in a mound of parcels just large enough to warm the cockles of the most frosty-hearted crayon manufacturer. A red curtain was strung on a wire across one end of the room. Behind it was great activity, while out in front the parents and grandparents sat on chairs and gazed stolidly into the eyes of lap-sized children looking stolidly over the shoulders of their mothers from the row in front. A man named Bud was master of ceremonies. His youngest son, in red corduroy overalls bulging sveltely over his diaper, provided the first nice comic touch by wandering out behind him and standing, thumb in mouth, gazing at the audience, while Bud made the opening announcement.
One early highlight was the rhythm band and carol chorus. Eighteen little people stood in a row, all smiles and without a front tooth between the lot of them, whanging away (or staring at the audience and forgetting to whang) at triangles, sticks and drums. A little drummer boy (tum-tee-tum-tum) hit his thumb a real belt, and sucked it solemnly through the rest of their first piece.
Then it was time for Richard’s solo. Richard was in Grade Four. As he walked to the front in his neat blue suit, white shirt, bow tie, and brown shoes, fair hair slicked down, a woman murmured, “That takes real courage.” You could tell she was right. Richard had screwed-up courage sticking out all over him.
And then as he bowed and the piano played its first bars, and Richard took a deep breath, the entire eighteen-piece rhythm band and carol chorus charged through the curtain and past him to the remaining seats. This took a while, but seemed to calm Richard, having someone else the cynosure of all eyes. He sang very well. So did Wendy, in her solo.
It was after Wendy bolted for her seat beside her mother that Monica, the curtain puller, drew a big laugh. The play was on next. The chorus was ready to file in. Monica walked across the room haughtily pulling on the curtain so that the people in the play could take up their positions. But she did not notice that the curtain failed to spread out behind her. The little bunch of red curtain just moved across the room with her and left bare all the hustling prop-men hurrying onstage and then stopping to gape at the audience, holding mangers and armfuls of straw.
Nevertheless, the chorus again sang beautifully, a tribute to Mr. Bush, the music teacher and conductor, who was known to children and parents alike as Wild Bill Bush.
When the curtain was fixed, and later re-opened, the stable scene had been screened from view and the audience could see a crowd of shepherds, no doubt watching their flocks by night.
They also were palavering about news they had heard: that a Christ-child had been born, and that wise men from afar were bringing rich gifts of Frank-in-Cents and mur-r-r-r. While they palavered they leaned on their crooks, one of which had a screw-in end where a mop had been. Some argued, how did they know a Christ-child had been born anyway? And others wondered what gift they had to give Him if He had been.
The argument seemed to have reached an impasse when in burst a traveller dressed in a burlap sack, bow tie, snowboots, and with a Paisley scarf wrapped around his head. He was straight from Bethlehem, he said, and confirmed the good news.
Whereupon the shepherds trooped offstage and when the curtain opened again it showed them crowding around the manger, and the well-dressed shepherd was on one knee giving quite a natural gift, considering his profession.
“It’s only a little gray lamb,” he said, “but it’s the only lamb we got.