A Christmas Idyll



The Child with the wondering eyes sat on the doorstep, on either
side of her a tramp cat in process of becoming a recognised member
of society. On the flagged path in front the brown brethren were
picking up crumbs. The cats' whiskers trembled, but they sat
still, proudly virtuous, and conscious each of a large saucer of
warm milk within.

"What," said the Child, "is a symbol?"

The cats looked grave.

The Child rose, went into the house, and returned with a well-
thumbed brown book. She turned the pages thoughtfully, and read
aloud, presumably for the benefit of the cats: "In a symbol there
is concealment yet revelation, the infinite is made to blend with
the finite, to stand visible, and as it were attainable there."
The Child sighed, "We had better go to the Recluse," she said. So
the three went.

It was a cold, clear, bright day, a typical Christmas Eve. There
was a carpet of crisp snow on the ground, and a fringe of icicles
hung from every vantage-point. The cats, not having been
accustomed to the delights of domesticity, trotted along cheerfully