is in progress. The guests,
most of them fresh from the hillsides of Mount Lebanon, squat about
the room. A reed-pipe and a tambourine furnish the music. One has the
centre of the floor. With a beer jug filled to the brim on his head,
he skips and sways, bending, twisting, kneeling, gesturing, and
keeping time, while the men clap their hands. He lies down and turns
over, but not a drop is spilled. Another succeeds him, stepping
proudly, gracefully, furling and unfurling a handkerchief like a
banner. As he sits down, and the beer goes around, one in the corner,
who looks like a shepherd fresh from his pasture, strikes up a song--a
far-off, lonesome, plaintive lay. "'Far as the hills,'" says the
guide; "a song of the old days and the old people, now seldom heard."
All together croon the refrain. The host delivers himself of an epic
about his love across the seas, with the most agonizing expression,
and in a shockingly bad voice. He is the worst singer I ever heard;
but his companions greet his effort with approving shouts of "Yi! yi!"
They look so fierce, and yet are so childishly happy, that at the
thought of their exile and of the dark tenement the question arises,
"Why all this joy?" The guide answers it with a look of surprise.
"They sing," he says, "because they are glad they are free. Did you
not know?"

The bells in old Trinity chime the midnight hour. From dark hallways
men and women pour forth and hasten to the Maronite church. In the
loft of the dingy old warehouse wax candles burn before an altar of
brass. The priest, in a white robe with a huge gold cross worked on
the back, chants the ritual. The people respond. The women kneel in
the aisles, shrouding their heads in their shawls; a surpliced acolyte
swings his censer; the heavy perfume of burning incense fills the
hall.

The band at the anarchists' ball is tuning up for the last dance.
Young and old float to the happy strains, forgetting injustice,
oppression, hatred. Children slide upon the waxed floor, weaving
fearlessly in and out between the couples--between fierce, bearded men
and short-haired women with crimson-bordered kerchiefs. A
Punch-and-Judy show in the corner evokes shouts of laughter.

Outside the snow is falling. It sifts silently into each nook and
corner, softens all the hard and ugly lines, and throws the spotless
mantle of charity over the blemishes, the shortcomings. Christmas
morning will dawn pure and white.

ABE'S GAME OF J