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 Prayer for Perseverance
O my Redeemer, will that terrible moment ever come, when but few Christians will be found animated with a spirit of faith? that moment when, provoked to indignation, Thou wilt remove from us thy protection? The vices, the evil habits of our children, have perhaps irrevocably moved thy justice this very day to vengeance! O Thou who art the author and finisher of our faith, we conjure Thee, in the bitterness of our hearts, humbled and contrite, not to permit the beautiful light of faith to be extinguished in us. Be mindful of thy mercies of old, cast a compassionate regard upon that vine which Thou hast planted with thy right hand, which was bedewed with the sweat of the Apostles, watered with the precious blood of thousands upon thousands of martyrs and the tears of so many generous penitents, and made fruitful by the prayers of so many confessors and innocent virgins. O divine Mediator, have regard for those zealous souls who incessantly raise their hearts to Thee and pray for the maintenance of that most precious treasure, the true Faith. Suspend, O must just God, the decree of our reprobation, turn away thine eyes from our sins, and fix them on the adorable blood, shed upon the Cross as the price of salvation, and daily pleading for it, on our behalf, upon our altars. Oh, preserve us in the true Catholic Roman Faith. Infirmities afflict us, annoyances wear us away, misfortunes oppress us: but preserve to us thy holy faith ; for, endowed with this precious gift, we shall willingly bear every sorrow, and nothing can affect our happiness. On the other hand, without this supreme treasure of the faith, our misfortunes will be unspeakable and immense. O good Jesus, author of our faith, keep it pure; keep us safe within the bark of Peter, faithful and obedient to his successor, thy True Vicar here on earth, that so the unity of holy Church may be preserved, holiness fostered, the Holy See kept free and protected, and the universal Church extended, to the advantage of souls. O Jesus, author of our faith, humble and convert the enemies of thy Church ; bestow on all Kings and Christian Princes, and on all the faithful, peace and true unity; strengthen and maintain all in thy holy service, to the end that we may live by Thee and die in Thee. Ah! my Jesus, author of our faith, in Thee I would live, and in Thee would I die. Amen. (Indulgence 300 days--Leo XIII.)  First Sunday After Epiphany A Holy Family My dear children: Our Holy Mother, the Church, presents to us a moving picture throughout the year, namely, she throws the life and actions of our Lord upon the screen, from His Incarnation to His glorious Ascension into heaven, in order that we may consider what He has done for our salvation. On Christmas day you saw the new-born Babe in the manger; on Epiphany, the three kings from the East, greeting and worshipping Him. Today we see Jesus as a child of twelve years. At this period of our Lord's life, Mary and Joseph took Him with them to Jerusalem. It was a long and fatiguing journey. What a beautiful example is here given to your parents. Do they take you to church, or at least send you there? When you are "Children of the law," you are bound under pain of mortal sin to hear Mass on Sundays and holidays. The great distance from Nazareth to Jerusalem did not deter the holy family from assisting at public worship. How much more easily you can comply with your religious duties! The church is at no great distance from any of you. At the beginning of the last century there lived in the parish of Roybon, near the town of Marcellinus, in the South of France, a family belonging to the laboring class. The head of this family, Antony Ginien, had already reached a high state of Christian perfection. Although he dwelt at a distance of about five miles from the church, he was always among the first to reach it on Sundays and holydays, that he might hear Holy Mass, and assist at the offices of the Church. In the latter years of his life it became impossible for him to travel that distance in the winter-time, on account of his infirmities; but from the Feast of Easter until All Saints he would rise early in the morning, and, with the aid of two crutches, accomplish the journey leisurely in about four hours. Finally, at the age of seventy-five, he passed to his reward, leaving to us all an admirable example for our imitation and instruction. This pious old man had surely studied the life of our Lord Jesus Christ, and made it his own. From His youth, the good Jesus directs His thoughts and desires towards the service of God. Oh, that we would follow His example from our earliest days; peacefully then would we work out our soul's salvation. But how is it with us? Are we imitating Jesus not only in our twelfth year, but in all the years of our youth? There are many who pass their youthful days in levity and sin. Is this our case also? Jesus spent three days in the temple. Ask yourself this question: Do you love to pray in the House of God ? Does it give you pleasure to visit Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament ? It would not, indeed, be a good sign if visits to the church, prayer and exercises of devotion were distasteful to you; this would betray but little love for God on your part. The example of the boy Jesus is a pointed lesson for all children to be diligent in visiting God's House and in attending the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, as well as hearing the sermon. A rich lady who lived in the country, had no children of her own, and wished, in consequence, to adopt, as her daughter, an attractive and well-conducted girl from amoung her relations in the town. She went there for this purpose; and scarcely was her intention made public, when several girls presented themselves before her, recommending themselves to her, and claiming kindred with her. At first the lady gave no decisive answer, but presenting each girl with a coin of gold, she said : "This is the fair-day. Buy for yourselves whatever you like best. Come back afterwards, and let me see what you have bought." The girls hurried away and later on returned in the greatest delight. Almost all of them had bought gay-colored ribbons, strings of glittering pearls, gold-embroidered head dresses, and ornaments, which they showed in high glee to their newly-found relation. One poor girl alone, Augusta by name, had bought none of these trifles, but showed as the result of her purchase a prayer-book, and a distaff with a dozen spindles. The lady was pleased with this. Taking Augusta kindly by the hand, she said : "I am delighted, my dear child, that you have turned your thoughts thus early to prayer and industry. The others have shown too clearly by their purchases that finery and vanity are more to their taste than piety and industry. You shall be henceforth to me as a daughter. Continue ever thus; be always good, pious, and industrious and our good God will be always with you, and His blessing will follow you everywhere.,, Thus was this God-fearing child rewarded in preference to her vain sisters. The hidden life of Jesus Christ after His first stay in the temple should be our particular example, my dear children. Quietly and simply Jesus lived in Nazareth. He helped His foster-father faithfully with his carpentering, and read the wishes of His mother in her eyes. Prayerfully and laboriously His days passed until He was thirty years old, when His public teaching began. All that time Jesus, the eternal God, remained obedient to human beings. How many a child who has barely outgrown schooldays, wants to act independently and without consideration of its parents, to the bitter grief of the latter, and to its own destruction ! In a most humble way Jesus shut Himself up in the workshop of a carpenter. How many a youth full of great plans leaves his father's house because its life is too simple! How many a one is ashamed of the humble position of his father, yet Christ was never ashamed of His lowly surroundings, or His humble parentage. In an out-of-the-way village, He lived the life of a common carpenter till His thirtieth year. And Jesus advanced in wisdom and age. Daily the divine Child gave clearer proofs of the infinite fullness of His divine omniscience and sanctity. Children, let us imitate Jesus. Can it be said of us in truth, that as we have advanced in years we have increased in wisdom and grace and holiness? One knowledge may be greater, but are we not still infected with the same faults and bad habits as heretofore? Oh, let us humble ourselves before God and repent of our lukewarmness! You should often contemplate the life of the little Jesus, my children, for it is the mirror of all virtues for you, and not only during Advent, but even now when Advent and Christmas have passed away, there should be a little shrine in your heart dedicated to the dear Christ-Child. There offer your acts of prompt obedience, ardent prayer, and loving sacrifice. Jesus will consider thi§ the best and the dearest gift of the season. Source: Story Sermonettes for the Children's Mass, Imprimatur 1921 A coloring picture of the Holy Family can be found below. 
'Tis Christmas in Your Heart Tis' a story that they love to tell in Ireland. 'Tis a story the whole world loves to hear. For 'tis the story of how warm arms held the Infant King and Christ found His cradle on a human heart while Mary slept. It seems that Brigid was still a young woman the loveliest and the sweetest in all Ireland. The water of Patrick's baptism was still moist on her white; unstained forehead; the light of faith had wakened Bethlehem stars in her eyes — When God gave her a vision and a dream. She knelt; sweet maid; in her father's castle, alone in the little room in which she prayed to God and loved God's mother. Christmas was in her heart as Christmas was in the crisp, crackling air about her. For 'twas the lovely eve of the lovely day when Heaven came to earth and the bosom of an immaculate maid became the first cradle of a God made man. ALONE with her thoughts, Brigid dreamed of the Christmas soon to be sung in the chapel by the old priest who had once been a Druid, till he had bowed his venerable head, as did the Magi, before Incarnate Wisdom. The cold winds swept across her room, playing like mice among the rushes on the floor, or sighing about the corners like wishful souls of the weary Old Law, tired of their long delay. But Brigid swept and garnished her soul for the coming dawn and the coming King. SOON at the Christmas Mass the the Infant Savior was to come again. Soon she could hold Him within her breast. And for a moment even Mary she regarded without any envy. Christ would be hers too. He would be born in her virgin soul. What else could Christmas be except Christ coming to fill the soul with the glory of His Godhead hidden in swad- dling clothes or in the disguise of a white host? Yet the heart of Brigid was only for a moment content. The white host would hide Him too completely. It held Him safe as never swaddling clothes had done, and it would bind Him away from her searching sight. Ah, how she longed to see Him in all the pale sweetness of His infancy! How she ached to feel His tiny fingers fumbling at her throat, His helpless little head pillowed against her breast. His warm breath keeping rhythm with the sighs which were the beat of His soul, that could not sleep for love of heedless men. 'TRULY the host was fair and hid Him in its whiteness. Yet even the Christmas Mass would not bring to her His mother. 'Twould be the priest that would bear Him to her, not Mary, who had placed Him trustfully in the arms of shepherds sweaty from running at an angel's command. Brigid sighed for the whole of Christmas, for Christ and His mother, for the Child and the Madonna. Oh she sighed and she prayed. She prayed and she sighed. For her heart was heavy with the joy of Christmas and heavy too with an unsatisfied longing for Bethlehem. Then came the vision. The sentry struck the midnight hour heavily on her father's wall. Brigid's eyes closed, then opened again. And Christmas began. The rough stone walls of her room, damp with the winter's chill and scarred with the never healing wounds of ancient masons, receded and grew dim. Gently the walls sloped back until they were the slanting of autumnal hills, grey-brown against the heavy folds of velvet sky. She lifted her head to see, not the tapestried ceiling of her cell, but the faint flickers of watchful stars grown pale before the resistless glory of one rival star that glowed over the hills. And the little door that sh'e had passed so often, as she talked from her room to the chapel, was the dark; forbidding entry of a cave. SLOWLY Brigid rose, for the vision needed no angel to interpret it. Off in the pathways of the hills she heard voices that she knew were those of shepherds hurrying away to their heedless fellows with glad tidings of great joy. It was no longer the sighing of the wind she heard about her, but the last faint echoes of angelic song stirring the farthest corners of the earth. And through the mouth of the cave trembled a failing light that touched the scarred entry with fading warmth and beckoned her as it receded. WITH quick steps she hurried forward and stood while the last rays of the light died against the warm wool of her white mantle and the heavy red folds that were her sleeves, and the linen coif that bound her head and held captive her heavy braids. Drawn forward by the dying light, she entered the cave — And paused. Surely, she should kneel and adore. Heaven was here, buried in the blue shadows of a cave. God was among His people, wait- ing for His worshipers. But Brigid did not kneel. Her woman's heart was too full of pity for the scene, struck down by the heavy hand of exhaustion, a stalwart man lay upon the rough earth of the cave, his traveler s cloak scarce wrapped around him, his traveler's stick dropped from his nerveless hand. And against the wall, close to the manger, in which no mother long would leave her child, sat the weary Mary. Her back curved as it sought rest against the cold surface of the cave's hewn rock. Her eyes were stroked with heavy lines of blue. Her shoulders sagged as if they bore the weight of the heavens. And her head bent forward in utter weariness. Only her arms were alert. With the tireless skill of a mother, those arms made up for the frail strength of the girl. They curved protectingly about her sleeping Son. BRIGID looked and marveled. Marveled that God could be so small and so sweet. Marveled that God's mother could be so weary. Marveled that she herself felt as much of pity as of love. And out of a heart of mingled pity and love Brigid spoke. "Mary" she said, and her voice was like the voice of a harp which is swept by a breeze, "Mary, you're tired indeed." And the gentlest eyes in all the world looked up beneath lids laden with sleep, and the fair head that was Mary's bowed in assent. Then whispered Brigid: "AH, well you might be, ma-cushla. For 'tis I that know all you did and suffered ere you bore your Joy. Long was the way from Nazareth and few the inns, and crowded. Sure, your strength was never great, and 'twas far miles you carried Him under your heart. You wandered long from house to house, weary and affrighted with the doors slamming in your face — and in His. Then up the long hillside to the cave and this cold comfort on a wintry night. '"Alone, macushla, well I know it was alone you bore your Child. For what use is even a good man when a woman's great hour has come? No woman took Him from your arms to bathe Him and wrap Him against the bitter wind. That too you did, alone. could you sleep, mav- ourneen, till you had held Him up to adoring angels. And were you wearied by the shep- herds, who lingered long, held captive by their joy in Him and their unwillingness to leave the Lamb of God even for their own straying lambs along the hillside? "'Mary, beloved, you're weary. Good reason you're weary." And Mary smiled, even though her lips were tremulous and her head was crushed with sleep. "But you can sleep now, Mary machree." And Brigid slipped off her white wool mantle and laid it on the ground. "Of course you couldn't sleep; not till I came, beloved. What with the dangers of the night and the men that hate Him, you had to watch. But, Mary, if you'll let me ... if, Mary, you'll trust me ... if my arms can learn from yours the art of guarding Him . . . why, here's my cloak for your cot and my bosom for His cradle and bold in her desire, yet abashed at her temerity, Brigid dropped her eyes — blue, starred with the stars of hope; then slowly lifted them, hoping, praying, holding out her arms. Then Mary smiled again, and Brigid knew her prayer was answered. Brigid was on her knees that second, close to Mary's side. Gently the mother passed her Babe from the hollow of her arms to the cradling arms of Brigid. Gently she relaxed her weary body upon the soft wool of Brigid's mantle. Her eyes fluttered and closed. She was asleep. Within the arms of Brigid the Infant King stirred as if accustom- ing Himself to His new cradle. Then a deep sigh was born of trust and contentment. His tiny body snuggled against her bosom. Small fingers warm and helpless yet resistlessly powerful; touched her throat. And Brigid sank back against the wall of the cave; her voice; the sheerest breath of melody; singing to Jesus of Bethlehem an Irish lullaby. AND so it happened that while Joseph slept the sleep of shame and exhaustion (shame for the cave he had offered his bride; exhaustion from his efforts to avoid that shame); and Mary rested trustfully upon the mantle of Brigid; Brigid played nurse and foster mother to the Son of God. And the Son of God accepted her bosom; pure as the snows never were upon the roofs of her convents; comforting as the fire of a love that was strong enough to warm her God. The Infant of Bethlehem had made of Brigid's heart the second cradle of His Christmastide. Vision faded, say the Irish bards who tell the story, as all visions must fade until the unfading vision of the eternal Christmas. The slanting hillside stood straight again and became the cold gray stone of her familiar wall. The tapestry-hung ceiling shut out the sight of stars. The weary Joseph and the sleeping Mary were gone, and Brigid looked down into the empty hollow of her arms that had recently cradled the King of Christmas. Empty, but not for long. For Brigid rose, and through the door that had been the mouth of Bethlehem's cave she walked from her room into the chapel for the Mass of Christmas. Do you see now why the Irish call their Brigid the foster mother of the Savior? And shall we follow her through that little door which leads to the Bethlehem that is our Christmas Mass? And shall we too take into our cradling hearts the Christ of the Christmastide? Source: Tis Christmas in Your Heart, Imprimatur 1934 A coloring picture can be found below.
LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE CHILD JESUS IRELAND "The poorest of them all." But they made answer to Him, " Nay " They were lords' and ladies' sons; And He, the poorest of them all, Was born in an ox's stall.—Old carol. WHAT a grumpy old woman was Nanny-Fox ! How she used to storm at her little grandson Charlie ; and when she was not crippled and helpless with rheumatism, how she used to beat him too! Even the rough crew of Tile Street, Dublin, where Nanny lived, cried shame on her for her ill-use of little Charlie. Not that Charlie ever complained, or made a fuss about any of his trials. He was a pluckylittle chap, and his natural courage was strengthened by the grace of God given him in the sacraments and by prayer. " When Jesus is present, all is well, and nothing seems difficult: most rich is he who is dear to Jesus " that is what Charlie felt in his heart of hearts, though I don't think he could have told it in such a beautiful way. Charlie's father, old Nanny's son, had married when he was quite young. His wife had died when Charlie was born: she had been weak and ailing for some time, and her husband had not money enough to buy her food and nourishing things to keep her alive. For he had no trade; the little money he earned was for selling white mice and rats, of which he had always a great number in cages at home—in the one room in which they lived. Perhaps living in the stifling atmosphere with so many animals helped to kill the mother, as it certainly did Charlie's father, who, stricken with a fever, for want of pure air, good nursing, medicine, and nourishment, died when Charlie was only twelve years old. He had been good to his boy while he lived, for he had never forsaken his religious duties; and, when dying, he made Charlie promise faithfully to go regularly to confession and communion, never to miss Mass on Sundays or days of obligation, and to be very devout to our blessed Lady. Charlie had promised, and in spite of temptations and difficulties had kept his promise manfully ; for our dear Mother upholds amid all trials and obstacles those who ask her for her help, and do not turn aside when it comes. Nanny was a wicked old woman. She had drowned all the whispers of her conscience in gin, long ago; and if at times loud warnings would make themselves heard, she hugged the devil closer to her heart, till at last she heard no voice, obeyed no dictates, but his. Charlie took care of the mice, and went about the streets with them trying to sell them. It was not such a poor business, after all. Many children liked to watch the little pets running up ladders, playing hide-and-seek, and doing the other pretty tricks that Charlie taught them; and they generally begged pennies from their nurses or parents to give to Charlie, who would have got on very well as far as money was concerned if it had not been for his grandmother. But old Nanny took all his money from him at the end of the day, and spent most of it for gin. Charlie could have kept it from her had he chosen, for of course he need not have told her how much money he had taken during the day; but he had promised his father to be good to her—his father had not foreseen the result and he could never tell a lie, or deceive the least little bit in the world, not even though his grandmother took the money for gin, and left him half-starved and in rags. Drink is so selfish, so unkind : it uproots the feelings that are deepest-rooted by God in our hearts—the longing for Him and the love of our own relations. When Nanny was ill, Charlie was as gentle and forbearing with her as a Sister of Charity. Not that he was perfect. Now and then, when she sent him to the public house at the end of the street to spend some of his hard-won coppers on gin, Charlie would stand in the street outside the door of the " Red Lion" for a moment and stamp his foot, and say dreadful words, in his rage that such things should be. Now and then, too, he would watch some well-dressed boy of his own age. There was one in particular he often saw walking by the side of his mother or companions, chatting gaily, and going in and out of toy, sweet, or book shops; and dark rebellious thoughts would come into the poor boy's heart, and a half-quelled murmur against God for making him poor. One winter in particular, old Nanny was very trying. She began by taking all the money she could get for gin, and often Charlie had not enough for food. It was no unusual thing for him to have only a hunch of dry bread for his dinner, and neither breakfast nor supper. He was more than usually cheerful and patient, however, for he was preparing for confirmation; and Father Southwell, who was instructing him, guessing at many things in Charlie's life that the boy kept secret, took advantage of the time, not only to fit his instructions with the boy's daily need, but also to keep him back sometimes when the rest of the class was dismissed, to give him a few kind, encouraging words, to help him on his way. You who are surrounded by loving friends and relatives little know the worth of kind words of sympathy to a soul that is in its daily struggle alone but for unseen help. One day Charlie was coming home, after a long tramp; it was so cold and snowy that few people had ventured out, and Charlie had not liked to disturb the little mice in their warm nest of hay, to make them perform. He met a funny little old gentleman in Tile Street—a most unusual place to meet any one in clean, respectable clothes. "Ah! you're the white-mice boy? " he said, stopping Charlie. "Yes, sir," answered Charlie, who remembered to have seen the old gentleman in church and in a house at the other end of the town, where the rich people lived. "Well, and where do you live, and where are your father and mother? " Charlie thought the old gentleman very inquisitive, but being a very modest, courteous boy, he answered quietly: "I live at No. 17, sir; and my father and mother are dead." "Do you live alone?" asked the old gentleman. " No, sir; I live with my grandmother." " What's her name?" was the next question. " Nanny Fox," answered Charlie, more and more astonished, and truth to tell, a little annoyed at being catechised so abruptly. " And how much do you make a day?" "Sometimes ninepence or a shilling; never more than that. Sometimes I don't sell anything or take any coppers all day." " You'll never make your fortune at that rate," said the old gentleman. " And how much do you give to your grandmother? " " All I get," Charlie answered sharply, for he was getting very angry at having his affairs pried into. "All! Stuff and nonsense! Don't tell lies, boy," said the old gentleman tartly. " Very well, sir. Why did you ask me all those questions, which are no business of yours, if you did not intend to believe me?" The old gentleman was more pleased with Charlie's sudden blaze of wrath than he cared to show. He chuckled away in his white silk handkerchief that was muffled all about his throat and ears, but he only said: "Here's sixpence for you, boy." "I don't want your sixpence," answered Charlie. "Why won't you take it? You take money from other people." "That's for my white mice, or for making them act," said the boy. " If I let you pay me for answering your questions, you might come and ask some more tomorrow, and I won't answer them." Charlie was very angry. He hated the old man, and would have gone home penniless rather than take his money. "Very well," said the old gentleman, and went on his way. If Charlie had looked round, he would have seen the old man standing still in the middle of the pavement to look after him; and if he had followed him, he would have heard him talking to himself in this wise: "Very fine lad; I quite believe all Father Southwell tells me about him; a great deal more there is, too, as I have learned from the neighbors; more, too, if one only knew it. Dreadful old woman!" he added, waving his stick fiercely in the air. The dreadful old woman was Charlie's grandmother. He had been asking questions of others in Tile Street that afternoon, and had learned a great deal about Charlie that had convinced him of the justice of the good opinion he had formed of the boy from seeing him in church. We will leave Charlie, having seen him met at the door by Nanny and beaten with her crutch for having brought home so little money, shivering and sobbing in the miserable attic that he called home (for even he broke down sometimes), and follow the old gentleman home. He lived, as I have said, in the better part of the town, in a large house standing back from the road, in a pretty garden. It was dark when he reached home, and the warm, well-lighted hall as he entered struck him in painful contrast to the houses in Tile Street. For Sir Charles Felton was a good old man, with a large heart brimful of love for God and his neighbors, and his questions had not been purposeless or merely inquisitive; but I must not tell his secret yet. He went into the drawing-room as soon as he had taken off his things, where he found Lady Felton, a lady as good and kind as you could wish, and Annie, their daughter, true child of such parents. There was also a little boy about thirteen years old, though he looked much younger, curled up in the most comfortable chair in the room, reading. "Late again, father," said Annie, getting up and moving a chair near the fire for Sir Charles. "It's six o'clock, but we waited afternoon tea for you, as it was such a wretched afternoon." Be it noted the little boy did not offer to move, not even to look up and smile a greeting to his grandfather. "Where have you been?" asked Lady Felton as she gave Sir Charles his tea. "In Tile Street, making inquiries about that little white-mice boy that we have all taken a fancy to." "Oh! I am so glad, father," said Annie. "I hope he is the little saint we think him." "Very nearly, very nearly," answered Sir' Charles. He told them all he had heard about Charlie. "He's a namesake of yours, Charlie," he added, turning to his little grandson. But the boy gave no answering smile. He looked up for a moment from his book half-contemptuously and then went on reading. He had only been with his grandfather and grandmother for a month or two, since his father's regiment had been ordered out to India, and his mother had gone too. At home he had been left to himself a great deal; his mother spoiled him or took no notice of him. His father was never at home, and being supposed to be too delicate to go to school, he had had a private tutor, who came only for three hours in the morning. Charlie had been left a great deal to the servants, who had filled his head with pride and nonsense. The consequence of all this was that he was a very disagreeable, overbearing little boy, and considered it an insult to his dignity to have a poor street boy spoken of as his namesake. His grandfather noticed his disdainful manner, and being very particular about respectful behavior in children, ordered him out of the room. "That boy is perfectly unbearable, with his airs and graces," he said. " He is so rude and unmannerly, too." "Yes, it's a great pity," said Lady Felton. "The only grandson, too, and always the eldest. But I think we shall be able to do something with him, and he will get a lot of it knocked out of him at school." " What have you been doing all day?" asked Sir Charles of his daughter. " I have been out with coal tickets this morning. We went for a drive in the afternoon, and since then I have been practising for the concert in the schoolroom tomorrow." Soon it was time to dress for dinner, so they had no further talk about either of the Charlies, though they were none the less the subject of much thought. Sir Charles could not help contrasting their behavior to their grandparents. "And the difference between them," he said in a loud voice in the middle of dinner, to everybody's surprise. "Difference between what? " asked Annie, laughing. " Your mother and that poor boy's grandmother," he answered warmly. " And to think--" but suddenly remembering the servants, he, relapsed into silent thought. The next day the ground was covered with snow. Charlie, our first friend, started out with his mice, for it was a bright, clear day, and he thought he would be sure to get some coppers, for many people would be about shopping now, it was so near Christmas. When he came to the upper part of the town, which was more like country than town, with its detached houses in their large gardens and wide roads with avenues of trees, he saw a lot of boys making a snow man. When they had finished it, they began to shy snowballs at the pipe they had stuck in its mouth. Charlie, unthinking, and with a boy's love of fun, made up a snowball and threw it. It just struck the barrel of the pipe and knocked it out of the snow man's mouth. "Bravo!" cried most of the boys, in admiration of the good aim. But one of them came up to him and said haughtily, "Go away ! What right have you to shy at our snow man, you dirty little cad?" Not a blow with Nanny's crutch, or a cold night on the bare floor, would have made the poor boy wince with pain, or the tears gather in his eyes, as did these cruel words uttered by Charlie Felton. Little did the latter know his grandfather was within sight and earshot. "Shame !" cried the other boys, and one of them ran after Charlie Fox and asked him to come back and share in the game. But he was too deeply wounded, and he ran off. Just as he was turning a corner of the road, he met the little old gentleman of the night before. "Ah! my boy, we have met again. I wanted to see you. The day after tomorrow's Christmas Day, and you and I will forget that we misunderstood each other last night, and you will come to wish me 'a merry Christmas' after High Mass. I live at Felton House, but in case I miss you after church or you forget, I have written it down on this piece of paper." Giving Charlie the piece of paper, he bustled off. Charlie Felton came in to luncheon glowing with health and fun; he was rather surprised at his grandfather's dry, short answers to all he said. "But he is such a queer old stick," he said to himself. In the evening he went to the concert in the school. He enjoyed the first part very much. He always imagined himself of much importance when he went out with his grandfather, as every one made so much of Sir Charles, for all loved and honored the good old man. In the second part of the programme was a pretty old Christmas carol sung by four of the school children, each taking a different part. It is an old English one, not so well known as many others, though beautiful in the lesson it teaches. Charlie could not make out why his grandfather fixed his eyes on him with such a meaning look. I will give some of the verses here, and you will discover, as Charlie did, at the third verse what Sir Charles meant by it. As it fell out one May morning, On one bright holiday, Sweet Jesus asked of His dear Mother If He might go and play. "To play, to play, sweet Jesus shall go, And to play now get you gone; And let me hear of no complaint At night when you come home." Sweet Jesus went down to yonder town, As far as the Holy Well, And there did see as fine children As any tongue can tell. He said : "God bless you every one, And Christ your portion be. Little children, shall I play with you? And you shall play with Me." But they made answer to Him, "Nay" They were lords' and ladies' sons; And He, the poorest of them all, Was born in an ox's stall. Sweet Jesus turned Him about, And He neither laughed nor smiled, But tears came trickling from His eyes Like water from the skies. Charlie grew redder and more uncomfortable every moment tinder his grandfather's gaze. He guessed now that Sir Charles had seen his unkindness to the little white-mice boy in the morning. And poor Charlie, who was there owing to the kind forethought of Father Southwell, his only friend, who gave him any little treat he could, rejoiced in thinking that at least in one point he resembled our most sweet Lord, who, with His dear Mother, suffered such poverty and hardship and contempt for our sake. Nothing more was said by Sir Charles, but on Christmas morning after High Mass, when Charlie Fox came to Felton House, his little namesake received him with kind words and frankly spoken regret for his cruel speech about the snow man, and offered to give all his Christmas presents to make atonement. He was as active as his grandfather ever after in trying to be kind to the poor, especially to Charlie Fox, who was given regular work in the garden by Sir Charles; and the boys became such friends that when they were grown up and Sir Charles and his son dead and little Charlie succeeded to the title and estates, his namesake was made his agent—nay, more, his confidential and honored friend. Dear children, the winter is as cold now as then; the poor suffer in as great reality; all around us are the poor, the sick, and the sad. If we cannot give alms, if we cannot go on errands of mercy and charity, we can at least speak words of brotherly love and comfort. We can love all, as we would wish to be loved ourselves. Is it much to ask of us one little encouraging sentence to some one weary at heart, one little act of self-denial to help the needy? Much? No, nothing. Is anything too great a sacrifice for the love of our most sweet Lord? We can never, never love Him enough, never do anything to show the millionth part of our gratitude to Him. And let us not forget our dearest Mother, Mary; let us ask of her to help us give ourselves and all we have in the best and wisest way to sweet Jesus for His Christmas gift. We will offer our gifts through her, for then we know they will be accepted; for her Son will welcome all that comes through her hands, and we shall be safe in His keeping now and evermore. Source: Legends and Stories of the Holy Child Jesus, 1894
 I made a Christmas coloring book up for my kiddos this year and thought that I would share it with you. There are 32 coloring pages and some poetry from an old book titled, Greetings to the Christ Child, from 1879. Feel free to download and print it to use for your own families. You can find the file in our download tab under coloring pictures.
 Genevieve was born at Nanterre, near Paris. St. Germanus, when passing through, specially noticed a little shepherdess, and predicted her future sanctity. At seven years of age she made a vow of perpetual chastity. After the death of her parents, Paris became her abode; but she often travelled on works of mercy, which, by the gifts of prophecy and miracles, she unfailingly performed. At one time she was cruelly persecuted: her enemies, jealous of her power, called her a hypocrite and tried to drown her; but St. Germanus having sent her some blessed bread as a token of esteem, the outcry ceased, and ever afterwards she was honored as a Saint. During the siege of Paris by Childeric, king of the Franks, Genevieve went out with a few followers and procured corn for the starving citizens. Nevertheless Childeric, though a pagan, respected her, and at her request spared the lives of many prisoners. By her exhortations again, when Attila and his Huns were approaching the city, the inhabitants, instead of taking flight, gave themselves to prayer and penance, and averted, as she had foretold, the impending scourge. Clovis, when converted from paganism by his holy wife, St. Clotilda, made Genevieve his constant adviser, and, in spite of his violent character, became a generous and Christian king. She died within a few weeks of that monarch, in 512, aged eightynine. A pestilence broke ont at Paris in 1129, which in a short time swept off fourteen thousand persons, and, in spite of all human efforts, daily added to its victims. At length, on November 26th, the shrine of St. Genevieve was carried in solemn procession through the city. That same day but three persons died, the rest recovered, and no others were taken ill. This was but the first of a series of miraculous favors which the city of Paris has obtained through the relics of its patron Saint. Reflection.—Genevieve was only a poor peasant girl, but Christ dwelt in her heart. She was anointed with His Spirit, and with power ; she went about doing good, and God was with her. A coloring picture of St. Genevieve can be found below.
 The January 2017 Gazette is finished and ready to download and/ or print. You can find it on our download page under St. Catherines Academy Gazette.
This is a series of Catholic Gazettes for children. We are trying to put a little information in each gazette for all ages. We pray that it will help all to know and love the Faith better. It is put together by the students of St. Catherine's Academy as part of their Language, Religion, Art and Typing Courses. A.M.D.G. We hope you enjoy it. If you have any suggestions, ideas or comments please let us know at : <[email protected]> God Bless all of you! Tim, the father of this clan, Timmy, Mary, Sarah, Katie, Patrick, Elizabeth and the teacher, Julie. God is good!! ~ ALL ARTICLES ARE MEANT TO BE IN KEEPING WITH THE SOUND TEACHINGS OF THE HOLY ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH, WHICH IS THE SAME CHURCH FOUNDED BY OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST AND WILL LAST UNTIL THE END OF TIME.~ Jesus, thy name ever blessed, Bids every heart rejoice, 'Tis fit thy praise should be confessed By every youthful voice. Jesus, at thy blest name, 'Tis beautiful to see, With one accord, a multitude Adore, on bended knee. Jesus, the mighty God, Jesus, meek, and gentle one, My heart its Lord adores in thee, Its brother dares to own. Jesus, thy bitter woe, Demands that tears be given ; Jesus, my risen Lord, thy triumph I'll sing with, those of heaven. Jesus, thou Shepherd good, I sing thy dying love, Who, that thy lambs might not be lost, Left thy bright throne above. Jesus, thou Lamb of God, I sing thy purity ; Model of innocence, no guile Was ever found in thee. Jesus, the humble babe, Let praise be sung to thee, Who, in the crib at Bethlehem, Hid thy dread majesty. Jesus, the judge of all, Thy mercy will I sing, For thou hast justice satisfied, My Saviour and my King. Jesus, the King of Kings, Thy glories dare I sing, Before whom angels veiled adore, And fitting tribute bring ? Jesus, the Prince of Peace, Oh ! while I sing thy praise, I pray thy blessed peace be mine, The remnant of my days. Source: Catholic Hymns for Youthful and Infant Minds, 1847 A coloring picture can be found below:
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Holy Mother Church dedicates the month of March to Saint Joseph, Patron of the Universal Church
A Saint for everyday and good reading at:
COPYRIGHT
The purpose of this website is to share the beautiful Catholic resources that God has so richly blessed us with. All texts unless they are my own words have their sources quoted, and most of them are in the public domain. Any educational items that I have made for or with my children are NOT TO BE USED FOR PROFIT, but are meant to be used for personal use by individuals and families. You may link to our site if you so choose. Archives
March 2026
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