At Every Christmas, old and young. join in the singing of: "Silent Night, Holy Night" It has been sung over 100 years. Yet it is as inspiring and fitting as when it was sung the first time.
Far away in a village of Tyrol. where snow-capped mountains rear their summits into the clouds and where the mountain streams flow so rapidly, that no frost can stay them, there lived Pastor Mohr, a good, but rather eccentric man. During the short summer months, he could be seen almost daily walking across the meadows, then covered with gorgeous, fragrant wild flowers. In his hand, he carried his broad-brimmed slouch hat, This he filled with flowers, as he walked along, then seated himself, drew up his knees and placed his hat upon them.
Soon there came flying to him, all the gorgeous, brilliantly coloured and gossamer winged butterflies ani settled among the flowers. Like a happy child, Pastor Mohr gazed upon the sight, sang and spoke to his gay friends. Not until the sun sank behind the mountain, did he leave the enchanted spot. At home in his little study he would sit hours at the open window gazing-a the stars, as though they were his brothers and sisters.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.