 Family Theater presents John Lund and Danny Thomas. From Hollywood, the mutual network in cooperation with Family Theater presents The Juggler of Our Lady, starring Danny Thomas and John Lund. To introduce the drama, here is Danny Thomas. Thank you, Tony LaFranco. Family Theater's only purpose is to bring to everyone's attention a practice that must become an important part of our lives if we're going to win peace for ourselves, peace for our families, and peace for the world. Family Theater urges you to pray. Pray together as a family. We are presenting an adaptation of the familiar story, The Juggler of Our Lady. You'll hear me in a little while as Barnaby, the juggler in our story. And starring as the narrator is John Lund. In the garden of a certain monastery somewhere in France, there is a statue. And those who don't know the story I don't think it's rather strange. There's a weary juggler kneeling at the feet of Mary. It's really quite a simple story. Because Barnaby, the juggler of the story is about, was a simple man, the simplest of men. He was a juggler because his father had been a juggler and his father's father before him. In fact, the blood of some of the greatest jugglers of all time flowed in his veins. But he never thought of these things. For as I said, Barnaby was a simple man and gave his chief concerns to simple things. There were towns within the circuit that he traveled and the kinds of flowers that filled the meadows between those towns. And he would think of the expressions of wonder that would come to people's faces as they saw him juggle the six silver balls. And it pleased him to see their delight as he juggled the twelve sharp knives while balancing a turkey feather on his nose. When he would finish his performance, Barnaby would put the knives down with a piece of carpet that served as his stage and then he would bow low to his audience and then he would make his speech. My audience, I have given my performance. I would be grateful now for whatever you can give me. Then Barnaby would pick up the pennies the people threw to him and set out to find a marketplace where he might buy some milk and bread and cheese. Three performances each day he gave, one before each meal, and one after one thrown in for the children of each city who were always trailing after him, begging him for more. It was a good way to live and Barnaby's days were rich and happy and full for he loved the things that were a regular part of his life. He loved the flowers of the countryside he'd see while on the road. He loved each little town within the circuit of his tour and he loved the children in those towns and knew almost every one of them by name for even the simplest of men can recall the names of the things he loves. And each evening, before he rolled up in his carpet, he would pray. Oh, how that man would pray. Nearly always the same words. Oh God, my God, I thank you for the riches you have given me and I beg you to help me always to remember that all good comes from you. Help me to remember it, Lord. For Lord, I am an ignorant man. And then, beneath the stars, Barnaby would sleep. As Autumn turned deep shades of green to rust and changed the lighter hues to living flame, the jugger would be longer on the roads for he could never tire of looking at the beauty. And perhaps because he was a simple man, he could never seem to realize that Autumn's golden colorings were also the forerunners of the winter and so the rains would invariably catch him on the roads and he would have to travel through the mud to some large town or he might beg some kind innkeeper to let him pay his way by juggling for the guests. Now it happened that one year in France there was a terrible winter when the skies were black with clouds and the air was so cold that the sap froze in the trees. And it happened that during this most terrible winter that the Emperor's armies were returning in defeat and the soldiers were being billeted and the room could be found for them till even the ins were filled to overflowing. And it was said that in that year more people died of the cold in the streets of Paris than had been killed in the whole of the war. It was a terrible year for France so you can imagine how terrible it was for Barnaby. Then on one white December day as he sloshed along the road with the twelve sharp knives stuck every which way in his belt and the piece of carpet thrown about his shoulders he saw a most wonderful sight. Praise be to God. Coming down the road right ahead of him was something that was almost beyond the imagination for it looked for all the world like a moving mountain. There was snow on top of it and it seemed to be moving on four feet in a most irregular manner. As it got closer, the strangest thing of all the mountain seemed to be riding on the back of a mule. Barnaby was so astonished that he dropped the piece of carpet and just stood there in the middle of the road. Then, just as it seemed about to run over him the mountain stopped, shook some of its snow off and two beefy hands came out of the sides and threw back the hood that had formed the mountain's top. Well, are you going to rob me or not? Rob you, sir? A black mark against your soul to rob a priest of God, High Women. A priest of God? Heaven forgive me, Father. I'm not a thief. I thought you were a mountain. A mountain? Too shale. Too shale. I'm sorry, Father. I meant no offense. No, no, of course you didn't. It makes us even in the reckoning anyway. The sight of all those knives stuck in your belt made me think you some sort of cutthroat. Oh, no, Father. I'm only a juggler. Oh, perhaps I've heard of you. No, no, I think not, Father. All the circus men of France, I think I am the least. The least? And from the look of you, the coldest. I am very cold, Father. I've never been so cold. Have you a place to spend the night, Brother Juggler? No, I haven't, Father. And would you like to spend it in my house? In your house? Oh, but, Father, I have no way to repay you. I'm an ignorant man. Repay here. Climb up behind me on the mule and don't talk about repayment. I must spoil my chance to do my priestly duty and deprive me of the right of charity. Give me a hand, Brother Juggler. There. There's plenty of room at the monastery. Oh, but, Father, I'm so unworthy of so holy a place. Good. Then my heavenly reward will be trice as great. For as my master said, as ye do unto the least of my brethren, so ye do also unto me. Hey, Brother Juggler! Barnaby had never seen so wonderful a place as the monastery. The great halls were full of all sorts of wonderful statuary and paintings of the saints and of Christ and of his blessed mother. So beautiful they were that Barnaby could not believe his eyes. And if he had not had the friar walking ahead of him and urging him along, it probably would have taken him two full days just to walk from one end of the hall to the other. There were so many beautiful things to stop and see. Hurry along now, Brother Juggler. We wouldn't want to have to do without our dinner. Oh, no, Father. We have a rule in this house, Brother, that even stands for guests. He who does not work does not eat. So we must find a task for you before dinner. Unless you'd rather miss dinner and make it up before breakfast. Miss dinner? If it's your wish, Father. If it's my wish, I was only joking with you, lad. I think we'll find something for you to do in the kitchen that would be easily accomplished before dinner. The kitchen was another magnificent room. There were rows of radiant brass and copper cooking pots that shone like little suns as they hung on their racks. And there was a great stone fireplace with iron kettles of wonderful smelling things cooking over it and sides of cured meats that hung from hooks below the oak-beam ceiling. And there were great bins full to their tops with food. So I leave them in your hands, brother Pinot. Are you sure he's not late for dinner, eh, Brother Jungler? Sit down, brother. Well, thank you, Father. Oh, no, I am only a brother. What is your name, my boy? Barnaby. Barnaby? Well, Barnaby, we must find something for you to do. Something for you to do. Well, if there's garbage to carry out... Oh, no, lad, I will not send you out when you've just begun to get warm. Ah, I have just the task for you. Just the task. There's one I cannot do myself. Anything, Father. You see my plants here in the window cell? Oh, they're very beautiful. The vines, how they climb. These are like little children, Barnaby. You take care of them and help them. And soon they grow strong and tall. From potatoes they are. Each time I see that a potato has begun to sprout, I put it in a little bowl of water and soon there is the chute and then the vine and then the beautiful green leaves. You want me to order them? Oh, no. The task I must give you is more difficult than that. You see, the winter has been long and now each of the potatoes and the bin has begun to sprout. And I cannot bring myself to cook them. That would seem most sinful. Oh, no, Barnaby. God gives us the potatoes to eat, not to make pretty vines to decorate our kitchens. It is as the abbot says, it must stop. So I must ask you to cut the sprouts from all the potatoes in the bin. As you say, brother, cut the sprouts. And Barnaby, please, please do it where I cannot see you. The task in a way was easy for the juggler. Or had he not learned to juggle twelve sharp knives, one knife and one potato at a time, it was almost too easy. So soon the task was done and no sooner had he finished than the dinner bell rang and the kindly old brother Parole led Barnaby to the dining hall and a beautifully resplendent hall it was with a huge stone fireplace at one end and a table nearly as long as the room itself. And the table was crowded with foods of all kinds. Roasts of lamb, floating in lakes of green mint sauce, roast chickens and roast ducks, kinds of food the juggler had never imagined existed. And every few feet along on the huge table there was a great pitcher of milk that was so rich it was almost yellow. Of course nearly everywhere you looked there were candlesticks and the flames danced as if trying to add to the merriment of the assembled monks who all seemed at the very peak of the holiday spirits. As Barnaby seated himself at the foot of the table his friend the friar got up to speak. Let us remember as we enjoy our meal that it too like all good comes from God that we must spend the energies we gain from the feast that he is before us for the honor and glory of him whose birthday we celebrate today. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bountiful hands through Christ our Lord. Amen. Barnaby had been many weeks on the road before the kind friar had rescued him. How many weeks he did not know? So it was not really so strange that the simple man asked. Whose birthday is this? I don't believe I heard you, my friend. Forgive me. I do not know whose birthday this is. You do not know whose birthday this is? Well, this is Christmas Day. Never, never since even old enough to know what Christmas was had Barnaby forgotten and now in front of all the monks owe the humiliation of it to forget the juggler who so overwhelmed with the sense of his own ingratitude that his heart cried out, Oh God, my God, how can you forgive me? You who never for one second have forgotten me. How can you forgive me for forgetting the birthday of your only son? And then, as if an answer to his prayer. My brothers, my brothers, be not so easily scandalized or so quick to judge. Our guest was wandering the roads when I found him and brought him here. How long he had been, I do not think even he can say. God does not hold a man accountable for the celebration of even such a feast as Christmas when he is in so great a distress that he cannot recall the days. Let us be grateful he is with us instead of still on the roads and let us be grateful for the gifts we have. Now, let us eat. I'm sorry, brother. I didn't understand. An astonishing thing happened for Barnaby stood up from the table and with tears streaming down his face he ran the length of the room and fell at the feet of the good prior. Father, I could never hope to be as holy as any one of you but please, please let me stay here. I'm a very ignorant man but I will try to do the work no matter how much it might be of you. Only let me stay. He does his work well for the prior if you want to be as a good man. If I only might stay here with you. The prior reached out and placed his hand on the juggler's head. This house is part of your inheritance. Our savior it was who said Blessed are the meek for they shall possess the earth. Of course you may stay with us, brother Barnaby. Of course you may stay. So Barnaby was given a little room of his own and his name was written in the great book in the main hall of those who had joined the armies of God. The twelve sharp knives the juggler gave to the kindly old brother Perot that he might put them to some worthwhile use in the kitchen and he swore that never again would they be the tools of so common and disgraceful a profession as juggling. And in the following days no one in the world was as happy as Barnaby. He would sing and laugh to himself as he mopped the kitchen floor and all in all presented so cheerful an attitude that old brother Perot would find himself set with fits of unexplainable giggling so caught up was he in Barnaby's exuberance. And when there was no work for him to do he would wander through the great halls wrapped in a constant joyous astonishment as he looked at the marvelous paintings by brother Celestine or the sculpting of brother Bissetti. They were almost alive those statues were. And when brother Yan was working on his music Barnaby could usually be found tearing outside his door listening just listening and perhaps wishing that he could make music like that. Oh Barnaby was very happy at the monastery till one day when he was sweeping up the marble dust in brother Bissetti's studio. How is that brother Barnaby? Oh it is the most beautiful statue that ever was. I've never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. I'd better come down off this ladder and take a look. Take my arm brother. Oh I am not so old as I look. This is the dust that makes my hair and beard white. As long as you are here though. There now. Now let us see. Oh yes I think it will be all right. Looks so real now that it's finished. Oh not yet brother Barnaby. We cannot have a statue of the mother of God holding a block of marble in one hand. What will she hold in her hand brother? I do not quite know. But I rather suspect it will be a rose. Yes I think it is a rose that I must find. I do not understand. I think it is a game that God plays with me. He hides a beautiful image in the stone and I must chip away until I find it. That's very hard to do. Oh if you look very hard at the stone you can usually see the outline of the image that is in it. But I must be very sure. You see this gift must be perfect and there is not much time before the feast. Before the feast? That is why brother Celestine is making his wonderful painting. Why brother Jan stays up so late with his music. Why all the brothers are working so hard. They are each making gifts. But for what feast? For what feast? Brother Baseti. Yes my boy? Brother... Yes? It was no use. Barnaby could not ask. He could not bring himself to ask. It was probably some great saint's day and after all he, Barnaby, had been the one who had forgotten Christmas. What is it brother? Nothing. Nothing. It is nothing. I think I'd better go to the kitchen and help brother Perot. But brother Perot was not in the kitchen. Barnaby found him in the hot house outside the kitchen door where the old man was working among, of all things, roses. Roses in the middle of the most terrible weather that had ever been in France. Barnaby stood outside in the winter and watched the brother Perot puttering among his roses in his own private springtime on the other side of the heavy glass. And the longer he watched, the heavier his heart became. Barnaby, is that you out there? Yes father prayer. That's your death lad. Come inside at once. Yes father. If you wanted to watch, why did you not go inside? I'm sure that brother Perot would not mind. I, I was ashamed father. Ashamed while lad, what have you to be ashamed of? Everyone, everyone is preparing something for the feast except me. And father I, oh I'm so ignorant. I don't even know which feast it is. They are preparing for the epiphany which commemorates the coming of the Magi just as the wise man gave gifts to the mother of God to keep for her son. So each of the brothers makes a gift according to his skill. Father, what can I give? I am but a rough, unskilled man. Father. Oh you have been but a short time with us. You will become skillful. Just give the best you can give with purity of heart. Brother Barnaby, just give the best that you can. She will understand and so will her son. But Barnaby would not be consoled. He would wander from room to room watching the others as they prepared their gifts. And then he would look down at his hands and he would speak to them. How can I make a gift when I have never taught you anything but how to juggle six silver balls and twelve sharp knives? Who I will be the only one who has nothing to give to God. And he has given me everything. And he would not sleep at night. He would just stare into the darkness and despair. Too sad to even say his evening prayers. And the great day came and so did the townsfolk from miles around to see the wonders they had learned to expect in the monastery and the epiphany. The main altar was resplendent with brother Perot's red roses. There were other colors too, white and yellow and pink. And brother Yarn's music was so breathtakingly beautiful that the people nearly applauded, catching themselves only at the last minute. And the painting. Brother Celestine's painting. It was so lovely it made the women weep and the men try hard not to. And brother Bessetti's statue of Our Lady was so lifelike, she held in her hand was real and nearly everyone would gasp when first seeing it. It was as though she herself had come to the feast to accept the gifts. It was a wonderful feast day and practically everyone thought that never had there been a day so much like a day in heaven. There was only one thing missing. Only one. Barnaby had not been there. He had spent the day in his little room with so second heart that he could scarcely move his head. And every now and then he would say, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I have nothing to give. After the townsfolk had all gone home and all but the night candles had been snuffed out, Barnaby raised himself from his straw mat. And it was not long after that that a monstrous thing happened. Such an event it was that the world has never completely forgotten. Father Direct, Father Piro, something terrible, a great blasphemy. Are you saying, Brother Piro, what are you talking about? At first I thought it was a simple robbery so I went into the chapel to pray for their safe return. Well, calm down. I can't understand you. Calm down, Father Piro. Come with me. You must see this sacrilege. When the two had reached the chapel and had pushed through all the assembled brothers, Brother Piro pointed in the direction of the altar and the Father Piro's mouth fell open with astonishment. For there, at the foot of Brother Baseti's statue, was Barnaby. He was kneeling on the lowest step of the dais and over his head were six silver balls and twelve sharp knives all at the same time, spinning in the air and each one just barely missing the others as Barnaby caught them and threw them back into the air. He had never tried so difficult a feat but he had never had so wonderful an audience. Then he concluded his act and for a moment stood and made a deep bow. Blessed lady, I have given my performance. It is all I have to give. Then, unable to stand any longer, he sank to his knees again. And the strangest thing of all, the statue moved. Brother Baseti's statue of Mary moved. She came down from her pedestal and the great golden light seemed to follow her. When she came to the place where Barnaby knelt, she gently mopped the perspiration from the juggler's forehead with the hem of her gown. And then, she gave him the rose. She gave him the rose and it became a living thing. He has given the best that he had to give with purity of heart. He is a simple man and good. In the garden of a certain monastery somewhere in France, there is a statue and those who don't know this story think it rather strange. The statue is of a juggler who kneels exhausted at the feet of the mother of God. And underneath, cut deep into the stone, other words, blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see God. This is Danny Thomas again. It's always a pleasure to appear on family theater dedicated to family prayer. Now for the commercial. I won't turn that dial yet because this is a pleasure too. This by no means is the first time I've publicly advocated this business of prayer. As a matter of fact, I think it's well known that I'm one of the few performers ever to hire Saint Jude as an agent. I suppose everyone prays more or less vaguely or otherwise each in his own way when the going gets tough. But family prayer is a new wrinkle. Although it's an old custom, it's a family and American custom. We've kind of lost it as a nation. But we better find it again. It's no secret that the times are ominous. And I'm afraid it's no news either that family life in our country could stand a lot more binding together to make a healthy country. But what is the glue, the cement, the rivet that alone can do the binding? Family theater declares that it's family prayer. Family theater is anxious that you try it in your family. But why not this very night? With no other object than the good of our nation and of the human art, family theater stresses insistently if you like, but I think with a lot of authority this one important truth that the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Family theater has brought you The Juggler of Our Lady starring Danny Thomas and John Lund. Others in our cast were Herbert Rawlinson, Norman Field, Michael Hayes and Sidney Mason. The script was adapted by Robert Hugh O'Sullivan with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman. And was directed for family theater by Joseph F. Mansfield. This is Tony LaFranco expressing the wish of family theater that the blessing of God may be upon you and your home and inviting you to join us next week when family theater will present Deborah Padgett in The Thinking Machine. Join us, won't you? Family theater is broadcast throughout the world and originates in the Hollywood studios of the world's largest network. This is The Mutual Broadcasting System.