 It's J. Carol Nash and Margaret O'Brien. The Mutual Network in Cooperation with Family Theater presents The Juggler of Our Ladies, starring J. Carol Nash. And now, here's your hostess, Margaret O'Brien. 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 are to win peace for ourselves, peace for our families, and peace for the world. Family theater urges you to pray. Pray together is a family. And now, to our transcribed drama, The Juggler of Our Lady, starring J. Carol Nash as Barnaby, and featuring John Stevenson as narrator. In the garden of a certain monastery somewhere in France, there is a statue. And those who do not know the story of it think it rather strange, for it shows a weary juggler kneeling at the feet of Mary. It's really quite a simple story because Barnaby, the juggler 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 his 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, like the towns within the circuit that he traveled and the kinds of flowers that filled the meadow 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 the delight as he juggled the 12 sharp knives while balancing a turkey feather on his nose. Oh, he did. When he would finish his performance, Barnaby would put the knives down on the old piece of carpet that served as his stage. And then he would bow low to his audience. And then he would make his speech. In my audience, I have given my performance and 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, with sometimes an extra 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. 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 most every one of them by name. For even the simplest of men can recall the names of 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 flames, the juggler would be longer on the roads or he could never tire of looking at the beauty. And perhaps because he was a simple man, he never seemed to realize that autumn's gold and 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 where he might beg some kind of innkeeper to let him pay his way by juggling for the guests. 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 and defeat and the soldiers were being billeted wherever room could be found for them till even the inns 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 poor Barnaby. On one white December day as he sloshed along the road with the 12 shot knife 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 mountains seemed to be riding on the back of a mule. Well 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 good? Grab you, sir. A black mark against your soul to rob a priest of God, Highwomen. Priest of God? Heaven forgive me, Father, I'm not a thief, I... I thought you were a mountain. A mountain? To see. No, I'm... 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. No, no, no, no, Father, I'm only a juggler. Oh, perhaps I've heard of you. No, no, I think not, Father. For all the circus men of France, I... I think I am the least. The least? They're from the look of you, the coldest. I am very, very cold, Father, I... I've never, never been so cold. Have you a place to spend a night, brother juggler? No, I have not, Father. Would you like to spend it in my house? In your house. But, Father, I have no way to repay you. I'm... I'm a poor and ignorant man. Repay? Here, climb up behind me on the mule. Don't talk about repayment. You'd spoil my chance to do my priestly duty. Deprive me of the right of charity. Give me your hand, brother juggler. There's plenty of room at the monastery. Oh, but, Father, I... I am so unworthy of such a holy place. Good. Then my heavenly reward will be twice 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 his blessed mother. So beautiful they were that Barnaby could not believe his eyes. And if the friar had not been 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, no, Father. We have a rule in this house, brother, that even stands for guests. He who does not work does not eat. So 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 it 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. There were great bins full to their tops with food. So I leave him in your hands, brother Perot. Be sure he is not late for dinner. Yeah, brother juggler. Well, Barnaby, we must find something for you to do. Something for you to do. Well, anything, anything, Father. You see my plants here on the windowsill? Oh, they're very beautiful. 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 shoot. Then the vine, then the beautiful green leaves. You want me to water them, Father? Oh, no, 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, son. Barnaby, please, please do it where I cannot see you. The task, in a way, was easy for the juggler. For had he not learned to juggle 12 sharp knives, one knife, and one potato at a time, it was almost too easy. Soon the task was done. And no sooner had he finished than the dinner bell rang. And the kindly old brother Perot led Barnaby to the dining hall, 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 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 with 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 and that we must spend the energies we gain from the feast that is before us for the honor and glory of him whose birthday we celebrate today. 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. Excuse me, whose birthday is this? I'm sorry, but I don't believe I heard you rightly, my friend. Forgive me, but I don't know whose birthday it is. You do not know whose birthday this is? But this is Christmas day. Never since he'd been old enough to know what Christmas was had Barnaby forgotten. And now, in front of all the monks, all the humiliation of it, to forget. The juggler was so overwhelmed with the sense of his own in gratitude 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. And now, let us eat. I'm sorry, brother, I did not understand. And then 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 friar. Father, 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 if you will only let me stay. He does his work well for the friar. Barnaby is a good man. If only I might stay here with you. The friar reached out and placed his hand on the judge's head. This house is part of your inheritance. Our Savior it was who sent, 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 as one of those who had joined the armies of God. The twelve sharp knives the jugger gave to the kindly old brother Barol 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 Barol would find himself beset 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 Basetti. They were almost alive those statues were. 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 Basetti's studio. Brother Barnaby. Horace that's the most beautiful statue that ever was. I'd never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. I'd better come down off this ladder and take a look. Take take my arm brother. I'm not so old as I look. It's the marble dust that makes my hair and beard white as long as you're here though you might. Now let's see. Oh yes I think it'll be all right. Oh it looks it looks so real. You must be so happy that it's finished. Oh no no no not yet brother Barnaby. We cannot have a statue of the mother of God holding a block of marble in one hand. So then what will she hold brother? I don't know. But I rather suspect it'll be a rose. Yes yes I think I think it's a rose I must find. Oh I don't understand. It's a game that God plays with me. He hides a beautiful image in the stone and I must chip away until I find it. Is that very hard to do it? Well if you look very hard at the stone you can usually see the outline of the image that's in it. Now I must be very sure. You see this gift must be perfect and there's not much time before the feast. Before the feast? Oh that's why brother Celestin is making his wonderful painting and why brother John stays up so late with his music and why all the other brothers are working so hard they they're each making gifts but for what feast? For what feast I wonder. Brother Barsetti? Yes my boy. Brother? 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 is... 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 out 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, prior. You'll catch 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? Everyone. Everyone is... is making something or preparing for the feast except me and father, I'm so ignorant. I don't even know which feast it is. They are preparing for the 12th day of Christmas, the Epiphany, which commemorates the coming of the Magi. Just as the wise men 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... I'm a rough and skilled man. Father, I... 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 own hands. And he would speak to them. How can I make a gift when I never taught you anything? Never taught you anything but how to juggle six silver balls and twelve sharp knives? I'll 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 in despair. Too sad to even say his evening prayers. They came and so did the town's folk from miles around to see the wonders they had learned to expect in the monastery on the twelfth day of Christmas. The main altar was resplendent with brother Barrow's red roses. There were other colors, too. White, yellow and pink. And brother Yon's music was so breath-takingly beautiful that people nearly applauded catching themselves only at the last minute. And the painting? Brother Selestine's painting. It was so lovely, it made the women weep and the men try hard not to. Brother Basetti's statue of Our Lady was so life-like, some thought the rose she held in her hand was real, and nearly everyone would gasp on first seeing it. It was like she herself had come to the feast to accept the gifts. It was a wonderful feast day and practically every day 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 so sick in the heart 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. Nothing, nothing at all. After the town's folk had all gone home, the town's folk 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 a monstrous thing happened. Such an event it was that the world had never completely forgotten it. Father, father director, father prior, something terrible, a great blasphemy. What are you saying, brother Pedro? What are you talking about? First I thought it was simple robbery and safe return. Calm down, calm down, I can't understand you. Calm down, father prior, come with me. You must see this sacrilege. It's the chapel and it pushed through all the assembled brothers, brother Perot pointed in the direction of the altar. And the father prior's mouth fell open with astonishment. For there at the foot of brother Bissetti's statue was Barnaby. He was kneeling on the lowest step of the days. And over his head were six silver balls all 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. Mother, mother my savior, I have given you my performance. It is all, 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. What is happening? Brother Bissetti's statue of Mary moved. She came down from her pedestal and a great golden light seemed to follow her. When she came to the place where Barnaby knelt, she gently mucked the perspiration from the jugglers for it with the hem of her gown and then she gave him the rose she held in her hand. 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 do not 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 Margaret O'Brien again. At this glorious time of Christmas there is a feeling of peace and goodwill in the hearts and homes of people everywhere because the remembrance of Christ's birth brings new hope and happiness into our lives. It means a renewal of our trust and faith in God a renewal of our prayers for understanding and harmony in our homes and among the nations of the world. It would be a wonderful world if every day were Christmas. If on all days we have the spirit of giving to make others happy the spirit of kindness and unselfishness. This is the spirit of Christ a message to all men a message of love for one another and in our homes where this spirit reigns where it is kept in daily remembrance by the practice of daily family prayer every day has the joy and hope and happiness of Christmas for always remember the family the praise together stays together. This was your hostess. John Stevenson was featured as narrator. Others in our cast were Marvin Miller Ralph Moody Jay Novello and Vic Perron. The script was written and directed for Family Theater by Robert Hugh O'Sullivan with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman. This series of Family Theater broadcasts as made possible by the thousands of you who feel the need for this type of program by the mutual network which has responded to this need and by the hundreds of stars on the screen and radio who give so unselfishly of their time and talent to appear on our Family Theater stage to them and to you our humble thanks. This is Tony Lofrano expressing the wish of Family Theater that the blessing of God may be upon you and your home and inviting you to be with us next week when Family Theater will present The Little Prince starring Eddie Cantor and Wendell Corey. Join us won't you? Family Theater has broadcast throughout the world and originates in the Hollywood studios of the world's largest network. This is Mutual, the radio network for all America.