 Family Theatre presents Loretta Young. From Hollywood, the Mutual Network in Cooperation with Family Theatre presents Miss Loretta Young. In Charles Taswell's story of a small boy who became the Little Esthanian. Once upon a time, or many, many years ago, as time was calculated by men, but which was merely yesterday in the celestial calendar of heaven, there was in paradise a most miserable, thoroughly unhappy, and utterly dejected cherub, who was known throughout heaven as the Little Estangel. He was exactly four years, six months, five days, seven hours, and 42 minutes of age, when he presented his small self to the venerable gatekeeper and waited for admittance to the glorious kingdom of God. Standing defiantly with his short brown legs wide apart, the Little Estangel tried to pretend that he wasn't at all impressed by such unearthly splendor, and that he wasn't at all afraid. But his lower lip trembled, and a tear disgraced him by making a new furrow down his already tear-streaked face, coming to a precipitous halt at the very tip-in of his small freckled nose. But that wasn't all. While the kindly gatekeeper was entering the name in his great book, the Little Estangel, having left home as usual without a handkerchief, endeavored to hide the tell-tale evidence by sniffling. Oh, a most unangelic sound, which so unnerved the good gatekeeper that he did something he had never done before in all eternity, he blotted the page. From that moment on, the heavenly peace was never quite the same, and the Little Estangel soon became the despair of all the heavenly host. His shrill, ear-splitting whistle sounded at all hours through the golden streets, which startled the patriarch prophets and disturbed their meditations. Yes, and on top of that, he inevitably sang off-key at the singing practice of the heavenly choir, spoiling his ethereal effect, and being so small that it seemed to take him twice as long as anyone else to get to nightly prayers, the Little Estangel always arrived late, and always knocked everyone's wings as skew as he darted into his place. Although these flaws and behavior might have been overlooked, the general appearance of the Little Estangel was even more disreputable than his deportment. It was first whispered among the seraphim and cherubin, and then said aloud among the angels and the archangels that he didn't even look like an angel, and they were all quite correct. He didn't. His halo was permanently tarnished, where he held onto it with one hot little chubby hand when he ran, and he was always running. Furthermore, even when he stood very still, it never behaved like a halo should. It was always slipping down over his right eye, or over his left eye, or else just for pure meanness, slipping off the back of his head and rolling away down some golden street, just so he'd have to chase after it. Yes, and it must be here recorded that his wings were neither useful nor ornamental. All paradise held its breath when the Little Estangel perched himself like an unhappy fledgling sparrow on the very edge of a guilty cloud and prepared to take off. He would teeter this way and that way, but after much coaxing and a few false starts, he would shut both of his eyes, hold his freckled nose, count up to 303, and then hurl himself slowly into space. However, owing to the regrettable fact that he always forgot to move his wings, the Little Estangel always fell head over halo. Oh, dear! It was also reported and never denied that whenever he was nervous, which was most of the time, he bit his wingtips. Now anyone can easily understand why the Little Estangel would soon or late have to be disciplined. And so, on an eternal day of an eternal month in the year eternal, he was directed to present his small self before an angel of the peace. The Little Estangel combed his hair, dusted his wings, and scrambled into an almost clean robe. And then, with a heavy heart, he trudged his way to the place of judgment. He tried to postpone the dreaded ordeal by loitering along the street of the guardian angels, pausing a few timeless moments to minutely examine the long list of new arrivals. Although all heaven knew that he couldn't read a word. And he idled more than several immortal moments to carefully examine a display of aureate harps, although everyone in the celestial city knew that he couldn't tell a crotchet from a semi-quaver. But at last, and at length, he slowly approached a doorway which was surmounted by a pair of golden scales, signifying that heavenly justice was dispensed within. To the Little Estangel's great surprise, he heard a voice singing. The Little Estangel removed his halo and breathed upon it heavily, and then polished it upon his robe, a procedure which added nothing to that garment's already untidy appearance, and then tiptoed in. The singer, who was known as the understanding angel, looked down at the small culprit, and the Little Estangel instinctively tried to make himself invisible by the ingenious process of withdrawing his head into the car of his robe, very much like a snapping turtle. At that, the singer laughed, a kind, heartwarming sound. And he said, Oh, so you're the one who's been making heaven so unheavenly. Come here, cherub, and tell me all about it. The Little Estangel ventured a furtive look beneath his robe, first one eye, and then the other eye, and suddenly, almost before he knew it, he was perched on the lap of the understanding angel and was explaining how very difficult it was for a boy who suddenly finds himself transformed into an angel. Yes, and no matter what the archangel said, he'd only swung once on that. Well, twice. Oh, all right, then. He'd swung three times on the golden gates. But that was just for something to do. That was the whole trouble. There wasn't anything for a small angel to do, and he was very homesick. Oh, not the paradise wasn't beautiful, but, oh, earth was beautiful, too. Wasn't it created by God himself? Why, there were trees to climb, and brooks to fish, and caves to play at pirate chiefs, and hole, and sun, and rain, and dark, and dawn, and thick brown dust so soft and warm beneath your feet. The understanding angel smiled, and in his eyes was a long-forgotten memory of another small boy in a long ago. Then he asked the Little Estangel what would make him most happy in paradise. The cherub thought for a moment and then whispered in his ear, there's a box. I left it under my bed back home. If only I could have that. The understanding angel nodded his head, you shall have it, he promised. And a fleet-winged heavenly messenger was instantly dispatched to bring the box to paradise. And then in all those timeless days that followed, everyone wondered at the great change in the Little Estangel. For among all the cherubs in God's kingdom, he was the most happy. His conduct was above the slightest reproach. His appearance was all that the most fastidious could wish for, and on ascersions to illusion fields, it could be said and truly said that he flew like an angel. Then it came to pass the Jesus, the son of God, was to be born of Mary, a Bethlehem of Judea. And as the glorious tidings spread through paradise, all the angels rejoiced, and their voices were lifted to herald the miracle of miracles. The coming of the Christ child, the angels and archangels, the seraphim and cherubin, the gatekeeper, the wingmaker, and yes, even the halo smith, they all put aside their usual tasks to prepare their gifts for the blessed infant. All but the Little Estangel. Now he sat himself down on the top post-step of the golden stairs and anxiously waited for inspiration. What could he give that would be most acceptable to the son of God? At one time he dreamed of composing a lyric hymn of adoration. But the Little Estangel was woefully wanting in musical talent. And then he grew tremendously excited over writing a prayer. A prayer that would live forever in the hearts of men because it would be the first prayer ever to be heard by the Christ child. Amen, amen, hallelujah, amen. But the Little Estangel was lamentably lacking in literate skill. What, oh, what could a small angel give that would please the holy infant? The time of the miracle was very close at hand when the Little Estangel at last decided on his gift. And then on that day of days he proudly brought it from its hiding place behind a cloud and humbly with downcast eyes placed it before the throne of God. It was only a small, rough, unsightly box but inside were all those wonderful things that even the child of God would treasure. A small, rough, unsightly box lying among all those glorious gifts from all the angels of paradise. Gifts of such rare and radiant splendor and breathless beauty that heaven and all the universe were lighted by the mere reflection of their glory. And when the Little Estangel saw this he suddenly knew that his gift to God's child was irreverent and he devoutly wished he might reclaim his shabby gift. It was ugly. Oh, it was worthless. Oh, if only he could hide it away from the sight of God before it was even noticed. But it was too late. The hand of God moved slowly over all that array of shining gifts. Then paused. Then dropped. Then came to rest on the lowly gift of the Little Estangel. The Little Estangel trembled as he saw what the box had opened and there before the eyes of God and all of his heavenly host was what he offered to the Christ child and what was his gift to the blessed infant? Well, there was a butterfly with golden wings captured one bright summer day on the high hills over Jerusalem and a sky blue egg from a birch nest in the olive tree that stood to shade his mother's kitchen door. And oh, oh, there were two white stones found on a muddy river bank when he and his friends had played like small brown beavers. And at the bottom of the box a limp, tooth-marked leather strap once worn as a collar by his mongrel dog who had died as he had lived in absolute love and infinite devotion. The Little Estangel wept hot bitter tears. For now he knew that instead of honoring the Son of God he had been most blasphemous. Why had he ever thought the box was so wonderful? Why had he dreamed that such utterly useless things would be loved by the blessed infant? It frantic tear he turned to run and hide from the divine wrath of the Heavenly Father but he stumbled and fell and with a horrified wail and a clatter of halo rolled in a ball of consummate misery of the very foot of the heavenly throne. There was an ominous and dreadful silence in the celestial city. A silence complete and undisturbed save for the heartbroken sobbing of the Little Estangel. And suddenly the voice of God like divine music rose and swelled through paradise and the voice of God saying of all the gifts of all the angels I find that this small box pleases me the most. Its contents are the earth and of men and my son is born to be king of both. These are the things my son too will know and love and cherish and then regretful will leave behind him when his task is done. I accept this gift in the name of the child Jesus born of Mary this night in Bethlehem. There was a breathless pause and then the rough, unsightly box of the Little Estangel began to glow with a bright unearthly light then the light became a lustrous flame and the flame became a radiant brilliance the blind of the eyes of all the angels. None but the Little Estangel saw it rise from its place before the throne of God and he and only he watched it arch the firmament to stand and shed its clear white beckoning light over a stable where a child was born. There it shone on that night of miracles and its light was reflected down the centuries deep in the heart of all mankind. Yet earthly eyes blinded too by its splendor could never know that the lowly gift of the Little Estangel was what all men would call forever the shining star of Bethlehem. It's been more than a pleasure to bring you the story of the Little Estangel as a Christmas gift to all of our family theater listeners. It's our humble way of wishing everyone a most happy and blessed Christmas. And now, may we remind you as we do each week that the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. This series of family theater broadcasts is made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this type of program by the mutual network which has responded to this need and by the hundreds of stars of stage, screen and radio who have so unselfishly given of their time and talent to appear on our family theater stage. This series of family theater broadcasts is made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this type of program to appear on our family theater stage. To them and to you, our humble thanks. This is Gene Baker inviting you to join us next week when your family theater will present Pat O'Brien in Count Leo Tolstoy's Unforgettable The Cobbler's Window. Join us won't you? Casting System.