 The following is transcribed. Family Theater presents Ruth Hussie, Roddy McDowell, and Lois Butler. The mutual network in cooperation with Family Theater brings you a Christmas fantasy set in the framework of Christmas music. To tell you about our presentation of Charles Tazwell's classic lullaby of Christmas, we present Ruth Hussie. Thank you, Tony LaFranco. You know, one of the wonderful things about Christmas is the pretty web of legend, song, and story that has grown up around it without obscuring for any of us, I hope, the truth of the matter. At another time of year, we might call the joyousness of spirit we experience an excess, but in the expansive mood that Christmas brings to everything, I'd use a more gentle word, a more generous description. Won't you agree that the right word is abundance? I think it's out of this abundance that most Christmas fantasy springs, out of the fact that the real truth of Christmas is so wonderful, so dramatic, so quickening to the heart and to the imagination, and that leads us to Lullaby of Christmas, which Roddy McDowell is going to narrate for us. The story is as old as Christmas, and yet is neither remembered nor told except by the tongue-less ones, the water, the wind, the rain, and the snow, by the grasses, the trees, the rocks, and the earth. They have told the story for almost 2,000 Christmases past, and they'll still be telling it 2,000 times 2,000 Christmases to come. It will be told by a wind rustling a tree of palm or pine, or of maple or mimosa, by water as it crowds against the bank or shore of brook, lake, river and ocean, and all the scattered seven seas, by rain tiptoeing across the roofs and skylights of every building north, east, south and west of Greenwich, by the singing grasses of southern Pampers, Bush and Savannah, and by the icy twang of sleet and stubble on prairie, heath and plain. It will be told by the sucking swamp mud and the hard-wringing frozen earth and the tumbling rock and the migrant sand. It will be told whether or not men listen, or whether or not there are men to listen. For as the storytellers are eternal, so is their story eternal, their story of the lullaby of Christmas. Whenever someone looked in his direction and bellowed, hey, you, he came running because he was eager to please, but A.U. wasn't his name. No one knew from whence he came, or when, or how, or why. It was quite possible that he was a forlorn and useless bit of jetson from one of the caravans that were forever appearing and disappearing with camel bells clanging, dogs barking, and drivers howling for right of way through the narrow, crowded roadways of Bethlehem. He might have been eight, or he could have been nine. A childish collection of angles and knobs with an animated pipe stem on each corner for an arm or leg. His clothing was an assortment of tattered rags fastened together with knots, thorns and bits of cord, and it stayed with him when he ran merely because his greater speed was never quite equal to the greater law of gravity. And he was always running to something from something, his sandals which had been owned and discarded by three much larger wearers flapping up and down and right and left, and his bobbing head perching precariously on his scrawny little neck like a fledgling heron on one leg. There was something about the boy that made people notice him. There was something appealing in his dark eyes and something about his cherub's mouth that unlocked the heart. Now and then someone along the street would stop him and ask his name. But when A.U. tried to answer, from out of his cherub's mouth, instead of words, would come a horrible sound, a scourging, piercing, ear-scraping, howling and shrieking. Yes, A.U. was without the gift of speech. And at night, in the stable of the inn where he made his bed, he would curl up in the fragrant hay and think of all the beautiful magic words that he would like to say. Just suppose. Just suppose the miracle should take place during the night. Just suppose that he should wake up tomorrow morning and walk over to that stall and say, Good morning, Mr. Cal. Oh, wonderful, and then he'd run outside to the pen and call out, Hello, Mr. Sheep. Oh, Mac, never since morning he could talk. He could say anything and everything that he wanted to say. And wouldn't the innkeeper's wife be surprised when she handed out the scraps for his breakfast and loudly, and clearly he said, I'm terrible obliged, ma'am. Just terrible obliged. And then when he was called to do some task or errand, he could tell the innkeeper and his guests that his name wasn't A.U. Why, that wasn't any kind of name at all. It was just an easy and careless way they all had of shouting, Hey, you. Hey, you. My name isn't A.U. Hey, don't you hear me? Hey, you. My name's Ezekiel. But the most eupendous, overwhelming thing of all, he would be able to sing. Yes, sing as no one had ever sung before, with every word and note so clear and sweet and perfect that everyone in Bethlehem would stand rock still to listen. He would be able to sing with the other children when they played their games, and he would be able to sing right along with a foreign music maker, no one with the lyre and the tame bear who walked the roadways and sang for coins. Oh, Babylon maiden, will hasten the oars with kisses of honey and cinnamon flowers. And at night in the inn, when the roaring fire was juggling fat-hot sparks in the black-caven chimney, and the innkeeper and his guests were overflowing with wine and song, he'd never need hide himself in the darkest corner in fear that they would make him join in just so that they could laugh at him. No. He'd be able to stand right by the fire and listen, because he'd be able to sing that song much better than anyone in the room. Oh, fill the bowl up to the brim let memory blend with wine and drink to glories of the past. And so, each night, before A.U. closed his eyes, he said a prayer for the gift of speech and song, and faithfully promised that if God saw fit to grant these great blessings to a small boy, that he would never use any words that weren't kind and gentle and reverent, and that he would never sing any songs that were not beautiful, joyful and harmonious. Then he burrowed deep into the hay and fell asleep, warm and content in his belief that on this night, God had heard him. In the morning when the rising sun reached through the doorway and touched his shoulder to wake him up, he would open his eyes, and then he'd open his mouth, and then very loudly and thankfully he'd say, Oh, thank you, God. Thank you very much. But morning after morning, God disappointed him, and finally after months of mornings had vanished into Egypt, A.U. knew that he would always be just as he was, as in articulate as a tumblebug, as a woodtick, as a worm. For a few nights A.U. cried himself to sleep in black discouragement, and then, then he resolved that he would never open his mouth again to make people laugh. And when his work was done, he'd trudged out of Bethlehem and wandered over the fields and hills. Travelers sometimes wondered when they saw his lonely little figure against the sky, and none of them knew that he really wasn't lonely at all, why he couldn't be lonely among friends. For he discovered that a brook running over its pebbles and stones could chatter and prattle and sing to him, and if he answered, or even if he sang, the brook didn't care a ripple that the noises he made were strange and unmusical. It went right along singing as loudly and joyfully as ever. Yes, and the winds were forever whispering or humming or caroling. Sometimes they were so filled with music that they shook their great trees and woke them up, and they tossed the great limbs and made every leaf and twig join in with the singing. So A.U. sang too. And the trees didn't care, and the winds didn't care. Neither did the rain when it front on the rocks or strum through the tall grasses. It went right on just as though his horrible din was the most sublime music it has ever heard. And then, when he was tired, A.U. would lie on the ground with his ear pressed tight against the moss and listen to the small, far away voices, the little, scarcely audible voices deep in the ever moving, ever singing earth itself. The song they sang was very sweet, but so faint and distant, that try as he might, he could never learn the melody. And so, listening to his friends, the tongueless ones, A.U. would fall fast asleep. In the days that followed, he was a little scarecrow stuffed with happiness, a standing on tiptoe happiness that was more prolific than a cottontail rabbit, an invincible, conquering happiness that could summon up more legions than the Roman emperor. It was so far above the miracle that he had asked for in his prayers that A.U. took a long time every night to thank God for his generosity. He thanked him so meticulously and particularly and abundantly that his small fingers developed a cramp, and on each round knobby knee was a round knobby callus. Without the slightest warning, coming with cockroach as any other day, wearing the same identical colours of dawn as yesterday's beneficent morning, came the dreadful day. It was begun by the innkeeper, kicking methodically at the mound of hay where A.U. had buried himself and bawling. Hey, you, you're a slice out your tongue and some of a tallow. Then the dreadful day was helped along by the innkeeper's fat and fuming wife. At mid-morning, when A.U.'s stomach was tied in a double-bow knot with hunger, he stuck one eye around the frame of the kitchen door to let it beg for his breakfast, and the innkeeper's wife doused him with slimy dishwater and screamed, Don't come grunting and squealing for scraps at my door when I'm busy, you miserable gutter rubbish! And in the afternoon, as A.U. was racing through the town on one of his endless errands, a tired thong snapped on one of his oversized sandals, and the sandal went skittering through the air, purposely ignoring half a dozen people who would have merely scowled or scolded and dropped deliberately and maliciously on the proud and helmeted head of a swaggering centurion. The centurion plucked A.U. out of the crowd by his rags and lifted him up off the ground and held him dangling at arm's length, bearing his name at his dwelling place. And when A.U. tried to answer, but only made meaningless sounds, the centurion shook him until he flipped and flopped like a limp, grief-stricken starfish, and he bellowed... Look at me, O.U. dribbling, babbling, voiceless off-shoot of a scurvy, dribble-mouthed alirat. If ever again you foul my eyes, I'll cage you and send you to Rome to feed the emperor's lions. And through the remaining hours of the dreadful day's afternoon, A.U. ran. The story of his affliction and humiliation always ran faster. It was a street, an alley, or even a doorway ahead of him. He seemed to run through a forest of pointing fingers that threatened to pin him to a wall, under a sky of blearing eyes that fell and clung to him like leeches, by endless craters of jeering mouths that spouted laughter like bottomless goat-skin waterbed. And that night, as each hour slowly yielded to an older one, and the dreadful day neared its end, A.U. was kept late at his tasks in the inn. Anyone could believe that half the known world had journeyed to Bethlehem, and the inn was so crowded that the ancient floors seemed to sag from the mass weight of weary bone and unwashed flesh. A.U. longed to bury his shame and tears in the nestling warmth of the stable hay, but his tired, trembling legs carried him about with staggering arm loads of steaming bowls and slopping mugs. He took him up, hand-slapped his ears to ringing, and his knees jolted his aching rhythm. The one who discovered and recognized A.U. was a huge mountain of a man whose eyes rolled like quicksilver in their beebeds of jelly fat. One hairy paw crusted from a steel from his beard, while the other fastened on A.U.'s hair and lifted him, his legs still running desperately in the air, to the tabletop. Then, in a voice that would have silenced Balum's donkey, he braided to the listening ears, with a little insect that I have captured for your examination and amusement. You must gather close with ears a-cape because this struggling thing has a wondrous golden voice, never equal on land or sea or up in heaven. Oh, yes! I swear it is true! A centurion made a chirp today, and its music was so sweet, it broke my heart and made the angels whip in eggs to hear it sing. A singer shall I slit your tongue like a crow's, so you can speak like a human, eh? And so, standing on the table, A.U. tried to sing. And at every tuneless howl, the crowd shocked its mockery. At every unmalodious screech, it roared its derision. At every discordant squeak, it loosed a thunderbolt of laughter that crashed and splintered on his head. And his mind was fear. And his body was shame. And his blood was tears. But he went on. He went on until the crowd had wrung the last outstanding affore, the final satisfying chuckle, the ultimate forced snigger from his wretched little body. And when it released him, he ran blindly off through the dark labor in the Bethlehem, a terror-stricken shadow racing for the quiet hills and the warm, comforting voices of the tuneless one. But tonight there were no voices. Even though A.U. held his breath, even though he strained his ears, he could hear no sound from the tuneless ones. Even when he threw himself down and laid his ear to the ground, there was no small sound to hear. Even the little voices deep in the earth had stopped their whispering and were quiet. Then A.U. howled and babbled and tried to make the tuneless ones answer him. But they only waited and listened. And he croaked and screamed at them. But still they waited and listened. And he wept and shrieked at them. But they kept silent while they waited and listened, just listened and waited. Then A.U. rolled over on his back to listen too. And he saw that a great white star had risen and was shining over Bethlehem, a star so bright it blinded him. And so he closed his eyes and exhausted by the dreadful day, he went to sleep. It was close to morning when A.U. returned to the inn. He tiptoed across the frosty stones of the dark courtyard and crept into the stable. For a moment his fear held emotionless. For the stable was bathed with a bright glowing radiance that revealed every corner and straw and pegged moat of dust. And it flowed like molten sunlight over a man and a woman and a manger where a child was cradled. Neither the man nor the woman appeared surprised to see A.U. It was as though they had expected him to come and were waiting for him. So he stole nearer and he looked down at the child. And the child lifted small hands and smiled at him. Then A.U. felt that he must speak to this child so he whispered. And the words he spoke were as clear and melodious as the water of the brook. Then he said, Hello child. And the words that came from his lips were as sweet as the winds, as perfect as each raindrop and as soft as the long flowing grasses. Then A.U. knew why he'd been born never to speak until this moment and why the tongueless ones of God's world of water and earth and air had all sung to him. And why tonight they had all been still and silent and waiting. Now the waiting was over. Now they were his voice and he was their song. And this was their song to the child of the manger. This story is as old as Christmas. And yet it's neither remembered nor told except by the tongueless ones. The water, the wind, the rain, and the snow. The grasses, the trees, the rocks, and the earth. It will be told this Christmas by a wind rustling a tree of palm or pine or maple or mimosa. By water as it crowds against the bank or shore of brook, lake, river and ocean and all the scattered zeven seas. By rain as it patters across the roofs and skylights. Yes, and by the singing grasses of the southern pampas, bush and savannah and the icy twang of sleeted stubble prairie, heath and plain. The few ears that listen may wonder at the strange childlike quality in the voices of all these storytellers. But that's so very easy to understand. It is the bright, joyful, exultant tone of the boy who sang for them one early morning. One Christmas morning. One glorious morning in Bethlehem. Thank you, Roddy, for steering us so imaginatively. Christmas time is associated by all of us with first beginnings and with the home. It's really a time of return. In spirit we can all return to that little family of Bethlehem centered at the Christmas crib. And that's where Lois Butler leads us as she sings, Yezu Bambino, The Baby Jesus. Thank you, Lois Butler. When Charles Tazwell's script said so powerfully, is that all creation daily thanks its author in its mute and mighty way. Others might see monotony, but to the discerning eye, it's beauty. Just the other day, a friend asked me, isn't prayer a monotonous thing? I didn't think so. No, on the matter of monotony, I don't think God blames the levelness of the plain for not being a solitary mountain peak or a flight of friendly swallows for not being lonely eagles. There is beauty in order and in change, beauty in variety and beauty in sameness. These are but some of the reasons I can't believe that to God prayer is ever monotonous. I know that to each new-made father, the child in his arms is completely unlike the billions born before him. A family kneeling together saying the same prayers beget among themselves not a feeling of monotony, but a feeling of splendid unity. That's why Family Theatre keeps saying the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. From Hollywood Family Theatre has brought you transcribed Charles Tazwell's Lullaby of Christmas narrated by Roddy McDowell with Ruth Hussie as hostess. Our soloist was Lois Butler. Others in our cast were Michael Edwards Ted D'Cossia, Irene Teddrow and Bill Johnstone. Music was composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman. Family Theatre's director was Joseph F. Mansfield. This is Tony Lofrano expressing the wish of Family Theatre that the blessing of God may be upon you and your home and inviting you to be with us next Sunday at 9 p.m. Eastern Standard Time or the most of these stations when Family Theatre will present our special Christmas program The Joyful Hour starring Licia Albinese Anne Blythe, MacDonald Kerry Jeff Chandler, Jean Cagney, Bing Crosby Bobby Driscoll, Jimmy Duranty June Haver, Ruth Hussie, William Ludbingen Pat O'Brien, Rod O'Connor, Maureen O'Hara Maureen O'Sullivan, Gigi Perot, Lanny Ross Robert Ryan and Leonard Warren and next week Family Theatre will present Star of Wonder starring Pat O'Brien. Join us, won't you? This is the Mutual Broadcasting System.