CHRISTMAS, presaged by the cool December dawns, the early falling shadows and the long chilly nights, is with us again. In the wan light, the city, so joyously alive, takes on added charm. The chop windows are at their best, colorful with wreaths and tinsel and holly. Then there are the Christmas trees, richly laden, beautifully trimmed. Even the dingy shop around the corner is gay with its paper bunting and streamers.

 All day there is an endless stream of traffic through which the crowds, happy-faced and eager-eyed, make their way. At night the great white roadways are ablaze; row upon row of bright city lights and picturesque lanterns-ruby red, turquoise blue, emerald green. Homes are in festal mood, spotlessly clean, donning new and attractive draperies, with little Christmas touches here and there-green wreaths with bright red bows of branches of holly with blood red berries.

But best of all, I know that Christmas is here because there is a contagious surge of gaiety and enthusiasm, there is a winning undercurrent of friendiness, there is an irresistible wave of generosity. Faces so often coldly reserved in cities are frankly gay. There is a greater warmth to the handclasp; even the very familiar "Merry Christmas" assumes new meaning and sincerity. It is as if mankind momentarily has slackened its pace, discarded for the time being it unthinking rush for the creaturethings of life, forgot awhile its pain and desolation, to celebrate a universal holiday.

Because Christmas is so very happy, it partakes of poignance. Man is never sadder than when he is happiest, and so as we gather around the festive board of home, we glance at the vacant chairs and remember. Memory is never keener than at such moments. We think of the vaniched companions with whom we had spent the day in the long ago. Out of the receding horizon of the past, we recreate feeling and revive associations. But Christmas is neither an orgy nor mere effervescent sentimentality.

It is a beautiful season, Christmas is, when we rise above the pettiness of our own being, to attune ourselves to the universality of its appeal. It is strange how Christmas has survived the commercialism to which it has been subjected and triumphed over the frantic rush for wordly considerations, even over the bitterness which follows frustration and disappointment. Each year it has risen above its fetters, a true season when people all over the world join hands and make merry. Herein lies the beauty of Christmas, not in a lone gathering however lavish or mirthful, but in the long chain of such gatherings uniting men of all climes into brotherhood, into a unity of feeling. Nor does it stop here. In the consciousness of other generations that have kept the day, we establish a link which defies the isolation of time as well as of place. And we realize how large the house of life really is and how hospitable.

And sometimes we wonder at the reason for so widespread an appeal. It cannot be that human suffering and sorrow and misery are gone. Rather, it must be because joy and enthusiasmand goodwill are contagious. The hearty greetings, the sincere word, the honest good will strike responsive chords in our innerselves and unknowingly we are swept from our guarded reserve and are carried off in the genial flow of kindred feelings. Then, too, despite the apparent unbelief of the wordly wise, the growing skepticism of the learned and the much vaunted irreligiousness of today, Christmas, taking root in the Christian feast of the Nativity, has never been completely divested of its religious significance.

The oft-told story has not loosened its hold on the mindes and hearts of all people. Over and over we hear with rapt wonder of that night long ages past, when to the shepherds of the Judean hills, the Angel of the Lord brought tidings of great joy, for the Christ Child was born. Far above the trees in the east, a livid spark flashing rays of crimson and saffron spiralled upwards and rounded itself into a lustrous star. Through the blue stillness of the long night, it led the Wise Men. And they came upon the young Virgin Mother and the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes in a manger. In the blinding radiance, they fell upon their knees and worshipped and offered their gifts of gold and frankincence and myrrh, for they had found the King. And so the story goes on from year to year. Neither has the passing of timereally changed man's attitude of awe and reverence. Whether we acknowledged it or not, we read and echo the thoughts:

 Faith or fancy-call it what you will-

The stars of Christmas guide me to HIM still.