Christmas and Its Cheer—Will Sell Anything for
Gin But Children’s Christmas Stockings—Santa
Claus No Myth—Dreary Christmas—Mr.
Perkins’ Cutter—A Lively Christmas
Gathering—Tiny Tim’s
Blessing.
When my hair was lighter but not so gray, and a great deal thicker than
it is now, Christmas-tide was the greatest and the happiest time of all
the year. We kids counted the days for a month or six weeks before the
Day of Days, and were filled with pleasant anticipation of the coming
glorious event, which, it was conveyed to our infantile minds, meant
“Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.”
* * * * *
They were halcyon days, and Santa Claus was a mysterious and benificent,
sanctified being who scattered lovely gifts with riotous profusion upon
all the little ones the world over. Christmas Eve was an ecstatic
evening, and when the stockings were hung up, and we all were bundled
off to bed, but not to sleep, our little noddles were filled to
overflowing with the happiest conjecture and surmises as to what good
Old Santa would bring us. And we wondered how on earth he got down the
chimney, especially in those houses which had no fireplaces, and if his
reindeers were really truly live animals. And when, after a restless
night, there was a rush for the stockings in the early dawn, joy filled
our hearts and a pandemonium of unrestricted pleasure reigned as we
gathered our treasured gifts, and really enjoyed the sugar sticks and
sweet bull’s eyes which didn’t make us ill, as they doubtless would
to-day. We lovingly caressed the beautiful dolls and exuberantly played
with the pleasure-giving toys, free of all care and full of genuine
juvenile enthusiasm. Happiness was supreme throughout many a household,
and breakfast, for which sturdy, hungry youngsters were usually eager,
was listlessly eaten with no particularly keen appetite.
Of course, then as now, there were many houses in which the youngsters
were not so prodigally humored by Santa Claus, but in nearly all their
childish wants were partially supplied. How many of us wish we could
turn back the clock and enjoy those happy days again. Our sublime faith
in good Old Santa Claus was far beyond infantile human comprehension and
we gloriously revelled in our all-abiding blissful illusion.
But the time came naturally, as we grew up, when our innocent eyes were
opened, and we learned to our sorrow and dismay that Santa Claus was
really no travelling angel in disguise, but our own matter-of-fact
parents. It was a sad awakening. Mine came accidentally. I was looking
for something or other, and climbed on a closet shelf, where I found a
whistle and a rocking-horse and a variety of other lovely things which I
knew would not ordinarily be there. I discreetly kept my mouth shut, but
when Christmas morn came, and all these same presents were arrayed in
the parlor, I knew Santa Claus was a myth. But I didn’t let on. My
father and mother, I figured out, were merely the earthly
representatives of the princely gift-giver. Between you and me, I can
conscientiously say I actually convinced myself of this fact against my
will. But, later on, when I knew it all, I thought that, as is done in
this later materialistic age, it is a damnable crime for anyone, man,
woman or child, to break a little one’s faith in Santa Claus—as great a
crime as it is for an iconoclast to destroy the faith of a child in its
prattling prayer at the loved mother’s knee:—
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I Pray the Lord, my soul to take.”
A crime——it is diabolically fiendish!
Pawn All But Christmas Stockings.
One time, over in London, England, I met Rev. Mr. Webb and his charming
wife, who had lived in Canada, and who were willing and energetic
workers amongst the poor of London’s awful slums. Do you know what a
wretched life these poor folk have? It would horrify you if you saw
their misery and poverty and wretchedness. Mrs. Webb told me that in all
her wide experience there was nothing you could give them that was
pawnable that they wouldn’t pawn for liquor—except—except the
Christmas stockings filled with sweets and toys for the children. These
were sacred even to these hardened sinners. Then why should the
illusions of these poor unfortunate kids be ruthlessly destroyed? Why
not let them, in their dire poverty and distress, have one little ray of
sunshine in their belief in the existence of Santa Claus?
* * * * *
The day before one Christmas in Winnipeg, I was endeavouring to convince
my children that there was a real sure-enough bona fide Santa Claus. The
house had been put in apple-pie order for Christmas Day, when later in
the afternoon, it was discovered to be in a deplorable condition. Stove
pipes had been taken down and the soot scattered all over the floors. It
happened this way: Jack McGinn dropped in, and when closely questioned
by the children as to the reality of Santa Claus, and how he could get
into houses that had no big chimneys and fireplaces—guess they didn’t
believe me—fully explained that Santa could suit himself according to
circumstances, and squeeze through a keyhole if necessary. He also
informed his eager listeners that Santa always dressed in pure white,
and wouldn’t go down dirty pipes. Then having accomplished his
diabolical purpose, he left, and the kids took down the sooty stove
pipes and scattered the soot on the floors to ensure a visit from good
St. Nicholas. Of course, he came.
* * * * *
Personally, while my younger days were blissful at Christmas, in later
years some were not so pleasant. One Christmas at Winnipeg, we were all
disturbed at an early hour by a conflagration which destroyed the city’s
fire hall—fire engine and all—and it was a cold and comfortless day
that followed. Another time I was stormbound at Myrtle station on the
old C.P.R. line between Toronto and Montreal. I had driven out from
Whitby to catch the midnight train, and arrived early at the station and
spent quite a little while in gazing at the coal fire and reading Folder
A, which combined to make superb scenery and admirable and instructive
literature. Then the village folk began to gather—just why they should
spend Christmas Eve at a lonely C.P.R. station is beyond me, unless it
was to look at the pictures on the wall, and see the trains go by. But
they did, and all they talked about was Mr. Perkins’ new cutter, which
he had brought from Toronto that day. Finally, Mr. Perkins himself
arrived and when questioned a score or so of times, proudly corroborated
the satisfying statement that it was the finest cutter purchasable in
Toronto, and that it was a real bang-up Jim-dandy. For two solid hours I
was regaled with descriptions of that wonderful vehicle, and its
superiority over any other cutter that had ever come out of the west. It
cost—well, Mr. Perkins didn’t say exactly how much it cost, but the
dealer didn’t get the best of him, anyway. He admitted that after a
whole lot of haggling as to the price, he was finally asked how much
money he had with him, and when he produced his wad, they said that that
was what it would cost him. And then—and then—the train came in and
the conductor and the porter wished me a Merry Christmas, and in the
recesses of my berth I dreamt that the blessed old cutter was in my
stocking, which was hanging up on my left foot. It was a lovely
Christmas Eve.
* * * * *
About the liveliest Christmas I ever experienced was when dear dead and
gone Mina Macdonald, ever the good friend of the Boys’ Club of Montreal,
gave a “sunshine” feed to the newsboys of the city in Victoria Hall,
Westmount. It was a rare treat. The speakers of the evening were a
certain judge and a Montreal newspaper man. How these grave gentlemen
had prepared cautionary and exemplary addresses for the betterment of
the immature Hebrews, who, in the main, made up the audience! How, after
eating the bountiful fare, the little Isaacs, Jacobs and Abrahams,
listened dutifully to the judge, as was proper! But when the editor
appeared, they could contain themselves no longer—but I anticipate.
My good editorial friend had kindly asked me to accompany him to the
intended feast of reason and flow of almost everything else. I went. He
was all togged up, even to fresh underclothing, and I accommodatingly
put on clean collar and a new necktie, and we hied ourselves to the
hall.
There was a sound of revelry as we entered the well-filled spacious
public room. There were also plentiful signs of rank disorder. Kids with
blouses loaded with apples and cakes and other species of effective
missiles predominated. Amicable hostilities had already commenced, and
the boys just wallowed in the riot of disorderly merrymaking. I
discreetly retired to a back bench where I vigilantly dodged volleys of
fruit and gooey cake approaching, and my friend went on the stage. Order
having been partially restored—in spots—the speaking part of the
proceedings commenced. The editor’s introduction was greeted with the
same sort of uproarious applause that was given to the previous speaker,
which was accentuated by the smashing of a lot of crockery through the
falling of a table. He said he was delighted to be with them to-night,
and to show by his presence. . . .
“Where are they?” eagerly demanded a score of urchins.
“Where are what?” queried the speaker.
“The presents.”
“Presents nothing! I am alluding to my being with you.” (_Signs of
disapproval._)
He went on to speak of journalism. “It is a noble profession—(Say,
boys, please keep quiet)—a noble profession—(order, please)—and while
you, my brave lads, are merely (will you kindly keep still?) are merely
now on the lower rung—(silence, please)—lower rung, the ladder leads
to high places—(for goodness’ sake, keep order!)—to high places
which—(great Caesar, listen to me)—high places which have been reached
by—(say, won’t you listen to me?)—reached by men who—(hang it all,
boys, keep still!)—men who once occupied the positions—(for the love
of Mike, order! order! I say!)—the humble positions you do
now—(continued uproar)—you are all part—(I say, great jumping
Jerusalem! won’t you listen to me?)—all part and parcel of the great
work of producing—(say Mr. Chairman! Where in blazes is the chairman?)”
“I was going to say that you boys were—(Oh, shut up, you red-headed
heretical whelps!)—you boys were—(say, am I making this speech or is
it a universal recital by the newsies?) you boys, let me say—(Mr.
Chairman—Oh, Mr. Chairman—where is that blooming fool of a
chairman?)—Mr. Little, Mr. Little, that is ‘Billy’ Little, our
circulation manager, told me—(Oh, for Heaven’s sake, sit still a
minute)—he told me that you—(say, Swipesy, sit down)—that you
were—(Holy smoke, are you ever going to keep quiet?) Billy Little
says—(well, what next? Shut up, you infernal rowdies, you!) The
Sunshine Society is doing good work, and—(say, if you don’t stop that
whooping I’ll come down and pound the tar out of you)—the Sunshine
Society—(keep still there)—has given you a great treat to-night, a
splendid supper and a—(will you keep quiet, you pestiferous little
hoodlums, you!) a splendid banquet and a delightful drive—(Oh, Holy
Moses, what am I up against?)—and—(shut up, will you?) and you ought
to be grateful for—(damn you, shut up!)—for their Christian
kindness—(now, keep still, you young slobs)—‘Billy,’ that is, Mr.
William Little, the _Star’s_ circulation manager, tells me the newsboys
of Montreal—(oh, say, boys, keep still!) the newsboys of Montreal are
the best in America, and if that is so, it is something—(shut up, will
you?)—it is something you should—(shut up, shut up, do you hear
me!)—you should be proud of and we all—oh go to blazes, the whole
blooming bunch of you, Sunshine Society and all. I am going down to the
Windsor for a drink.” (Sounds of uproarious applause, amidst which we
went.)
Everybody Should Believe in Christmas.
Dreary Christmases I have spent, as have many others, in country hotels
or on the road, but the utter loneliness and longing for home were
invariably lightened by the cheerfulness and comradeship of fellow
travellers, who, while utter strangers, were filled with the spirit of
Christmas, and if it was not a merry one, it was not altogether a
miserable day. Many can recall some of their earlier Christmases, as
many experience them now-a-days, when they had need of Mark Tapley’s
irrepressible disposition in order to enable them to be jolly under
rather unpleasant circumstances. To those who catch the spirit of the
anniversary in anything like its fullness, Christmas comes with rich
rewards. It is the grand festival of the year, is one for all mankind,
and for all ages to come, full of pleasant memories, of kindliest
feelings and, above all, of that large hearted noble charity which
blesses giver and receiver alike. It is the season which should make all
hearts glad—a day of universal rejoicing, for it is the celebration of
the greatest event in the history of the world—the coming of the meek
and lowly One, who “brought light to the Gentiles,” and “salvation unto
the ends of the earth.” Greetings, greetings, greetings, and in the
immortal words of Tiny Tim: “God bless us, every one.”
[Illustration: BROTHER ANDRE AND THE ORATORY OF ST. JOSEPH.]