DEAR GINGER,--A Merry Christmas to you! A bit late, you say? On the
contrary, in plenty of time. It is next Christmas I am referring
to. Over there, in your tropical land, when the sun stings your
skin through your shirt and the sand blisters your feet through your
boot-soles, when you butter your bread with a soup-ladle and the
mercury boils merrily in the barometer, then, vainly pawing the air
for mosquitoes with one hand and reaching for the siphon with the
other, you gasp, "Gad! it must be getting on for Christmas-time."
But over here in England, where the seasons wheel round without any
appreciable difference in temperature, where, if it were not for the
gentleman who writes the calendars, nobody would know whether to wear
straw-hats or snow-shoes, Christmas comes sneaking up behind you and
grabs you by the pocket before you have time to dodge. "Christmas Eve
already!" you exclaim. "Christmas Eve! and there's dear old Tom
in Penang and good old Dick in Patagonia and poor old Harry in
Princetown, and I've not written a word of cheer to any of them and
now have no time to do so." That's what happened to me this year,
anyhow; but I'm determined it shall not occur again, so--A Merry
Christmas to you, Ginger.
This my first Yule in the Old Country, after many in foreign climes,
was not an unqualified success. On the morning of Christmas Eve I
went for a walk and lost myself. After wading through bog systems and
bramble entanglements for some hours I came out behind a spinney and
there spied a small urchin with red cheeks and a red woollen muffler
standing beneath a holly-tree. On sighting me he gave vent to a loud
and piteous howl. I asked him where his pain was, and he replied that
he wanted some holly for decorations, but was too short to reach it.
I thereupon swarmed the shrub, plucked and tossed the richly berried
boughs to the poor little chap. In return he showed me where I
lived--which indeed was not two hundred yards distant, but concealed
by the thicket.
Later in the day Edward came in to tea, much annoyed. Bolshevism, he
declared, was within our gates. He had been out to collect Christmas
decorations in his own private fenced spinney, and confound it if some
scoundrels hadn't been and gone and stripped his pet holly-tree of
every twig! Anarchy was yapping at the door.
The Aunt soothed him, saying she had that very afternoon purchased a
supply of splendid holly from a sweet little boy who had come round
hawking it at sixpence a bough. I asked her if by any chance the dear
little fellow had worn a red woollen comforter, and was not surprised
when I heard that he had.
No sooner had I fallen asleep that same night than I was aroused by
an extraordinary din. I lay there, comatose and semi-conscious in
the pitchy darkness, and wondered what had happened. Presently I
distinguished the bray of trumps, and I knew. "Golly!" I whispered to
myself, "I'm dead. Cheer-o!" Then I recollected something I had read
concerning ye sports and customs of ye Ancient British and decided
it must be "Waits." I crept to the window and by a glow of lanterns
beheld the St. Gwithian Independent Brass Band grouped round the
porch, blasting "Christians, awake!" through their brazen fog-horns.
I fumbled about on the dressing-table, missed the matches but found a
half-crown. "Take that and trot!" I snarled, hurling it at them with
all my strength. The coin hit the trombone a glancing blow on the
snout, ricochetted off the bassoon and bounded into the rockery.
The music stopped abruptly as the bandsmen swarmed in pursuit of
fortune. In half-an-hour's time they had pulled all Edward's cherished
sedums and saxifrages up by the roots and turned over most of the
smaller rocks without discovering the treasure. A conference in loud
idiomatic Cornish then took place, with the result that two musicians
were despatched to a neighbouring farm for picks, crow-bars and more
lanterns; the remainder squatted on the flower-beds and whiled away
the time of waiting by blasting "Good King Wenceslas" to the patient
stars.
In due course the messengers returned and the quarrying of the rockery
began in earnest. By 4.15 A.M. they had most of it littered over the
drive, but had struck some granite boulders which defied even the
crowbars. A further conference was then held, but at this point Edward
made a dramatic appearance, clad in lilac pyjamas, odd boots and
a kimono of the Aunt's, which he had worn as King Alfred in some
charades the night before, and in the darkness had donned in mistake
for his dressing-gown. His address was impassioned and moving, but had
no effect on the Waits, who could only be persuaded to abandon their
silver mine at the price of a second half-crown.
A day or so before Christmas I began to notice that everybody was
getting presents--everybody except me, that is. This caused me pain.
It gave the impression that I was not appreciated. I took thought for
a space, then rode into Penzance, bought several articles I had been
wanting for some time, wrote a few affectionate notes in disguised
handwriting, such as "With dearest love from Flossie," "With hugs
and kisses from Ermyntrude," etc., enclosed them with the articles,
addressed and posted them to myself and rode home again.
On Christmas morning I opened them in public with a vast flourish,
and left the touching little dedications lying carelessly about where
anybody could read them. From the glances of wonder and respect
which flashed at me from all sides I gathered that everybody did. The
sensation was both novel and pleasing. One parcel, however, there was
which I had not sent myself. It had been forwarded on by the "Punch"
Office, marked, "Please do not crush," and carefully tied and sealed.
My heart leapt. "By Jove!" said I, "a genuine Christmas present.
Somebody loves me after all. Perhaps a duchess has sent me her tiara."
With trembling fingers I unlaced the strings. The household crowded
about me, panting with envy and excitement. Reverently I folded the
multitudinous wrappings back and revealed a very old, very dilapidated
silk slipper, severely busted at the toe and stuffed with sticky
sweets, a small female doll, and a note--"With all best wishes to
PATLANDER for a happy Christmas, and many thanks for useful hints
contained in _Punch_ issue, December 10th, 1919."
I may remind you that in the issue mentioned was an epistle from me
to you recommending the Post as a means of disposing of rubbish, with
special reference to worn-out foot-gear. I only wish I knew who
played this trick on me, Ginger; I would like to give him something in
return--say an old footer-boot--with my foot inside.
Thine in sorrow,