_Done in the Manner, if Not the Spirit, of Dickens_
What an afternoon! Mr. Gummidge said that, in his estimation, there
never had _been_ such an afternoon since the world began, a sentiment
which was heartily endorsed by Mrs. Gummidge and all the little
Gummidges, not to mention the relatives who had come over from Jersey
for the day.
In the first place, there was the _ennui_. And such _ennui_ as it was!
A heavy, overpowering _ennui_, such as results from a participation in
eight courses of steaming, gravied food, topping off with salted nuts
which the little old spinster Gummidge from Oak Hill said she never
knew when to stop eating--and true enough she didn't--a dragging,
devitalizing _ennui_, which left its victims strewn about the
living-room in various attitudes of prostration suggestive of those of
the petrified occupants in a newly unearthed Pompeiian dwelling; an
_ennui_ which carried with it a retinue of yawns, snarls and thinly
veiled insults, and which ended in ruptures in the clan spirit serious
enough to last throughout the glad new year.
[Illustration: "What an afternoon!"]
Then there were the toys! Three and a quarter dozen toys to be divided
among seven children. Surely enough, you or I might say, to satisfy
the little tots. But that would be because we didn't know the tots. In
came Baby Lester Gummidge, Lillian's boy, dragging an electric
grain-elevator which happened to be the only toy in the entire
collection which appealed to little Norman, five-year-old son of
Luther, who lived in Rahway. In came curly-headed Effie in frantic and
throaty disputation with Arthur, Jr., over the possession of an
articulated zebra. In came Everett, bearing a mechanical negro which
would no longer dance, owing to a previous forcible feeding by the
baby of a marshmallow into its only available aperture. In came
Fonlansbee, teeth buried in the hand of little Ormond, which bore a
popular but battered remnant of what had once been the proud
false-bosom of a hussar's uniform. In they all came, one after
another, some crying, some snapping, some pulling, some pushing--all
appealing to their respective parents for aid in their intra-mural
warfare.
And the cigar smoke! Mrs. Gummidge said that she didn't mind the smoke
from a good cigarette, but would they mind if she opened the windows
for just a minute in order to clear the room of the heavy aroma of
used cigars? Mr. Gummidge stoutly maintained that they were good
cigars. His brother, George Gummidge, said that he, likewise, would
say that they were. At which colloquial sally both the Gummidge
brothers laughed testily, thereby breaking the laughter record for the
afternoon.
Aunt Libbie, who lived with George, remarked from the dark corner of
the room that it seemed just like Sunday to her. An amendment was
offered to this statement by the cousin, who was in the insurance
business, stating that it was worse than Sunday. Murmurings indicative
of as hearty agreement with this sentiment as their lethargy would
allow came from the other members of the family circle, causing Mr.
Gummidge to suggest a walk in the air to settle their dinner.
And then arose such a chorus of protestations as has seldom been
heard. It was too cloudy to walk. It was too raw. It looked like snow.
It looked like rain. Luther Gummidge said that he must be starting
along home soon, anyway, bringing forth the acid query from Mrs.
Gummidge as to whether or not he was bored. Lillian said that she felt
a cold coming on, and added that something they had had for dinner
must have been undercooked. And so it went, back and forth, forth and
back, up and down, and in and out, until Mr. Gummidge's suggestion of
a walk in the air was reduced to a tattered impossibility and the
entire company glowed with ill-feeling.
In the meantime, we must not forget the children. No one else could.
Aunt Libbie said that she didn't think there was anything like
children to make a Christmas; to which Uncle Ray, the one with the
Masonic fob, said, "No, thank God!" Although Christmas is supposed to
be the season of good cheer, you (or I, for that matter) couldn't have
told, from listening to the little ones, but what it was the
children's Armageddon season, when Nature had decreed that only the
fittest should survive, in order that the race might be carried on by
the strongest, the most predatory and those posessing the best
protective coloring. Although there were constant admonitions to
Fonlansbee to "Let Ormond have that whistle now; it's his," and to
Arthur, Jr., not to be selfish, but to "give the kiddie-car to Effie;
she's smaller than you are," the net result was always that Fonlansbee
kept the whistle and Arthur, Jr., rode in permanent, albeit disputed,
possession of the kiddie-car. Oh, that we mortals should set ourselves
up against the inscrutable workings of Nature!
[Illustration: "Hallo! A great deal of commotion!"]
Hallo! A great deal of commotion! That was Uncle George stumbling over
the electric train, which had early in the afternoon ceased to
function and which had been left directly across the threshold. A
great deal of crying! That was Arthur, Jr., bewailing the destruction
of his already useless train, about which he had forgotten until the
present moment. A great deal of recrimination! That was Arthur, Sr.,
and George fixing it up. And finally a great crashing! That was Baby
Lester pulling over the tree on top of himself, necessitating the
bringing to bear of all of Uncle Ray's knowledge of forestry to
extricate him from the wreckage.
And finally Mrs. Gummidge passed the Christmas candy around. Mr.
Gummidge afterward admitted that this was a tactical error on the part
of his spouse. I no more believe that Mrs. Gummidge thought they
wanted that Christmas candy than I believe that she thought they
wanted the cold turkey which she later suggested. My opinion is that
she wanted to drive them home. At any rate, that is what she succeeded
in doing. Such cries as there were of "Ugh! Don't let me see another
thing to eat!" and "Take it away!" Then came hurried scramblings in
the coat-closet for over-shoes. There were the rasping sounds made by
cross parents when putting wraps on children. There were insincere
exhortations to "come and see us soon" and to "get together for lunch
some time." And, finally, there were slammings of doors and the
silence of utter exhaustion, while Mrs. Gummidge went about picking up
stray sheets of wrapping paper.
And, as Tiny Tim might say in speaking of Christmas afternoon as an
institution, "God help us, every one."