Just lately I have been thinking often of Them. But Their image has
never been more vividly in my mind than now, when I sit here among the
aftermath of festival. I wonder, for example, are the homes in which
They live pervaded with this same _débris_ of Christmas (or, as They
themselves are so fond of calling it, Yuletide)? Does dismembered turkey
coldly furnish forth Their meals? Are there too many calendars, and a
litter of crumpled paper? And cards--do They send each other cards?
Stupendous thought!
Most of all is my fancy busy with Them to-morrow, Tuesday, December the
twenty-eighth. I see Them rising, a little wearily, perhaps, and
heavy-eyed. Breakfast They snatch, and so out into the winter morning
towards that place where, unknown and unrecognised, They pursue
throughout the year Their changeless toil. I imagine Them gathering with
mutual greetings in the workroom--a little company about whose features
I have so often speculated. Poets are there, and artists; probably some
among the men may wear their hair a trifle longer than the military
fashion of to-day; but the greater part of the crowd are almost
certainly women. Now the talk dies down; presently They are all once
more bending in silence over Their appointed tasks.
Yes, here at one desk is the artist to whose genius we owe the obese
robin perched upon a horse-shoe, or the churchyard by moonlight after
(apparently) a severe spangle-storm. Here again a poet, whose eye in a
fine frenzy rolling proclaims an inspiration, or at least some subtle
variant upon a familiar theme. He stoops and, even as I watch, has
traced swiftly, with vibrant pen, this couplet:--
"The old, old wish I send to thee,
Jocund may thy Xmas be!"
Then, with a little sigh, he leans back, satisfied that for him the
holiday intermission had not rusted the fine edge of originality.
"Jocund" proved that.
Behind him perhaps sits a maiden like Fate, who with abhorred shears
fashions strange shapes and borderings of foliage unknown to mere
nature. And further still, in yonder obscure and shadowy corner, is one
who by her art can penetrate the future and outstrip the foot of Time
himself. For see, upon her cards, there is already written--
"With every blessing good and true
May the New Year be packed,
And 1917 bring to you
What 1916 lacked."
I wonder--how does their work seem to Them upon this morning after
Boxing-day?
* * * * *
What to do with our Boys.
"Bun-Prover wanted, 20-25 Trays Capacity."
_Portsmouth Evening News._
* * * * *
Not from the Cocoa Press.
"At a concert given in the sick bay, H.M.S. Crystal Palace, 34
large boxes of chocolates were distributed among the patients.
Mr. Balfour sent a telegram wishing the men a speedy
recovery."--_The Times._
* * * * *