One winter night—how long ago it seems!—I lay me down to bask in
pleasant dreams. My sock was hung, hard by the quilting frame, where
Santa Claus must see it when he came. I’d been assured by elders, good
and wise, that he would come when I had closed my eyes; along the roofs
he’d drive his team and sleigh, and down the chimney make his sooty way.
And much I wondered, as I drowsy grew, how he would pass the elbows in
the flue.
The morning came, the Christmas bells rang loud, I heard the singing of
a joyous crowd, and in my sock that blessed day I found a gift that made
my head whirl round and round. A pair of skates, whose runners shone
like glass, whose upper parts were rich with steel and brass! A pair of
skates that would the gods suffice, if ever gods go scooting o’er the
ice! All through the day I held them in my arms and nursed them close,
nor wearied of their charms. I did not envy then the king his crown, the
knight his charger, or the mayor his town. I scaled the heights of
rapture and delight—I had new skates, oh, rare and wondrous sight!
’Twas long ago, and they who loved me then are in their graves, the wise
old dames and men. Since that far day when rang the morning chimes, the
Christmas bells have rung full forty times; the winter snow is on my
heart and hair, and old beliefs have vanished in thin air. No more I
wait to hear old Santa’s team, as drowsily I drift into a dream. Age has
no myths, no legends, no beliefs, but only facts, and facts are mostly
griefs.
I’ve prospered well, I’ve earned a goodly store, since that bright
morning in the time of yore. My home is filled with rare and costly
things, and every day some modern comfort brings; I’ve motor cars and
also speedy steeds, and goods to meet all human wants or needs; and at
the bank, when I step in the door, the money changers bow down to the
floor.
The bells of Christmas clamor in the gale, but I am old, and life is
flat and stale. I’d give my hoard for just one thrill of joy, such as I
knew when, as a little boy, I proudly went and showed my youthful mates
my Christmas gift—a pair of shining skates! For those cheap skates I’d
give my motor cars, my works of art, my Cuba-made cigars, my stocks and
bonds, my hunters and my hounds, my stately mansion and my terraced
grounds, if, having them, I once again might know the joy I knew so
long, so long ago!
[Illustration]
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