I MET a little maid who cried, as though her heart would break; I asked
her why, and she replied, “Oh, Santa is a fake! My teacher says there
never was a being by that name, and here I mourn for Santa Claus, and
all the Christmas game.”
“Cheer up, my little girl,” I said, “for weeping is a crime; I’ll go and
punch that teacher’s head as soon as I have time. Old Santa lives, the
good old boy, his race is not yet run; and he will bring the children
joy, as he has always done. The pedagogues have grown too smart, and
must take in their sails, if they would break a maiden’s heart by
telling phony tales.”
The young one, anxious to believe that Santa’s still on earth, looked up
and smiled and ceased to grieve, and chortled in her mirth. I have no
use for folks so wise that legend makes them sad, who say those stories
are but lies which make the children glad. For Santa lives, and that’s
the truth; and he will always live, while there is such a thing as Youth
to bless the hands that give.
You may not hear his reindeer’s hoofs go tinkling o’er the snow; you may
not see him climbing roofs to reach the socks below; and down the sooty
chimney-hole you may not see him slide—for that would grieve the kindest
soul, and scar the toughest hide—but still he goes his rounds and tries
to make the children gay, and there is laughter in his eyes, on every
Christmas Day.
You’re Santa Claus, and so am I, and so is every dad, who says at
Christmas time, “I’ll try to make the young hearts glad!” All other men
may lay them down and go to rest some day; the homes they builded, and
their town may crumble in decay; and governments may rise and fall, and
dynasties may lapse, and still, triumphant over all, that jolliest of
chaps will journey through the snow and storm, beneath the midnight sky;
while souls are true and hearts are warm, old Santa shall not die.
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