Chapter XV

Christmas and Its Cheer—Will Sell Anything for
Gin But Children’s Christmas Stockings—Santa
Claus No Myth—Dreary Christmas—Mr.
Perkins’ Cutter—A Lively Christmas
Gathering—Tiny Tim’s
Blessing.

When my hair was lighter but not so gray, and a great deal thicker than it is now, Christmas-tide was the greatest and the happiest time of all the year. We kids counted the days for a month or six weeks before the Day of Days, and were filled with pleasant anticipation of the coming glorious event, which, it was conveyed to our infantile minds, meant “Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.”

* * * * *

They were halcyon days, and Santa Claus was a mysterious and benificent, sanctified being who scattered lovely gifts with riotous profusion upon all the little ones the world over. Christmas Eve was an ecstatic evening, and when the stockings were hung up, and we all were bundled off to bed, but not to sleep, our little noddles were filled to overflowing with the happiest conjecture and surmises as to what good Old Santa would bring us. And we wondered how on earth he got down the chimney, especially in those houses which had no fireplaces, and if his reindeers were really truly live animals. And when, after a restless night, there was a rush for the stockings in the early dawn, joy filled our hearts and a pandemonium of unrestricted pleasure reigned as we gathered our treasured gifts, and really enjoyed the sugar sticks and sweet bull’s eyes which didn’t make us ill, as they doubtless would to-day. We lovingly caressed the beautiful dolls and exuberantly played with the pleasure-giving toys, free of all care and full of genuine juvenile enthusiasm. Happiness was supreme throughout many a household, and breakfast, for which sturdy, hungry youngsters were usually eager, was listlessly eaten with no particularly keen appetite.

Of course, then as now, there were many houses in which the youngsters were not so prodigally humored by Santa Claus, but in nearly all their childish wants were partially supplied. How many of us wish we could turn back the clock and enjoy those happy days again. Our sublime faith in good Old Santa Claus was far beyond infantile human comprehension and we gloriously revelled in our all-abiding blissful illusion.

But the time came naturally, as we grew up, when our innocent eyes were opened, and we learned to our sorrow and dismay that Santa Claus was really no travelling angel in disguise, but our own matter-of-fact parents. It was a sad awakening. Mine came accidentally. I was looking for something or other, and climbed on a closet shelf, where I found a whistle and a rocking-horse and a variety of other lovely things which I knew would not ordinarily be there. I discreetly kept my mouth shut, but when Christmas morn came, and all these same presents were arrayed in the parlor, I knew Santa Claus was a myth. But I didn’t let on. My father and mother, I figured out, were merely the earthly representatives of the princely gift-giver. Between you and me, I can conscientiously say I actually convinced myself of this fact against my will. But, later on, when I knew it all, I thought that, as is done in this later materialistic age, it is a damnable crime for anyone, man, woman or child, to break a little one’s faith in Santa Claus—as great a crime as it is for an iconoclast to destroy the faith of a child in its prattling prayer at the loved mother’s knee:—

“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I Pray the Lord, my soul to take.”

A crime——it is diabolically fiendish!

Pawn All But Christmas Stockings.

One time, over in London, England, I met Rev. Mr. Webb and his charming wife, who had lived in Canada, and who were willing and energetic workers amongst the poor of London’s awful slums. Do you know what a wretched life these poor folk have? It would horrify you if you saw their misery and poverty and wretchedness. Mrs. Webb told me that in all her wide experience there was nothing you could give them that was pawnable that they wouldn’t pawn for liquor—except—except the Christmas stockings filled with sweets and toys for the children. These were sacred even to these hardened sinners. Then why should the illusions of these poor unfortunate kids be ruthlessly destroyed? Why not let them, in their dire poverty and distress, have one little ray of sunshine in their belief in the existence of Santa Claus?

* * * * *

The day before one Christmas in Winnipeg, I was endeavouring to convince my children that there was a real sure-enough bona fide Santa Claus. The house had been put in apple-pie order for Christmas Day, when later in the afternoon, it was discovered to be in a deplorable condition. Stove pipes had been taken down and the soot scattered all over the floors. It happened this way: Jack McGinn dropped in, and when closely questioned by the children as to the reality of Santa Claus, and how he could get into houses that had no big chimneys and fireplaces—guess they didn’t believe me—fully explained that Santa could suit himself according to circumstances, and squeeze through a keyhole if necessary. He also informed his eager listeners that Santa always dressed in pure white, and wouldn’t go down dirty pipes. Then having accomplished his diabolical purpose, he left, and the kids took down the sooty stove pipes and scattered the soot on the floors to ensure a visit from good St. Nicholas. Of course, he came.

* * * * *

Personally, while my younger days were blissful at Christmas, in later years some were not so pleasant. One Christmas at Winnipeg, we were all disturbed at an early hour by a conflagration which destroyed the city’s fire hall—fire engine and all—and it was a cold and comfortless day that followed. Another time I was stormbound at Myrtle station on the old C.P.R. line between Toronto and Montreal. I had driven out from Whitby to catch the midnight train, and arrived early at the station and spent quite a little while in gazing at the coal fire and reading Folder A, which combined to make superb scenery and admirable and instructive literature. Then the village folk began to gather—just why they should spend Christmas Eve at a lonely C.P.R. station is beyond me, unless it was to look at the pictures on the wall, and see the trains go by. But they did, and all they talked about was Mr. Perkins’ new cutter, which he had brought from Toronto that day. Finally, Mr. Perkins himself arrived and when questioned a score or so of times, proudly corroborated the satisfying statement that it was the finest cutter purchasable in Toronto, and that it was a real bang-up Jim-dandy. For two solid hours I was regaled with descriptions of that wonderful vehicle, and its superiority over any other cutter that had ever come out of the west. It cost—well, Mr. Perkins didn’t say exactly how much it cost, but the dealer didn’t get the best of him, anyway. He admitted that after a whole lot of haggling as to the price, he was finally asked how much money he had with him, and when he produced his wad, they said that that was what it would cost him. And then—and then—the train came in and the conductor and the porter wished me a Merry Christmas, and in the recesses of my berth I dreamt that the blessed old cutter was in my stocking, which was hanging up on my left foot. It was a lovely Christmas Eve.

* * * * *

About the liveliest Christmas I ever experienced was when dear dead and gone Mina Macdonald, ever the good friend of the Boys’ Club of Montreal, gave a “sunshine” feed to the newsboys of the city in Victoria Hall, Westmount. It was a rare treat. The speakers of the evening were a certain judge and a Montreal newspaper man. How these grave gentlemen had prepared cautionary and exemplary addresses for the betterment of the immature Hebrews, who, in the main, made up the audience! How, after eating the bountiful fare, the little Isaacs, Jacobs and Abrahams, listened dutifully to the judge, as was proper! But when the editor appeared, they could contain themselves no longer—but I anticipate.

My good editorial friend had kindly asked me to accompany him to the intended feast of reason and flow of almost everything else. I went. He was all togged up, even to fresh underclothing, and I accommodatingly put on clean collar and a new necktie, and we hied ourselves to the hall.

There was a sound of revelry as we entered the well-filled spacious public room. There were also plentiful signs of rank disorder. Kids with blouses loaded with apples and cakes and other species of effective missiles predominated. Amicable hostilities had already commenced, and the boys just wallowed in the riot of disorderly merrymaking. I discreetly retired to a back bench where I vigilantly dodged volleys of fruit and gooey cake approaching, and my friend went on the stage. Order having been partially restored—in spots—the speaking part of the proceedings commenced. The editor’s introduction was greeted with the same sort of uproarious applause that was given to the previous speaker, which was accentuated by the smashing of a lot of crockery through the falling of a table. He said he was delighted to be with them to-night, and to show by his presence. . . .

“Where are they?” eagerly demanded a score of urchins.

“Where are what?” queried the speaker.

“The presents.”

“Presents nothing! I am alluding to my being with you.” (_Signs of disapproval._)

He went on to speak of journalism. “It is a noble profession—(Say, boys, please keep quiet)—a noble profession—(order, please)—and while you, my brave lads, are merely (will you kindly keep still?) are merely now on the lower rung—(silence, please)—lower rung, the ladder leads to high places—(for goodness’ sake, keep order!)—to high places which—(great Caesar, listen to me)—high places which have been reached by—(say, won’t you listen to me?)—reached by men who—(hang it all, boys, keep still!)—men who once occupied the positions—(for the love of Mike, order! order! I say!)—the humble positions you do now—(continued uproar)—you are all part—(I say, great jumping Jerusalem! won’t you listen to me?)—all part and parcel of the great work of producing—(say Mr. Chairman! Where in blazes is the chairman?)”

“I was going to say that you boys were—(Oh, shut up, you red-headed heretical whelps!)—you boys were—(say, am I making this speech or is it a universal recital by the newsies?) you boys, let me say—(Mr. Chairman—Oh, Mr. Chairman—where is that blooming fool of a chairman?)—Mr. Little, Mr. Little, that is ‘Billy’ Little, our circulation manager, told me—(Oh, for Heaven’s sake, sit still a minute)—he told me that you—(say, Swipesy, sit down)—that you were—(Holy smoke, are you ever going to keep quiet?) Billy Little says—(well, what next? Shut up, you infernal rowdies, you!) The Sunshine Society is doing good work, and—(say, if you don’t stop that whooping I’ll come down and pound the tar out of you)—the Sunshine Society—(keep still there)—has given you a great treat to-night, a splendid supper and a—(will you keep quiet, you pestiferous little hoodlums, you!) a splendid banquet and a delightful drive—(Oh, Holy Moses, what am I up against?)—and—(shut up, will you?) and you ought to be grateful for—(damn you, shut up!)—for their Christian kindness—(now, keep still, you young slobs)—‘Billy,’ that is, Mr. William Little, the _Star’s_ circulation manager, tells me the newsboys of Montreal—(oh, say, boys, keep still!) the newsboys of Montreal are the best in America, and if that is so, it is something—(shut up, will you?)—it is something you should—(shut up, shut up, do you hear me!)—you should be proud of and we all—oh go to blazes, the whole blooming bunch of you, Sunshine Society and all. I am going down to the Windsor for a drink.” (Sounds of uproarious applause, amidst which we went.)

Everybody Should Believe in Christmas.

Dreary Christmases I have spent, as have many others, in country hotels or on the road, but the utter loneliness and longing for home were invariably lightened by the cheerfulness and comradeship of fellow travellers, who, while utter strangers, were filled with the spirit of Christmas, and if it was not a merry one, it was not altogether a miserable day. Many can recall some of their earlier Christmases, as many experience them now-a-days, when they had need of Mark Tapley’s irrepressible disposition in order to enable them to be jolly under rather unpleasant circumstances. To those who catch the spirit of the anniversary in anything like its fullness, Christmas comes with rich rewards. It is the grand festival of the year, is one for all mankind, and for all ages to come, full of pleasant memories, of kindliest feelings and, above all, of that large hearted noble charity which blesses giver and receiver alike. It is the season which should make all hearts glad—a day of universal rejoicing, for it is the celebration of the greatest event in the history of the world—the coming of the meek and lowly One, who “brought light to the Gentiles,” and “salvation unto the ends of the earth.” Greetings, greetings, greetings, and in the immortal words of Tiny Tim: “God bless us, every one.”