Narrator read by Pamela Krantz. Characters, Christmas Gifts read by Charlotte Duckett,
Money read by Ruth Golding, Christmas Tree read by Manda Friday, Christmas Stocking
read by Ginger Cucolo. Plum Pudding read by Rapunzlina sir It read by Lyn
Silva. An Old Man read by David Olsen. A Child read by Adililia
King's Son read by David Lawrence. Narrator read by Pamela Krantz. What makes
Christmas Christmas a morality? Play the scene At the sides and back the stage
is hung with curtains of a cold gray tone, lighter toward the top.
In the upper left corner, a bright star is shining across the top.
At the front hangs a dark gray curtain stenciled in a geometric design with dull
gold paint. A dark line of drapery borders the sides of the proscenium.
A little to the right center and more than half way back is a stone
bench with a pine tree at each end. The light is diffused and dim
to represent night in the distance. An almost imperceptible regular drumming is heard during
the solemn parts of the play. This monotonous beat is always audible, determining
the tempo of the movement. There enters right Christmas gifts, a coquettish elf
like figure, and a gold tunic and a stiff skirt stopping at the knees.
On her head is a gold cap like a cornucopia, and her stockings
and slippers our gold. She enters dancing. She is followed by money Bag,
who loiters sulkily behind, examining a little musical pipe which she carries.
Money Bag is dressed in a loose brown bag, tied up about the neck
with a hempen rope. Otherwise he looks a little like a brownie. I
are you so excited gifts? Why it's Christmas Eve, mister money bag,
she curtsies mockingly. Christmas is no better for gifts than any other time of
year. What's the matter with birthdays? Poor old money bag? Kissing him
and dancing off. It's such a great drain on you, Yes it is.
See how poor and thin I've grown a month ago. My sides were
all bulgy with my savings. But it's a season. I thrive. You
thrive, my lady, at my expense. I want to dance. Money,
dear, caressingly, play me a nice little tune whenever you want anything.
Then you're very nice to me with your money, DearS, you always
have to rely on me for whatever you want. Money makes the dance girl.
Yes you're not a very esthetic creature, though, Money tosses his head
angrily. Oh, but we all love you. You're ever so much better
than you look. Come play me a nice little tune to dance to.
Tra la la la la, tra la la la la, still pouting and
shaking his head. I think my pipe is broken. He plays a few
discords always broke when I ask you for anything, Come just one little tune.
Money begins to play and gifts starts for dance. Suddenly, abruptly,
in the middle of a strain, Money breaks off and begins to examine his
pipe with greater interest. Oh do play, stamping her foot. It's so
tantalizing money to have you give out this way. Yes, it's money this
and money that, and you'll beckon call all the while. I can't keep
on forever? Can I? With no pauses to catch my breath. It's
hard work to keep time all the time. There's a good old money bag
kissing him a nice old money bag. Of course, you have to pretend
that times are hard, money grunts, and begins to play m After a
few hours, he again stops abruptly on a high note and falls to examining
his pipe. You always give out this way at the crucial moment, dear
money bag, just one more little strain. The strains too much for me,
how stingy you are. And your music is pretty poor too. I
noticed it's good enough for your dancing. I'd dance to a different tune if
I could. Aily, it's my artistic temperament anyway, which furnishes all m
oh tastey temperament? Indeed, when did that ever furnish anything but trouble?
I'd like to know? Enter left Christmas tree. He wears a short,
flaring green tunic trimmed with horizontal evergreen bands, green knickers, brown stockings,
and scarlet slippers. On his head is a peaked green cap. From time
to time, electric lights shine out on the point of his cap and in
the evergreen bands. Here here you two squabbling again. Why it's Christmas Eve,
the time for shouting and laughter? See how I shine? The bulbs
glow and flicker out. He won't play for me? Oh yes he will,
and like a right good fellow too. Why one hour more and it
will be Christmas, mister bagg, See how I shine with the festive spirit.
The lights glow a moment. Now, if ever is the time to
play, Come gifts. We'll have a little dance together. They caper about,
but Money continues to salt. Then examine his pipe, Come, come
money, What would gifts be without you? She can expect no more of
me gifts flinging arms round his neck. Dear old money bag, you're too
fickle, not in loving you. This is the season of jollity. See
how I shine? The lights glow again, gass one short pace. Then
he begins to play. Gifts and tree join hands. It's scandalous the way
you treat him. You're so changeable. You seem to forget the Christmas gifts
must be all things to all men. They dance presently. The music stops
again on a high note. In the middle of a strain, Money is
given out again. A new tune starts up. Now early is stocking enters
left. He wears a blue and white doublet and a square cap on his
head. On the whole he resembles a checked pantaloon more than anything else.
Stocking dances gaily while gifts and tree give him the floor. Poor Stocking.
It's very seldom money spends any effort on him. You mean, it's very
seldom money is ever spent on him. Women are so reckless in what they
say. Stocking stops breathless. How well you dance tonight, Stocking on Christmas
Eve? I always dance well. I'm dancing dreams into the heads of all
the children. The stockings are hung by the chimney with care. You know,
that's the very core of the whole thing. What would Christmas be without
me? Why? I am Christmas rubbish, old fellow. You're all right,
of course, In fact, you play your part very nicely. But
what would Christmas be without a tree? See how I shine the lamp's glow.
Sooner a Christmas any time without a tree than without a stocking. Why
it's the whole joy of Christmas to hang up your stocking, have dreams dancing
on your head all night, and dash down in the morning to pull out
gifts. There you are, It's gifts thereafter, What would an empty stocking
be? It's gifts gifts, gifts that makes them happy. Stocking is about
to retort, but Tree pushes him aside. There there don't quarrel. We
all admit that Christmas would be a pretty slow thing without you stalking, and
that you'd be a pretty disappointing fellow without gifts. You're both essential to Christmas.
I guess, so Christmas Eve and no stalking. Why it's inconceivable.
Whoever heard of a Christmas with no gifts? Why I enter every lowest hovel,
bringing joy wherever I go, and spreading Christmas trere. I visit the
richmond in his villa, and the convict in his prison, and the soldier
in his trench. Everywhere I go, helping and sententiously, making all men
brothers. The whole world becomes one vast fraternity under the charm of Christmas gifts.
Wherever I look, I will see Christmas smiling. See how I shine
the lamps flesh. What is a home without me when Christmas dawns? Why
I am the very center and symbol of joy round me. The family gather
and look at me with smiling eyes. I am the shrine of Christmas.
Christmas is Christmas without a single gift. If I stand shining by the hearth.
Where would you all be without me? Who ever heard of anyone's keeping
Christmas without money? I may not make as much show as some of you
here, but money is their biggest thing in life. What's a man without
money? Where can he live? What can he eat? What can he
do? Build? Canals and palaces and the great ships that sail on the
sea. I wage war and bring back peace again. I wreck hospitals and
bring men healing and comfort. Without me, the whole world would fall into
chaos, and the race of men would perish Christmas without money? Indeed,
here comes plum Pudding. He has attended countless Christmas festivals. Yes, but
think of his reputation. I'll admit that he is in averse to a little
liquor and is often in his cups. But he is a man of the
world and has seen life. He ought to know what makes Christmas Christmas.
Let's lay the whole matter squarely before him and abide by his decision. Yes,
plum Pudding knows what's what? I agree, and I and I enter
left. Plum Pudding. He is a portly old gentleman, dressed in black
velvet with red stockings and a red sash. Good evening, mister pudding.
We're having a little discussion here about who's most essential to Christmas. Now I
just tell them, please, what Christmas would be without a tree? See
how I shine the lamps glow? Hum, mister pudding, did you ever
hear of a Christmas without gifts? She takes his arm coquettishly and smiles up
at him. Well, no, of course she didn't. Where would they
all be, sir? Without me? Put them all straight? Now?
See how I shine the lamp's glow. Did you ever hear of a child
who forgot to hang up his stalking on Christmas Eve? There's a good deal
of wisdom in all these claims. Christmas would indeed be a poor thing without
stalking. See how I shine the lamp's glow. A tree is very important
gifts, pulls his arm, and no one would be willingly forgotten by gifts?
He smiles at her. Without money? Yes, where would they all
be without money? Eh? Where? Indeed? Well? Well, well,
well, well what is it that makes Christmas Christmas? What? What?
What? What is it possible? You don't know? I'll shake their
heads gifts, smiling at him, What do you think think, I don't
think I know. Oh, oh, oh oh, what is the road
to a man's heart? Why his stomach? Of course? Do you see
plum pudding is what makes Christmas Christmas? Didn't you all refer to me plum
putting turns and struts off right in a superior manner, always puts himself above
everybody else, too much ego, my dear tree, always overestimating his own
importance. The way till a man's heart is through his puss. Why I
can tell you A gay tinkling sound is heard, and a light, yellow
clad figure enters right. She is dancing and is peaking imaginary flowers. Spirit.
I am young into bright and the flowers, and my hair, my
high food, so cheery, my high bed, a brown fur. This
is no one I know, No I spirit, still gathering imaginary flowers and
weaving them into wreaths, morning glories and roof and hair bills growing with daisies.
I don't see anything growing under the Christmas star. She thinks that'd perish
the salt, oh sweet flowers for my garland, the rose, the lily,
and the stately dahlia tree stepping up to her. See how I shine
lamps glow. Oh no, no drawing back. You're no child of the
wood and metal. So much dress being sadders, my footstep, saloon,
the stars in the sky hoppy. When I see she'll be asking us to
have a cup of moonlight. Next she's mad, I'll speak to her.
What's your name? I see quit a be training sweet from the torn so
it touches my heart, Little big lovebird, Well, where did you come
from? I can't say the exact place. I have come from the mountains
of the shed Nevada, down through a great sweep of its country. So
I wandered along the banks of the Ohio and touched the heels again, and
passed into the mist, over the waves, into the dermoil of the nations.
But where is your home? Singing is? She pleads her wreaths.
When the sun shines south, the springs my cup, and I hear from
the trash that her nestling is flow. You see, she won't tell.
I pass here and there ludge in the hearts of men, and they reach
them and set my magic on children. Aren't you cold out the night with
that thin dress? The December winds are blowing down from the great ice pue
in the north. But I am not cold at all, for my heart
warms me. This is no time to be thinking about yourself. This is
Christmas night, don't you know that the time when there's love and goodwill among
men, and everyone is giving himself enjoy and service for others. See how
I shine. The lamps gleam. The spirit looks about her bewildered. Everybody
is expected to give a little flowers. They're only in your minds enjoyed laughter.
They don't cost anything, they're just in the heart, said the people,
holding out his cap to her. Everybody is expected to give a little
that's much too small to contain my gifts. The spirit disappears. Who ever
saw the like such as Some folk have enter right, an old man with
his little grandson. They're very poor and wretched. The old man carries on
his back a sack which contains all his possessions, and the little boy has
a swag on the end of a stick. They come in and rest themselves
and their burdens on the bench. I'm old, old by a hundred years
and wearied out. Yet it's near midnight, and we must be getting on
to some shelter. Half our musty good grandfather. It's a long way,
child, that the poor must travel, a long and weary way. Money
slinking away, there beggars gift coming forward. It's Christmas Eve, my good
man. On the hour of midnight is nea I was coming to seek you.
I'm gifts. Christmas is for the rich, bitterly, not for us
poor folk, driven forth on the road to celebrate with gifts. See how
I shine the lamps gleam on Christmas Eve? Even the poor man can bear
home of balsam from the hills and light a taper in its branches to the
blessed child to shine into the eyes of his own children. Old man turning
away, it's a roof tree that I'm lacking this Christmas Eve, young man.
But though the poor man has no home, he has yet a fire
where the Christmas stocking may hang tonight. The highway is my hearth. Friend,
enter left the spirit and touches the old man on the sleeve. Father,
I to have come along road on Christmas night, and I'm going alonger
Still shall we not go one together, ah company on the long dark road?
That's something, now, my friends, where did you get those flowers?
Mad? Mad? Mad? You see we're very poor, my grandson
and I. We're too poor to keep Christmas. I didn't see any flowers,
grandfather, as we came along. But now, why are they going
everywhere? And what a fine smell they have? Can't you see how she's
fooling you? Where are her flowers? Now? But can a fine lady
like you be seen on the road with poor folks like us jing skins with
him in his manger, Then let us be getting along, For the road
is dark and difficult, bright with moonlight, and the hedges are thick with
daces and hairbells, and the meadows are dotted with buttercups. We shall pass
orchards too, with plums and peaches, and big and little apples, and
hanging gripes on the trellis incredulously. This reminds me of the day is when
I too was young and unwearied, and before us faith will run like a
welder in the mountains, Oh ray, ridden wealth, hard a flowers on
my bro hand, bear ridden bees to flame in my home. The old
man and the child go out, left with a confident air, accompanied by
the spirit. As they go, they do not heed the others. She
carries a high head now and despises us as if you were a betses.
There they go, a couple of poor doft shadows, begging along the road,
a reproach to good paper, who are enjoying Christmas. A cloud of
incense rises behind the spirit and the old man and child. Don't you see
a mist rising there? Odd and smell a holy fire? And together they've
passed into the mist. And who is she anyway? And what was her
business here on Christmas night? She's only a poor mad thing with her flowers
and her orchards and her moonlight. It's an ill time to be meeting creatures
like that the holy Christmas eve. The old man's coat was very poor,
indeed he needed a new one. His hood was all tattered, and his
stockings were only rags. But he refuses our assistance. That's the way of
the poor. They'd rather freeze before our eyes than eases by taking help.
He listened to her quick enough to empty promises and vain hopes. Heild out
with all her talk about flowers. Yes see how I He jumps aside,
startled and cries out, she has taken away my shoes. The others look
on in amazement. A pox on her for taking away the good old ways
of celebrating Christmas. Suddenly, the King's son appears, left on the highway.
He is dressed in a short purple tunic and wears a golden circlet on
his brow. Money immediately runs forward to salute him. Money always follows,
and the footsteps of the great all stand in the way of the King's son
saluting him. He looks peevish and is evidently annoyed at the interruption. What
do you want of me? It was to you, sire, that we
were about to proceed. It was to you, first of all in the
wide realm, that we would bring our Christmas greetings. And who were you?
Pray? I am Christmas gifts with my faithful attendant, money bag,
and we have saved for you the rarest and vest I don't want any more
gifts already the palace is filled up with them, Birthday gifts, Christian gifts,
Christmas gifts, gifts, gifts till my eyes are tired of look,
Sire, you are right. I am the only true symbol of Christmas.
I the Christmas stocking. You hang me up in the chimney corner, and
all night long dreams and fancies dance over your head. I'm much too old
for such nonsense. Why I haven't hung up my socking for ever so long?
Sire, I am the Christmas tree. See how I shine? He
hesitates to try, but the lights gleam out again. I am the shrine
of Christmas. On Christmas morning, the family gather round me. I'm tired
of Christmas trees. I have them every year, and they're always the same.
All these things are nothing to me, For in my heart there is
a great heaviness. What is it that makes Christmas Christmas? I have set
out tonight on the great highway of the realm to see whether I shall find
Christmas there. I have left my father's house, where I walk between walls
of beat and bronze, lighted with silver lamps, and where my father sits
on a high throne with a crown on his head and a mastiff at his
feet. In the courtyard, festive preparations are going forth, and there is
a great coming in of kings and princes. But Christmas joy has deserted our
palace. I remember the time when my heart was high on Christmas night,
but now everything is sodden and dull. Enter left, Spirit dancing, no
gem and no gold. Can my speit breass, no mish and no net
stay the wing of my flight? Who is she? He goes toward her
spirit, gathering flowers and singing. The summer lifts a when the harvests thrive,
the lark song is heard, and the shadows are long. There is
a princess in the court who has come up from the south and sits pining
for me by the window. But I'll have none of her. And now
when I put out my arms to you, you do not come. All
men, have a deep durst for joy. Come to my father's house,
and we will dance together in the gardens, you and I playmates. Oh
no, no, in palaces there are sad hearts. Where then, with
the duties of Christmas, I must be happy and free. But I will
make it different. You may come and go as you will, and you
may have a great toll gendarme to keep away anyone who annoys you. And
you can console yourself by giving to the poor who are always near the golden
gate. Spirit dancing away and singing, I fine, and I sigh for
no caif and no gold. The glow window west is treasure. To me
the spirit disappears. It does a heap of good to talk to her.
She won't even listen to the king's son. Enter left, the old man
and the boy alas joy caught up my sleeve and disappeared. It is the
only thing which will not dwell in palaces. She was taken away from us
as everything else is taken, because there was nothing there. To the old
man, she and her flowers were an empty show to delude poor daft folks
like you. With her, the way was not dark while she ran beside
us, we walked in moonlight. Then she ran ahead. She would wait
for us, she said, at the cross roads further on, and she
vanished like dew. But when she was gone, our sorrow returned and the
weariness of the way, and we could not see ahead. The poor too.
She held in her hands joy like a great light. I saw it
shining there, and it vanished again. My light. She stole it from
me for a little while. What did I tell you? Empty promises?
He thought she would wait for his coming at the crossroads. Her blossoms bloomed
only a moment, old father. Then she deserted you, leaving you on
the road alone, and she left me too. Our promises were much more
substantial. But you turned from them to her flowers. Did you touch them,
then? Did you take them in your hands? What I see is
mine. She offered fair sight to her eyes, and gentle thoughts to our
hearts, such as belonged to the poor, and to the children, and
to poets. The king and the rich hold their possessions in their hands,
But who can play the tyrant with the eye and the thought of a poor
man? Hark again, she is filling the air with her sweet sounds.
All stop and listen. Spirit sings in the distance and does not seem My
voice spets the voice of the forest and glove. But the sun never shines,
and sunda gold of flurry. It is strange. Her figure is not
here, yet the sound comes to us like the film of a dream.
The form too is here if you see it. Spirit still in the distance.
My life is a joy that no mystery cloud, with no pain.
Then no takes I keep and the cat this night, my longing has been
fulfilled, and the poor have been happy. This is no place for us.
Gifts, money, tree and stockings slink away left as the spirit continues
to sing, still in the distance, my fancy, my ballace, my
joy, my chroll, My dreams are my real and my gardlets my crown.
Though she speeds over the earth tonight her spirit has found its resting place,
for she dwells in our hearts. The drum beats heavily, twelve times
curtain and of what makes Christmas Christmas