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Merry Christmas, my dear young friend, said, father Time, as he

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laid his hand gently upon my shoulder. You are entirely wrong. Then I

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looked up over my shoulder from the
table at which I was sitting, and

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I saw him. But I had
known or felt, for at least the

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last half hour that he was standing
somewhere near me. You have had I

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do not doubt, good reader,
more than once, that strange, uncanny

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feeling that there is some one unseen
standing beside you in a darkened room,

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let us say, with a dying
fire, when the night has grown late,

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and the October wind sounds low outside, and when through the thin curtain

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that we call reality, the unseen
world starts for a moment clear upon our

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dreaming sense. You have had it. Yes, I know you have,

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never mind telling me about it.
Stop. I don't want to hear about

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that strange presentiment you had the night
your aunt Eliza Broker leg Don't let's bother

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with your experience. I want to
tell mine. You are quite mistaken,

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my dear young friend repeated father time. Quite wrong, young friend, I

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said, my mind, as one's
mind is apt to in such a case,

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running to an unimportant detail, why
do you call me young? Oh,

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your pardon, he answered gently.
He had a gentle way with him,

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had Father Time. The fault is
in my failing eyes. I took

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you at first sight for something under
a hundred. Under a hundred, I

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expostulated, Well, I should think
so, your pardon, again, said

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Time. The fault is in my
failing memory. I forgot you seldom pass

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that nowadays? Do you? Your
life is very short of late? I

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heard him breathe a wistful, hollow
sigh, very ancient and dim, he

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seemed, as he stood beside me. But I did not turn to look

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upon him. I had no need
to. I knew his form in the

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inner and clearer sight of things,
as well as every human being knows by

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innate instinct, the unseen face and
form of Father Time. I could hear

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him murmuring, beside me, short
short, Your life is short, till

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the sound of it seemed to mingle
with the measured ticking of a clock somewhere

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in the silent house. Then I
remembered what he had said. How do

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you know that I am wrong?
I asked, And how can you tell

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what I was thinking? You said
it out loud, answered Father Time.

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But it wouldn't have mattered anyway.
You said that Christmas was all played out

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and done with. Yes, I
admitted, that's what I said. And

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what makes you think that? He
questioned, stooping so it seemed to me

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still further over my shoulder, Why, I answered, The trouble is this.

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I've been sitting here for hours,
sitting till goodness only knows how far

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into the night, trying to think
out something to write for a Christmas story.

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And it won't go. It can't
be done, not in these awful

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days. A Christmas story. Yes, you see, father time, I

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explained, glad with the foolish little
vanity of my trade to be able to

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tell him something that I thought enlightening. All the Christmas stuff, stories and

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jokes and pictures is all done,
you know in October. I thought it

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would have surprised him, But I
was mistaken. Dear me, he said,

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not till October. What a rush? How well? I remember in

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ancient Egypt, as I think you
call it, seeing them getting out their

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Christmas things, all cut in hieroglyphics, always two or three years ahead.

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Two or three years, I exclaimed, Pooh said time, that was nothing.

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Why am Babylon. They used to
get their Christmas jokes ready or baked

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in clay, a whole solar eclipse
ahead of Christmas, they said, I

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think that the public preferred them so
Egypt, I said, Babylon. But

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surely, Father Time, there was
no Christmas in those days, I thought,

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my dear boy, he interrupted,
gravely, don't you know that there

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has always been Christmas? I was
silent. Father Time had moved across the

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room and stood beside the fireplace,
leaning on the mantelpiece. The little wreaths

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of smoke from the fading fire seemed
to mingle with his shadowy outline. Well,

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he said, presently, what is
it that is wrong with Christmas?

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Why? I answered, All the
romance, the joy, the beauty of

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it has gone crushed and killed by
the greed of commerce and the horrors of

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war. I am not as you
thought I was a hundred years old.

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But I can conjure up, as
anyone can, a picture of Christmas in

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the good old days of a hundred
years ago, the quaint, old fashioned

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houses standing deep among the evergreens,
with the light twinkling from the windows on

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the snow, the warmth and comfort
within the great fire, roaring on a

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hearth, the merry guests grouped about
its blaze, and the little children with

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their eyes dancing in the Christmas firelight, waiting for Father Christmas in his fine

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mummery of red and white and cotton
wool, to hand the presents from the

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Yule tide tree. I can see
it, I added, as if it

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were yesterday. It was, but
yesterday, said Father Tyme, and his

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voice seemed to soften with the memory
of bygone years. I remember it well,

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ah, I continued, that was
Christmas. Indeed, give me back

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such days as those with the old
good cheer, the old stage coaches,

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and the gabled ends, and the
warm red wine, the snap dragon and

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the Christmas tree. And I'll believe
again in Christmas. Yes in Father Christmas

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himself, believe in him, said
Time quietly. You may well do that.

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He happens to be standing outside in
the street at this moment. Outside,

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I exclaimed, Why don't he come
in? He's afraid to, said

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Father Time. He's frightened, and
he daren't come in unless you ask him.

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May I call him in? I
signified assent, and Father Time went

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to the window for a moment and
beckoned into the darkened street. Then I

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heard footsteps, clumsy and hesitant they
seemed, upon the stairs, And in

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a moment a figure stood framed in
the doorway, the figure of Father Christmas.

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He stood shuffling his feet, a
timid, apologetic look upon his face.

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How changed he was. I had
known in my mind's eye from childhood

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up the face and form of Father
Christmas, as well as that of old

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time himself. Everybody knows or once
knew him, a jolly little rounded man,

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with a great muffler round about him, a packet of toys upon his

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back, and with such merry twinkling
eyes and rosy cheeks as are only given

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by the touch of the driving snow
and the rude fun of the north wind.

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Why there was once a time,
not yet so long ago, when

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the very sound of his sleigh bells
sent the blood running warm to the heart.

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But now how changed. All draggled
with the mud and rain, he

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stood as if no house had sheltered
him. These three years passed. His

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old red jersey was tattered in a
dozen places, his muffler frayed and raveled.

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The bundle of toys that he dragged
with him in a net seemed wet

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and worn till the cardboard boxes gaped
asunder. There were boxes among them.

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I vow that he must have been
carrying these three past years. But most

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of all I noted the change that
had come over the face of Father Christmas.

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The old brave look of cheery confidence
was gone. The smile that had

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beamed responsive to the laughing eyes of
countless children around unnumbered Christmas trees was there

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no more. And in the place
of it there showed a look of a

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timid apology of apprehensiveness, as of
one who has asked in vain the warmth

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and shelter of a human home.
Such a look as the harsh cruelty of

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this world has stamped upon the faces
of its outcasts. So stood Father Christmas,

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shuffling upon the threshold, fumbling his
poor tattered hat in his hand.

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Shall I come in, he said, his eyes appealingly on Father, time,

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Come said time. He turned to
speak to me. Your room is

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dark. Turn up the lights.
He's used to light, bright light,

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and plenty of it. The dark
has frightened him these three years past.

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I turned up the lights, and
the bright glare revealed all the more cruelly

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the tattered figured before us. Father
Christmas advanced a timid step across the floor.

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Then he paused, as if in
sudden fear, is this floor mined?

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He said no, No, said
Time soothingly. And to me,

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he added, in a murmured whisper, he's afraid he was blown up in

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a mine in no man's land between
the trenches at Christmas time in nineteen fourteen.

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It broke his nerve. May I
put my toys on that machine gun,

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asked Father Christmas timidly. It will
help to keep them dry. It

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is not a machine gun, said
Time gently. See it is only a

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pile of books upon the sofa.
And to me, he whispered, they

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turned a machine gun on him in
the streets of Warsaw. He thinks he

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sees them everywhere. Since then,
it's all right, Father Christmas, I

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said, speaking as cheerily as I
could, while I rose and stirred the

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fire into a blaze. There are
no machine guns here, and there are

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no mines. This is but the
house of a poor writer, ah,

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said Father Christmas, lowering his tattered
hat still further and attempting something of a

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humble bow. A writer, are
you, Hans Andersen? Perhaps not quite

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I answered, But a great writer, I do not doubt, said the

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old man, with a humble courtesy, that he had learned it well,

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may be centuries ago in the Yule
tide season of his northern home. The

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world owes much to its great books. I carry some of the greatest with

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me always. I have them here, he began, fumbling among the limp

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and tattered packages that he carried.
Look the house that Jack built, a

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marvelous deep thing, sir. And
this the babes in the wood? Will

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you take it so, sir?
A poor present, but a present still

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not so long ago. I gave
them in thousands every Christmas time. None

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seemed to want them now, he
looked appealingly towards Father time, as the

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weak may look toward the strong for
help and guidance. None want them now,

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he repeated, and I could see
the tears start in his eyes.

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Why is it so? Has the
world forgotten its sympathy with the lost children

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wandering in the wood? All the
world, I heard time murmur with a

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sigh, is wandering in the wood. But out loud he spoke to Father

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Christmas in cheery admonition. Tut Tut, good Christmas, he said, you

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must cheer up here, sit in
this chair and the biggest one so beside

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the fire. Let us stir it
to a blaze more wood, Oh,

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that's better. And listen, good
old friend, to the wind outside,

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almost a Christmas wind? Is it
not merry and boisterous enough for all the

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evil times it stirs among? Old
Christmas seated himself beside the fire, his

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hands outstretched toward the flames. Something
of his old time cheeriness seemed to flicker

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across his features as he warmed himself
at the blaze. That's better, he

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murmured. I was cold, sir, cold, chilled to the bone of

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old. I never felt it so, no matter what the wind, the

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world seemed warm about me. Why
is it not so? Now? You

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see, said Time, speaking low
in a whisper for my ear alone,

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how sunk and broken he is?
Will you not help? Gladly? I

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answered? If I can, all
can, said father Time, every one

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of us. Meantime a Christmas had
turned towards me, a questioning eye in

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which, however, there seemed to
revive some little gleam of merriment. Have

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you, perhaps, he asked,
half timidly, Schnapps, Schnapps? I

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repeated, Ay, schnapps, A
glass of it to drink. Your health

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might warm my heart again, I
think, ah, I said something to

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drink his one failing whispered time.
If it is one, forgive it him.

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He was used to it for centuries. Give it him if you have

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it. I keep a little in
the house, I said, reluctantly.

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Perhaps in case of illness. Tut
tut, said Father Time, as something

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as near as could be to a
smile passed over his shadowy face. In

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case of illness, they used to
say that in ancient Babylon. Here,

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let me pour it out for him. Drink, Father Christmas, drink.

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Marvelous it was to see the old
man smack his lips as he drank his

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glass of liqueur neat after the fashion
of old Norway. Marvelous too, to

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see the way in which, with
the warmth of the fire and the generous

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glow of the spirits, his face
changed and brightened, till the old time

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cheerfulness beamed again upon it. He
looked about him, as it were,

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with a new and growing interest.
A pleasant room, he said, And

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what better, sir, than the
wind without and a brave fire within.

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Then his eye fell upon the mantelpiece, where lay among the litter of books

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and pipes, a little toy horse, ah, said Father Christmas. Almost

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gaily children in the house one,
I answered, the sweetest boy in all

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the world. I'll be bound he
is, said Father Christmas. And he

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broke now into a merry laugh.
That did one's heart good to hear.

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They all are, Lord, bless
me the number that I have seen,

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and each and every one, and
quite right too, the sweetest child in

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all the world. And how old
do you say? Two and a half,

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all but two months except a week, the very sweetest age of I'll

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bet you say now what they all
do. And the old man broke again

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into such a jolly chuckling of laughter
that his snow white locks shook upon his

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head. But stop a bit,
he added, This horse is broken.

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Tut tut, a hind leg nearly
off. This won't do. He had

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the toy in his lap in a
moment, mending it. It was wonderful

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to see, for all his age, how deft his fingers were. Time,

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he said, and it was amusing
to note that his voice had assumed

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almost an authoritative tone. Reach me
that piece of string, that's right here.

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Hold your finger cross the knot there
now, then a bit of beeswax?

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What no beeswax? Tut tut?
How ill supplied your houses are to

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day? How can you mend toys, sir? Without beeswax? Still it

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will stand up now. I tried
to murmur my best thanks. But Father

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Christmas weigh my gratitude aside nonsense,
he said, that's nothing. That's my

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life. Perhaps the little boy would
like a book too. I have them

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00:16:08,080 --> 00:16:12,360
here in the packet, here,
sir, Jack and the beanstalk. Most

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profound thing. I read it to
myself often. Still, how damp it

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is? Pray, sir? Will
you let me dry my books before your

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fire? Only too willingly? I
said, how wet and torn they are.

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Father Christmas had risen from his chair
and was fumbling among his tattered packages,

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taking from them his children's books,
all limp and draggled from the rain

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and wind, all wet and torn, he murmured, and his voice sank

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again into sadness. I have carried
them these three years past. Look,

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these were for little children in Belgium
and in Serbia. Can I get them

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to them? Think you? Time
gently shook his head. But presently,

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perhaps, said Father Christmas if I
dry and mend them. Look, some

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of them were inscribed already. This
one, see you, was written with

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father's love. Why has it never
come to him? Is it rain?

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Or tears upon the page? He
stood bowed over his little books, his

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hands trembling as he turned the pages. Then he looked up, the old

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fear upon his face. Again.
That sound, he said, listen,

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is it guns? I hear them? Oh, no, no, I

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said, it is nothing, only
a car passing in the street below.

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Listen, he said, hear that
again. Voices crying No, no,

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I answered, not voices, only
the night wind among the trees. My

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children's voices, he exclaimed. I
hear them everywhere. They come to me

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in every wind. I see them
as I wander in the night and storm,

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my children torn and dying in the
trenches, beaten into the ground.

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I hear them crying from the hospitals, each one to me, still as

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I knew him once a little child. Time time, he cried, reaching

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out his arms in appeal, give
me back my children. They do not

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die in vain. Time murmured gently, But Christmas only moaned in answer,

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give me back my children. Then
he sank down upon his pile of books

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and toys, his head buried in
his arms. You see, said Time,

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his heart is breaking, and will
you not help him if you can?

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Only? Too gladly, I replied, But what is there to do?

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This, said Father Time. Listen. He stood before me, grave

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and solemn, a shadowy figure,
but half seen, though he was close

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beside me. The firelight had died
down, and through the curtained windows there

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came already the first dim brightening of
dawn. The world that once you knew,

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said Father Time, seems broken and
destroyed about you. You must not

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let them know, the children,
the cruelty and the horror and the hate

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that racks the world to day.
Keep it from them. Some day he

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will know. Here Time pointed to
the prostrate form of Father Christmas, that

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his children that once were have not
died in vain, that from their sacrifice

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shall come a nobler, better world
for all to live, in a world

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where countless happy children shall hold bright
their memory forever. But for the children

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of to day, save and spare
them all you can from the evil,

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hate and horror of the war.
Later they will know and understand, not

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yet give them back their merry Christmas
and its kind thoughts and its Christmas charity,

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till later on there shall be with
it again peace upon earth, good

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will, ill towards men. His
voice ceased, it seemed to vanish,

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as it were in the sighing of
the wind. I looked up Father time,

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and Christmas had vanished from the room. The fire was low, and

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the day was breaking visibly outside.
Let us begin, I murmured, I

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will mend this broken horse, and
of merry Christmas. By Stephen Lecock