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Speaker 1: Merry Christmas, my dear young friend, said, father Time, as

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he laid his hand gently upon my shoulder. You are

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entirely wrong. Then I looked up over my shoulder from

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the table at which I was sitting, and I saw him.

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But I had known or felt, for at least the

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last half hour that he was standing somewhere near me.

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You have had I do not doubt, good reader, more

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than once, that strange, uncanny feeling that there is some

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one unseen standing beside you in a darkened room, let

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us say, with a dying fire, when the night has

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grown late, and the October wind sounds low outside, and

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when through the thin curtain that we call reality, the

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unseen world starts for a moment clear upon our dreaming sense.

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You have had it. Yes, I know you have, never

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mind telling me about it. Stop. I don't want to

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hear about that strange presentiment you had the night your

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aunt Eliza Broker leg Don't let's bother with your experience.

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I want to tell mine. You are quite mistaken, my

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

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I said, my mind, as one's mind is apt to

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in such a case, running to an unimportant detail, why

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do you call me young? Oh, your pardon, he answered gently.

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He had a gentle way with him, had Father Time.

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The fault is in my failing eyes. I took you

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

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

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said Time. The fault is in my failing memory. I

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forgot you seldom pass that nowadays? Do you? Your life is

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very short of late? I heard him breathe a wistful,

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hollow sigh, very ancient and dim, he seemed, as he

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stood beside me. But I did not turn to look

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upon him. I had no need to. I knew his

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form in the inner and clearer sight of things, as

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well as every human being knows by innate instinct, the

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unseen face and form of Father Time. I could hear

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

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till the sound of it seemed to mingle with the

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measured ticking of a clock somewhere in the silent house.

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Then I remembered what he had said. How do you

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

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you tell what I was thinking? You said it out loud,

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answered Father Time. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway. You

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said that Christmas was all played out and done with. Yes,

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I admitted, that's what I said. And what makes you

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

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still further over my shoulder, Why, I answered, The trouble

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is this. I've been sitting here for hours, sitting till

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goodness only knows how far into the night, trying to

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think out something to write for a Christmas story. And

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

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

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I explained, glad with the foolish little vanity of my

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trade to be able to tell him something that I

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thought enlightening. All the Christmas stuff, stories and jokes and

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

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

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he said, not till October. What a rush? How well?

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I remember in ancient Egypt, as I think you call it,

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seeing them getting out their Christmas things, all cut in hieroglyphics,

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always two or three years ahead. Two or three years,

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I exclaimed, Pooh said time, that was nothing. Why am Babylon.

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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,

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

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But surely, Father Time, there was no Christmas in those days,

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I thought, my dear boy, he interrupted, gravely, don't you

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know that there has always been Christmas? I was silent.

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Father Time had moved across the room and stood beside

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the fireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece. The little wreaths of

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smoke from the fading fire seemed to mingle with his

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shadowy outline. Well, he said, presently, what is it that

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is wrong with Christmas? Why? I answered, All the romance,

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the joy, the beauty of it has gone crushed and

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killed by the greed of commerce and the horrors of war.

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I am not as you thought I was a hundred

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years old. But I can conjure up, as anyone can,

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a picture of Christmas in the good old days of

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a hundred years ago, the quaint, old fashioned houses standing

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deep among the evergreens, with the light twinkling from the

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windows on the snow, the warmth and comfort within the

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great fire, roaring on a hearth, the merry guests grouped

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about its blaze, and the little children with their eyes

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dancing in the Christmas firelight, waiting for Father Christmas in

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his fine mummery of red and white and cotton wool,

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to hand the presents from the Yule tide tree. I

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can see it, I added, as if it were yesterday.

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It was, but yesterday, said Father Tyme, and his voice

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seemed to soften with the memory of bygone years. I

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remember it well, ah, I continued, that was Christmas. Indeed,

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give me back such days as those with the old

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good cheer, the old stage coaches, and the gabled ends,

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and the warm red wine, the snap dragon and the

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

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Father Christmas himself, believe in him, said Time quietly. You

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may well do that. He happens to be standing outside

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in the street at this moment. Outside, I exclaimed, Why

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don't he come in? He's afraid to, said Father Time.

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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

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Time went to the window for a moment and beckoned

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into the darkened street. Then I heard footsteps, clumsy and

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hesitant they seemed, upon the stairs, And in a moment

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a figure stood framed in the doorway, the figure of

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Father Christmas. He stood shuffling his feet, a timid, apologetic

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look upon his face. How changed he was. I had

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known in my mind's eye from childhood up the face

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and form of Father Christmas, as well as that of

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old time himself. Everybody knows or once knew him, a

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jolly little rounded man, with a great muffler round about him,

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a packet of toys upon his back, and with such

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merry twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks as are only given

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by the touch of the driving snow and the rude

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fun of the north wind. Why there was once a time,

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not yet so long ago, when the very sound of

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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,

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he stood as if no house had sheltered him. These

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three years passed. His old red jersey was tattered in

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a dozen places, his muffler frayed and raveled. The bundle

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of toys that he dragged with him in a net

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seemed wet and worn till the cardboard boxes gaped asunder.

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There were boxes among them. I vow that he must

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have been carrying these three past years. But most of

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all I noted the change that had come over the

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face of Father Christmas. The old brave look of cheery

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confidence was gone. The smile that had beamed responsive to

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the laughing eyes of countless children around unnumbered Christmas trees

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was there no more. And in the place of it

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there showed a look of a timid apology of apprehensiveness,

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as of one who has asked in vain the warmth

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and shelter of a human home. Such a look as

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the harsh cruelty of this world has stamped upon the

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faces of its outcasts. So stood Father Christmas, shuffling upon

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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

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

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bright light, and plenty of it. The dark has frightened

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him these three years past. I turned up the lights,

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and the bright glare revealed all the more cruelly the

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tattered figured before us. Father Christmas advanced a timid step

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across the floor. Then he paused, as if in sudden fear,

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is this floor mined? He said no, No, said Time soothingly.

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And to me, he added, in a murmured whisper, he's

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afraid he was blown up in a mine in no

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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

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that machine gun, asked Father Christmas timidly. It will help

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to keep them dry. It is not a machine gun,

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said Time gently. See it is only a pile of

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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.

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He thinks he sees them everywhere. Since then, it's all right,

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Father Christmas, I said, speaking as cheerily as I could,

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while I rose and stirred the fire into a blaze.

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There are no machine guns here, and there are no mines.

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This is but the house of a poor writer, ah,

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said Father Christmas, lowering his tattered hat still further and

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attempting something of a humble bow. A writer, are you,

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Hans Andersen? Perhaps not quite I answered, But a great writer,

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I do not doubt, said the old man, with a

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humble courtesy, that he had learned it well, may be

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

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The world owes much to its great books. I carry

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some of the greatest with me always. I have them here,

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he began, fumbling among the limp and tattered packages that

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he carried. Look the house that Jack built, a marvelous

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

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Will you take it so, sir? A poor present, but

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a present still not so long ago. I gave them

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in thousands every Christmas time. None seemed to want them now,

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he looked appealingly towards Father time, as the weak may

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look toward the strong for help and guidance. None want

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them now, he repeated, and I could see the tears

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start in his eyes. Why is it so? Has the

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world forgotten its sympathy with the lost children wandering in

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the wood? All the world, I heard time murmur with

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a sigh, is wandering in the wood. But out loud

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he spoke to Father Christmas in cheery admonition. Tut Tut,

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good Christmas, he said, you must cheer up here, sit

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in this chair and the biggest one so beside the fire.

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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

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enough for all the evil times it stirs among? Old

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Christmas seated himself beside the fire, his hands outstretched toward

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the flames. Something of his old time cheeriness seemed to

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flicker across his features as he warmed himself at the blaze.

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That's better, he murmured. I was cold, sir, cold, chilled

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to the bone of old. I never felt it so,

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no matter what the wind, the world seemed warm about me.

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Why is it not so? Now? You see, said Time,

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speaking low in a whisper for my ear alone, how

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

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

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every one of us. Meantime a Christmas had turned towards me,

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a questioning eye in which, however, there seemed to revive

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some little gleam of merriment. Have you, perhaps, he asked,

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half timidly, Schnapps, Schnapps? I repeated, Ay, schnapps, A glass

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of it to drink. Your health might warm my heart again,

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I think, ah, I said something to drink his one

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

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He was used to it for centuries. Give it him

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if you have it. I keep a little in the house,

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I said, reluctantly. Perhaps in case of illness. Tut tut,

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said Father Time, as something as near as could be

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to a smile passed over his shadowy face. In case

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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

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lips as he drank his glass of liqueur neat after

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the fashion of old Norway. Marvelous too, to see the

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way in which, with the warmth of the fire and

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the generous glow of the spirits, his face changed and brightened,

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till the old time cheerfulness beamed again upon it. He

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looked about him, as it were, with a new and

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growing interest. A pleasant room, he said, And what better, sir,

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than the wind without and a brave fire within. Then

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his eye fell upon the mantelpiece, where lay among the

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litter of books and pipes, a little toy horse, ah,

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said Father Christmas. Almost gaily children in the house one,

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I answered, the sweetest boy in all the world. I'll

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be bound he is, said Father Christmas. And he broke

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

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to hear. They all are, Lord, bless me the number

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that I have seen, and each and every one, and

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quite right too, the sweetest child in all the world.

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And how old do you say? Two and a half,

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all but two months except a week, the very sweetest

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age of I'll bet you say now what they all do.

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And the old man broke again into such a jolly

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chuckling of laughter that his snow white locks shook upon

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his head. But stop a bit, he added, This horse

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is broken. Tut tut, a hind leg nearly off. This

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won't do. He had the toy in his lap in

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a moment, mending it. It was wonderful to see, for

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all his age, how deft his fingers were. Time, he said,

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and it was amusing to note that his voice had

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assumed almost an authoritative tone. Reach me that piece of string,

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that's right here. Hold your finger cross the knot there now,

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then a bit of beeswax? What no beeswax? Tut tut?

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How ill supplied your houses are to day? How can

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you mend toys, sir? Without beeswax? Still it will stand

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up now. I tried to murmur my best thanks. But

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

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That's my life. Perhaps the little boy would like a

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book too. I have them here in the packet, here, sir,

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Jack and the beanstalk. Most profound thing. I read it

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to myself often. Still, how damp it is? Pray, sir?

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Will you let me dry my books before your fire?

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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

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among his tattered packages, taking from them his children's books,

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all limp and draggled from the rain and wind, all

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wet and torn, he murmured, and his voice sank again

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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.

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Can I get them to them? Think you? Time gently

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shook his head. But presently, perhaps, said Father Christmas if

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I dry and mend them. Look, some of them were

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inscribed already. This one, see you, was written with father's love.

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Why has it never come to him? Is it rain?

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Or tears upon the page? He stood bowed over his

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little books, his hands trembling as he turned the pages.

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Then he looked up, the old fear upon his face. Again.

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That sound, he said, listen, is it guns? I hear them? Oh, no, no,

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I said, it is nothing, only a car passing in

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the street below. Listen, he said, hear that again. Voices

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crying No, no, I answered, not voices, only the night

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wind among the trees. My children's voices, he exclaimed. I

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hear them everywhere. They come to me in every wind.

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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

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the ground. I hear them crying from the hospitals, each

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one to me, still as I knew him once a

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little child. Time time, he cried, reaching out his arms

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

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

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in answer, give me back my children. Then he sank

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down upon his pile of books and toys, his head

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buried in his arms. You see, said Time, his heart

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

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

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said Father Time. Listen. He stood before me, grave and solemn,

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

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

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curtained windows there came already the first dim brightening of dawn.

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The world that once you knew, said Father Time, seems

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broken and destroyed about you. You must not let them know,

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the children, the cruelty and the horror and the hate

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

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Some day he will know. Here Time pointed to the

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prostrate form of Father Christmas, that his children that once

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were have not died in vain, that from their sacrifice

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

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in a world where countless happy children shall hold bright

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their memory forever. But for the children of to day,

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save and spare them all you can from the evil,

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hate and horror of the war. Later they will know

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and understand, not yet give them back their merry Christmas

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and its kind thoughts and its Christmas charity, till later

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on there shall be with it again peace upon earth,

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good will, ill towards men. His voice ceased, it seemed

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to vanish, as it were in the sighing of the wind.

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I looked up Father time, and Christmas had vanished from

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the room. The fire was low, and the day was

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breaking visibly outside. Let us begin, I murmured, I will

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

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Lecock