Speaker 1: A College Santa Claus by Ralph Henry Barbour. Sathawait ought
to threw his overcoat across the broad mahogany table, regardless
of the silver and cut glass furnishings, shook the melting
snow flakes from his cap and tossed it atop the coat,
half kicked, half shoved a big leathern arm chair up
to the wide fireplace, dropped himself into it, and stared
moodily at the flames. Sathuruwait was troubled. In fact, he
assured himself, drawing his handsome features into a generous scowl,
that he was, on this Christmas Eve, the most depressed
and bored person in the length and breath of New England.
Sathaway was not used to being depressed, and boredom was
a state usually far remote from his experience. Consequently, he
took it worse. With something between a groan and a growl.
He drew a crumpled telegram from his pocket. The telegram
was at the bottom of it all. He read it again.
E Soathawaite, Randolph Hall, Cambridge, Advise you're not coming, Aunt Louise,
very ill. Merry Christmas, phil Merry Christmas. Growled, Soauthawait, throwing
the offending sheet of buff paper into the flames. Looks
like it, doesn't it? Confound fills Aunt Louise anyway, What
business has she getting sick at Christmas time? Not of
course that I wished the old lady any harm, but
it it, well, it's wretched luck. When at college, Phil
was the occupant of the bedroom that lay in the
darkness beyond the half open door to the right. He
lived when at home, in a big rambling house in
the Berkshires, a house from the windows of which one
could see into three states and overlook a wonderful expanse
of wooded hill and sloping meadow. A house which held
besides Phil and Phil's father and mother, and Aunt Louise
and a younger brother. Fills his sathwait growled again more
savagely at the thought of Phil's sister, not be it understood,
at that extremely attractive young lady, but at the fate
which was keeping her from his sight. Sathwaite had promised
his roommate to spend Christmas with him, thereby bringing upon
himself pained remonstrances from his own family, remonstrances which Sathwaite
acknowledged were quite justifiable. His bags stood beside the door.
He had spent the early afternoon very pleasurably in packing them,
carefully weighing the respective merits of a primrose waistcoat and
a blue flannel one as weapons wherewith to impress the
heart of Phil's sister. And now he kicked forth his
feet and brought brass tongs and shovel clattering on the hearth.
It relieved his exasperation. The fatal telegram reached him at
five o'clock, as he was on the point of donning
his coat. From five to six, he'd be made in
a torpor of disappointment, continually wondering whether Phil's sister would care.
At six, his own boarding house being closed for the recess,
he had trudged through the snow to a restaurant in
the square and had dined miserably on lukewarm turkey and
lumpy mashed potatoes. And now it was nearly eight, and
he did not even care to smoke. His one chance
of reaching his own home that night had passed, and
there was nothing for it but to get through the
interminable evenings somehow and catch an early train in the morning.
The theaters in town offered no attraction. As for his club.
He had stopped in on his way from dinner, and
had fussed with an evening paper until the untenanted expanse
of darkly furnished apartments and the unaccustomed stillness had driven
him forth again. He drew his long legs under him
and arose, crossing the room and drawing aside the deep
toned hangings before the window. It was still snowing. Across
the avenue. A flood of million light from a butcher's
shop was thrown out over the snowy sidewalk. Its windows
were garlanded with Christmas greens and hung with pathetic looking
turkeys and geese. Belated shoppers passed out, their arms piled
high with bundles, a car swept by its drone muffled
by the snow. The spirit of Christmas was in the
very air. Sathwaite's depression increased, and of a sudden in
action became intolerable. He would go and see somebody, anybody,
and make them talk to him. But when he had
his coat in his hands, he realized that even this
comfort was denied him. He had friends in town, nice
folk who would be glad to see him any other time,
but into whose family gatherings he could no more force
himself to night than he could steal. As for the
men he knew in college, they had all gone to
their homes or to those of somebody else. Staring disconsolately
about the study, it suddenly struck him that the room
looked as disgustingly, slovenly and unkept. Phil was such an
untidy beggar. He would fix things up a bit if
he did it carefully and methodically. No doubt he could
consume a good hour and a half that way. It
would then be half past nine. Possibly, if he tried hard,
he could use up another hour bathing and getting ready
for bed. As a first step, he removed his coat
from the table and laid it carefully across the foot
of the leather couch. Then he placed his damp cap
on one end of the mantel. The next object to
meet his gaze was a well worn note book. It
was not his own, and it did not look like Phil's.
The mystery was solved when he opened it and read H. G.
Doyle College House on the fly leaf. He remembered then
He had borrowed it from Doyle almost a week before
at a lecture. He had copied some of the notes
and had forgotten to return the book. It was very
careless of him. He would return it as soon as then,
he recollected, having seen Oil at noon that day coming
from one of the cheaper boarding houses. It was probable
that Doyle was spending recess at college, just the thing
he would call on Doyle. It was not until he
was half way downstairs that he remembered the book. He
went back for it two steps at a time. Out
in the street, with the fluffy flakes against his face,
he felt better. After all, there was no use in
getting grouchy over his disappointment. Phil would keep and so
would Phil's sister, at least until Easter. Or better yet,
he would get Phil to take him home with him
over Sunday some time. He was passing the shops now
and stopped before jeweler's window. His eye caught a rather
jolly looking paper knife in gun metal. He had made
his purchases for Christmas, and had already despatched them, but
the paper knife looked attractive, and if there was no
one to give it to, he could keep it himself.
So he passed into the shop and purchased it. Put
it into a box. Will you, he requested, I may
want to send it away out on the avenue. Again,
his thoughts reverted to his prospective host. The visit had
elements of humor. He had known Doyle at preparatory school,
and since then at college, had maintained the acquaintance in
a casual way. He liked Doyle always had, just as
any man must like an honest, earnest, gentlemanly fellow, whether
their paths run parallel or cross only at rare intervals.
He and Doyle were not at all in the same coterie.
Soathwaits friends were the richest and sometimes the laziest men
in college. Doyle's were well, presumably men who, like himself,
had only enough money to scrape through from September to June,
who studied hard for degrees, whose viewpoint of university life
must of necessity be widely separated from Southwaits. As for
visiting Doyle, Southwaite could not remember ever having been in
his but once, and that was long ago. In their
freshman year, Sathawait had to climb two flights of steep
and very narrow stairs, And when he stood at Doyle's
door he thought he must have made a mistake. From
within came the sounds of very unstudious revelry, laughter, a
snatch of song voices raised in good natured argument. Sathwait
referred again to the fly leaf of the notebook. There
was no error. He knocked, and in obedience to a cherry,
come in entered. He found himself in a small study,
shabbily furnished, but cheerful and homelike, by reason of the
leaping flames in the grate and the blue haze of
tobacco smoke that almost hid its farther wall. About the
room sat six men, their pipes held questioningly away from
their mouths, and their eyes fixed wonderingly, half resentfully upon
the intruder. But what caught and held Sathaway's gaze was
a tiny Christmas tree, scarcely three feet high, which which
adorn the center of the desk. Its branches held toy candles,
as yet unlighted, and were festooned with strings of crimson
cranberries and colored popcorn, While here and there a small
package dangled amidst a greenery. How are you Sathurwait. Doyle, tall,
lank and ear sighted, arose and moved forward with outstretched hand.
He was plainly embarrassed, as was every other occupant of
the study. Sathurweight included the laughter and talk had subsided.
Doyle's guests politely removed their gaze from the newcomer and
returned their pipes to their lips. But the newcomer was
intruding and knew it, and he was consequently embarrassed. Embarrassment,
like boredom, was a novel sensation to him, and he
speedily decided that he did not fancy it. He held
out Doyle's book. I brought this back, old man. I
don't know how I came to forget it. I'm awfully sorry.
You know, it was so very decent of you to
lend it to me. Awfully sorry. Really, Doyle murmured that
it didn't matter, not a particle, and wouldn't Sathawait sit down. No,
Sathaway couldn't stop. He heard the youth in the faded
cricket blazer tell the man next to him in a
stage aside that this was Sathawait ought to an awful swell,
you know, Sathawait again declared that he could not remain.
Doyle said he was sorry. They were just having a
little sort of a Christmas Eve party, you know. He
blushed while he explained, and wondered whether Sathawait thought them
a lot of idiots or simply a parcel of sentimental kids.
Probably Sathawait knew some of the fellows he went on.
Sathawait studied the assemblage and replied that he thought not,
though he remembered having seen several of them at lectures
and things. Doyle made no move toward introducing his friends
to Sathawait, and to relieve the momentary silence that followed,
observed that he supposed it was getting colder. Sathaway replied
absently that he hadn't noticed, but that it was still snowing.
The youth in the cricket Blazer fidgeted in his chair.
Sathwack was thinking, of course, he was not wanted there.
He realized that, yet he was of half a mind
to stay. The thought of his empty room dismayed him.
The cheer and comfort before him appealed to him forcibly,
and more than all, he was possessed of a desire
to vindicate himself to this circle of narrow minded critics
Great Scott. Just because he had some money and went
with some other fellows who also had money, he was
to be promptly labeled snob and treated with polite tolerance.
Only by Jove. He would stay, if only to punish
them for their narrowness. You're sure I shan't be intruding, Doyle,
he asked. Doyle gasped in amazement. Sathwait removed his coat.
A shiver of consternation passed through the room. Then the
hosts found his tongue glad to have you nothing much doing,
few friends, quiet evening, Let me take your coat. Introductions followed.
The man in the cricket blazer turned out to be
Dope bought three, the man who had won the Jonas
Grieves Scholarship, a small youth with eagle like countenance, with Somers,
he who had debated so brilliantly against Princeton, a much
bewhiskered man was Aylworth of the law school. Cranch and Smith,
both members of Sathwaite's class, completed the party. Sathaway shook
hands with those within reach and looked for a chair.
Instantly everyone was on his feet. There was a confused
course of take this, won't you. Sathawait accepted a straight
backed chair with part of its cane seat missing. After
a decent amount of protest, then a heavy, discouraging silence fell.
Sathawait looked around the circle. Everyone save Aylworth and Doyle
was staring blankly at the fire. Aylworth dropped his eyes grave.
Doyle broke out explosively with do you smoke? Sathaway, Yes,
but I'm afraid. He searched his pockets perfunctorily. I haven't
my pipe with me. His cigarette case met his searching fingers.
But somehow cigarettes did not seem appropriate. I'm sorry, said Doyle,
but I'm afraid I haven't an extra one. Any of
you fellow's got a pipe that's not working. Murmured regrets
followed Doak, who sat next to Sathaway, put a hand
in his coat pocket and viewed the intruder doubtingly from
around the corners of his glasses. It doesn't matter a bit,
remarked Sathawait heartily. I've got sort of a pipe hair,
said Doak. If you're not over particular, what you smoke.
Sathaway received the pipe gravely. It was a blackened briar,
whose bowls burnt half way down on one side from
being lighted over the gas, and whose mouthpiece gnawed away
in long usage, had been reshaped with a knife. Sathaway
examined it with interest, rubbing the bowl gently on his knee.
He knew without seeing that Doake was eyeing him with
mingled defiance and apology, and wondering in what manner a
man who was used to mere chams and gold mounted
briars would take the proffer of his worn out favorite.
And he knew too that all the others were watching.
He placed the stem between his lips and drew on
it once or twice with satisfaction. Seems a jolly old pipe,
he said, I fancy you must be rather fond of it.
Has any one got any backy five pouches were tendered instantly.
Saderwait filled his pipe carefully. He had won the first trick,
he told himself, and the thought was pleasurable. The conversation
had started up again, but it was yet perfunctory, and
Saduwait realized that he was still an outsider. Doyle gave
him the opportunity he wanted. Is it something new for
you to stay here through recess, he asked than Sathaway
told about Phil's aunt Louise, and the telegram, about his
dismal dinner at the restaurant, and the subsequent flight from
the tomblike silence of the club, how he had decided
in desperation to clean up his study, and how he
had come across Doyle's note book. He told it rather well.
He had a reputation for that sort of thing, and
to night he did his best. He pictured himself to
his audience on the verge of suicide from melancholia, and
assured them that this fate had been averted only through
his dislike of being found lifeless amid such untidy surroundings.
He decked the narrative with touches of drawlery, and was
rewarded with the grins that overspread the faces of his hearers.
Aylworth nodded appreciatingly now and then, and Doc even slapped
his knee once and giggled aloud. Sathaway left out all
mention of Phil's sister naturally, and ended with and so
when I saw you, fellows, having such a Christian comfortable
sort of a time. I simply couldn't break away again.
I knew I was risking getting myself heartily disliked. And
really I wouldn't blame you if you rose on moss
and kick me out. But I am desperate. Give me
some tobacco from time to time and just let me
sit here and listen to you. It will be a
kindly act to a homeless orphan. Shut up, said Doyle heartily.
We're glad to have you. Of course, the others concurred.
We were going to light up the tree after a bit.
We do it every year, you know. It's kind of
of Christmasy when you don't get home for the holidays.
You see, we give one another little presents and and
have rather a bit of fun out of it. Only,
he hesitated, doubtfully. Only I'm afraid it may bore you,
awfully bore me, cried Satherwaite. Why man alive, I should
think it would be the jolliest sort of a thing.
It's just like being kids again. He turned and observed
the tiny tree with interest. And do you mean that
you all give one another presents and keep it secret
and and all that? Yes, just little things you know, answered, doake, deprecatingly.
It's the nearest thing to a real Christmas that I've
known for seven years, said Aylworth gravely. Sathawaight observed him wonderingly.
By jove, he murmured, seven years. Do you know I'm
glad now I am going home instead of to Sterner's
for Christmas. A fellow ought to be with his own folks,
don't you think? Everybody said yes heartily, and there was
a moment of silence in the room. Presently, Cranch, whose
home was in Michigan, began speaking reminiscently of the Christmases
he had spent when a lad in the pine woods.
He made the others feel the cold and the magnitude
of the pictures he drew and for a space. Sathaway
was transported to a little lumber town in a clearing
and stood by excitedly while a small boy in jeans
drew woolen mittens wonderful ones of red and gray from
out a Christmas stocking, and Summers told over Christmas he
had once spent in a Quebec village, and Aylworth followed
him with an account of Christmas morning in a main
coast fishing town. Sathwaite was silent. He had no Christmases
of his own to tell about. They would have been sorry, indeed,
after the others Christmases in a big Philadelphia house, rather
staid and stupid days as he remembered them, now, days
lacking in any delightful element of uncertainty, but filled with
wonderful presents so numerous that the novelty had worn away
from them. Ere bedtime, he felt that somehow he had
been cheated out of a pleasure which should have been his.
The tobacco pouches went from hand to hand. Christmas Giving
had already begun, and Sathwaite, to avoid disappointing his new friends,
had to smoke many more pipes than was good for him.
Suddenly they found themselves in darkness save for the firelight.
Doyle had arisen stealthily and turned out the gas. Then,
one by one, the tiny candles flickered and flared bluely
into flame. Someone pulled the shades from before the two windows,
and the room was hushed. Outside they could see the
flakes falling silently steadily between them and the electric lights
that shone across the avenue. It was a beautiful cold
still whirled of blue mists, a gong clang softly, and
a car well nigh and tenanted, slid by beneath them,
Its windows frosted half way up, flooding the snow with
mellow light. Some one beside Sathaway murmured gently, good old Christmas.
The spell was broken. Sathaway sighed why he hardly knew,
and turned away from the window. The tree was brilliantly
lighted now, and strings of cranberries caught the beams ruddily
dope stirred the fire, and Doyle, turning from a whispered
consultation with some of the others, approached Sathawaite, would you
mind playing Santa Claus give out the presents? You know
we always do it that way, Sathwaight would be delighted,
and better to impersonate that famous old gentleman. He turned
up the collar of his jacket and put each hand
up the opposite sleeve, looking as benignant as possible. The
while that's fine, cried Smith, But hold on, you need
a cap. He seized one from the window seat, a
worn thing of yellowish brown otter, and drew it down
over Sathaway's ears. The crowd applauded merrily. Dear little boys
and girls, began Sathaway in a quavering voice. No girls,
cried Doake. I want the cranberries, cried Smith. I love cranberries.
I'll get the popcorn. Then that was the sedate ale.
You'll be beastly sick, said Doke, grinning jovially through his classes.
Sathawait untied the first package from its twig. It bore
the inscription for little Willie Cranch. Everyone gathered around while
the recipient undid the wrappings and laid bare a pen
wiper adorned with a tiny crimson football. Doake explained to
Sathaway that Cranch had played football just once on a
scrub team, and had heroically carried the ball down a
long field and placed it triumphantly under his own goal posts.
This accounted for the laughter that ensued. Sammy Doak received
a notebook marked Mathematics three A. The point of this
illusion was lost to Sathawait, for Doke was too busy
laughing to explain it. And so it went, and the
room was in a constant roar of mirth. Doyle conferred
excitedly with Ailworth across the room. By and by. He
stole forward, and, detaching one of the packages from the tree,
erased and wrote on it with great secrecy. Then he
tied it back again and retired to the hearth, grinning
expectantly until his own name was called and he was
shoved forward to receive a rubber pen holder. Presently, Sathawait,
working around the Christmas tree, detached a package and frowned
over the address. Fellows, this looks like like Sathawait, but
he viewed the assemblage and embarrassment. But I fancy it's
a mistake, not a bit, cried Doyle. That's just my writing.
Open it, cried the others, thronging up to him. Sathawait obeyed,
wondering within the wrappers was a pocket memorandum book, a
simple thing of cheap red leather. Someone laughed uncertainly. Sathawait,
very red, ran his finger over the edges of the leaves,
examined it long as though he had never seen anything
like it before, and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. Aye. Aye,
he began chop it off, pried someone joyously. I'm awfully
much obliged to whoever it's from, the gang, said Doyle
with a Merry Christmas, said Aylworth. Thank you, gang, said Sathawait.
The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest
were crowding about Summers, Sathawait whipped a package from his
pocket and writing on it hurriedly, was apparently in the
act of taking it from the tree. When the others
turned again Little Harry Doyle, he read gravely. Doyle viewed
the package in amazement. He addressed the tree himself. Open
it up, oh man. When he saw the gun metal
paper knife, he glanced quickly at Sathawait. He was very
red in the face. Sathawait smiled back imperturbably. The knife
went from hand to hand, awakening enthusiastic admiration. But I say,
man who gave began Smith, I'm awfully much obliged Sathwaight,
said Doyle. But really I couldn't think of taking chop
it off, echoed Sathawait. Look here, Doyle, it isn't the
sort of thing i'd give you from choice. It's a
useless sort of toy. But I just happened to have
it with me, bought it in the square on the
way to give to someone. I didn't know who, And
so if you don't mind, I wish you'd accept it.
You know it'll do to put on the table or
open cans with. If you'd rather not take it, why
chuck it out the window. It isn't that, cried Doyle.
It's only that it's much too fine. Oh no, it isn't,
said Sathawait. Now then where's little Alfie Ayleworth. Small candy
canes followed the packages, and the men drew once more
around the hearth, munching the pink and white confectionery enjoyingly.
Smith insisted upon having the cranberries and bore them around
his neck. The popcorn was distributed equally, and the next day,
in the parlor car Sathaway drew his from a pocket
together with his handkerchief. Someone struck up a song, and
Doyle remembered that Sathawait had been in the glee club.
There was an instant clamor for a song, and Sathawait, consenting,
looked about the room. Haven't any thump box, said Smith?
Can't you go it alone? Sadaway thought he could and did.
He had a rich tenor voice, and he sang all
the songs he knew when it could be done by
hook or by crook. The others joined in the chorus,
not too loudly, for it was getting late and proctors
have sharp ears. When the last refrain had been repeated
for the third time and silence reigned for the moment,
they heard the bell in the nearby tower. They counted
its strokes eight nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Merry Christmas, that's all,
cried Smith, and the clamor that ensued. Sathawait secured his
coat and hat. He shook hands all around. Smith insisted
upon sharing the cranberries with him, and so looped a
string gracefully about his neck. When Sathawait backed out the door,
he still held Doke's pet pipe clenched between his teeth,
and Doak, knowing it, said not a word. Hope you'll
come back and see us, called Doyle. That's all right,
old man, don't forget us, shouted Aylworth, and Sathwait, promising
again and again not to stumbled his way down the
dark stairs outside. He glanced gratefully up at the lighted panes.
Then he grinned, and, scooping a handful of snow, sent
it fairly against the glass. Instantly, the window banged up,
and six heads thrust themselves out. Good Night, Merry Christmas,
old man, Happy New Year. Something smashed softly against Sathaway's
He looked back. They were gathering snow from the ledges
and throwing snow balls after him. Good shot, he called,
Merry Christmas. The sound of their cries and laughter followed
him far down the avenue end of a college. Santa
claus by Ralph Henry Barbar