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Speaker 1: The hard times in Elfland. Strange that the termagant wind

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should scold the Christmas eve so bitterly. But Wife and Harry,

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the four year old Big Charlie, nimblewits, and I blithe

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as the wind was bitter, drew more frontward of the

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mighty fire, where wise Newfoundland fan fore knew the heaven

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that Christian dogs desire stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave,

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huge nose on heavy paws, reclined with never a drowning

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boy to save, and warmth of body and peace of mind.

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And as our happy circle sat the fire well caps

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the company in grave debate or careless chat, a right

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good fellow mingled. He he seemed as one of us

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to sit and talked of things above below, with flames

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more winsome than our wits, and coals that burned like

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lover glow. While thus our rippling discourse rolled smoothed down

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the channel of the night. We spoke of time. Thereat

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told a parable of the season's flight, those seasons out

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we talked of these, And I with inward purpose, sly

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to shield my purse from Christmas trees and stockings and

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wild robbery. When Hal and nimblewitz invade my cash in

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Santa Claus's name in full the hard hard times surveyed,

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denounced all waste as crime and shame. Hinted that waste

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might be a term including skates, velocipedes, kites, marbles, soldiers,

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towers in firm bows, arrows, cannon, indian reeds, cap pistols, drums,

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mechanic toys, and all the infernal host of horns, whereby

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to strenuous hells of noise are turned. The blessed Christmas

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morns thus roused those horns to sacred rage. I rose

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fourfinger high in air when Harry cried, some water wage,

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Papa is hard time everywhere, Maybe in Santa Claus's land

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it isn't hard times none at all. Now blessed vision

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to my hand, most pat a marvel strange did fall scarce,

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had my Harry ceased when look he cried, leapt up

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in wild alarm, ran to my comrade, sheltered hook beneath

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the startled mother's arm. And so was still what time

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we saw a foot hang down the fireplace. Then, with

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painful scrambling, scratched and raw, two hands that seemed like

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hands of men eased down two legs and a body.

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Through the blazing fire and forth there came before our

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wide and wondering view a figure shrinking, half with shame

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and half with weakness, Sir, I said, but with a

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mien of dignity. The seedy stranger raised his head. My friends,

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I'm Santa Claus, said he. But oh, how changed that

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rot unfeed? The new moon rivaled pale and thin. Where

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once was cheek, now empty space. What air stood out

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did now stand in his piteous legs. Scarce propped him up.

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His arm's mere sickles seemed to be, but most o'erflowed

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our sorrow's cup. When that we saw or did not

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see his belly, we remembered how it shook like a

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bowl of jelly fine. An earthquake could not shake it.

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Now he had no belly, not a sign. Yes, yes,

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old friends, you well may stir. I have seen better days,

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he said, But now with shrinkage, loss and care, your

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Santa Claus Scarce owns his head. We've had such hard

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hard times this year, for goblins never knew the like.

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All elflands mortgaged, and we fear that gnomes are just

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about to strike. I once was rich and drowned and hail.

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The whole world called me jolly brick. But listen to

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a piteous tale. Young Harry Santa Claus is sick. Twas.

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Thus a smooth tongued railroad man comes to my house

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and talks to me. I've got, says he, a little

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plan that suits this nineteenth century. Instead of driving as

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you do six reindeer slow from a house to house,

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let's build a grand trunk whaleway through from here to

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Earth's lash terminus. We'll touch every chimney top an elevated track.

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Of course, then as we whisk you by, you'll drop

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each package down. Just think the force you'll save the time. Besides,

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we'll make our millions look you. Soon we will compete

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for freight, and then we'll take Dame Fortune's bales of

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good nil why she's the biggest shipper. Sir. The air

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did business in this world. Then death, that ceaseless traveler

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shell on his rounds by us bey world, when ghosts

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returned to walk with men, we'll bring him cheap by

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steam and fast. We'll run a branch to Heaven, and

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then we'll riot man for Then at last we'll make

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with Heaven a contract fair to call each hour from

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town to town and carry the dead folk's souls up there,

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and bring the unborn babies down. The plan seemed fair.

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I gave him cash, nay, every penny I could raise.

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My wife ear cried, tis rash, tis rash. How could

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I know the stock thief's ways? But soon I learned

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full well, poor fool, My woes began. That wretched day,

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the President plied me like a tool in lawyer's fees

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and rights of way, injunctions, leases, charters. I was meshed

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as in a mighty maze. The stock ran low, the

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talk ran high, then quickly flamed, the final blaze with

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never an inch of track. Tis true, The debts were large,

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the oft told tale. The President rolled in splendor new

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He bought my silver at the sail. Yes, sold me out.

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We've moved away. I've had to give up everything, my reindeer,

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even whom I pray, excuse me here, o'er sorrowing. Poor

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Santa Claus burst into tears, then calmed again. My reindeer fleet.

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I gave them up on foot, my DearS. I now

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must plod through snow and sleet. Retrenchment rules in Elfland now, Yes,

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every luxury is cut off, which, by the way, reminds

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me how I caught this dreadful hacking cough. I cut

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off the tail of my ulster third to make young

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Chris a coat of state. That very night the storm occurred.

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Thus we become the sport of fate. For I was

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out till after one, surveying chimney tops and roofs, and

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planning how it could be done without any reindeers bouncing hoofs.

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My dear says missus Claws that night, a most superior woman.

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She it never never can be right that you, deep

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sunk in poverty this year, should leave your poor old

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bed and trot about bent down with toys. There's Chris

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A crying now for bread to give to other people's boys.

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Since you've been out, the news arrives. The ELF's insurance

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company's gone, Ah Claws, Those premiums now. Our lives depend

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on yours. Thus griefs go on, And even while you're

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thus harassed. I do believe if out you went, you'd

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go in spite of all that's passed to the children

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of that press, did Oh Charlie Harry nimblewits these eyes

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that night ne'er slept a wink. My path seemed honey

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combed with pits. Nought could I do but think and think.

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But with the day my courage rose. Ne'er shall my boys,

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My boys, I cried when Christmas mourned. Their eyes unclose

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find empty stockings gaping wide, then hued and wacked and whittled. Eye.

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The wife, the girls and Chris took fire. They spun, sewed,

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cut till by and by we made at home my

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pack entire. He handed me a bundle. Here. Now hoist

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me up there gently, quick, dear boys, don't look for

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much this year. Remember Santa Claus is sick. End of

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the hard times in Elfland by Sidney Lanier