Speaker 1: Old father Christmas. Can you fancy, young people, said Godfather Garble,
winking his prominent eyes, and moving his feet backwards and
forwards in his square shoes, so that you could hear
the squeakler the half a room off? Can you fancy
my having been a very little boy and having a godmother?
But I had, and she sent me presents on my
birthdays too, And young people did not get presents when
I was a child as they get them now. Rumph.
We had not half so many toys as you have,
but we kept them twice as long. I think we
were fonder of them too, though they were neither so
handsome nor so expensive as these new fangled affairs you
were always breaking about the house. Humph. You see, middle
class folk were more saving then. My mother turned and
died her dresses, and when she had done with them,
the servant was very glad to have them. But bless me,
your mother's maids dress so much finer than their mistress.
I do not think they would say thank you for
her best Sunday silk. The bustle's the wrong shape, humph.
What's that you are laughing at? Little miss? It's pannier,
is it? Well? Well, bustle or pannier. Call it what
you like, but only donkeys wore panniers in my young days,
and many's the ride I've had in them now. As
I say, my relations and friends thought twice before they
pulled out five shillings in a toy shop, but they
didn't forget me all the same. On my eighth birthday,
my mother gave me a bright blue comforter of her
own knitting. My little sister gave me a ball. My
mother had cut out the divisions from various bits in
the rag bag, and my sister had done some of
the seeming. It was stuffed with bran and had a
cork inside which had broken from old age and could
no longer fit the pickle jar it belonged to. This
made the ball bound when we played Prisoner's Bass. My
father gave me the broken driving whip that had lost
the lash and an old pair of his gloves to
play coachman with. These I had longed wished for, since
next to sailing in a ship in my ideas came
the honor and glory of driving a coach. My whole soul,
I must tell you, was set upon being a sailor.
In those tuesdays. I had rather put to sea once
on Farmer Fodder's duck pond than ride twice at top
of his hay wagon. And between the smell of the
hay and the softness of it, and the height you
are up above other folk, and the danger of tumbling
off if you don't look out for hay is elastic
as well as soft. You don't easily beat a ride
on a hay wagon for pleasure. But as I say,
I'd rather put to sea on the duck pond, though
the best craft I could borrow was the pigstie door
and a pole to punt with, and the village boys
jeering when I got aground, which was most of the time,
besides the duck pond never having a wave on it
worth the name punt as you would, and so shallow
you could not have got drowned in it to save
your life. You're laughing now, little master, are you, But
let me tell you that drowning's the death for a sailor,
whatever you may think. So I've always maintained and have
given every navigable sea in the known world a chance,
though here I am, after all, laid up in arm
chairs and feather beds to a wait for bronchitis or
some other slow poison. Rumph, Well, we must all go
as we're called sailors or lundsman. And as I was saying,
if I was never to sailor ship, I would have
liked to drive a coach, a mail coach, serving his majesty,
her majesty. Now, God bless her, carrying the royal arms,
and bound to go rough weather and fair. Many's the
time I've done it in play, you understand, With that
whip and those gloves, dear, dear, the pains I took
to teach my sister Patty to be a highwayman and
jump out on me from the drying ground, hedge in
the dusk with a stand and deliver which she couldn't
get out of her throat for fright. Ann wouldn't jump
hard enough for fear of hurting me. The whip and
the gloves gave me joy, I can tell you. But
there was more to come. Kitty the servant gave me
a shell that she had had by her for years.
How I had coveted that shell. It had this remarkable property.
When you put it to your ear, you could hear
the roaring of the sea. I had never seen the sea,
but Kitty was born in a fisherman's cottage, and many
an hour have I sat by the kitchen fire whilst
she told me strange stories of the mighty ocean and
ever and anon. She would snatch the shell from the
mantelpiece and clap it to my ear, crying, there, child,
you couldn't hear it plainer than that, it's the very moral.
When Kitty gave me that shell for my very own,
I felt that life had little more to offer. I
held it to every ear in the house, including the cats,
and seeing Dick, the sexton son, go by with an
armful of straw to stuff guy Fawkes, I ran out, and,
in my anxiety to make him share the treat and
learn what the sea is like, I clapped the shell
to his ear so smartly and unexpectedly that he, thinking
me to have struck him, knocked me down there and
then with his bundle of straw. When he understood the
rights of the case, he begged my pardon handsomely and
gave me two whole treacle sticks and part of a
third out of his breeches pocket in return, for which
I forgave him freely and promised to let him hear
the sea raw on every Saturday half holiday till further notice.
And speaking of Dick and the straw reminds me that
my birthday falls on the fifth of November. From this
it came about that I had always to bear a
good many jokes about being burnt as guy Fawkes. But
on the other hand I was allowed to make a
small bonfire of my own, and to have eight potatoes
to roast therein, and eight pennace of crackers to let
off in the evening. A potato and a pennace of
crackers for every year of my life. On this eighth birthday,
having got all the above name gifts, I cried in
the fullness of my heart. There never was such a day,
And yet there was more to come. For the evening
coach brought me a parcel, and the parcel was my
godmother's picture book. My godmother was a gentlewoman of small means,
but she was accomplished. She could make very spirited sketches
and knew how to color them after they were outlined
and shaded in Indian ink. She had a pleasant talent
for versifying. She was very industrious. I have it from
her own lips that she copied the figures in my
picture book from prints in several different houses at which
she visited. They were fancy portraits of characters, most of
which were familiar to my mind. There were Guy Fawkes,
Punch his then Majesty, the King Bogie, the man in
the Moon, the clerk of the weather Office, a Dunce,
and old Father Christmas. Beneath each sketch was a stanza
of my godmother's own composing. My godmother was very ingenious.
She had been mainly guided in her choice of these
characters by the prince she happened to meet with, as
she did not trust herself to design a figure. But
if she could not get exactly what she wanted, she
had a clever knack of tracing an outline of the
attitude from some engraving, and altering the figure to suit
her purpose. In the finished sketch, she was the soul
of truthfulness. The note she added to the index of
contents in my picture book spoke at once for her
honesty in avowing obligations and her ingenuity in availing herself
of opportunities. They ran thus number one Guy Fawkes, outlined
from a figure of a warehouseman rolling a sherry cask
into mister Rudd's wine vaults. I added the hat, cloak
and boots in the finished drawing. Number two punch, I
sketched him from the life. Number three, His most Gracious Majesty,
The King on a court jug bought in cheapside. Number four.
Bogie with bad boys in the bag on his back,
outlined from a Christian bending under his burden in my
mother's old copy of The Pilgrim's Progress. The face from
Giant Despair. Number five and number six, the Man in
the Moon and the Clerk of the Weather Office from
a book of caricatures belonging to Doctor James. Number seven,
a dunce from a steal engraving framed in rosewood that
hangs in my uncle Wilkinson's parlor. Number eight Old Father
Christmas from a German book at Lady Littleham's. My sister
Patty was six years old. We loved each other dearly.
The picture book was almost as much hers as mine.
We sat so long together on one big footstool by
the fire, with our arms round each other and the
book resting on our knees that Kitty called down blessings
on my godmother's head for having sent a volume that
kept us both so long out of mischief. If books
was Alice as useful as that they do for me,
said she. And though this speech did not mean much,
it was a great deal for Kitty to say, since,
not being herself an educated person, she naturally thought that
little enough good comes of learning. Patty and I had
our favorites amongst the pictures. Bogey now was a character
one did not care to think about too near bedtime.
I was tired of guy Fawkes, and thought that he
looked more natural made of straw as Dick did him.
The dance was a little too personal. But old Father
Christmas took our hearts by storm. We had never seen
anything like him, though nowadays you may get up plaster
figure of him in any toy shop at Christmas time,
with hair and beard like cotton wool, and a Chrism
in his hand. The custom of Christmas trees came from Germany.
I can remember when they were first introduced into England,
and what wonderful things we sought them. Now every village
school has its tree, and the scholars openly discuss whether
the presents have been good or mean as compared with
other trees of former years. The first one that I
ever saw I believed to have come from the Good
Father Christmas himself. But little boys have grown too wise
now to be taken in for their own amusement. They
are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the
back drawing room. They hardly confess to the thrill which
I feel to this day. When the folding doors are
thrown open, and amid the blaze of tapers, Mama life,
like her fate, advances with her scissors to give every
one what falls to his lot. Well, young people, when
I was eight years old, I had not seen a
Christmas tree, and the first picture of one I ever
saw was the picture of that held by old Father
Christmas in my godmother's picture book. What are those things
on the tree, I asked, Candles, said my father. No, Father,
not the candles. The other things those are toys, my son.
Are they ever taken off? Yes, they are taken off
and given to the children who stand round the tree.
Patty and I grasped each other by the hand, and
with one voice murmured, how kind of Old Father Christmas.
By and by I asked how old this old Father Christmas.
My father laughed and said, one thousand, eight hundred and
thirty years child, which was then the year of our Lord,
and thus one thousand, eight hundred and thirty years since
the first great Christmas Day. He looks very old, whispered Patty.
And I, who was for my age what Kitty called
bible learned, said thoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind,
then he's older than Methuselah. But my father had left
the room and did not hear my difficulty. November and
December went by, and still the picture book kept all
its charm for Patty and me, and we pondered on
and loved Old Father Christmas, as children can love and
realize a fancy friend to those who remember the fancies
of their childhood. I need say no more. Christmas week came,
Christmas Eve came. My father and mother were mysteriously and
unaccountably busy in the parlor. We only had one parlor,
and Patty and I were not allowed to go in.
We went into the kitchen, but even here was no
place of rest for us. Kitty was all over the place,
as she phrased it, and cakes, mince pies and puddings
were with her, as she justly observed, there was no
place there for children and books to sit with their
toes in the fire, when our body wanted to be
at the oven all along. Their cat was enough for
her temper, she added, as to Puss, who obstinately refused
to take a hint, which drove her out into the
Christmas frost. She returned again and again with soft steps
and a stupidity that was I think affected to the
warm hearth, only to fly at intervals like a football
before Kitty's hasty slipper. We have more sense or less courage,
We bowed to Kitty's behests and went to the back door.
Patty and I were hardy children and accustomed to run
out in all weathers without much extra wrapping up. We
put Kitty's shawl over our two heads and went outside.
I rather hope to see something of Dick, for it
was holiday time, but no Dick passed. He was busy
helping his father to bore holes in the carved seats
of the church, which were to hold sprigs of holly
for the morrow that was the idea of church decoration.
In my young days, you have improved on your elders there,
young people, and I am candid enough to allow it. Still,
the sprigs of red and green were better than nothing,
And like your lovely wreaths and pious devices, they made
one feel as if the old blackwood were bursting into
life and leaf again for very Christmas joy. And if
one only knelt carefully, they did not scratch his nose,
added Godfather Garble, chuckling and rubbing his own, which was
large and rather red. Well, he continued, Dick was busy
and not to be seen. We ran across the little
yard and looked over the wall at the end to
see if we could see anything or anybody. From this
part there was a pleasant meadow field sloping prettily away
to a little hill about three quarters of a mile distance, which,
catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held
to be a place of cure for whooping cough or
kink koff, as it was vulgarly called up to the
top of this. Kitty had dragged me and carried Patty
when we were recovering from the complaint. As I well remember,
it was the only change of air we could afford,
and I dare say it did as well as if
we had gone into badly drained lodgings at the sea side.
This hill was now covered with snow and stood off
against the gray sky. The white fields looked vast and
dreary in the dusk. The only gay things to be
seen were the red berries on the holly hedge in
the little lane which running by the end of our
back yard led up to the hall, and a fat
robin redbreast, who was staring at me. I was watching
the robin when Patty, who had been peering out of
the corner of Kitty's shawl, gave a great jump that
dragged the shawl from her heads and cried. Look. I looked.
An old man was coming along the lane. His hair
and beard were white as cotton wool. He had a
face like the sort of apple that keeps well in winter.
His coat was old and brown. There was snow about
him in patches, and he carried a small fir tree.
The same conviction seized upon us both with one breath.
We exclaimed, it's o, Father Christmas. I know now that
it was only an old man of the place, with
whom we did not happen to be acquainted, and that
he was taking a little fir tree up to the
hall to be made into a Christmas tree. He was
a very good humored old fellow, and rather deaf, for
which he made up by smiling and nodding his head
a good deal and saying aye aye, to be sure
at likely intervals. As he passed us and met our
earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so affably that I
was bold enough to cry Good evening, Father Christmas, Same
to you, said he in a high pitched voice. Then
you are Father Christmas, said Patty. Under Happy New Year
was Father Christmas's reply, which rather put me out, But
he smiled in such a satisfactory manner that Patty went on,
you'll very old, aren't you? So I be? Miss so
I be, said Father Christmas. Nodding. Father says you're eight
hundred and thirty years old. I muttered, aye aye, to
be sure, said Father Christmas. I'm a long age, a
very long age, thought I, and I added, you're nearly
twice as old as Methuselah, you know, thinking that this
might not have struck him. Aye aye, said Father Christmas,
but he did not seem to think anything of it.
After a pause, he held up the tree and cried,
do you know what this is, little miss ah Christmas Tree,
said Patty, and the old man smiled and nodded. I
leant over the wall and shouted, But there are no
candles by and by, said Father Christmas, nodding as before.
When it's dark, they'll all be lighted up. I'd'll be
a fine sight. Toys too, they'll be, won't there, screamed Patty.
Father Christmas nodded his head. And sweeties, he added expressively.
I could feel Patty trembling and my own heart beat fast.
The thought which agitated us both was this was Father
Christmas bringing the tree to us. But very anxiety and
some modesty also kept us from asking outright. Only when
the old man shouldered his tree and prepared to move on,
I cried in despair, Oh are you going? I'm coming
back by and by, said he. How soon, cried Patty.
About four o'clock, said the old man, smiling, I'm only
going up yonder, and nodding and smiling as he went.
He passed away down the lane up yonder. This puzzled
us Father Christmas had pointed, but so indefinitely that he
might have been pointing to the sky, or the fields,
or the little wood at the end of the squire's grounds.
I thought the latter, and suggested to Patty that perhaps
he had some place underground, like Aladdin's cave where he
got the candles and all the pretty things for the tree.
This idea pleased us both, and we amused ourselves by
wondering what Old Father Christmas would choose for us from
his stores in that wonderful hole where he dressed his
Christmas trees. I wonder, Patty said, I why there's no
picture of Father Christmas's dog in the book. For at
the old man's heels in the lane there crept a
little brown and white spaniel, looking very dirty in the snow.
Perhaps it's a new dog that he's got to take
care of his cave, said Patty. When we went indoors,
we examined the picture afresh by the dim light from
the passage window, but there was no dog there. My
father passed us at this moment and patted my head.
Father said, I I don't know, but I do think
Old Father Christmas is going to bring us a Christmas
tree to night. Who's been telling you? That? Said my father,
But he passed on before I could explain that we
had seen Father Christmas himself and had had his word
for it that he would return at four o'clock, and
that the candles on his tree would be lighted as
soon as it was dark. We hovered on the outskirts
of the room till four o'clock came. We sat on
the stairs and watched the big clock, which I was
just learning to read, and Patty made herself giddy with
constantly looking up and counting the four strokes towards which
the hour hands slowly moved. We put our noses into
the kitchen now and then to smell the cakes and
get warm and anon. We hung about the parlor door
and were most unjustly accused of trying to peep. What
did we care what our mother was doing in the parlor,
We who had seen old Father Christmas himself and were
expecting him back again every moment. At last, the church
clock struck. The sounds boomed heavily through the frost, and
Patty thought that there were four of them. Then, after
dew choking and wearing our own clock struck and we
counted the strokes quite clearly, one, two, three, four. Then
we got Kitty's shawl once more and stole out into
the back yard. We ran to our old place and peeped,
but could see nothing. We better get up onto the wall,
I said, And with some difficulty and distress from rubbing
her bare knees against the cold stones and getting the
snow up her sleeves, Patty got on the coping of
the little wall. I was just struggling after her, when
something warm and something cold, coming suddenly against the bare
calves of my legs, made me shriek with fright. I
came down with a run and bruised my knees, my elbows,
and my chin, and the snow that hadn't gone at
Patty's sleeves went down my neck. Then I found that
the cold thing was a dog's nose, and the warm
thing was his tongue. And Patty cried from her post
of observation, it's Father Christmas's dog, and he's licking your legs.
It really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel,
and he persisted in licking me and jumping on me
and making curious little noises that must have meant something
if one had known his language. I was rather harassed
at the moment. My legs were sore. I was a
little afraid of the dog, and Patty was very much
afraid of sitting on the wall without me. You won't fall,
I said to her. Get down, will you? I said
to the dog. Humpty dumpty fell off a wall, said Patty.
Bow wow, said the dog. I pulled Patty down, and
the dog tried to pull me down. But when my
little sister was on her feet, to my relief, he
transferred his attentions to her. When he had jumped at
her and licked her several times, he turned round and
ran away. He's gone, I said, I'm so glad. But
even as I spoke, he was back again, crouching at
Patty's feet and glaring at her with eyes the color
of his ears. Now Patty was very fond of animals,
and when the dog looked at her, she looked at
the dog, and then she said to me, he wants
us to go with him on which, as if he
understood our language, although we were ignorant of his, the
spaniel sprang away and went off as hard as he could,
and Patty and I went after him, a dim hope
crossing my mind. Perhaps Father Christmas has sent him for us.
This idea was rather favored by the fact that the
dog led us up the lane only a little way.
Then he stopped by something lying in the ditch, and
once more we cried in the same breath. It's old
Father Christmas, returning from the hall. The old man had
slipped upon a bit of ice and lay stunned in
the snow. Patty began to cry. I think he's dead,
she sobbed. He's so very old. I don't wonder, I murmured,
but perhaps he's not. I'll fetch father. My father and
Kitty were soon on the spot. Kitty was as strong
as a man, and they carried Father Christmas between them
into the kitchen. There he quickly revived, I must do
Kitty the justice to say that she did not utter
a word of complaint at this disturbance of her labors,
and that she drew the old man's chair close up
to the oven with her own hand. She was so
much affected by the behavior of his dog that she
admitted him even to the hearth, on which Puss, being
acute enough to see how matters stood, lay down with
her back so close to the spaniels that Kitty could
not expel one without kicking both. For our parts, we
felt slightly anxious about the tree. Otherwise we could have
wished for no better treat than to sit at Kitty's
round table taking tea with Father Christmas. Our usual fare
of thick bread and treacle was to night exchanged for
a delicious variety of cakes, which one none the worse
to us for being tasters, and waters, that is, little
bits of dough or short bread put in to try
the state of the oven, and certain cakes that had
got broken or burnt in the baking well. There we sat,
helping old Father Christmas to tea and cake, and wondering
in our hearts what could have become of the tree.
But you see, young people, when I was a child,
parents were stricter than they are now. Even before Kitty died,
and she has been dead many a long year, there
was a change, and she said that children got to
think anything became them. I think we were talk more
honest shame about certain things than I often see a
little boys and girls now. We were ashamed of boasting
or being greedy or selfish. We were ashamed of asking
for anything that was not offered to us, and of
interrupting grown up people or talking about ourselves. Why papa's
and mammas nowadays seem quite proud to let their friends
see how bold and greedy and talkative their children can be.
A lady said to me the other day, you wouldn't believe,
mister Garble, how forward dear little Harry is for his age.
He has his word in everything and is not a
bit shy. And his papa never comes home from town,
but Harry runs to ask if he's brought him a present.
Papa says, he'll be the ruin of him. Madam said, I,
even without your word for it, I am quite aware
that your child is forward. He is forward and greedy
and intrusive, as you justly point out, and I wish
you joy of him when those qualities are fully developed.
I think his father's fears are well founded. But bless
me nowadays it's come and tell missus Smith what a
fine boy you are and how many houses you can
build with your bricks. Or the dear child wants everything
he sees, or little pet never lets mamma alone for
a minute, does she love? But to my young days.
It was self praises, no recommendation, as Kitty used to
tell me, or you're knocking too hard at number one,
as my father said when we talked about ourselves, or
little boys should be seen but not heard as a
rule of conduct in company, or don't ask for what
you want, but take what's given you and be grateful.
And so you see, young people, Patty and I felt
a delicacy in asking old Father Christmas about the tree.
It was not until we had had tea three times
round with tasters and wasters to match that Patty said,
very gently, it's quite dark now, and then she heaved
a great sigh. Burning anxiety overcame me. I leant towards
Father Christmas and shouted. I had found out that it
was needful to shout. I suppose the candles are on
the tree now, just about putting of em on, said
Father Christmas. And the presents too, said Petty. Aye Aye,
to be sure, said Father Christmas, and he smiled delightfully.
I was thinking what further questions I might venture upon
when he pushed his cup towards Patty, saying, since you
are so pressing, miss, I'll take another dish, and Kitty,
swooping on us from the oven, cried, make yourself at home, sir,
there's more where these came from. Make a long arm,
miss Patty, and hand them cakes. So we had to
devote ourselves to the duties of the table, and Patty,
holding the lid with one hand and pouring with the other,
supplied Father Christmas's wants with a heavy heart. At last
he was satisfied. I said grace, during which he stood,
and indeed he stood for some time afterwards with his
eyes shut. I fancy under the impression that I was
still speaking. He had just said a fervent amen, and
re seated himself. When my father put his head into
the kitchen and made this remarkable statement, Old Father Christmases
sent a tree to the young people. Patty and I
uttered a cry of delight, and we forthwith danced around
the old man, saying, oh, how nice, oh, how kind
of you, which I think must have bewildered him, But
he only smiled and nodded. Come along, said my father,
Come children, Come Reuben, come Kitty, and he went into
the parlor, and we all followed him. My Godmother's picture
of a Christmas tree was very pretty, and the flames
of the candles were so naturally done in red and
yellow that I always wondered that they did not shine
at night. But the picture was nothing to the reality.
We have been sitting almost in the dark, for as
Kitty said, firelight was quite enough to burn at meal times.
And when the parlor door was thrown open, and the
tree with lighted tapers and all the branches burst upon
our view, the blaze was dazzling and threw such a glory.
Ran the little gifts, and the bags of colored muslin
with acid drops and pink rose drops, and comforts inside.
As I shall never forget, we all got something, and
Patty and I at any rate believed that the things
came from the stores of old Father Christmas. We were
not undeceived, even by his gratefully accepting a bundle of
old clothes which had been hastily put together to form
his present. We were all very happy, even Kitty, I think,
though she kept her sleeves rolled up and seemed rather
to grudge enjoying herself a weak point in some energetic characters.
She went back to her and before the lights were out,
and the angel on the top of the tree was
taken down. She locked up our present a little work
box at once. She often showed it off afterwards, but
it was kept in the same bit of tissue paper
till she died. Our presence certainly did not last so long.
The old Man died about a week afterwards, so we
never made his acquaintance as a common personage. When he
was buried, his little dog came to us. I suppose
he remembered the hospitality he had received. Patty adopted him,
and he was very faithful. Puss always looked on him
with favor. I hoped, during our rambles together in the
following summer that he would lead us at last to
the cave where the Christmas trees are dressed, but he
never did. Our parents often spoke of his late master
as Old Reuben. But children are not easily disabused of
a favorite fancy. And in Patty's thoughts and in mine,
the old Man was long gratefully remembered as Old Father Christmas.
End of Old Father Christmas by J. H. Ewing