Speaker 1: The hard times in Elfland. Strange that the termagant wind
should scold the Christmas eve so bitterly. But Wife and Harry,
the four year old Big Charlie, nimblewits, and I blithe
as the wind was bitter, drew more frontward of the
mighty fire, where wise Newfoundland fan fore knew the heaven
that Christian dogs desire stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave,
huge nose on heavy paws, reclined with never a drowning
boy to save, and warmth of body and peace of mind.
And as our happy circle sat the fire well caps
the company in grave debate or careless chat, a right
good fellow mingled. He he seemed as one of us
to sit and talked of things above below, with flames
more winsome than our wits, and coals that burned like
lover glow. While thus our rippling discourse rolled smoothed down
the channel of the night. We spoke of time. Thereat
told a parable of the season's flight, those seasons out
we talked of these, And I with inward purpose, sly
to shield my purse from Christmas trees and stockings and
wild robbery. When Hal and nimblewitz invade my cash in
Santa Claus's name in full the hard hard times surveyed,
denounced all waste as crime and shame. Hinted that waste
might be a term including skates, velocipedes, kites, marbles, soldiers,
towers in firm bows, arrows, cannon, indian reeds, cap pistols, drums,
mechanic toys, and all the infernal host of horns, whereby
to strenuous hells of noise are turned. The blessed Christmas
morns thus roused those horns to sacred rage. I rose
fourfinger high in air when Harry cried, some water wage,
Papa is hard time everywhere, Maybe in Santa Claus's land
it isn't hard times none at all. Now blessed vision
to my hand, most pat a marvel strange did fall scarce,
had my Harry ceased when look he cried, leapt up
in wild alarm, ran to my comrade, sheltered hook beneath
the startled mother's arm. And so was still what time
we saw a foot hang down the fireplace. Then, with
painful scrambling, scratched and raw, two hands that seemed like
hands of men eased down two legs and a body.
Through the blazing fire and forth there came before our
wide and wondering view a figure shrinking, half with shame
and half with weakness, Sir, I said, but with a
mien of dignity. The seedy stranger raised his head. My friends,
I'm Santa Claus, said he. But oh, how changed that
rot unfeed? The new moon rivaled pale and thin. Where
once was cheek, now empty space. What air stood out
did now stand in his piteous legs. Scarce propped him up.
His arm's mere sickles seemed to be, but most o'erflowed
our sorrow's cup. When that we saw or did not
see his belly, we remembered how it shook like a
bowl of jelly fine. An earthquake could not shake it.
Now he had no belly, not a sign. Yes, yes,
old friends, you well may stir. I have seen better days,
he said, But now with shrinkage, loss and care, your
Santa Claus Scarce owns his head. We've had such hard
hard times this year, for goblins never knew the like.
All elflands mortgaged, and we fear that gnomes are just
about to strike. I once was rich and drowned and hail.
The whole world called me jolly brick. But listen to
a piteous tale. Young Harry Santa Claus is sick. Twas.
Thus a smooth tongued railroad man comes to my house
and talks to me. I've got, says he, a little
plan that suits this nineteenth century. Instead of driving as
you do six reindeer slow from a house to house,
let's build a grand trunk whaleway through from here to
Earth's lash terminus. We'll touch every chimney top an elevated track.
Of course, then as we whisk you by, you'll drop
each package down. Just think the force you'll save the time. Besides,
we'll make our millions look you. Soon we will compete
for freight, and then we'll take Dame Fortune's bales of
good nil why she's the biggest shipper. Sir. The air
did business in this world. Then death, that ceaseless traveler
shell on his rounds by us bey world, when ghosts
returned to walk with men, we'll bring him cheap by
steam and fast. We'll run a branch to Heaven, and
then we'll riot man for Then at last we'll make
with Heaven a contract fair to call each hour from
town to town and carry the dead folk's souls up there,
and bring the unborn babies down. The plan seemed fair.
I gave him cash, nay, every penny I could raise.
My wife ear cried, tis rash, tis rash. How could
I know the stock thief's ways? But soon I learned
full well, poor fool, My woes began. That wretched day,
the President plied me like a tool in lawyer's fees
and rights of way, injunctions, leases, charters. I was meshed
as in a mighty maze. The stock ran low, the
talk ran high, then quickly flamed, the final blaze with
never an inch of track. Tis true, The debts were large,
the oft told tale. The President rolled in splendor new
He bought my silver at the sail. Yes, sold me out.
We've moved away. I've had to give up everything, my reindeer,
even whom I pray, excuse me here, o'er sorrowing. Poor
Santa Claus burst into tears, then calmed again. My reindeer fleet.
I gave them up on foot, my DearS. I now
must plod through snow and sleet. Retrenchment rules in Elfland now, Yes,
every luxury is cut off, which, by the way, reminds
me how I caught this dreadful hacking cough. I cut
off the tail of my ulster third to make young
Chris a coat of state. That very night the storm occurred.
Thus we become the sport of fate. For I was
out till after one, surveying chimney tops and roofs, and
planning how it could be done without any reindeers bouncing hoofs.
My dear says missus Claws that night, a most superior woman.
She it never never can be right that you, deep
sunk in poverty this year, should leave your poor old
bed and trot about bent down with toys. There's Chris
A crying now for bread to give to other people's boys.
Since you've been out, the news arrives. The ELF's insurance
company's gone, Ah Claws, Those premiums now. Our lives depend
on yours. Thus griefs go on, And even while you're
thus harassed. I do believe if out you went, you'd
go in spite of all that's passed to the children
of that press, did Oh Charlie Harry nimblewits these eyes
that night ne'er slept a wink. My path seemed honey
combed with pits. Nought could I do but think and think.
But with the day my courage rose. Ne'er shall my boys,
My boys, I cried when Christmas mourned. Their eyes unclose
find empty stockings gaping wide, then hued and wacked and whittled. Eye.
The wife, the girls and Chris took fire. They spun, sewed,
cut till by and by we made at home my
pack entire. He handed me a bundle. Here. Now hoist
me up there gently, quick, dear boys, don't look for
much this year. Remember Santa Claus is sick. End of
the hard times in Elfland by Sidney Lanier