Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3833/The Christmas Spirit
I was sitting in front of the fire—dozing, I daresay—when he was announced.
"Father Christmas."
He came in awkwardly and shook me by the hand.
"Forgive my unceremonious entry," he said. "I know I ought to have come down the chimney, but—well, you understand."
"Things are different this year," I suggested.
"Very different," he said gloomily. He put his sack down and took a seat on the other side of the fire-place.
"Anything for me?" I wondered, with an eye on the sack between us.
"Ah, there's no difference there," he said, brightening up as he drew out a big flat parcel. "The blotter from Aunt Emily. You needn't open it now; it's exactly the same as last year's."
I had been prepared for it. I took a letter from my pocket and dropped it in the sack.
"My letter of thanks for it," I explained. "Exactly the same as last year's too."
Father Christmas sighed and gazed into the fire.
"All the same," he said at last, "it's different, even with your Aunt Emily."
"Tell me all about it. To begin with, why didn't you come down the chimney?"
"The reindeer." He threw up his hands in despair. "Gone!"
"How?"
"Filleted."
I looked at him in surprise.
"Or do I mean 'billeted'?" he said. "Anyway, the War Office did it."
"Requisitioned, perhaps."
"That's it. They requisitioned 'em. What you and I would call taking 'em."
"I see. So you have to walk. But you could still come down the chimney."
"Well, I could; but it would mean climbing up there first. And that wouldn't seem so natural. It would make it more like a practical joke, and I haven't heart for practical jokes this year, when nobody really wants me at all."
"Not want you?" I protested. "What rubbish!"
Father Christmas dipped his hand into his sack and brought out a card of greeting. Carefully adjusting a pair of horn spectacles to his nose he prepared to read.
"Listen to this," he said. "It's from Alfred to Eliza." He looked at me over his glasses. "I don't know if you know them at all?"
"I don't think so."
"An ordinary printed card with robins and snow and so forth on it. And it says"—his voice trembled with indignation—"it says, 'Wishing you a very happy ———' Censored, Sir! Censored, at my time of life. There's your War Office again."
"I think that's joke of the publisher's," I said soothingly.
"Oh, if it's humour I don't mind. Nobody is more partial to mirth and jollity than I am." He began to chuckle to himself. "There's my joke about the 'rain, dear'; I don't know if you know that?"
I said I didn't; he wanted cheering up. But though he was happy while he was telling it to me he soon became depressed again.
"Look here," I said sternly, "this is absurd of you. Christmas is chiefly a children's festival. Grown-ups won't give each other so many presents this year, but we shall still remember the children, and we shall give you plenty to do seeing after them. Why," I went on boastfully, "you've got four of my presents in there at this moment. The book for Margery, and the box of soldiers, and the Jumping Tiger and———"
Father Christmas held up his hand and stopped me.
"It's no good," he said, "you can't deceive me. After a good many years at the business I'm rather sensitive to impressions." He wagged a finger at me. "Now then, uncle. Was your whole heart in it when you bought that box of soldiers, or did you do it with an effort, telling yourself that the children mustn't be forgotten—and knowing quite well that you had forgotten them?"
"One has a—a good deal to think about just now," I said uneasily.
"Oh, I'm not blaming you; everybody's the same; but it makes it much less jolly for me, that's all. You see, I can't help knowing. Why, even your Aunt Emily, when she bought you that delightful blotter... which you have your foot on... even she bought it in a different way from last year's. Last year she gave a lot of happy thought to it, and decided in the middle of the night that a blotter was the one thing you wanted. This year she said, 'I suppose he'd better have his usual blotter, or he'll think I've forgotten him.' Kind of her, of course (as, no doubt, you've said in your letter), but not the jolly Christmas spirit."
"I suppose now," I said.
Father Christmas signed again and got up.
"Well, I must be trotting along. Perhaps next year they'll want me again. Good-bye."
"Good-bye. You're quite sure there's nothing else for me?"
"Quite sure," he said, glancing into his bag. "Hallo, what's this?"
He drew out a letter. It had O.H.M.S. on it, and was addressed to "Father Christmas."
"For me? Fancy my not seeing that before. Whatever can it be?" He fixed his spectacles again and began to read.
"A commission, perhaps," I said humorously.
"It is a commission!" he cried excitedly. "To go to the Front and deliver Christmas presents to the troops! They've got hundreds of thousands all ready for them!"
"And given in what spirit?" I smiled.
"Ah, my boy! No doubt about the spirit of that." He slung his sack on to his shoulder and faced me—his old holly self again. "This will be something like. I suppose I shall have the reindeer again for this. Did I ever tell ou the joke—ah! so I did, so I did. Well, good night to you."
He hurried out of the room chuckling to himself. I sat down in front of the fire again, but in a moment he was back.
"Just thought of something very funny," he said. "Simply had to come back and tell you. The troops—hee-hee-hee—won't have any stockings to hang up, so—ha-ha-ha—they'll have to hang up their puttees! Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
He passed through the door again, and his laughter came rolling down the passage.