A Convert to Santa Claus.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3406, 23 December 1911, Page 4 (Supplement)

A Convert to Santa Claus.

HOW ONE MAN SAVED THE DAY for kriss KRINGLE.

(By Roy Bolfe. Gilson, author of “In the Morning Glow,” “Miss Primrose,”

“Katrina,” etc As an old codger without chick or child I had. looked- forward to.the visit with a good deal of pleasure, and upon mv arrival, two" days before Christmas, it was with a feeling of almost grandfatherly calm and pride that I wandered about my brother’s house with the hand of xny seven-year-old nephew in mine. “Bob” said I—he was named for me —'“which chimney wiH Santa Claus come dowm?” •• “Santa Claus!” said he. cuess you’ve never grown up. “Crowed up, I suppose you mean,” £ replied. “Little boys say ‘grow-ed up.’ I used to.” , “Nowadays,” said my brother s wife, “it is not considered a good thing for * children to talk baby-talk. It makes it more difficult for them to speak correctly afterward. And it tends to limit the vocabulary.” “I see,” said I. if Well, you think I have- never matured, eh?” He hesitated. . . “Santa Claus,” he exclaimed, ‘is your father and mother. ho added, as if too exclusive a definition might posibly be indiscreet: “Or your uncle- Or anybody that gives you anything for Christmas.’ “And when did you find that out." “Oh, my—years ago!” he replied. “Well, well,” said I, “wffiat remarkable young fellows you are in this generation! When I was your age—my sakes! there was Santa Claus, and Cock Robin, and Jack the Giant-Killer, and the Old Man of Tobago—why, I believed in all of them. And do yet.” “Aw, Uncle Robert!” “Sure! 1 believe in ’em. You can’t fool'me telling me that, there isn’t any i Santa Claus. I know better than. that. | If there isn’t how does it happen that j they have pitchers of him?” “Aw, Mamma, Uncle Robert say 3 ‘pitchers’! You mean ‘pictures,’ Uncle Robert.”

Huh! I

“Well, chimney or chimley—whichever it is. My gracious, but you pick a fellow up so! Why, you’re the rear-ingest-tearingest dictionary fellow I ever did see!” Bob giggled rapturously. “You talk like Terence.” “Who’s Terence!-'” “Why, he’s the ashman’s bov” “Well, I’m a boy.” “Aw, Uncle Robert!” “Well, I am! That’s how I happen to believe in Santa Claus.”

“You must be a little boy then. Only little kids believe in Santa Claus. But how can you be a boy, Uncle Robert? You’re tall and skinny. And your hair’s gray. And you wear spectacles. And your nose is four inches long.” “Robert!” cried my brother’s wife. “By Greoige!” said I: “I hadn’t thought of my nose, Bob! And it’s funny, but the more I can forget my nose the more of a boy I am every time. Y'es, sir!” And at that I grew pensive, I suppose, which my nephew interpreted accordingly. “Don’t think of it any more than you can help. Uncle Robert,” he gravely urged. “I like you to be a boy and talk like Terence.” “Terence,” said I, “must be a good deal of a man. Bob. Does he believe in Santa Claus?” “Naw. He doesn’t believe nothing.” ‘ ‘My stars !” I exclaimed involuntarily; “what a set of young skeptics you youngsters are!” And it set me to thinking and to comparing my own more credulous and imaginative and, as is appeared to me, more poetic childhood with that of Bob—who, noting my abstraction, concluded that I was on my nose again. “Aw, come on. Uncle Robert! I guess it’s only three inches anyway. Or three and a half. Why don’t you measure it?”

“Heaven forbid! My dear Robert, I should never be a boy again. It would spoil one of my dearest illusions —dreams—stories, you knolv.■’ , “Do vou have stories?” “Oh, yes! You see, not having any little boy of my own I have to tell stories to myself—and then, of course, I have to believe them. And that’s how I manage to be a boy so much, in of my—what you mentioned.” “You mean your ” “Just so.” “Well, why don’t you tell me a story then. Uncle Robert?” “What’s the use? You wouldn’t believe it.” “Yes, I would.” “No, Bob. lou and the ashman’s boy, you don’t believe anything. And the only story I can think of just now is about Santa Claus—so what’s the use ?”

"I’ll tell you. Uncle Robert ! You tell it to Billy” (Billy was the bullterrier—just- then watching me from the rug with the corner of one glassy eye), "’cause he’ll believe anything, Billy will. And I’ll just listen.'” "All right,” I replied, more cheerfully; "I’m glad to know that there is some faith left in the world.” And thereupon, addressing myself exclusively to Billy who, in spite of his master’s recommendation for credulity, appeared at first to entertain a sniffling suspicion of my calves, I began. “Billy,” said I, "there are only a few of us left—you and I and several other dogs—but we’ll never give in. Xever! We’ll scratch to the last-flea—eh. Bill? —on this here question of Santa Claus. You know there is a Santa Claus because you always sleep with one eye open; while other folks—l mention no names, but those that have ears let em hear is what I say—sleep with . Fwo hds tight as blacking-boxes. \\ hich is why they don’t know as much as they think they do. But. how do I know that there’s a Santa Claus? Well, now, that’s just I 111 a-pawing around to get at. That’s the bone of the whole matter. And L ve buried it—and I know where. And jou 11 know, too, if you’ll keep vour glass eye open, Billy,” * Say, Uncle Robert-, did you know that a bull-terrier would eat bumblebees' Billy does.” ™ rn , ed s ®ZlF el y upon my nephew. Who s a-tellmg this story anyhow? I haven t said anything about bumblebees, have I? And the bargaiu was that you were to sit still and listen. Im talking to Billy.” And I continued.' in “ As J was sa - vi ng when the cat came * * * * \ But here again the story was interrupted, for at the word "cat” Billy was on his feet in an instant, scouting every chair and doorway in the room and winning miserably at tho empty x . All d I was forced, i n some humiliation, to call upon his master before I could restore a proper literary atrnos-

“Not to detain you unnecessarily,?’ '.;I "began again with.a flourish .of irony which was lost, T fear, upon those three <ears listening to my tale—the fourth was on the ghostly cat—“and to make a long story as short as possible, I’ll begin in the middle. You know yourself, Billy, how it feels to hear things that you can’t see—especially at night. Many’s the dark night I’ve put my head under my blanket! And this was a par-tic-u-lar-ly dark night;—black as a stack of black——” I paused in time, “ pussies,” said I. “It was winter, but there .wasn’t any snow or moon or stars* or. anything*—just black. You couldn’t see your paw before your nose. | It had rained and rained, and the old weather dogs said that there never had been such a winter since the flood, and that Santa Claus would have to beg, Ikhtow or steal a boat somehow to bring his presents in, and trade his reindeer for two or three pairs of ducks.”" . “Or swans,” my nephew interposed. I gave him one look and went on as if nothing had happened. “Well, 1 was a puppy then and pretty anxious, I tell you, Bill, about how things were coming out. I wanted a gun and a sword and a pistol and some jackstraws and a. pencil-sharpener and i a cornucopia or dog-biscuit ” “Aw, Uncle Robert!” “Dog-biscuit,” I repeated firmly, ‘‘and I don’t know what all—and the question was, .how on earth they would get there in all. that ramp But the' night before Christnmas, in the middle i of the night, just when it was darkest. | I sat/up—in ; my box. ’ Sat right/ up I I couldn’t help it. / I didn’t know what I was doing. I just found myself sit- j ting right up on my hindlegs—with my | ears up, and my hair too! —listening, and ju-ust getting ready to bark when, holy cats! ” * -* * v. But there, of course, the story stopped until we could induce that Billdog to lie down again. His master had been right. His credulity was something marvellous. He would have i believed anything, that dog would, and j now lay at my feet, both ears up and j both eyes open, with an expectancy I •that was indescribable. Never was a j dog so interested in a story—so engrossed as Bill was from that time forth. Here, apparently, was a tale after his own heart—so realistic that lie felt himself actually living the scene described and fairly panting for the solution of the mystery. He had his own notion, too, as to how it was to end, and every nerve and muscle was in readiness for the catastrophe. “And what happened then, Uncle Robert P” inquired my nephew. “Well, Bill,” said I, “who do you suppose it was ? I guess you know, all right. , And if you know and I know what’s the use of ” “But you said you’d tell!” cried an agonising; voice. “You promised!” “My dear,” I replied as patiently and as gently as possible, ‘this story is between Billy and me. You’re distinctly on the outside of the big tent—-understand?—-and if you want to see this show without peeking through the canvas —the performance is about to begin—you will just please step up and buy your ticket in the regulation manner.” My nephew staled at me, halfway between smiles and tears. (I could have hugged the boy.) But when he saw 1 I was in earnest, “I haven’t got any money,” he said sheepishly. “Well, what have you got then? What’ll you give us to let you in?” “I’ve got this”—doubtfully producing a nickel whistle that worked with a piston. “All right,”. * said I, pocketing the whistle out of his reluctant fingers. “That’ll do very nicely. Come in. Sit 1 next to Bill there.” And from that moment mortal story- 1 teller never had two more attractive, open-eyed, open-eared, open-mouthed • listeners than I. “Where was I?" I asked. “Oh, yes! I remember now. I was sitting up in bed ” “Getting ready to holler,” cried Bob, hugging Billy in a kind of ecstasy. “Humpf!” said Bill— or something very like it—half grunt, half wine. “Yes,” said I, “and right there in the dark—for by this time my eyes , were getting used to it and could make ; out the dim outline of things just a j little—l saw ” i “Santa Claus!’! * ‘ I looked at my nephew in some surprise. His face was glowing and ( there was something so human about , that beautiful, unconscious ardor of his that 1 loved him the better for its m- ] consistency. . , ~ T ] “Well, that’s what I thought, Ire- < plied, “as I sat there in bed,. holding my breath and listening—-and listening I .... . . Nnd holding my breath! And, now and then/ yon could . hear a little tinkle—and then a. little chink-- • “That was the sword!” cried Bob. 'And at this unexpected explosion Bui jumped nervously- _ . “And then,” said I, lowering my voice, “everything would be as quiet as : the grave. . . . \"Vhy, you couldn t hear yourself think ! But only for a minute. Or maybe two minutes, then you’d hear another liutie jingle and another little click— “ Th-that,” whispered Bob hoarsely, “must have been the gun! Or trie P “Well”, by that time,,” I continued, “I was so excited—l was so sure tha this was old Santa Claus a-rummaging around my room that I couldn t stand it a minute longer I just hao to know. So I began to creep out of )j 0( 2 _> > “Gollv 1” cried Bob. “ Yes, 7 sir! First onefoot and tn«n the other down on the cold flour. And then*-I’d edge along, on to the bedclothes so I jump back if it shouldn t be Sauty, you know —’cause of course it might have been something else for all 1 S and' then I’d edge -along ; a little -further —and then Id stopa minute to keep from sneezing, cause TvaslSiing-libe blazes and my throat tickled so" I d adjust had cough in about a minute think didnrt dare .breathe-or hardly' think even. It’s a, wonder to me that my heart didn’t give me dead —l’d edged along down as far footboard' and was a-lymg low there a minute to catch my breath again wmrn, jimminy-cripes! —all of a sudden a big, gruff voice, so near me I jumped clean back to the pillow .and under the blanket, said: .. , . 0 , . “ ‘Where’s your stocking? , . , “Just like that! Well, sir, Bob, 1 was as scared as you are nowl “Oh, I ain’t spared—much J my phew me. # * “{'A!'# a s P S^o« this time his voice wasn’t so tough. ‘ ‘He seemed to be chuckhnglike. So I.said!: ” “ ‘H-hangin to tne —■ £i‘To. the what?.’

‘The ch-chair, .sir. Don’t k-kill me!” /V •• ;/ “ ‘Kill -you! -' Thunder! I haven’t got time. I’ve got one billion two hundred and eighty-six million four hundred and fifty-three thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine chimneys to go down before daylight.’ “ ‘Don’t forget the p-pistol, sir," I ventured. “ ‘Forget nothing!’ “ ‘Or the g-gun.’ “He seemed hurt at that. “‘‘You are the one that forgets,’, he said. ‘I don’t forget anybody or anything, at any time. I’m old man Memory,’ he said. ’ v ' . “‘Do you grgo to all the houses?’ T asked. l‘Tt was a silly question, of course, but Phad to .say something to be polite. And like many another silly, question it got a very sensible answer —which I want, you to listen to, Bob, and never forget as long as you live. For, said He —old Santy, said he: ‘ ‘l’ 11 go to all the houses where folks believe in me,’ said he. ‘And where they don’t,’ said lie, ‘they can got their own presents.’ said he, ‘and give ’em to whoever they like. I wash my hands of ’em. Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘when I find a little boy that doesn’t believe in me why I let his folks look after him. He doesn’t ' get any of my presents—not by a jugful!’ said he. ‘You could nit hire me to go down his chimney!’ said he. “‘I believe in you,’. 6aid ,1,. ...... “‘Or you wouldn’t be here,’ said he. ' ■

“ ‘W-why don’t you-light the lamp?’ said I. ‘lt would. be epsier.’ And besides I was dying to' have a' look at him. ‘You’ll find matches on the table,’ said I.

“He never said a word. I thought he was mad, maybe, so I said as politely as I could—and I always used to lisp when I was especially polite—‘lf you’re hungry, thir, thereth o-cook-ieth in the pantry crock,.’ “No answer. Not a word ! And then I listened —and I could hear tne clock, which I hadn't noticed before—but he was gone. At least I supposed he was, but somehow it was 1 soi awful quiet there I didn’t dare stir till morning or say another word. But when it was light and and I conld see that lie v:as gone, why, then I got up and looked around and, sure enough! there was the gun and the sWord and the pistol ” “And the jackstraws!” said my nephew. “Yes, and the pencil-sharpener ” “And the cornucopia, Uncle Robert!”

“Yes, of dog-biscuit—all right there in the room.”

My nephew was aghast. Billy, by this time, had settled down upon, the hearthrug in a state of utter disgust and resignation, his nose laid wearily upon his paws, the half of one melancholy eye upon me and one wilted ©adjust raised enough to hear the right word in season, should it be spoken—should I by any chance yet rouse myself and with an eloquence worthy of the occasion redeem his disappointed hopes. “But. how will he know that I believe in him now, Uncle Robert?’’ asked mv repentant nephew. “I didn’t last year, you know.” “Oh, he’ll know!” I answered. And it was only then, when the performance was over, that I . discovered that the nickle whistle which Bob had given me wouldn’t blow, and I handed it back like a bad quarter, and ivith an air of mild reproachfulness that was lost on Bob. For Bob, discovered, was in a bad way. Or rather—as I suppose any other revivalist would put it—he was in a most promising and fertile condition. “He’ll know,” I said, “if you really do believe in him.”

“OK, I do!” cried Bob, bis chin quivering and a lump in his throat—a convert, if there ever was one. But the dog Billy was asleep.