The Everything Family Christmas Book (35 page)

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. “Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ‘em awhile. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”

The Magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the Magi.

Writer O. Henry (1862–1910) is best known for his short stories—more than 600 of them, in fact—which often come with a surprise twist at the end. He was born William Sydney Porter, but changed his name after a three-year stint in prison after being convicted of embezzlement (possibly unfairly). Although he was writing before prison, it was there that he began his short stories.

One Young Laddie’s Christmas

Kate Whiting Patch

Patch’s story—set in the Boston of nearly a century ago—is a particularly touching portrayal of the power of a child’s unshakable faith. It is also an unapologetically sentimental look at the man who may be the world’s most lovable figure—Santa Claus.

It was the day before Christmas, and the hurrying, busy crowd of happy people filled the Boston streets and shops. A very small atom in that crowd was Sandy Martin, but he carried a large share of the Christmas happiness, although his hands were mittenless and his pockets full of holes. How could one help being light-hearted and glad in the midst of all that joyous bustle and flurry? It made Sandy feel as if he were going to have a glorious big Christmas himself, and he quite forgot to sigh because he was not. He stood by the big toy-shop window, flattening his little purple nose against the glass, and watching the people go in and out. He wondered what they were buying and what boy and girl was to be made glad with the contents of those mysterious parcels.

But by and by he began to grow cold, and the coldness set him to thinking; and as he walked along, up past the Common, he began to wonder, just a little, why it was that Santa Claus should have so much to do with all these people and so little to do with him. The puzzled look had not disappeared from his small, freckled face, when he looked across the street and could hardly believe his own eyes—for there was Santa Claus himself, walking through the Common!

Sandy stopped short, and stared and stared until his eyes couldn’t open any wider. Yes, that was surely Santa Claus. He did not have his reindeer and sleigh, to be sure, for there was no snow; but nobody but Santa could own such a jolly face and long white beard and nice furry clothes and big boots. Then he had a good many toys about him, too; and he carried a great sign, with something in big letters on it, which told people that the rarest treasures for Christmas stockings were to be found at a certain big store on Washington Street.

But Sandy could not read and he did not bother with the letters. He just stared and stared.

Santa was evidently tired; for while Sandy was looking at him, the old saint paused in his walk and sat down on one of the benches.

“It
is
Santa Claus,” said Sandy to himself. “I’m going over to talk with him, and I’ll ask him why he doesn’t come down our chimney, too.”

No sooner said than done. Across the street Sandy hurried, and marching up to the old man, he said, in a friendly way, “How do you do, Mr. Santa Claus?”

Santa looked up, a little surprised, but smiled good naturedly at the ragged urchin before him, and remarked affably, “Well, young man, how do you do? And what may be your name?”

“I’m Sandy Martin,” was the prompt answer. And with that, Sandy Martin, waiting for no further invitation, proceeded to pull himself up on the seat beside Mr. Santa Claus. “I’ve come over here to ask you a question,” he began at once. “I want to know why you don’t come to our house Chris’mus; we’ve got jus’ as good a chimney as any one, and there’s an ole lightning rod beside it fer you to tie your reindeer to.”

Santa seemed immensely pleased, and chuckled to himself.

“You see,” said he to Sandy, “I have so many places to go to, it is very hard to find ‘em all. Where do you live, any way?”

“Up in Gower Street, No. 65. I thought you might have forgotten.”

At this point Sandy became conscious that a third person was listening to the conversation. A tall, dark lady in deep mourning had come up to where the two were sitting, and stood near, waiting for a street-car. Her face was very pale and sad, and it quite surprised Sandy to think that any one could look so at Christmas-time, and before the very eyes of Santa Claus, too. As he stared up at her, the sadness was chased away for an instant by an amused smile. Sandy, who stood in awe of no one, smiled back at her, and said cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, ma’am.”

The lady smiled, but sighed too.

“Thank you, my dear,” she said, in a sweet, sad voice. “I hope that you may have a merry Christmas, but the day cannot be a merry one for me.”

Sandy was surprised again, and gazed in bewilderment from Santa to the lady.

“Why? Don’t grown-up people have merry Christmases?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” answered the lady sadly. “I thought,” continued Sandy, “that it was even more fun for the grown-up people than for the children; ‘cause I thought you all knew Santa Claus and had secrets with him. All the other people I’ve seen looked jolly and glad, an’ I thought every one was happy ‘cause they was all thinkin’ how they’d surprise some other one.”

A shadow fell across Sandy’s little face, and the lady saw it.

“My dear little boy,” she said, with something like tears in her voice, although her eyes were smiling again, “don’t let me spoil your thought of Christmas happiness. You are right, and I have been wrong; every one should be happy at this blessed season, and I am going to have a secret with Santa Claus, and a merry Christmas, too.”

Sandy looked happy again, and began to slide off the seat.

“I’ve got to go home now, for it’s getting dark,” he said; “but I’m ever so glad I met you, Mr. Santa Claus, and I hope you’ll find your way tonight all right. If you can, I wish you’d bring Maggie a doll with blue eyes, and Benny a sled, and mother a new shawl; and, Mr. Santa Claus,” he added in a loud whisper, “I hope you’ll give that lady there something she likes and make her have a good time.”

Then Sandy trudged away, and when he looked back he was delighted to see the sad lady and Santa talking earnestly together.

While they ate their supper that night, Sandy excited the whole family with his story of meeting Santa Claus. His mother, tired out with her day’s work, sighed, and tried to persuade him that it was not really Santa Claus he had seen—in vain; before they went to bed, each child hung up a ragged stocking back of the kitchen stove.

Mrs. Martin looked at them, and then sank down in her chair and had a good cry. She had been sewing hard all day, poor soul; but the money she had earned was no more than enough to keep a roof over their heads and procure food for the hungry little mouths—there was nothing to spare for Christmas stockings.

“Oh, what will they say in the morning,” she wept, “when they find them empty! I can’t bear it; no, I can’t.”

She looked about the room, and finally rose and took her shawl down from the peg.

“It’s no use,” she said, “I can’t have them disappointed; I’ll go out and pawn this and get a few things to put in them stockings.”

She walked across the room and opened the door, but she did not go out, for someone was standing there.

“How do you do, ma’am?” he said, walking into the room. “I am Santa Claus, and as I couldn’t very well get down the chimney I took the liberty of coming in at the door. I’ve a few things here for the little folks, and I promised your boy I’d come; I see he is ready for me.”

With that, Santa Claus went to work, and Mrs. Martin dropped into her chair and uttered never a word; she felt as if she were dreaming. Had the myths of her childhood come back again? Was there really a Santa Claus, and had Sandy met him that afternoon? Surely it could be no one else who stood there before her; and had not this bluff, kindly old man with his own lips declared his identity?

Mrs. Martin sat perfectly dazed, and watched him as he crammed full the ragged stockings, twined a wreath of evergreen here and there and piled up a number of packages and a big basket on the table. Then, before she could utter a word, he had disappeared with a “Merry Christmas” leaving her to wonder if she had not indeed awakened from a dream.

Before light, next morning, great was the joyful excitement and noise at 65 Gower Street; and this only settled into momentary awe when mother told the children, that she herself had seen Santa Claus fill the stockings!

“But I thought you said there wasn’t a Santa Claus,” said Sandy, reproachfully.

“Well, I didn’t believe there was,” answered his mother helplessly; “but if that wasn’t Santa Claus I don’t know who it was.”

“Course it was Santa Claus!” exclaimed Maggie; “didn’t Sandy tell him to bring me a doll with blue eyes?” (Sandy nodded solemnly.) “Well, and he did bring her, didn’t he?—the pretty darling! See, ma, she’s got lace-edged clothes clear through, and buttoned boots.”

“And didn’t Sandy tell him to bring me a sled?” broke in Benny. (Sandy nodded solemnly again.) “And ain’t the sled right here? And didn’t the snow come, too, last night? And ain’t I going coasting on the Common this very day?” Saying which Benny flung himself upon the shiny sled and tried to coast across the kitchen floor.

As if these arguments were not enough, Sandy turned to his mother again. “And didn’t I ask him to bring you a new shawl?” he said.

Mrs. Martin laid her hand on the soft thick shawl which Maggie had spread across the rocking-chair, and then she patted Sandy’s shoulder gently.

“What did you tell him to bring to you?” she asked.

Sandy looked up in sudden surprise.

“Why, I never told him about me!” he exclaimed. “It was getting late, and I just remembered about the doll and the sled and the shawl. I forgot all about me; but now I’m sure it was Santa Claus, for he brought just the things I wanted.”

“So he did!” said Maggie wonderingly. “There is the tool-chest, and the harmonica, and the big picture-book.”

Benny had been peeping into the market-basket. “Whew!” he cried. “There’s nuts and oranges and ‘nanas and grapes; and there’s red jelly and a turkey!”

“I see crackers and bread an ‘taters,” exclaimed Maggie from the other side of the basket. “Oh, ma! Ma! We can have a regular dinner, can’t we!”

It is needless to tell of all the comfort and joy that happy Christmas brought to Sandy and his home. But his faith in Santa Claus is firm and sure and even Mrs. Martin half believes that the good old saint does somewhere exist, and was drawn down to their humble home by little Sandy’s Christmas spirit.

American author Kate Whiting Patch (1870–1909) left behind many well-loved stories in her short life, for both adults and children (her “The Big Red Apple” is considered a children’s classic). Her fiction appeared in Harper’s magazine, The New England Magazine, Ladies’ Home Journal, Smith’s Magazine, and National Magazine.

A Letter from Santa Claus

Mark Twain

The father of young Susie Clemens, Samuel Langhorne Clemens (also known as Mark Twain) once took pen in hand to craft an unforgettable Christmas offering. His trademark wit is combined in this story with a child-like whimsy and an understanding of the special place that Santa Claus has in the hearts of children.

PALACE OF ST. NICHOLAS IN THE MOON

CHRISTMAS MORNING

MY DEAR SUSIE CLEMENS:

I have received and read all the letters which you and your little sister have written me by the hand of your mother and your nurses; I have also read those which you little people have written me with your own hands—for although you did not use any characters that are in grown people’s alphabet, you used the characters that all children in all lands on earth and in the twinkling stars use; and as all my subjects in the moon are children and use no character but that, you will easily understand that I can read your and your baby sister’s jagged and fantastic marks without any trouble at all. But I had trouble with those letters which you dictated through your mother and the nurses, for I am a foreigner and cannot read English writing well. You will find that I made no mistakes about the things which you and the baby ordered in your own letters—I went down your chimney at midnight when you were asleep and delivered them all myself—and kissed both of you, too, because you are good children, well trained, nice mannered, and about the most obedient little people I ever saw. But in the letter which you dictated there were some words which I could not make out for certain, and one or two small orders which I could not fill because we ran out of stock. Our last lot of kitchen furniture for dolls has just gone to a very poor little child in the North Star away up in the cold country above the Big Dipper. Your mama can show you that star and you will say: “Little Snow Flake” (for that is the child’s name), “I’m glad you got that furniture, for you need it more than I.” That is, you
must
write that, with your own hand, and Snow Flake will write you an answer. If you only spoke it she wouldn’t hear you. Make your letter light and thin, for the distance is great and the postage very heavy.