Classic Christmas Stories (9 page)

by Kevin Jardine

W
ATER STREET IS SPARKLING in the early dark. People are
hurrying to and fro and everywhere there is a feeling of excitement. The horses
with their bells seem to add to the harmony of the cold frosty day. Underfoot,
the snow is crunching and people remark, “hear the snow crunching, a sure sign
of a frosty night.”

Many of the larger stores are particularly bright, and this is due to the fact
that the bulbs they use are much more powerful than what they usually carry.
Those bulbs will be stored away again when the New Year is over. The stores were
not as well-heated in those days as they are now. The windows would be coated
over but each had its electric fan which will enable the would-be purchaser to
make a choice.

Going back, it would seem that our weather changed a lot after the Burin tidal
wave. There is no doubt that the winters are shorter. I remember quite well that
in the month of November the Catholic Church bell would toll during that month
of the holy souls. The bell tolled to remind us to offer our prayers for those
that had departed. We were allowed out until 9 o’clock Friday nights, but had to
hurry home for that prayer. We usually brought out our sled in late October. The
streets would
be well coated with snow and frost at that time.
Skating officially started at Christmas, and it was a great disappointment if
the ponds or lakes were not frozen over for Christmas day.

The homes also were not as well-heated, and many of the windows would have what
we called Jack Frost on them. What the people today are missing there also are
the beautiful patterns. And if you wanted to see what it was like out, you
breathed on the windowpane to make a small spot to see through.

The front room was now getting ready for use during Christmas. The brass and
silver all shining, and the carpet for those who had that luxury, gleaming as it
has been cleaned with a stiff brush and coarse salt. The old furniture is also
gleaming from a mixture of beeswax and linseed oil, plus a lot of elbow grease.
All the pictures have been washed and those with gilt frames given a coat of
gold paint. I can see some of them now. The frowning gentlemen, mostly with
sweeping moustaches, their left hand in pants pocket and the right on the back
of a chair where mom sat in prim dignity. Of course pop has his watch chain and
fob displayed on quite an ample stomach. Then there is a picture of a young girl
with her embroidered dress and hat. We were told that was your poor Aunt Hettie
who died in the diphtheria epidemic, whenever that was.

Let us take an imaginary walk down Water Street. The gang would consist of
three or four boys, all close chums. First you had to tell your mother where you
were going as the mothers of those days kept a constant watch on the street and
their offspring. I can hear the answer. We are going down to see the shops, mom,
all right? Don’t get into any mischief.

As we went along, all hands keyed right up. We came to a slippery spot, and of
course we ran for a bit and then skidded to the end. Hydrants also were never
passed in a walk. Make a jump and over, Highbacks that was called.

It’s the year 1921, and wonder of wonders in Bowrings’ window there is an
electric train running. I think that was the first brought to Newfoundland. It
came from England, and coming from there also gave it added prestige. My son
English, that is bound to be good.

The window has been tastefully decorated with boughs and evergreen, as well as
a plentiful display of crepe paper. We got in next to the window and with
distended eyes saw the train chugging along, giving out a puff
of smoke now and again, then coming out of a tunnel with its headlights
shattering the darkness. All the younger fry had dreams of that for months after
although we knew that even wishing was not going to get us such a miracle.

I can still hear some of the remarks. The smaller boys with their gee whiz,
what a beauty. My son, just like a real one. Hush now, when she is passing that
hill she will blow. There was a plentiful supply of the more mature also, and
there also we hear the talk. Junos just imagine electric. Good Lord, what will
they think of next; God Almighty, I wonder what my poor father would think of
that. Sure he never even saw electric light. I wonder is a thing like that safe.
What would happen if something went wrong? Sure some poor child might be killed.
That thought struck me too. My son, they’ll be at it until somebody is
hurt.

As we trudged home we would hear what each one wanted for Christmas, but still
going back they did not seem too disappointed when they did not get the magic
lantern, they hoped for, or the set of meccano. This was a favourite toy for
young boys, and not only kept their attention but helped them use their
imagination. When your friends came to play with you, all kinds of suggestions
were made. Have you enough things there to make a small trussel (referring to
the trestle above the railway station)? Well then make a small one let’s build
Symes Bridge. The young girls would be wishing for a doll, one that sleeps,
Santy, if you have one to spare. Then there would be the little doll beds, cots
and chairs. Little did most of them know that they were all built by the hands
of a loving father.

If the year had been bad for work, sometimes there would be a council of war as
they used to call it. The mother and father would let the other children (those
that did not believe in Santa Claus) stay up a bit. We knew what was coming
then. The coffers were running low, and we would be asked if we could do without
something we really wanted so that some little thing could be bought for the
younger crowd. I remember one boy that was particularly helpful around the house
all year who had one ambition, a pair of hockey skates. Those were those that
were screwed to your boots. Up to then you had the Acme or the cheaper
skeletons, both attached to the heel with a lever or turn screw arrangement.
This particular case was that, the father being unwell, had lost a lot of work
hours. They had two little girls, twin, aged four who really looked forward
to the stocking and the hope of a doll, with extra dresses.
Well the result was Tom, did not get the skates that year, and his sister did
not get the cloud she wanted for skating on the Promenade. Tom today is a
highly-respected citizen and one of the twin holds an important position in a
city hospital. The other girl got married and as we used to say had a houseful.
I met her only last week and asked her how things were going. Buskin’ along boy,
she replied, but I don’t know what in the world I’ll do if things keep going
up.

Sometimes sitting here alone, I wonder if the young children today have too
much. Every day is Christmas Day, and toys are displayed all the year around.
I’ve heard an old expression many times that seems to fit in with our present
way of living. “Much craves more.”

In those days we also learned to value everything. In our house today we have a
cast iron (bank), which was a popular toy in the long ago. My mother got that in
her stocking. If she was alive now she would be well over hundred years. My good
wife also has a doll which she had as a child, and even she is Jack Benny’s 39.
Yes, it is a different world. Here I am today barking my head off, and if this
was 1921 again, my grandmother would get the crock, scald a drop of molasses to
which she would add a spoonful of Minard’s Liniment which would soon cure my
emphysema; anyway it was croup in those times.

Turkey is no novelty nowadays, and I must be honest and say that the rooster
that we reared in the back yard with table scraps tasted better. Ah well, as the
old folks also said: “We’ll never be satisfied.”

Author Unknown

M
Y FIRST CHRISTMAS DINNER in Newfoundland, an event
which took place in the memorable year, 1848, a period of fifty-two years having
since run their course. At the time referred to three Companies of the
Newfoundland Regiment lay in St. John’s, also a Company of the Royal Artillery
stationed at Fort William. In those good old days it was customary for the
officer commanding to put in orders about a week before the day, the officers of
Companies should take the necessary steps to provide their men with Christmas
comforts, an order which, on all occasions, was responded to with no sparing
hand, the Sergeants on such occasions being each treated to a bottle of good old
Port during the afternoon, the officers being all what soldiers would call—good
fellows. To return to our Christmas Dinner— our visitors were Col. Law, Captains
Saunders, Lyttleton and Chambers, with the subaltern officers, many of whom
became the cause of changing the names of several of the fair daughters of Terra
Nova—some under momentous circumstances, others even in widowhood, gained
notoriety in high places. The auspicious event in those days generally took
place at St. Thomas’ at 10 a.m., accompanied by a grand display of carriages,
and in that happy period of innocence, on the nuptial knot being tied, it was
customary for the bride to swoon, which providentially did not last long,
recovery invariably taking place before any derangement of the bridal
robes became necessary, a habit which prevailed until, on a
certain occasion, when one of the subordinate rank led his bride to the altar
she, without due consideration, thought she should imitate the
elite
of
society, a circumstance which changed the programme to an earlier hour, the
happy pair spending the hours of excitement in some nice part of the country,
the bride swooning at a more convenient moment. Early in the year 1850 a safe in
the Colonial Building was broken and the contents extracted therefrom. The
following day a party of one Sergeant and twelve men were ordered to said house
to allow no person to look at the empty box. A constable remarked that some
small foot prints could be seen, and that some messengers about the house should
be examined. A gentleman, whom some may yet remember, was then messenger—Mr.
Cooney— who immediately asked the speaker, “Did you say that for a slur? You’re
a fellow of that description.” Many remarkable events took place during the
fifties. There was the Burns Anniversary—a grand affair—although eclipsed
in 1900; and during the reign of Sir A. Bannerman, some may yet remember when a
son of Mars, in his poetical effusions encroached upon the great circumference
of the outer garments of the fair sex, which they duly answered in the then
dailies. I remember some lines—

Put on your gloves, lay down your pen,

And buckle on your sword again,

Gang hame and drill your sodger men;

And do not mind remarking us—

Your ankles red and stocking blue.

In that we will surely please ourselves,

And cestes, too, in spite of you.

At the time in question Grub Street was in the zenith of its glory, and some
may still remember when it culminated in and around the gubernacity. Of those
who sat at dinner at the time mentioned, only three survive, all others having
long since gone over to the great majority. At the expiration of another
fifty-two years I will, D. V., write a Christmas article on the Railway
Deal.

by John M. Byrnes, Boston

C
HRISTMAS EVE, ACCOMPANIED BY a stormof unusual
severity. The wind beginning with a low crooning sound, gradually increases to a
furious shriek, and then dropping into a despairing moan—like the cry of a human
being from whom all hope has fled—goes rushing along dark and gloomy streets and
forbidden-looking courts and alleys, driving before it, in its mad rush,
millions of blinding white snow-flakes, and causing the ramshackle tenements to
rock and sway on their uncertain foundations. Snow, hail and sleet mingle
together, covering the outside world, pattering and dashing against the window
panes, as if jealous of the warmth and comfort displayed through their dripping
surfaces. It is a night that serves to heighten one's appreciation for the
comforts of one's fireside, and settling back in the depths of my cosy
arm-chair, I listen to the howling of the storm, and feel thankful that “my lot
has fallen in pleasant places, ” while so many others, more deserving than I,
“have not whereon to lay their heads.”

The fire-light dances upon the walls, causing fantastic shadows to flit to and
fro, and the flickering embers in the grate seem, to my contemplative mind, to
form pictures of scenes that are now almost forgotten memories. Suddenly the
storm ceases for a moment, and the sound of bells, ushering in the Christmas
morn, comes floating in upon the frosty air; the mellow tones, which seem to
echo the joyous refrain of a Celestial choir pour, with
an
indescribable sweetness, into my soul, and there steals over my senses, like the
dawn of a summer day over the rugged mountain tops, a feeling of ecstacy, tinged
with sadness, which causes the unwilling tears to spring to my eyes. Hosts of
memories rise up before me and pass in familiar review; memories of a past, dim
and almost forgotten in the hurly burly of a life passed in a great busy city;
memories of Christmas times and Christmas scenes in another land—a land made
holy to me by happy associations and boyish delights; memories of early friends,
now scattered by the relentless hand of time; some, like myself, finding a home
under a foreign sky, and others silently resting beneath the snow-covered sods
of lonely Belvidere.

With my mind filled with such pictures, I fall asleep and dream. Once again I
have passed through the sheltering gates which guard the entrance to our dear
old town, and stand upon “the sacred soil of Home.” Oh! How my heart pulsates
with a new-found joy, as it is Christmas time; the shops are in a blaze of
glory, with windows filled with toys and gifts of almost every description;
miniature pyramids and mountains of the most tempting delicacies, festooned with
wreaths of evergreen, holly and mistletoe; Christmas cakes of extraordinary size
and sugar workmanship; Christmas geese, each one as fat and tempting as ever
Mrs. Cratche's was; Christmas turkeys, larger and fatter than Scrooge's all
signalize the presence of that greatest of Christian festivities. But best of
all are the hearty Christmas greetings amongst the jovial, happy crowds, as they
stagger along under the weight of a mighty goose or a load of presents for the
expectant little ones at home.

Each face I see is beaming with happiness and good will. Within doors all is
bustle and preparation, and many of the scenes are worthy of a touch from the
magic brush of that great master, whose Christmas portraits we all know and love
so well. A huge fire burns in the open grate, shedding a cheerful glow over the
room, and sending the sparks crackling and roaring up the chimney, bidding
defiance to all the powers of Jack Frost. Seated in an old-fashioned rocker
before the fire, calmly enjoying his pipe, and taking an occasional sip from a
glass of something hot, sweet and strong, is the master of the house, a picture
of enviable contentment. The good wife, with her sleeves rolled up on her bare,
honest arms, is busily stuffing the morrow's goose, whilst gathered around the
table, which is generously laden with all the constituents necessary for
Christmas dinner, are the younger members of the household, interestedly
watching
the delightful preparations, and, when opportunity
offers, purloining some of the contents of the well-filled plates. When at last
the final stitch is put in the goose, and the pudding, with its bloated, jolly
face, is sewed in its immaculate white cloth, the youngers are led away to bed,
to dream of the well-filled stockings hanging in the chimney corner.

Now the table is set with jugs, glasses, and decanters, and plates of “sweet
bread, ” apples and oranges, and old friends and neighbours drop in with “A
Merry Christmas, ” to sit up the night. They gather round the table and the
fire—a happy, healthy crowd—and, as I look into their ruddy, smiling faces, it
seems as if the angel of peace had touched all present with his magic wand,
smoothing out the furrows of care from the brows of the aged, and driving from
every heart the germs of selfishness and ill-will. Every new arrival is greeted
with “A Merry Christmas” and a hearty shake of the hand. Toasts are drunk, in
steaming glasses of home-brewed punch, to the memories of the old times and
old-time friends, and when the dead are mentioned, a pious “God Rest His Soul, ”
with the answering “Amen, ” is heard from all present. Soon tongues are
loosened, and the conversation becomes animated with native humour, which is
never a very low order. The old folks “swap” reminiscences and become young
again, as they regale each other with yarns of old sealing days, and bewail the
changes which have come over the good old times, when a trip to the ice-fields
brought rich returns that amply repaid for the hardships endured.

A fiddler of local renown is one of the company, and after several internal
applications of punch, which seems to be as essential to the player as is the
rosin to his bow, the “Banks of Newfoundland, ” “Garry Owen, ” and all the old
favourites are rattled off. One of the “boys” is prevailed upon to sing, but he
modestly protests and pleads either a cold or that he “don't know no song.”
Finally, after a deal of coaxing (and I think that bright eyed girl in the
chimney corner had more to do with his consenting than all the others), he
begins or rather prepares to begin. He coughs several times, smiles, and again
faintly protests that he has a cold; but, excuses being of no avail, he
stretches out his legs to their full length, puts both hands into his trousers
pockets, and, throwing back his head, fixes his eyes on the ceiling and begins.
His selection is not from the latest opera, nor probably the earliest, but is a
good old-fashioned “Come all ye's, ” handed down from grandfathers and fathers,
each line terminating
with a note of extraordinary duration.
The voice of the singer may be a little out of order, but that is of slight
consequence, as he makes up in volume and hearty enthusiasm what he may lack in
tone. The ruthless critic is not present, and mistakes and break-downs are
passed over good-humouredly. This vision of happiness gradually fades from my
sight, and in its stead there rises up before me a scene of misery and
desolation.

Of the beautiful and prosperous city another remains but a mass of charred and
blackened ruins, which stand up grim and gaunt against a white background of
snow—desolate memorials of that destructive element which has proved such a
cruel ravisher. Hardly a street can be recognized as such in the sweeping plane
of black and white, and the sites of once happy homes and magnificent public
buildings, which represented long years of unremitting toil and self-sacrificing
love, are marked by heaps of ashes. Silence reigns all-around where a short time
ago could be heard the rapid throb of industry's heart, and the thinly clothed,
hungry-looking people move silently along with faces expressive of sorrow and
despair.

Great crowds seem to be wending their way towards the old Parade Rink, which
seems to have been almost miraculously preserved from the fire, in whose path it
lay. Wondering what can attract them to such a place in the depths of their
misery, I follow and, on coming nearer, am enlightened as to their real object.
Oh! The cruel irony of fate. The Old Rink, the scene of so many joyous
gatherings, when the click of steel and the ringing peals of merry laughter,
mingled with the delightful strains of Bennett's Band, has changed its
character, and is playing a sad and sombre role. Hundreds of miserable and
hungry people throng to its doors, anxiously waiting for relief, and I turn away
from the pitiful sight only to gaze on desolation, wreck and ruin.

Again the scene changes, and the black clouds of misfortune are lifted,
revealing the bright blue sky beyond. The bright sun rises over the snow-covered
hills and sheds a golden glory over the magnificent city, and those two rugged
sentinels—South Side Hill and Signal Hill, their grim aspect softened by the
snow's soft mantle—look down upon the waters of the harbour, crowded with
stately ships laden with goods from all parts of the world. Outlined against the
azure canopy are the lofty spires and towers of magnificent churches, colleges
and libraries. Immense business blocks of marble and granite, models of
architecture and strength, give
further evidence of the city's
commercial prosperity. Away to the east and north, for miles of what was a few
years ago a vast tract of country, whose Acadian stillness was undisturbed by
the hum of a city's traffic, can now be seen the tall chimneys of workshops and
factories, while extending in all directions are the snake-like windings of a
vast railway system, connecting us with our Canadian and Yankee neighbours.
Prosperity and happiness seem to reign at last in the old land.

Suddenly a peal from the Cathedral Bells fills the air with an old-time melody.
It is Christmas morning, and the “Joy Bells” are calling the faithful to the
worship of the “Word made Flesh.” How well the summons is heeded! Soon the
streets are thronged with old and young, all in holiday attire, their faces
beaming with happiness and good-will. What hearty Christmas greeting and honest
hand-shakes are exchanged as they ascend the snow-covered hill. Petty feuds are
forgotten, and those who may have cherished unfriendly feelings in the past, now
shake each other by the hand and wish “A Merry Christmas.” Thank God for the
Christmas time and its blessed influences which unite the heart of man to his
brother.

I stand upon the broad steps of the Cathedral and watch the crowds as they file
in, recognizing, to my delight, many faces of old friends who have returned to
the old home to share in its glory and prosperity. At last the Cathedral is
filled, and all faces are turned reverently towards the Altar, as the
white-robed Priest ascends the steps. Heads are bowed in prayer, the deep tones
of the organ are heard, and the glorious strains of the
Adeste
echo
through the house of prayer, and swell out upon the wintry air, to be wafted by
angel hands to the throne of the Most High, and—. I suddenly awake, to find that
the fire has died out in the grate, leaving but a faint glimmering amongst the
blackened embers. I open the window, the storm has ceased, and the bright moon
sheds her silvery beams upon the snow-covered world. Hope is revived within my
breast, that my poor country, after having been buffeted by the storms of
misfortune, may soon experience a change that will bring back the tide of
happiness and prosperity to her rock-bound shores; and praying for this with all
my heart I wish my readers “A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.”