by Frank Galgay
The grocery store decorations were particularly profuse and attractive. The floors were overlaid with clean white saw dust kept especially for the occasion. Most of the dry goods stores had a life size figure of “Father Christmas, ” while skates, sleds and sleigh bells were conspicuous in the hardware stores. There was generally a well-beaten snow road in the city streets the week before Christmas and the merry tinkling of the sleigh bells filled the air with echoes of hope and promise. Hundreds of sleighs and slides drawn by ponies came into town for Christmas shopping from nearby outports, their owners keen on things for Christmas including suitable gifts for every member of the family.
The influence of the season was visible on all sides and greetings were hearty and friendly. The bookstores of Chisholm, Fenelon, and McConnan were crowded with customers all day long, buying Xmas cards and other gifts found in such emporiums. It was no mere figure of speech to say that “Christmas was in the air.” The pastry-cook shops such as Lash’s, Touissants, Foran’s, John B. Ayre and Chancey and Heath’s all displayed plentiful and tempting supply of turkeys, geese, chicken, as well as Christmas cakes and all hands were busy in filling numerous orders for their customers.
The activity which increased as the days progressed reached its climax on Christmas Eve. All the labourers working outside shops and stores “knocked off” work on the wharves at mid-day to get ready for Christmas except in cases where a vessel was being “rushed” in loading dry codfish for the foreign market. Water St. was thronged all the afternoon with men, women and children all exhaling the good will and joy of Christmas and greeting their acquaintances with the time-honoured salutation of “I wish you a Merry Christmas.” Every second man that one met carried a fine fat goose or a turkey under his arm. In most cases a Christmas gift from his employer. If one wished to see the biggest crowds he should go to the auction markets of Clift Wood & Co., Dryer & Green, James Pitts and G. F. Bown. There as you draw near you would hear the hearty voice of the auctioneer— “Any advance on—and then going, going, gone!” This was the musical monotone that echoed along the street as the quarters of beef, barrels of apples, turkeys, geese and chicken were “knocked down” at ridiculously low prices. I see the crowd in Clift’s Cove now joking and laughing as whole carcases of mutton are auctioned off at two pence to four pence a pound.
All afternoon the labourers are out dressed in their holiday clothes, the married men in many cases accompanied by their wives and children for whom they are buying Xmas gifts. The fishermen dressed in their comfortable pilot-cloth jackets are now spending their money freely buying things for Christmas. There is a freedom and friendliness in their greetings that does one’s heart good to recall even at this day. Unfortunately this neighbourly aspect of life has changed and it is seldom now one will see the old-time greeting and warm hand shake with the good old salutation “I wish you a Merry Christmas!” The giving of substantial and useful presents was certainly more prevalent then in these modern days when the gifts have in the main all run to expensive cards. The merchants remembered all their old employees at Christmas and sent them home happy with the gift of a goose, a turkey or a good joint of beef. There were money presents too for clerks and office hands.
Aye, compared with the present times those were days of Arcadian happiness and simplicity. As I gaze into the heart of the fire tonight the picture unfolds with vividness akin to reality. I see the bustle increasing as the shades of night begin to fall over the town and the stars shine out one by one. The air is keen but invigorating at 5 below zero. The blood races in youthful veins and mantles rose-colour in the cheeks. There is snow falling, coming down straight in the still air. The “blossoms” loom double size in the gas light. A new white carpet is soon laid for the feet of the passing thousands. The window panels are covered with frost of fantastic patterns, rivalling the most exquisite lace work. The breath of the horses ascends in visible shafts of white vapour and sleigh-bells are making merry music on all sides. There is a mad rush on the part of porters and drivers to deliver all the purchased goods at the homes of the people before midnight.
Merchants’ pairs are out fully caparisoned and the double seat sleighs highly polished shine in the gas light. Rich furs hang over the backs of the vehicles and the coachmen are garbed in black or blue coats, lavender pants and heavy formidable fur turbans, over all the black fur coats and tippets rich enough for a Russian Count. Jingle, jangle, jingle, jangle—there go the bells in discordant concert as the high stepping pairs pass each other on Water Street. Here they come! Philip Hutchings’, O’Dwyer’s, Mare’s, Edwin Duder’s, A. W. Harvey’s, Terry Halleren’s, Bowring’s, Job’s, Wilson’s, Pitts’, Baine Grieve’s, Walter Grieve’s and Governor Hill’s. Oh! They make a grand spectacle, the like of which could be seen only in the Russian Capitol. The coachmen certainly played up their part with their black furs and silver bands as they plied the whip from their exalted seats.
The coachmen kept up the rivalry of their employers in having their horses and sleighs in the best condition. Mr. Thomas Skinner who went into the business as a mere boy is one of the few survivors of the latter days of that period. His outfit in neatness and attractiveness was second to none and he certainly could handle a whip. He got more than his share of the wedding parties when he bought the grand brougham that was owned by one of our former Governors. Mingling with the tinkling of his grand chime of sleigh bells I hear the slower and deeper sound of the hand bells calling the people to come to the booths and take a chance in a raffle on the wheel of fortune for a turkey, a goose or a Xmas cake. “One more ticket to fill up! Three chances for a shilling! Come on ladies and gentlemen!” The lotteries are going on at Beck’s Cove, McBride’s Hill, Merchants’ Block, Adelaide St. and on the “Beach.” The spaces on the wheel of fortune are laid out with the names of towns, animals and sealing steamers, making the affair so much more popular and interesting. When the wheel stopped revolving at the named corresponding town on a ticket held by someone the number was announced and the prize forthwith handed over to the winner. I see the crowd surging forward with tense excitement on their faces when the wheel is being set for a new revolution. They grab the tickets as fast as they can be held out, each purchaser hoping to have better luck this time.
The supply of poultry was bountiful in those days. It came from Prince Edward Island in schooner loads to Clift Wood & Co. and James Pitt’s wharves. I see the vessels lying at the landing piers two or three days before Christmas filled to the hatches with poultry, carcases of mutton and quarters of beef, also oats, potatoes, turnips and oysters in barrels. Oh, yes my friend, PEI gave us her best products in the sixties and seventies. Nearly all well off citizens laid in a barrel or two of oysters for the winter. The prices of fresh meats and poultry were so low that all could afford to buy them. Imagine paying three or four cents a pound for a quarter of beef! Christmas was indeed a grand time for even the poor man to lay in cheap farm products for the winter. Potatoes five shillings a barrel, turkeys four and sixpence, oats three shillings a bushel and real butter from PEI and Antigonish nine pence a pound.
The crowds on the street gradually lessened after 11 o’clock at night. The women, girls and children are gone home with their parcels to get ready for tomorrow. The streets however are still thronged with men folk and with slides, sleighs and catamarans whose drivers are piling up to take to the homes parcels of “good things” for the Xmas time. Parcels! Parcels!! Parcels in every direction. The conveyances once loaded are going with full speed from the stores with their loaded festive goods to the people’s homes. The shops are open still and are doing a brisk trade till mid-night. When the Cathedral bells fling out their glad carillon over the town their iron tongues seeming to come as near to the spoken word as inanimate nature can be—
“Gloria in Excelsis Deo,
Et in Terra pax hominibus voluntatis.”
I now see the bands coming, coming out to parade Water St., calling on friends to serenade. The “Total Abstinence
, ” the “Phoenix, ” the “Avalon” and the Scotch Pipers. They are all there in their uniforms making a picturesque and spectacular display. The Anglican choir boy too are out singing Xmas Carols through the streets. Nobody is in bed, the children half asleep and half-awake waiting for the footsteps of Father Christmas on the roof. The homes are lighted up with their best display of kerosene and gas.
As the last brand in the fire tumbles down and dies in ashes and the last clang of the joy bells dies away I awake from reverie and thank God that in whatever else my nature has become impaired and weakened that my faith is stronger than ever in all that my youth was told and taught that Christmas means, and as I rise to retire my soul goes forth in an ardent and natural inspiration to, join in the grand Christian chorus of Faith, Hope and Charity that re-echoes round the world tonight—
“Glory be to God on High
And Peace on Earth to men of good will.”
“Dear Mr. Santa”: A True Story
by P. J. Kinsella
THE FOLLOWING IS A true story. I had always threatened to tell it, for because of its beauty, its humanity and its worth of the real Santa who played so splendidly the part, I do not think the incident can be surpassed for its genuine charity and love.
A few months ago Mr. James Gushue of the General Post Office, passed to the Great Beyond, and all who knew the feeling heart of this good man, and how kind and sympathetic it was for every appeal, from some other kindred soul, will readily see how true it must be. Let me add the line in all sincerity and truth— “James Gushue was a beloved.” This is the story—a beautiful one, and I tell it as he told it to me.
It was three years ago, and a week before Christmas. It was a blustery, cold, and biting day, and as I ploughed my way through the heavy snow, buoyed up by the thought that I would soon be comfortably seated in my cosy chair, and rejuvenated by that prospect, a little girl poorly clad, and ill protected against so trying a weather sprang towards me, and as I judged, from a near snow-bank.
“Please sir, ” she asked, “will you give me five cents, I want to buy—” Just then a severe drift of snow came between us, and when it had passed, and I was preparing to give the child a coin—I found she had gone, probably into one of the nearby houses where I judged she lived.
But the spirit of Christmas was about, and I felt sad, because the little one would never know but that I had refused her request, and this too troubled me—What was it she had intended to buy? It was, perhaps you will think, a small thing to trouble about—but there, the spirit of Christmas was around, and it seemed to whisper to me, as it did to the Scrooge of Dickens Land, “Man, man, ’tis the thought of the Child’s day”— “Let us remember that!”
I continued my way to the Post Office, and found much mail matter awaiting me there, there was quite a bunch of returned letters and a number of them had to be opened in order to get at the names of senders. Amidst that voluminous pile of correspondence was a letter that touched me to the heart. It was addressed simply “MR. SANTA CLAUS” ST. JOHN’S and read thus:
Dear Santa:
I want a lot of things for Christmas, mamma says we have no money to send you, but I want a tea set, and a Dolly, and a Dolly’s cot, and I want some oranges and apples, and Mamma says if I write to you I will get them. I am a good little girl.
Nellie
Don’t forget some candy.
The address of the child was written and instantly like an inspiration from God, came to me the resolution . . . to be Santa Claus.
’Twas the spirit of Christmas about me, and I tell you I felt all the enthusiasm of a kid myself, as I prepared a parcel for “Nellie” on Christmas Eve. I secured all the dear old childish toys, some fruit and some candy, and in the centre of a box of chocolates I placed a note reading something like this:
“To ‘Nellie’ from Santa Claus.
Who received her letter.”
I never felt so happy in my life as that hour on Christmas Eve when the package was delivered to Nellie’s house on —— Street, and— (you say ’twas a beautiful thing)—well!—well!!
If God is the beautiful, and benevolent, and loving of our heart’s deep emotion, if the heart and soul of a child shall bring a man nearer to “the Godhead, ” and if the cup of cold water given in His name shall win its reward, then to-day, this Christmas Eve, the soul of James Gushue is happy in the eternal love and recompense of Him “who calleth the children.”
Memories of Christmas Past
by Stella Whelan
NO DOUBT THERE WERE other signs and portents but when I was a child the Christmas season opened officially with the making and baking of the Light Cake and the Dark Cake. These operations provided a multitude of fascinating occupations of which I never tired.
There were currants and raisins to be washed and dried; red cherries to be cut up; citron to be sliced; egg whites to be whipped into pearly mounds; yolks beaten into luscious, yellow cream; and flour to be measured, sifted and measured again.
The black iron pot had to be carefully fitted with greased brown paper and this necessitated much careful work with the scissors. Our Number Seven Ideal Cook had to be well supplied with splits and coal, heated to a fever pitch and then banked down for the baking.
Every detail was noted, every move watched with unflagging attention.
The baking period itself was one of some anxiety. The rich brown smells that filled the house were glorious, but was the oven too hot? Was it hot enough? Would the cakes burn? Would they fall? All of these apprehensions I shared with my mother and I breathed a sigh of relief with her when the cakes emerged from the oven, fragrant and golden brown.
But the end was not yet—the best was yet to come.
In due course, when the cakes were deemed to be sufficiently matured, they were placed on the kitchen table for the Icing Ceremony. Involving none of the hazards of the actual baking, this was a task of pure delight. After the cakes had been duly spread with mounds of snow white icing, there were the bowls to lick. No confection in the world has ever tasted quite like it!
This great project completed, the next landmark was the appearance of Santa’s picture in the Daily News and Evening Telegram. This event was eagerly awaited for once Santa’s picture had appeared in the positive that Santa had begun his journey from the North Pole and would be on hand to fill my stocking on Christmas Eve.
Then the day came to order the Christmas groceries. These included table apples (as opposed to the barrel of apples that was always kept in the porch); Valencia oranges, grapes from Greece that came in small wooden barrels with bits of cork still clinging to them; “bought” biscuits and several varieties of nuts in their shells. When I was a child no one would dream of celebrating Christmas without nuts and a nutcracker.
Amongst the groceries there would always be a bottle of highly coloured syrup which was a gift from the store where we “dealt.” There was also a box of chocolates from the China Man. With a long, blue laundry bag dangling from his shoulder, this patient laundry man came once a week to collect my father’s shirts. Our number was M-29. At Christmas time he did up the Good Table Cloth.
On Christmas Eve all these goodies were symetrically displayed on the sideboard—a bowl of oranges on one end, a bowl of apples on the other. In between lay the dish of nuts flanked by the nut-cracker. The bought biscuits were placed in a barrel-shaped glass container known as the “Biscuit Jar.” I entertained an almost reverential awe for this object, believing it to be of untold worth.
There was however, another side to Christmas, in order to participate fully in the great feast of the Nativity; the entire family had to be in the State of Grace. On the afternoon of Christmas Eve we would make our way to the Cathedral for confession and afterwards there was the joy of the first visit to the Crib.
In those days the Crib was arranged at the altar of the Blessed Virgin. A carved, marble figure of the Child Jesus was laid on a pile of yellow straw. His Mother hovered over him, her long white robes fallin
g in shadowy folds, her face tender and luminous. On each side of the altar tall dark fir trees mounted guard over the infant with coloured lights glimmering in the branches.
The shepherds at Bethlehem were no more enraptured than I was at that moment. This uniquely Newfoundland version of the Nativity is firmly embedded in my vision of Christmas.
When I reached home there was another delightful surprise. The supper table was laid in the Front Room. A bright fire was blazing in the grate. At that time the vigil of the Feast was a day of fast and abstinence. It was our custom to serve lobster salad for the meal, lobster at that time selling for forty cents for a fat, one-pound tin.
The Light Cake held the place of honour and everybody had their first taste of Christmas Cake for dessert. Altogether there was such an abundance of happiness, so much warmth and gaiety that I thought my childish heart would burst for joy.
That was a long, long time ago and everything is different now—so many old customs abandoned, so many beloved faces missing. If they could come back, what changes they would see!
My father would be astonished to see that we are now a province of Canada; my brother would see television for the first time; my sister would know nothing of computers or the Man on the moon and someone would have to introduce my mother to the New Liturgy and explain to her that it is now alright to eat meat on Friday.