Classic Christmas Stories

by Frank Galgay

  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.”

  My First Xmas Dinner in Terra Nova

  Author Unknown

  MY 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.

  An Exile’s Memories of Home

  by John M. Byrnes, Boston

  CHRISTMAS 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.”

  The Magic and Memories of Christmas

  by Otto Tucker

  CHRISTMAS HAS ITS MAGIC. Even the commercial onslaughts on its traditional celebrations and customs fail to remove the magic which memories provide us at Christmas time. Shortly after mid-December my soul is filled with excitement, and with a peace that passes all understanding. Some atavistic force possesses me and spiritually prepares me for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I have always been like that. Perhaps those feelings are hereditary, or perhaps conditioned by those pleasant childhood Christmas days and nights in Winterton where I absorbed the local stories and took part in the Christmas practices and celebrations brought to Newfoundlanders by our ancestors from the West Country of England. Anyway I always expect something special and exciting to happen at Christmas time, casting out whatever despair and gloom were generated in October and November when I have been reminded a thousand times that only a few more shopping days remain before Christmas, and that with credit ca
rds, purchases come easy. And a well-cultivated memory in itself can be a magical force to bring peace, goodwill and joy to the heart as Christmas draws near.

  I go back, as I reflect, to my last year as a school teacher in Newfoundland—to that delightful year at Booth Memorial High in St. John’s—back to 1960-61. It was a new school with new programs; new Christmas at Booth stands out because of what was (then an apparently insignificant event) an experience which registered itself so deeply within me that each year it comes back as a happy form of Christmas past. I see again those pupils smiling and singing and greeting each other as they did on that memorable occasion thirty years ago.

  It was one afternoon just before school closed for the Christmas vacation. Unexpectedly pupils emerged from classrooms, labs and study rooms, and gathered on the landings, in the corridors and the foyer. One group arranged themselves on the stairway. It was all an outburst, as far as I could tell, of Christmas spontaneity.

  The stairway group suddenly burst into song: “Joy to the world! The Lord is come: Let earth receive her King . . .” and here we were, teachers, caretakers, and pupils standing all over the place and as close together as we could get, raising our voices in Christmas singing. We sang the old ones—ones that we could sing without song sheets. Then the stairway choristers sang two new numbers (at least they were new to me). These words and melodies enchanted me so much that over the past thirty years whenever I hear those beautiful songs I revert to being a teacher standing near the baluster of that staircase on Adams Avenue in St. John’s, and those carols still lift me high above the cares that infest the day. Over the years these songs become more majestic.

  Silver bells! Silver bells!

  It’s Christmas time in the city.

  Ring-a-ling, hear them ring