Classic Christmas Stories

by Frank Galgay

Soon it will be Christmas Day.

  City sidewalks, busy sidewalks

  Dressed in holiday style.

  In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.

  Children laughing, people passing,

  Meeting smile after smile,

  And on every street corner you hear . . .

  Sleigh bells ring, are you listenin’?

  In the lane, snow is glistenin’.

  A beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight

  Walkin’ in a winter wonderland.

  Gone away is the blue bird.

  Here to stay is the new bird.

  He sings a love song as we roll along

  Walkin’ in a winter wonderland.

  Later on we’ll conspire

  As we dream by the fire

  To face unafraid the plans that we made

  Walkin’ in a winter wonderland.

  Those beautiful voices filled the halls with harmony and our hearts with joy and with memories to be revived forever.

  Near my balustrade, on the pupils’ side, stood a grade eleven girl whose eyes glistened with joy and whose very smile issued music, let alone her voice, so that she appeared more like a little messenger from winter wonderland than a school kid.

  From the top landing the bass voices of two or three of the chorister lads echoed from wall to ceiling, blending with the voices of those in the hallway below, so that I felt I could be attending a concert featuring Jerome Hines. Some of those boys with deep voices, like the winter wonderland messenger and some of the others, have in one way or another made singing music a profound part of their lives. No wonder, considering the experiences which produced that spontaneous outpouring of the Christmas spirit!

  Those “wonderful” kids—every single one of them, as their teachers affirmed, over and over, made that year at the new Booth High School a happy one. Also an excellent professional spirit prevailed among the teachers. For my part I knew it would likely be my last year school teaching in Newfoundland. I had other plans. Perhaps that fact contributed to my psychological readiness for that little Christmas surprise and some other delightful surprises at Booth that year.

  For three years following Booth I was school principal in Aklavik and Fort McPherson in the Mackenzie Delta of the Canadian Northwest Territories, and found that Northern Christmases engendered as much festive joy as those in Newfoundland. Ancient native customs along with those brought in from the south combined to create a certain Northern mystique.

  Around the yuletide season, there, as here, I found that M. D. Babcock’s beautiful hymn took on a peaceful tone of Christmas assurance:

  This is my Father’s world;

  And to my listening ears

  All nature sings, and round me rings

  The music of the spheres.

  This is my Father’s world;

  I rest me in the thought

  Of rocks and trees, of skies, and seas,

  His hand the wonders wrought.

  This is my Father’s world;

  The birds their carols raise;

  The morning light, the lily white,

  Declare their Maker’s praise.

  There is the far North “all nature” produced Christmas signs in sounds and sights, in feelings and fantasies that made one believe that God was again appearing in miraculous form like He did when Jesus was born. Night-time lasted practically twenty-four hours a day, with a dull twilight in late morning and early afternoon. The sun at Christmas time never appeared above the horizon. The stars when the sky was clear were huge crystal balls of sparkling silver. The moon when full was a massive glowing golden orb resting just above the snow frozen Delta. Its rays seemed to enchant the villages leaving long silent hours for peaceful slumber. There were electric lights, but they were dull and sparse, and they, along with the tiny lights glowing from candles and oil lamps, were absorbed by moonbeams. Northern lights without warning softly hissing and hovering over us and coming from outer space, frequently bathed the villages in multi-coloured Christmas splendour. Colours they were in the bitterly frosty atmosphere which no neon lights could imitate.

  The powerful Richardson Mountains—an extension of the mighty Rockies—reflected their winter majesty in immeasurable power and glory when viewed in the midday twilight, or in the moonlight, or in their translucent beauty magnified by the aurora borealis. The mood of Christmas time came from natural surroundings: and natives moving along their traplines, hunting in the foothills or in the mountain ravines, as well as those of us moving around in the village were all deeply aware that Christmas was indeed a season for celebration. So wherever we were, tiny earth creatures protected by the towering mountains in a variety of ways, we prepared to commemorate the birth of the Christ-child.

  One night, a few of us far from home and relatives, joined in outdoor singing with a little group who always lived there and whose oriental ancestors had one time travelled afar and crossed the lofty Richardson peaks and settled in the Delta. There we were with the thermometer dipping to forty-odd degrees below zero—standing in the still, still night with big, big snowflakes softly falling, as we sang all those traditional Christmas numbers—and our voices carried those carols far beyond the village out into the forest and the tundra and mingled with the moaning and howling cries of the sled dogs steadily pulling the hunters and trappers towards the village for Christmas. And in the darkness the sound of harness bells from dog teams not too far away created a distinctive Northern Christmas atmosphere.

  I recall someone saying “What carol is it that refers to the ‘mountains in reply’?” And almost as if a magic wand were waved we spontaneously broke into:

  Angels we have heard on high

  Gently singing o’er the plain

  And the mountains in reply

  Echoing their joyous strain.

  Gloria in Excelsis Deo . . .

  That night we knew that God was with us revealing Himself in nature. We also knew that the North Pole was not far away and that Santa was there ready to visit us. And our little boy shared in the awe and wonder of the Yuletide mystery by questioning us about the distance from the peaks to the Pole and whether Santa’s reindeer were related to the reindeer of the nearby reindeer reserve called Reindeer Station. And at that age faith overcomes mountains of doubt and fear.

  Our response to the glory which we felt in the natural surroundings was to partake of the feasting, visiting, singing, dancing and worship which were part of the traditional celebrations from the earliest days of village life. Aklavik and Fort McPherson each had a population of about 450 people, made up of Loucheux (i.e. Kutchin Indian), Eskimo, Metis and a tiny group of whites. In those days the native peoples were not classified by names acquired in recent times.

  Aklavik’s celebrations involved delightful dramatic drum dances, a form of pantomimes of some age-old tribal customs and practices. The music made up of humming and chanting reminded me of that which older Newfoundlanders called chin music. The drums were skilfully made from caribou or seal skins and stretched around carefully treated bent willow sticks.

  Dances (especially those at Fort McPherson and organized under Indian auspices) included folk and square dancing accompanied by fiddle music—introduced they say by early Hudson’s Bay traders, and perhaps modified by early Indian dance forms.

  A big feature of Christmas of Fort McPherson was the coming of Santa to distribute gifts to all the village kids. One Christmas as the whole community had just gathered at the hall for this big event, a plane brought the Anglican bishop to the community. As I approached the hall I saw people leaving going toward the Church. I met one little boy with a downcast look who said “Mr. Tucker, the arse is gone right out of Christmas. Santa’s gone to Holy Communion.” But a little waiting and a little patience brought it all together.

  Our last Christmas in the North was particularly joyous because just before the festive season, our younger son was born. He was conceived by my wife Ruby, me and the Holy Spirit in the very early spring
time, just as the sun had reappeared to give us a little midday daylight. It was all planned in accordance with airline rules and policy governing the flight into Edmonton of a mother great with child. Also it synchronized with freeze-up when airplane pontoons were replaced by skis: to coincide with the period when planes could safely leave and enter the village and land on the ice. We were able to send the message to our friends and relatives in Newfoundland: “Unto us a child is born. Unto us a son is given . . .”

  Among the replies we received was one from a group of Booth kids and it also included a beautiful Christmas greeting—a hand-made card with carefully hand-drawn mistletoe bearing a little verse which read:

  ’Tis just a wreath of mistletoe

  We send to you today

  In token of our deepest love

  For you so far away.

  Well, it’s a long time since the North—longer since Booth, but the magic of Christmas memories still turns a dark dreary world into light. And that is what Christmas ought to do.

  Many of the Booth kids are parents now. Some married Booth kids. Some are even grandparents, and some, along with four of the teachers are with the Heavenly hosts in the Angelic Choir. Now and then a scattered Booth kid appears in the flesh before me and we reminisce with pleasant thoughts about that year of new beginnings.

  The North although once so far, far away is closer now. In my day scarcely a Newfoundlander had ever been to that part of the Delta. And I didn’t know one Delta person who had ever been to Newfoundland.

  Imagine my joy a few years ago when, speaking at the First Ministers’ Conference honouring the retirement of Premiers Levesque and Lougheed, I met the First Minister of the Northwest Territories, the Honourable James Nerysoo, one of the little Indian boys from my school in Fort McPherson. Also last year after participating in the Anglican Synod in St. John’s I met two of the Anglican delegates from the North— one of whom was a little grade three pupil and both were our neighbours in Fort McPherson. What joyous meetings these were as in our home we reflected on the North.

  In a world that has become very much smaller there is still the need to be merry at Christmas time and to spread whatever peace, joy and goodwill we can to play our part in contributing to the magic and memories of Christmas.

  Christmas Eve 1800: A Tradition of Old St. John’s, How Mary O’Connor Saved the Town

  by W. J. Carroll

  ’T WAS CHRISTMAS EVE I N St. John’s in the year of grace, 1800. A small scad of snow had fallen and there was just frost enough to harden it up and make the walking pleasant. A gay troupe of young fellows and girls, masquerading as mummers, with much laughter and good humour, had just bundled out of the London Tavern, and were making for the “Barking Kettle, ” up the Middle Path, to continue the evening’s revelry. They were led by a tall strapping young fellow, over six feet high, and broad in proportion, who that year had been elected King of the Mummers. No disguise, however complete, could conceal the athletic form of John Desmond, who was the best known and most popular young fellow in town. After the departure of the revellers, Dame Quirk hustled up the shutters and fixed things up for the morrow in the front of the Tavern, while Mary O’Connor, her beautiful niece, with a couple of other girls, tidied up the big back parlour which had been disarranged by the mummers, swept the hearth, added a junk or two to the Yule log that lay ablaze across the brass dog-irons, trimmed the wicks of the old-fashioned cod-oil lamps, lit the candles in the antique sticks on the mantle reserved for gala occasions, and after a few minutes work, made the room look bright and warm and cozy. Scarcely were the preparations completed when in trooped a bevy of fair girls, with escorts, who, after laying aside their wraps, and exchanging the season’s greetings with the genial hostess and rubicund lord, took the seats placed round the fire and prepared to spend a jolly evening “welcoming in the Christmas.” In a short time the song and joke went round, and the whole company, were making merry. If anyone was pre-occupied, and not enjoying the fun, it was the niece of the hostess, the acknowledged beauty of the town, Mary O’Connor.

  It must be remembered that at that time in St. John’s things were very different from what they are now. The “Rebellion” in Ireland had only two years ago been put down with great slaughter. Many who had been out in “Rising of ’98” had escaped to Newfoundland. Most of them had suffered, justly or unjustly, and their hearts were boiling with hatred of the conqueror, and seeking every chance for revenge. Again, amongst the Irish refugees and youngsters there were innumerable factions, the principal being the “Knockloftys, ” the “Carrickshocks, ” the “Whey-bellys, ” the “Clear Airs, ” and the “Yellow-bellys.” On occasions the least word was sufficient to set all factions fighting. On the other hand the Irish Catholics suffered greatly at the hands of the military and merchants. As Prowse’s History has it, they had “to overcome terrible obstacles—the prejudice and opposition of the straitlaced old Admiral Milbanke, and the rampant Protestantism of his surrogate.” Bigotry, intolerance, and racial discord, permeated all classes and creeds. So far did this feeling of religious and racial antagonism extend, that a certain Corney Murphy, a powerful and turbulent Irishman, who had lost all he had in the world, except his life, had started a Secret Branch of the United Irishmen, whose watchword was, “Down with the Sassenach.” Murphy was a man of exceptional courage and force of character, and was well educated for his time. So successful was he in the propagation of disaffection, that he had enlisted in the cause over 400 men of the local garrison, who had sworn the most solemn oath, that on getting the pre-arranged signal, they’d desert the barrack fully armed and equipped; would join the disloyal citizens, attack the merchants and authorities, civil and military, and plunder the town. As there’d be no traffic between the island and the old country for some months, they hoped to get away with the booty to the United States, where they had the assurance of sympathizers there, they’d be received with open arms.

  Such was the state of the town on Christmas Eve, A. D., 1800 fast and furious. Mary O’Connor alone, of the whole company, suspected the real state of affairs, and were she not betrothed to John Desmond, and had she not read his heart like an open book she’d have been no wiser than her companions. After a short time came a slight sound as of the rattle of hailstones on the window near which she was sitting. She knew this to be the signal for John’s return. He had accompanied the mummers up to Riverhead, and when he had seen them engrossed in “Sir Roger” and other favourite dances, had stolen away to have a few minutes with his colleen. She slipped out unobserved and stood on a small bridge that spanned the stream that ran to the harbour past the western end of the tavern. There, for some time, they opened their pure young hearts to each other, and revelled in the joys of such as feel the spell of love’s young dream. They then fell to discussing the unhappy state of the town, and Mary charged her lover with complicity in the plottings of the Secret Society. The love and trust and sympathy of the pure, young girl, whom he loved dearer than his life, had their effect on him, and under threats of the direst results if she ever breathed what he told her, he disclosed an outline of the programme of the conspirators. Mary vowed then and there, that in spite of everything, she’d save him and the other innocent dupes of the arch-schemer Murphy, as well as the women and children of the threatened section of the community. His prayers and threats had no avail, and she left him in a troubled mood, and retired to her own room with a heavy heart. After a sleepless night, just before the day dawned, she, with the other members of the household, made her way to first Mass in the old Chapel. After Mass was over she went into Sacristy where the Bishop, the Most Reverend Dr. O’Donnel, was preparing to say the second Mass, and begged to see him privately for a few minutes. Imagine the Bishop’s horror when she disclosed the diabolical programme of the conspirators. He saw the gravity of the situation at a glance, and dismissed Mary with his blessing for the service she had done the town, and assured her that he’d take immediate steps to counteract the evil that had al
ready been done.

  At the last Mass, the Bishop, to the consternation of the congregation, preached a sermon that was remembered for many a day. He did not stop here. He immediately saw the Governor and General Skerritt, Commander of the forces, and pointed out the means by which the outbreak could be avoided. He called a meeting of the representative citizens, Catholic and Protestant, and enlisted them in the good work. The Governor offered a hundred guineas reward for information that would convict the author or authors; the citizens supplemented this with a reward of two hundred guineas more; and finally he visited the barracks and preached and entreated and scolded the disaffected soldiers and did everything that human foresight could suggest to prevent the threatened bloodshed. The Governor and military authorities coalesced willingly with him in the good work, and as far as in them lay, removed the disabilities under which Catholics, both civil and military, laboured. Notwithstanding all his efforts the propaganda was carried on by the ring-leader Murphy, and though a large reward was offered for information that would bring the crime home to him, not a man of them would betray him, altho’ his fellow-conspirators were losing enthusiasm. After the date of the massacre had been postponed two or three times, at last, on the night of the 24th of April an abortive attempt was made by some of the more reckless spirits among the soldiery to effect a rising; only a few responded. Their rendezvous was the powder-shed back of Fort Townshend at 11 o’clock at night. None of the disaffected citizens attended; the Bishop and his priests saw to that. The few who rebelled were easily overcome. Twelve of their ringleaders were tried by court-martial, five of them hanged, the remaining seven were transported, and thus ended what at one time promised to be one of the bloodiest massacres in American history. The rest of the story is soon told. As a recognition of the services of the Bishop the Imperial Government granted him a pension of £50 to the day of his death. The religious restrictions were removed, and faction-fighting began to be less frequent. The stalwart West County, and Irish youngsters turned their superfluous energy to the land and cleared many smiling farms in the neighbourhood of St. John’s and Conception Bay.