Letters From Father Christmas

by J. R. R. Tolkien

  Last year it was very warm, but this year it is frightfully cold—snow, snow, snow, and ice. We have been simply buried, messengers have got lost and found themselves in Nova Scotia, if you know where that is, instead of in Scotland; and PB, if you know who that is, could not get home.

  This is a picture of my house about a week ago before we got the reindeer sheds dug out. We had to make a tunnel to the front door. There are only three windows upstairs shining through holes—and there is steam where the snow is melting off the dome and roof.

  This is a view from my bedroom window. Of course, snow coming down is not blue—but blue is cold: You can understand why your letters were slow in going. I hope I got them all, and anyway that the right things arrive for you.

  Poor old PB, if you know who I mean, had to go away soon after the snow began last month. There was some trouble in his family, and Paksu and Valkotukka were ill. He is very good at doctoring anybody but himself.

  But it is a dreadfully long way over the ice and snow—to North Greenland I believe. And when he got there he could not get back. So I have been rather held up, especially as the Reindeer stables and the outdoor store sheds are snowed over.

  I have had to have a lot of Red Elves to help me. They are very nice and great fun; but although they are very quick they don’t get on fast. For they turn everything into a game. Even digging snow. And they will play with the toys they are supposed to be packing.

  PB, if you remember him, did not get back until Friday December 13th—so that proved a lucky day for me after all!

  (HEAR HEAR!)

  Even he had to wear a sheepskin coat and red gloves for his paws. And he had got a hood on and red gloves. He thinks he looks rather like Rye St Anthony. But of course he does not very much. Anyway he carries things in his hood—he brought home his sponge and soap in it!

  He says that we have not seen the last of the goblins—in spite of the battles in 1933. They won’t dare to come into my land yet; but for some reason they are breeding again and multiplying all over the world. Quite a nasty outbreak. But there are not so many in England, he says. I expect I shall have trouble with them soon.

  I have given my elves some new magic sparkler spears that will scare them out of their wits. It is now December 24th and they have not appeared this year—and practically everything is packed up and ready. I shall be starting soon

  I send you all—John and Michael and Christopher and Priscilla—my love and good wishes this Christmas: tons of good wishes. Pass on a few if you don’t want them all! Polar Bear (in case you don’t know what PB is) sends love to you—and to the Bingos and to Orange Teddy and to Jubilee. (O yes I learn lots of news even in Snowy weather). My messengers will be about until the New Year if you want to write and tell me everything was all right.

  I hope you enjoy the pantomime

  Your loving

  Father Christmas

  PS Paksu and Valkotukka are well again. Only mumps. They will be at my big party on St Stephen’s Day with other polar cubs, cave cubs, snowbabies, elves, and all the rest.

  1936

  Cliff House

  North Pole

  Wednesday Dec. 23rd 1936

  My dear Children

  I am sorry I cannot send you a long letter to thank you for yours, but I am sending you a picture which will explain a good deal. It is a good thing your changed lists arrived before these awful events, or I could not have done anything about it. I do hope you will like what I am bringing and will forgive any mistakes, and I hope nothing will still be wet! I am still so shaky and upset, I am getting one of my elves to write a bit more about things.

  I send very much love to you all.

  Father Christmas says you will want to hear some news. Polar Bear has been quite good—or had been—though he has been rather tired. So has Father Christmas; I think the Christmas business is getting rather too much for them.

  So a lot of us, red and green elves, have gone to live permanently at Cliff House, and be trained in the packing business. It was Polar Bear’s idea. He also invented the number system, so that every child that Father Christmas deals with has a number and we elves (learn them all by heart, and all the addresses. That saves a lot of writing.

  So many children have the same name that every packet used to have the address as well. Polar Bear said: “I am going to have a record year and help Father Christmas to get so forward we can have some fun ourselves on Christmas day.”

  We all worked hard, and you will be surprised to hear that every single parcel was packed and numbered by Saturday (December 19th). Then Polar Bear said “I am tired out: I am going to have a hot bath, and go to bed early!”

  Well you can guess what happened. Father Christmas was taking a last look round in the English Delivery Room about 10 o’clock when water poured through the ceiling and swamped everything: it was soon 6 inches deep on the floor. Polar Bear had simply got into the bath with both taps running and gone fast asleep with one hind paw on the overflow. He had been asleep two hours when we woke him.

  Father Christmas was really angry. But Polar Bear only said: “I did have a jolly dream. I dreamt I was diving off a melting iceberg and chasing seals.”

  He said later when he saw the damage: “Well there is one thing: those children at Northpole Road, Oxford (he always says that) may lose some of their presents, but they will have a letter worth hearing this year. They can see a joke, even if none of you can!”

  That made Father Christmas angrier, and Polar Bear said: “Well, draw a picture of it and ask them if it is funny or not.” So Father Christmas has. But he has begun to think it funny (although very annoying) himself now we have cleared up the mess, and got the English presents repacked again. Just in time. We are all rather tired, so please excuse scrawly writing.

  Yours, llbereth, Secretary to Father Christmas

  Very sorry. Been bizy. Can’t find that alphabet. Will look after Christmas and post it. Yours, Polar Bear.

  I have found it. I send you a copy. You needn’t fill in black parts if you don’t want to. It takes rather long to rite but I think it is rather clever.

  Still bizy. Father Christmas sez I can’t have a bath till next year.

  Love tou yo both bicause you see jokes

  Polar Bear

  I got into hot water didn’t I? Ha! Ha!

  1937

  Cliff House,

  North Pole

  Christmas 1937

  My dear Christopher and Priscilla, and other old friends in Oxford: here we are again!

  Of course I am always here (when not travelling), but you know what I mean. Christmas again. I believe it is 17 years since I started to write to you. I wonder if you have still got all my letters? I have not been able to keep quite all yours, but I have got some from every year.

  We had quite a fright this year. No letters came from you. Then one day early in December I sent a messenger who used to go to Oxford a lot but had not been there for a long while, and he said: “Their house is empty and everything is sold.” I was afraid something had happened, or that you had all gone to school in some other town, and your father and mother had moved. Of course, I know now; the messenger had been to your old house next door! He complained that all the windows were shut and the chimneys all blocked up.

  I was very glad indeed to get Priscilla’s first letter, and your two nice letters, and useful lists and hints, since Christopher came back. I quite understand that School makes it difficult for you to write like you used. And of course I have new children coming on my lists each year so that I don’t get less busy.

  Tell your father I am sorry about his eyes and throat: I once had my eyes very bad from snow-blindness, which comes from looking at sunlit snow. But it got better. I hope Priscilla and your Mother and everyone else will be well on Dec. 25. I am afraid I have not had any time to draw you a picture this year. You see I strained my hand moving heavy boxes in the cellars in November, and could not start my letters until later than usual, and my
hand still gets tired quickly. But Ilbereth - one of the cleverest Elves who I took on as a secretary not long ago - is becoming very good.

  He can write several alphabets now - Arctic, Latin (that is ordinary European like you use), Greek, Russian, Runes, and of course Elvish. His writing is a bit thin and slanting - he has a very slender hand - and his drawing is a bit scratchy, I think. He won’t use paints - he says he is a secretary and so only uses ink (and pencil). He is going to finish this letter for me, as I have to do some others.

  So I will now send you lots of love, and I do hope that I have chosen the best things out of your suggestion lists. I was going to send ‘Hobbits’ - I am sending away loads (mostly second editions) which I sent for only a few days ago) - but I thought you would have lots, so I am sending another Oxford Fairy Story.

  Lots and Lots of Love, Father Christmas

  Dear Children:

  I am llbereth. I have written to you before. I am finishing for Father Christmas. Shall I tell you about my pictures? Polar Bear and Valkotukka and Paksu are always lazy after Christmas, or rather after the St Stephen’s Day party. Father Christmas is ringing for breakfast in vain. Another day when Polar Bear, as usual, was late

  not true!

  Paksu threw a bath-sponge full of icy water on his face. Polar Bear chased him all round the house and round the garden and then forgave him, because he had not caught Paksu, but had found a huge appetite.

  We had terrible weather at the end of winter and actually had rain. We could not go out for days. I have drawn Polar Bear and his nephews when they did venture out. Paksu and Valkotukka have never gone away. They like it so much that they have begged to stay.

  It was much too warm at the North Pole this year. A large lake formed at the bottom of the Cliff, and left the North Pole standing on an island. I have drawn a view looking South, so the Cliff is on the other side. It was about mid-summer. The North Polar Bear, his nephews and lots of polar cubs used to come and bathe. Also seals. North Polar Bear took to trying to paddle a boat or canoe, but he fell in so often that the seals thought he liked it, and used to get under the boat and tip it up. That made him annoyed.

  The sport did not last long as the water froze again early in August. Then we began to begin to think of this Christmas. In my picture Father Christmas is dividing up the lists and giving me my special lot -you are in it.

  North Polar Bear of course always pretends to be managing everything: that’s why he is pointing, but I am really listening to Father Christmas and I am saluting him not North Polar Bear.

  Rude little errand boy.

  We had a glorious bonfire and fireworks to celebrate the Coming of Winter and the beginning of real ’Preparations’. The Snow came down very thick in November and the elves and snowboys had several tobogganing half-holidays. The polar cubs were not good at it. They fell off, and most of them took to rolling or sliding down just on themselves. Today—but this is the best bit, I had just finished my picture, or I might have drawn it differently.

  And better!

  Polar Bear was being allowed to decorate a big tree in the garden, all by himself and a ladder. Suddenly are heard terrible growly squealy noises. We rushed out to find Polar Bear hanging on the tree himself

  “You are not a decoration,” said Father Christmas.

  “Anyway, I am alight,” he shouted.

  He was. We threw a bucket of water over him. Which spoilt a lot of the decorations, but saved his fur. The silly old thing had rested the ladder against a branch (instead of the trunk of the tree). Then he thought, “l will just light the candles to see if they are working,” although he was told not to. So he climbed to the tip of the ladder with a taper. Just then the branch cracked, the ladder slipped on the snow, and Polar Bear fell into the tree and caught on some wire; and his fur got caught on fire.

  Poor joke.

  Luckily he was rather damp or he might have fizzled. I wonder if roast Polar is good to eat?

  Not as good as well spanked and fried elf.

  The last picture is imaginary and not very good… But I hope it will come true. It will if Polar Bear behaves. I hope you can read my writing. I try to write like dear old Father Christmas (without the trembles), but I cannot do so well. I can write EÍvish better:

  That is some - but Father Christmas says I write even that too spidery and you would never read it.

  Love IÍbereth.

  A big hug and lots of love. Enormous thanks for letters. I don’t get many, though I work so harrd. I am practising new writing with lovely thick pen. Quicker than Arctick. I invented it.

  Ilbereth is cheky. How are the Bingos? A merry Christmas. North Polar Bear

  1938

  Cliff House,

  North Pole

  Christmas 1938

  My dear Priscilla and all others at your house

  Here we are again! Bless me, I believe I said that before—but after all you don’t want Christmas to be different each year, do you?

  I am frightfully sorry that I haven’t had the time to draw any big picture this year, and Ilbereth (my secretary) has not done one either; but we are all sending you some rhymes instead. Some of my other children seem to like rhymes, so perhaps you will.

  We have all been very sorry to hear about Christopher. I hope he is better and will have a jolly Christmas. I only heard lately when my messengers and letter collectors came back from Oxford. Tell him to cheer up—and although he is now growing up and leaving stockings behind, I shall bring a few things along this year. Among them is a small astronomy book which gives a few hints on the use of telescopes—thank you for telling me he had got one. Dear me! My hand is shaky—I hope you can read some of this?

  I loved your long letter, with all the amusing pictures. Give my love to your Bingos and all the other sixty (or more!), especially Raggles and Preddley and Tinker and Tailor and Jubilee and Snowball. I hope you will go on writing to me for a long while yet.

  Very much love to you—and lots for Chris—from

  Father Christmas

  Again this year, my dear Priscilla,

  when you’re asleep upon your pillow;

  Bad rhyme!

  That’s beaten you!

  beside your bed old Father Christmas

  [The English language has no rhyme

  to Father Christmas: that’s why I’m

  not very good at making verses.

  But what I find a good deal worse is

  that girls’ and boys’ names won’t rhyme either

  (and bother! either won’t rhyme neither).

  So please forgive me, dear Priscilla,

  if I pretend you rhyme with pillow!]

  She won’t.

  As I was saying—

  beside your bed old Father Christmas

  (afraid that any creak or hiss must

  How’s that?

  Out!

  wake you up) will in a twinkling

  fill up your stocking, (I‘ve an inkling

  that it belongs, in fact, to pater.

  but never mind!) At twelve, or later,

  he will arrive—and hopes once more

  that he has chosen from his store

  I did it.

  the things you want. You’re half past nine;

  She is not a clock!

  but still I hope you’ll drop a line

  for some years yet, and won’t forget

  old Father Christmas and his Pet,

  the North Polar Bear (and Polar Cubs

  as fat as little butter-tubs),

  and snowboys and Elves—in fact the whole

  of my household up near the Pole.

  Upon my list, made in December,

  your number is, if you remember,

  fifty six thousand, seven hundred,

  and eighty five. It can’t be wondered

  Weak!

  at that I am so busy, when

  you think that you are nearly ten,

  and in that time my list has grown

&nbs
p; by quite ten thousand girls alone,

  even when I’ve subtracted all

  the houses where I no longer call!

  You all will wonder what’s the news;

  if all has gone well, and if not who’s

  to blame; and whether Polar Bear

  has earned a mark good, bad, or fair,

  for his behaviour since last winter.

  Well—first he trod upon a splinter,

  Just rhiming nonsens: it

  was a nail—rusty, too

  and went on crutches in November;

  and then one cold day in December

  he burnt his nose and singed his paws

  upon the Kitchen grate, because

  without the help of tongs he tried

  to roast hot chestnuts. “Wow!” he cried,

  I never did!

  and used a pound of butter (best)

  to cure the burns. He would not rest,

  I was not given a chance.

  but on the twenty-third he went

  and climbed up on the roof. He meant

  to clear the snow away that choked

  his chimney up—of course he poked

  his legs right through the tiles and snow

  in tons fell on his bed below.

  He has broken saucers, cups, and plates;

  and eaten lots of chocolates;

  he’s dropped large boxes on my toes,

  and trodden tin-soldiers flat in rows;

  You need not believe all this!

  You need!

  he’s over-wound engines and broken springs,

  and mixed up different children’s things;

  he’s thumbed new books and burst balloons

  and scribbled lots of smudgy Runes

  on my best paper, and wiped his feet

  on scarves and hankies folded neat—

  And yet he has been, on the whole,

  a very kind and willing soul.

  He’s fetched and carried, counted, packed

  and for a week has never slacked: