Christmas gold, p.911
Christmas Gold, page 911
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I love dear Mr. Santa Claus,
He has such jolly ways;
Why, every year a visit here
On Christmas eve he pays,
And puts up wreaths of holly leaves
To mark the holly-days.
Wanted: A Looker
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A good position for the right party. Annual employment guaranteed to one who fulfills all requirements. A lady who receives a great many Christmas presents experiences difficulty in getting her friends to notice and admire them sufficiently. She will therefore pay a good salary to a professional Looker.
He must be or appear to be interested in the gifts, both collectively and individually. He must be intelligent and appreciative, but never disparaging. He must not tell of gifts of superior quality received by himself or his friends. He must be capable of expressing surprise, amazement and delight as the gifts are opened, and reiterate these emotions as he reviews the gifts at subsequent intervals. His stock of adjectives must be large and varied, his enthusiasm unfailing, and his patience unshakable. Pleasant address and good humor are indispensable, and a sincere devotion to his work will insure ample reward, as the advertiser has suffered many Christ-mases from the discomforts of having her array of gifts ignored or carelessly inspected by indifferent friends and neighbors.
A Ballade of Christmas Burdens
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The burden of gay greeting. Vain delight,
For who among us means a word we say?
In hackneyed speech we clothe our message trite,
And idly voice the wishes of the day.
We smile and bow in our accustomed way,
While our indifference we try to hide,
Stifling our boredom, striving to be gay;
This is the end of every Christmas-tide.
The burden of much giving. Every year
We realize anew the fearful fraud
This custom is. And then, albeit we sneer,
We buy afresh the bauble and the gaud.
Hoping thereby to win a hollow laud.
Or gain a compliment to feed our pride;
Contented if the giddy world applaud—
This is the end of every Christmas-tide.
The burden of scant shekels. Woe impends
The wight whose way is with this danger fraught;
Lured by the Spirit of the Times he spends
More than he meant to and more than he ought.
And when he views the gew-gaws he has bought,
And sees his empty pockets yawning wide.
He sadly bows his head in anxious thought—
This is the end of every Christmas-tide.
The burden of swift shopping. Crowded streets
And rushing messengers our way impede.
Our innocence the wily fakir cheats,
And fleeces us, weak victims to his greed.
Or haply haughty clerks pay us no heed.
At our approach they partly turn aside
Until our ire our patience doth exceed;
This is the end of every Christmas-tide.
The burden of great eating. Other days,
It matters not so much how we may dine;
But at this festival tradition says
We must bestir, and kill the fatted kine.
The board must groan 'neath rarest food and wine,
Boar's head and wassail bowl we must provide
That our digestion we may undermine;
This is the end of every Christmas-tide.
L'Envoi
Comrades, and ye who Christmas pleasures seek,
These timely thoughts to you I would confide;
Harken unto the wisdom that I speak:
This is the end of every Christmas-tide.
On Christmas Eve
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I know the Christmas gifts I send
Will be received with praises;
But fifty times to-night I've penned
The same old hackneyed phrases.
"Best Christmas wishes"—"Christmas love"—
"With merry Christmas greeting"—
I must confess I'm weary of
Those same old words repeating.
With pen in hand, at each I pause.
And sit like any dumb thing;
I'd like to write, "Take this, because
I bave to send you something!"
In Absence
A Rondeau
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On Christmas Day as far and near
The bells ring out their message clear.
Your thoughts will turn to me, I know.
And mine to you as swift will go
To tell you that I love you, dear.
And those whom you may see and hear
Will not give greeting more sincere
Than this I send across the snow
On Christmas Day:
Amid the mirth and merry cheer
Of this glad time that crowns the year,
Haply beneath the mistletoe
I'll shyly whisper, sweet and low,
A soft je t'aime just for your ear,
On Christmas Day.
A Sterling Nuisance
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As Christmas Day is nearing,
My spirits fall, alas!
I know the fate I'm fearing
Will shortly come to pass.
When parents, friends and lover
Their Christmas boxes bring,
I'll find beneath each cover
Some little silver thing.
I've every silver trinket.
And duplicates beside;
My bureau! one would think it
The bureau of a bride.
But Florence, Ruth and Mabel
To one tradition cling,—
For desk or dressing-table
Some little silver thing.
They know books give me pleasure,
They know I'm fond of plates;
A picture I would treasure,
I'd like a pair of skates.
I'll struggle to look pleasant.
But as I cut the string
I know I'll find each present
Some little silver thing.
Jack has his gift selected,—
He says it's small and bright;
It's something I expected—
The case is lined with white;
From what he said, it could be
A pearl and opal ring;
But, oh! suppose it should be
Some little silver thing?
The Bachelor's Christmas Spoils
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One odious onyx ornament obtrusively obnoxious.
Two trumpery tambourines trimmed with tassels.
Three thingumbob thermometers thoroughly theatrical.
Four flamboyant four-in-hands fit for a farmer.
Five foolish fancy-work frames for photographs.
Six silly slipper-cases sewed with scarlet silk.
Seven superfluous shaving-balls scented with sachet.
Eight excruciating etchings executed in the early eighties.
Nine knitted neckties noticeably nauseating.
Ten trashy trinkets terribly trivial and tawdry.
Eleven embroidered eyesores expensive and effeminate.
Twelve tinsel-trimmed traps truly tragical.
Forebodings
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My Christmas Gifts! I see them now!
But not in recollection.
No; 'tis prophetic eyes, I vow.
That make the sad inspection.
There'll be a lot of silver things,
(Each sillier than the other);
A motor hood with silken strings,
(The kind that makes you smother).
And boudoir shoes, all fleecy lined,
(No one could ever use 'em);
Hatpins,—by some weird art designed,—
(I truly hope I'll lose 'em!)
Burnt leather! Well, my brain just storms
To think of bags and pillows!
And baskets in outrageous form
Of twisted greenish willows.
The Christmas novelty this year
Is patterns done in cross stitch;
I'll get so much of it, I fear,
I'll wish it were a lost stitch.
Receptacles of every kind,—
Covers, receivers, cases;
To hold such things as no sane mind
Could dream of in such places!
Ah, well, I'd strive to be polite.
And bear these dire inflictions,
But thought of notes that I must write
Rouses my maledictions.
To say, for that old foolish stuff:
"Just what I wanted, Lydie!"
"I cannot thank you half enough!"
"I simply love that tidy!"
Well, now I have my mind outspoke,
I'll turn to something pleasant;
I'll finish that embroidered yoke
For Janey's Christmas present.
Her Christmas Shopping
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Why do I have to shop?
Upon my word,
'Tis utterly absurd
The way I race
And chase
From place to place!
The way I madly run from store to store,
The bargains looking o'er;
Trying to find some novel gift for Anne,
Or Dan,
Or Nan,
Or hunting something new for Uncle Steve;
Seeking strong toys
For Gertrude's boys,—
They'd break a cannon-ball, I do believe!
And all I buy, no doubt
The children would be better off without.
Nor do their elders care a cent about
The little silver things, or blue delft clocks.
Burnt leather fancy-work, embroidered stocks.
Which they mendaciously pronounce the very
Things they desire to make their Christmas merry!
Ah, well.
If I the truth must tell,
I do the same;
My fellow-sufEerers I ought not to blame.
So on I go, like any jaded hack;
Buying, exchanging, often sending back.
Pushed by the populace, jammed by the crowd,
Muttering imprecations deep, not loud.
So on I go,—
But somehow, do you know?
I rather like it after all.
Were I a millionaire, with servants at my call.
To none would I entrust
My Christmas shopping. No, I ever must
Do that myself. It is my great delight
To shop at Christmastide from mom till night.
At the Bargain Counter
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Ten Christmas shoppers standing in a line;
One got elbowed out, then there were nine.
Nine Christmas shoppers, shopping very late;
One fell asleep, and then there were eight.
Eight Christmas shoppers, shopping till eleven;
One fainted dead away, then there were seven.
Seven Christmas shoppers, cross as two sticks;
One flounced herself away, then there were six.
Six Christmas shoppers, only just alive;
One remembered baby! Then there were five.
Five Christmas shoppers, pawing bargains o'er;
The salesgirl snubbed one, then there were four.
Four Christmas shoppers, nervous as could be;
One smelled smoke, and then there were three.
Three Christmas shoppers, making great to-do;
One had hysterics, then there were two.
Two Christmas shoppers, with shopping not half done;
One thought she saw a mouse, then there was one.
One Christmas shopper, who'd spent all her mun;
Her husband came for her—then there was none.
The Christmas Nightmare
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On the night before Christmas there's something amiss
With your placid, habitual slumber;
You suddenly find that your overworked mind
Is harassed by cares without number.
You are stirred by the thought that the gifts you have bought
Are less than your friends have expected; And your heart is beset by a nervous regret
That the things were not better selected.
You cannot lie quiet, your brain's in a riot.
And fears for the dinner oppress you;
The goose may be tough or the cook in a huff,
Or the children's behavior distress you.
You can't get your breath, you're worried to death
Lest the weather may turn out unpleasant;
Your eyes ache and bum as you toss and you turn
And think over every one's present.
That Dresden affair, expensive and rare,
Is really quite wasted on Dora;
And you're tempted to wish you had given the dish
To Alice or Ethel or Flora.
Dick never will look in that beautiful book,
So you think you'll transfer it to Maisie;
Then you'll have to give Dick that ebony stick—
But by this time you're just about crazy.
As you tumble and roll, a fear thrills your soul
Lest some one left out should feel slighted.
Though you doubt if you're able to seat round the table
The guests you've already invited.
The cream may fall short—there's only a quart—
And some one may keep dinner waiting;
Then the soup will get cold, and Edward will scold.
And give the late guest a berating.
You flounder and sigh—you're ready to cry—
Coy Sleep won't allow you to win her;
Oh, the night before Christmas holds nothing of bliss,
If you've asked your relations to dinner.
A True Advertisement
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Earnest Truepenny and Company
Invite attention to their stock of Christmas Goods.
Prices raised especially for the holiday season!
Old Goods represented as New!
Special showing of shop-worn Novelties!
We offer many splendid swindles for Rich Buyers, as all our wares are guaranteed strictly as Misrepresented.
Faked Antiques at Prices Higher than Real Ones!
Positively None Genuine!
Come Now!!
Prices 'Way Up!
Great Reduction will be made after the
Holidays.
—Gifts Specially Unsuitable for Men—
Smoking Jackets marked up from
$10 to $15.
Slippers at double price.
Choice selection of hideous Neckties offered without regard to cost.
—Gifts Specially Inappropriate for Women—
Our 1906 Hats—Sold at the price of this year's models!
Exceptionally poor values in Silk Stockings.
The absurdly high prices of our Trashy Gimcracks tempt all Christmas Shoppers!!
ART DEPARTMENT
Hand-painted Atrocities, greatly above the usual Prices!
At the Christmas Season nothing is so unacceptable as a Useful Gift!
Try Our
"Ready-To-Wear-Out" Clothing!
Tight fits for Stout People.
Last Year's Styles Marked Up.
Come early or late! You will find a stuffy atmosphere, crowded counters, and tired clerks!
Honest as our Advertising is, you will find our goods even less desirable than we represent them!
Circumstances Alter Cases
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As Christmas Day was drawing near, upon a lady called
A gentlemanly person, who was old and somewhat bald.
"I am the Christmas agent," he announced. "I'd like to know
How many and what presents you're intending to bestow."
Said the lady, "Here's my list, sir; but tell me, ere you leave,
What loving Christmas token from my friends I shall receive."
She heard his answer with surprise, then laughed in gay derision;
"Call round a little later, sir; my list needs much
Ballade of Christmas of Long Ago
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The old folks sigh for the by-gone days,
Of simple mirth and homely cheer;
They sigh for the prim, old-fashioned ways,
That marked the Yule-tide of yester-year.
To the straight-laced customs they will adhere
As long as they live on earth, I trow,
Their early observances they'll hold dear—
But who wants the Christmas of Long Ago?
Their memory veils with a golden haze
The rigid rules and the laws severe;
The pompous manner and stilted phrase,
The absurd old wigs and the costumes queer.
With mincing tread and with mien austere
They gravely walked through their dances slow;
These quaint old memories we revere—
But who wants the Christmas of Long Ago?
The modem festival wins our praise.
The Christmas Day that is drawing near;
A season of dances, feasts and plays.
When the Lord of Misrule runs his gay career.
Let the chimes ring out with their music clear,
Let the Yule-log blaze and the punch-bowl flow,
We'll drink to the Puritan Pioneer—
But who wants the Christmas of Long Ago?
L 'Envoi
Rose, the mistletoe hangs from the chandelier,
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