St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1893-12-24
ONCE UPON A
CHRISTMAS DAY.
A Touching Story Touchingly Told
By Lillian Russell.
The Ghost Of Vanished Christmas-The For.
gotten Musician to Whom a Glimpse of Youth
Brought Welcome Relief From Pain-Fame
and Success Take Wings but Love is Eternal
and Deathless.

| know IL was Christmas morning. Had not
| the manager announced, Ladies and gentle
| men, you will please remember there is a matt
nee this afternoon at 2 oclock?" The fairies
! and peasant girls slipped on their cloaks and
| went away hstlessly, grumbling at the extra
matinee. The scene-shifters and stage-hands
cracked a joke or two, as they went out In the
street the snow was flying about like so much
paper. 1t is odd by the way, what a trick of
initiating stage effects, real things have. The
| air was crisp, with an undue measure of cold
In 1t, and even furs seemed to have lost their
warmth. paused at the stage-entrance mo-
| ment before going out and my dresser came I'D
hesitatingly and touched me on the arm. She
was yellowish, dried little woman. Years
| ago-lt must have been a great many years ago
she was an opera-singer. Lights illusions,
| flowers, citation, triumph, the subtle charm of
public pralse-real and delicious as a lovers
breath on your cheek-she had known all these
| once upon time. The flowers faded and the
| Illusions vanished long ago.
| What is it ?" asked her.
| IF you would do me favor" she said, her
hand still on my arm and her voice trembling
| slightly, All if you would do me a favor. If
| you would come home with me now and sing
| one song for him-one song to make him a
| Christmas"
For him2" asked, "who is he and what in
the world does he want with song? ''
. have told you, but you have forgotten"
| she said, ''he is only my husband now. Once,
but that was long ago, he was Blenner. You
| do not know2 See how we are forgotten He
wrote so many songs. Everyone sang them.
| then. Now you do not even know their names.
Is it not sad? His fame is dead, his life is dead
nd hoI x-ac w., H..
when he was young and rich and famous
when lovers won their sweethearts by singing
his songs when he was king of the land of
| music.
"And I, the old woman went on, pride shin
ing in her eyes, was L not famous, too? He
loved me the first night he saw me. It was in
Les Cloches de Corneville.' was Serpolette;
you remember
Look at me here, look at me there,
Criticize me everywhere
L am most sweet from head to feet
And most perfect and complete"
There in the halfighted entrance, the walls
daubed with notices the naked stage behind
her, the old woman sang the legend of Serpo-
lette. There was CHASTITY comedy in it-comedy
in the cracked voice and the little steps she
took holding her skirts and curtesying.
8. L Loci at me here, look at me there,
Criticize me"
She broke off suddenly and said. THE critics
said was the ideal Serpolette All! you can
not imagine! My eyes were young and my
smiles were young and my hair was bonny
and black-in the stage-lights it was blue.
And so he loved me. Long after we were mar
rled he called me Serpolette. This morning
said to him, It's Christmas, old hero, what
shall your present be?'
One hour of youth he said
That's not in the Christmas bag, I'm
afraid, replied.
But as l saw you standing here, thought"
the old woman added hesitatingly, you might
come
And sing the legend of serpolettea" asked
laughing.
ct will give him an hour of youth, she said,
with such earnestness that the comedy went
out of her old, fancifuI figure
She Lit gas-iet and the light fickered
strangely in the little room, battling against
the daylight coming through the window.
Then she took an old guitar and began to pluck
the strings. The music took up the quaint,
tripping cadences of the legend of Serpolette.
Somehow or other the spirit of the gay, old song
came upon me and throwing aside my furs,
sang the gossiping, teasing verses
know not much of my relations.
never saw my mothers face,
And of my earlier generations
There doesnt exist a single trace.
l may have fallen from the sky
Or blossomed in rose bud sweet
But all know is this-that
was found by Gaspard in his wheat.
Why should nota There was no Yule-loe
flaming for me in the room of my hotel; the
Christmas associations that cluster round q
steam radiator are not especially cheerful; and
here was chance to debut I daresay, went
from curiosity. 1t was only few streets away
from the theatre. They lived in the back room
of an old brick house The window I remember
looked out into brick yard, cuttered with re-
fuse and decaying snow-drifts. The room was
filed with heavy odor, as of food and sickness
and know not what. At first / could hardly
see in the dim light. Then made out a table.
few chairs, a little stove, nursing disordered
fire, and, in the corner bed. 1t was a bed full
of tumbled clothes and pillows and somewhere
in the weller of blanket linen and feathers. Law
the old man. His face looked out with the un-
real whiteness of Pierrot's face. His eyes
seemed merely blurs of charcoal He looked at
me without speaking or smiling.
Merry Christmas, old HERO said his wife
with note of gaiety in her poor old voice, and
then to me she whispered, he does not under
stand much now. He has been ill so long and
he is getting DID,
And danced to the drumming strings. The
light of youth came into the old mans eye and
the smile of youth and love was on his old lips.
And the smile did not fade. "Serpoette, he
whispered to his old woman, as she leaned over
him, kissing his hair, I'VE were young then,
little Serpolette and now think it has all come
back"
docs it seem like few moments out of the
famous days, old hero?" his wife asked laugh
ing, proud of their vanished youth
But the old man did not answer With the
smile on his lips he had gone in search of youth
everlasting.
And that is the ghost of a Christmas day Isee
now and again. I see the dingy room, with the
gaslight and daylight struggling in it; the
dried, little woman bent over the guitar, strum-
ming; the white face On the pillow, CHASTITY and
unreal as Pierrot's; and Serpolette in futter-
ing fnery, singing
Look at me here look at me there.
Criticize me everywhere
am most SWEET
LILLIAN RUSSELL.