The Fargo forum and daily republican. [volume] (Fargo, N.D.) 1894-1957, 1909-12-25
CHRISTMAS.
BY Ferd E. Fisher.

Way up in the attic Of a big lone.
some farm house is a cradle that Love
rocked, while you dreamed of a. won
drous pair of eyes so blue and true.
A little drum, with the head caved in,
toy engine with one wheel missing. a
broken air gun, torn picture book, a
baby shoe and the thousand other keep
sakes of childhood lie in the cradle
that held your precious self. Today
mother was fighting her way through
the piles of boxes and old furniture.
She saw what we see now and she
stood very, very still for a long time.
Then smile drove away a tear. And
you? Why, you have no time foor sem
timent. Life is a game and the stakes
are high. Your family, your bust
ness, your charity, your few diversions
cloud your skies and obstruct your vi
sion of the city of God. Across the
fields and over the cities comes a heart
vibration from the woman who stood
in the quiet attic. 1t breathes a story
of boundless love and pleads for just a
little favor. What do you say
Aren't you going home for Christ
mas?
Back in the kitchen of that cottage
over there along the railroad tracks
sits an aged man warming his feet in
the oven. Ambling back from the fac
tory today he saw child looking at
the toys in store window. He has
been thinking very hard ever since.
Memories, sweet and sacred, have been
lowering about that bowed head. He
is smiling now. He sees an old fash
Toned fireplace and a boy tossing let
tiers on the Goals. He sees a. lad Creep
ing out Of bed, racing to the living
room, only to rush back wild eyed and
fearful of even touching the presents
Santa brought. Then there was a day
of riotous fun. romps and still more
romps all over the house until a little
chap fell asleep grasping a toy In each
hand. Now a frown chases away the
smile and he signs as he hobbies away
to bed. Maybe you who are so world
ly wise, so schooled in lying and cheat
ing, fighting and cursing, drinking and
forgetting, maybe you can explain.
Your escapade placed a mortgage on
the home and you ran away like the
ungrateful cur you know yourself to
be. And still you are the man who
does not care. That man In the cot
tage was square with you. He told
you the truth about yourself and did
not object when you left home. That
was all years ago. Maybe time has
bloted out all harshness and yol,r
father does not care whether you have
lived II down or not. Maybe he wants
to see you and SIT right down by that
kitchen stove and talk about the DAVIS
before the world knew you. You might
II you are on the square, work In his
place at the factory day now and
then while he rests. But perhaps You
would rather be back with the old
crowd? Isn't il probable thought
you could have day of more fun than
you ever had at Coney island or on
Broadway? There is something wrong
with that man in the cottage. He needs
you. What do you say?
Are you going home for Christmas?
Way UP among the castles in the
clouds is another home. Ii is yours
and mine. It's just a sweet memory
of other days and no one is pleading
with US to come back for a day, we
labor at the desk. in the shops and
factories, on the farm, for the city and
corporation. Our palaces, our cot
Cages. our barren rooms are our only
homes. Denied the sweet privilege of
going back to the old home, we rave
about present giving, we grow sour am
melancholy. we scoff at the sentiment
Of the holiday, we smoke more black
cigars and kick the ONCE cat. all the
time wishing the day were erased
from the calendar. Isn't 1t possible
that you and you and you and are
wrong? Isn't there a chance to clear
our own vision and warm our own
hearts by being boys and girls again
just for day. Why not give more out
of the abundance of our heart? why
not invite some homeless fellow out to
dinner and make him happy? What
do you say?
Are you going To- be at home on
Christmas?