The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1915-12-23
SANTA CLAUS.
"a REVERE.

There is no childhood any more-that
is, in many homes there is not. All are
grown-ups and are as wise as phlloso-
piers, as keen as newspaper men and
as posted sas lawyers. No poems, no
aircastles, no lisping pratter. The little
boys are all little men, except that they
have no mustashes, that nature badge
of the virilesmale.s. But for that matter
neither have their fathers. 1t is the
father trying to look:ike a boy and the
boy tryingsto look like man.
The poor, Isunimaginative people of
today think that it was dreadful thing
that story aboutithe reindeer, the path
through the starlit sky, the chimney top
and the stockings. blocking in the child
hood world with eyes that do not see,
they call it al deception. Parents who
are over-careful not to misrepresent
this moral life. toitheir children in any
PARTICULAR. find it. such a treat to be
dealing this::scharming mystery. 1t is
SO difficult to..sexplain it all to big blue
eyes, laughing. wondering, beautiful
eyes. Were thoseieyes.never so beauti-
full as when. they.were lifted in question
about Santa Claus?
Blue eyes,:..your wondering glances
were bent !out.ofithe twilight window as
we talked, where CLEANED the evening
star. Are youilooking down at US now,
Blue Eyes, from more starry depths
somewhere, this Christmas time? You
have found out, long ere this. so MANY
mysteries. thatl we are the ignorant
child and!you.are the wise..man in com
psrison.
We got:opulent riches. such riches of
enjoyment, out.of your question as to
this Santa!Claus. We shall never for
get all your prettyfquestions, and how
you stood chained to our knee, Blue
Eyes, and it was so difficult for the
most part to catch you and gain your
undivided attention. But Santa Claus
was our love!trap-you would stand by
the halfshour. and talk and talk. To
hear you. talk again, We would invent
more poems about Santa Claus tina n
ever. toIholdlyour hand and feel your
cheek pressed: against our knee while
we poured the story into your upturned
ear.
When the child grows suspicious, it is
painful experience, certainly. The
how rrirl oil af
they whisper debate-they tumble
out of their airshlp of a poem. But
they land well-that landing really
makes up. Oh, yes, it does-be sure it
does. The boy.throws an arm around
his sisters neck, and, like bold
philosopher, explains, Say, Sis, there
IS Santa Claus!"
The children, being. themselves poets,
the season being itself a poem, enter
into the mystery with joy. There are
SO many crude. hands that tear to tatters
our childishIpictures thatit is ungracious
to destroy this bright mystery. Let it
stand. The girl or boy of yesterday
are themselves in the dream today for
their own little ones. In telling the old
tale they become children themselves
and that does them good-they hear
again the reindeer bells. They peer
out of windows from the old home
whose distant windows are perhaps to-
day darkened. its hearth-fres burned to
cold ashes. AS little child they be-
come and in that spirit alone is it per-
mitted unto any of US to cry, Hail.
Santa Claus! Come again to me-come
across the sky. In looking for thee, at
least again see my mothers pointing
handW