The Pensacola journal., 1922-12-24

over the radio, he repeated.
"No, thanks" His wife went out.
He took a sheet of paper from the
yellowed envelope. Il want to
read you this Ietter-not all of it
Just a line here and there. 1t
was written to me by my mother
on the first Christmas l ever spent
away from home. That was more
than twenty-five years ago-I was
living in a hall bedroom in New
York:
Dear Win: 1t wasn't quite
Christmas without You. a lovely
day . lots of snow they
We're all here except you, dear E.
Nellie with her babies little
Jack is such Il darling! A great
dinner my own mince pies.
dreamed last night you were a lit
tie boy and L had you home again.
/ miss you terribly but your
work of course. =. Will,
as L look back Oh the years. I've
no regrets. We We're poor. but it
didn't matter. For ours was :.
a house of happy children. Love
and contentment, love and content
ment always. 1 like to think of it,
now that it's beginning to be all
over For it's beginning, Will
-. This Christmas your
empty chair the empty COR
ner in my heart. >"
Why So Many Santa Clauses?
My host stopped reading. He
did not speak for a moment. Then.
at last:
when / got that letter I knew,
too. that the home of my childhood
was breaking up. But I told my
self that in time there would be
another like it. Another I would
build. In my own house 1 would
come back to that table, back to
that empty chair. But. somehow.
I never have. The chairs still
empty.
II failed to count on the vast
changes that would take place in
the world in such a little time. The
amazing distance we would travel
along-well, I suppose 1 must call
it the road of progress. Invention
after invention, engine after en-
gine. Life more mechanical, less
human. Automobiles, radios, tele-
phones, country clubs-people
drifting farther and farther from
the simple things. Love and con-
tentment. Well, were fond of one
another, of course, but life is so
tered-what is the word? And
contentment? Is anybody con-
tented now?
LAS for Christmas. it flashes on
us first in the advertisements of
the stores. Then the grand orgy
of shopping, the madness of spend
ing. My little grandchild-he'
south with his parents-I wish you
could have seen him. He summed
it all up last year-and he was only
five at the time. His mother took
him into a big department store.
and he paused in an aisle and said
in a high, clear voice: Why do
they have so many Santa Clauses?
Why don't they have pictures Of
Christ? It's His birthday, isn't
it, mother?'
Every year my family ask me
over and over: What do you want
for Christmas?' And l never tell
to go back. Like half Of the men
in America, I'm heartsick for old
fashioned things - old-fashioned
music, old-fashioned flowers, old
fashioned children. An old-fash-
ioned Christmas with everybody
human again. Old-fashioned love
and contentment.
"On this one day at least we
might pause for a moment in our
wild dash down the road of prog
ress. We might even 80 back a
little way along the road that leads
to Bethlehem. Put up the car,
silence the phonograph, cut off the
telephone. Sayor for a moment,
if we can, the simple things. Not
so much jazz, and more carols.
Not 50 much though of price tags.
A lot less Of Santa Claus, and a
lot more about Christ For, after
all, it is His birthday"