A N.Z. Santa Claus.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 303, 23 December 1933, Page 2 (Supplement)

A N.Z. Santa Claus.

AUNT ANNIE'S CHRISTMAS LAUGH. (By Elsa I'lavell, Hawera ; age JO.) Til FRE was Christmas in Auntie Annie's very laugh. It made you think of summer days at the beach. of cakes and puddings and crackers —at least, it made the young Willoiir- think of all these, and of many similar things besides. II she earnc to -visit them in winter, their hearts warmed at the thought of summer and Christmas delights, and her laugh brought the atmosphere of the happy season into the coldest and dullest of days, just as a soft blowing on a mouth organ recalls to some memories of glad mornings spent after the unpacking of stockings. Not that Auntie Annie's laugh was at all like the sound of a mouth organ, or of any musical instrument at all. 'It- was a Cat, little shaky laugh, and even if you heard it sounding in another room you could see Auntie Annie's eardrops wagging as she put her head on one side ami gave way to mirth. You could see. too. her comfortable little plump body in its orange dress. Auntie Ami io loved bright colours, although she was much older than dad or mum. Of course, she was really dad's aunt, not the children's, but they all called her Auntie Annie, and loved her for her kind heart. Roy had once read in a paper an articie which said that Santa Clans, with his red, fur-trimmed robes and reindeer sledge, was quite out of keeping with the New Zealand Christmas, and he had read it to the. family in a spirit of enthusiastic agreement. "We've got a. Xew Zealand Santa, anyway," said Xorali. "Who. Auntie Annie?" queried Edna. "Of course!"

It was Auntie' Annie's annual habit to arrive at the farm two days before Christmas, always with a mysterious load of luggage which was materially diminished when she went away a week afterwards, taking with her one or other of the family to spend a holiday in town. She was always hailed with the utmost delight, and the baggage was always eyed with eager wonder; its secrets were disclosed to the curious not until Christmas morning. Those secrets! They consisted of just the things everyone wanted. Auntie Annie had an almost uncanny knack of knowing what would please her great-nieces and greatnephews. This Christmas, however, Auntie Annie sprang a surprise and arrived three days earlier than usual. She left her luggage at the station to be called .for, and. walked to the farm. She opened the door without knocking, thinking of the astonished cries that would greet her unexpected arrival; but she found she had walked right into the midst of a general sorrowing. Mrs. Wilton was sitting at the big kitchen table, her head in her hands; her husband sat by the lire (it was a dull, cold day, though mid-summer) gloomily smoking his pipe. The greatnieces and great-nephews were grouped around, their faces the picture of dismay; the youngest two, Edna and Jack, were howling lustily. Eoy wae the first to recover presence of mind. '"Here's Auntie Annie,'' he cried, but his voice lacked the lookedfor pleasure. The two little ones ceased crying and began to smile, it is true, but Auntie Annie's heart bled for her niece and nephew, who rose to welcome her struggling to disguise their feelings. "Xow what's wrong." cried she. "No one's dead, are they?" Norah explained in a voice that quivered tearfully. "It's the farm. We've got to sell it and go share-milking or something. The mortgage —" She could go no further. '•Oh, cheer up,*' counselled Auntie Annie. "Js that all?" "All?" they chorused indignantly, tearfully. "Oh, auntie!" "Hush-hush! I didn't mean that! T know how fond you are of the old farm: but. it might have been worse. One of you might have been dead. And, anyway, something's sure to turn up. Surety no one'll make you go off these days. Why, everyone's hard up, and evervone else knows it."' "That's just it." said Mr. Wilton. mournfully. "'The chap who holds the mortgage needs the money, too. He's about bankrupt." "Well, just you stop worrying, anyway. Goodness, are you going to spoil Christmas by wearing face* like those? I shall go home if you do. ami take unboxes with me! Who knows what mnv turn up? You don't have to go oil vet.

f anyway. Enjoy Christinas while you ! can. 1 ' Nlic bustled ofl' to the spare room, • followed by her niece and Xorali. The family did their best to be cheer - ! ful during the next few days. ! On the very day before Christmas a j letter came for Auntie Annie (although the family did not know it. It was in answer to one she lia<l sent away post haste on the morning after her arrival). She told them then that she must catch the train at once and go back to town. J "Auntie Annie," they all cried in dismay, "whatever shali we do without you at Christmas time?" "I shall be back to-morrow afternoon," she promised. "Xorah, you will be in charge of the presents. Keep the spare room door locked in ease someone's curiosity gets the better of them, and on Christmas morning open the boxes I'm leaving. I'll taxi out to-morrow." She had already packed her bags, and in a. short time she was in the train, on her way to her homo in a not distant township. The spare room was a place of fascination to the Wiltons for the rest of the day, and Xorali, as keeper of the key, was an honoured and envied person. She woke ir \ looming to an insistent "Norah, Xorali, do come and open the door now! Do!'' There were all sorts of wonderful things in the boxes Auntie Annie had left: but in addition lo the usual presents for Mr. and Mrs. Wilton, there was a white envelope addressed to "my dear niece and nephew." Mr. Wilton opened it wonderingly. pulled out a folded slip, unfolded it. gasped, let it fall and jumped into the air with a wild "Hurrah!" "Dad!" cried the children. '"What is il: —lei me see?" cried Mrs. Wilton. She picked it up from the floor, and next moment it. fell in turn from her trembling lingers. "Auntie Annie—how coiild she?" she gasped. Her eyes grew bright and her lip quivered, and suddenly she began to weep. The children went out. "What was it?" queried Alan, whitefaced and scared. Xorali was dancing with delight. "'Don't howl, Kdn.i and .lack!"' she cried. ".It's nothing to howl about! Oh. Hoy, l!oy, I saw it—l saw it!" "Saw what?" .'exclaimed Hoy. "For goodness sake, stand still!" "The mortgage, the mortgage., the mortgage," sang Xorali. "She's paid it, she's paid it, she's paid it!" The house veritably shook with their shouts and dancing. The most wonderful thing in the world had happened. Auntie Annie had paid the mortgage! The little white slip that had caused so much excitement was the receipt for the payment. There was something else in the envelope, too; a sum of money "for you to have a holiday at Jtotoriia," as Auntie Annie's note put it; "and I shall be housekeeper in your absence," it added. "Where did she get the money?" w:i/= what they wondered all the morning. It was no small thing for a widow to do, if she was no richer than they had imagined. Had she borrowed it? Had she sold some of her valuables —for she had several family heirlooms, that they knew. They were about to «it down to dinner when she arrived. Mrs. Wilton was dishing out the green peas. Edna had just said: "I wish Auntie Annie was here now. Other Christmascs she's never missed." They all rose to greet her, and overwhelmed her with a rush of affectionate welcomes. "Oh dear, oh dear," she said when they had quietened. She smoothed hei' drees with a hand that shook a little. "Well, you needn't have smothered me, anyway!"

"We wouldn't dream of it, darling," said Norah, still clinging. "And now tell ns how yon managed it.'' "Yon really shouldn't,*' remonstrated Mrs. Wilton. "Really, we're doubtful about accepting it—of course, we'll pav it back—" ' "indeed, will you?" Auntie Annie bridled angrily. "Just you try, that's all! I suppose a woman has a right to do what she likes with her own ten thousand pounds?"' "Ten thousand pounds!" Norah breathed it, and there was a sudden quiet. Auntie Annie laughed—her own Christmassy laugh. ,"Merry Christmas, everybody! Don't look so thunderstruck! I wanted you to think T wasn't more than comfortable, but now, of course, the cat's out of the bag. And don't you dare breathe a word about paying me back. Paying me back, indeed, when I've been saving up my money just to leave you when I die—" •■.Auntie Annie!'' It was a cry of horrified reproof. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not dying yet. And why shouldn't you have some of the money now? I feel quite mean for having kept it all so long. And now, can I hnve some dinner?'' "Two dinners, as many as you like." was I lie cry. "Auntie Annie, yon are a real Xcw Zealand fc'anta Claus," said Hoy.