Christmas Among the Stars

New Zealand Herald, Volume LIX, Issue 18278, 20 December 1922, Page 4 (Supplement)

Christmas Among the Stars

(All Rights

_Sl -j| Y motor-cycle sometimes takes Praß me out for a jazz ' Ifc gcU JffPfi sudden spasms of artistic temperament, when it will rush off madly in all directions and then suddenly go for a drink to the nearest ditch. In fact, that machine is almost human in its aversion to me. Last Christmas Day I was careering along the highway at fifty miles per—perhaps !—to visit my family in the country. All went well until I got near to my journey's end. Then it chitty-chitty-bang-banged into a pond. You know, one of these wet wayside ponds that talk like a decrepit Gorgonzola cheese out on its annual holiday. ' I scraped the mud off my garments, and having talked gently but firmly to my steeplechaser, went to see if I could get a shavo at the local hairdresser's. Tho shop was closed, of course, but after delivering a fovv straight lefts to the upper panels I could hear heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. Then the door was opened a few inches, and a queer voice asked me my mission. " I want a shavo," I said in my most polite manner. " Come fer a shave on Christmas Day, 'ave yer ?" ho said. " I expeck you are one of them theer toffs wot fink they should be waitod on 'and an' foot. Bloomin' aristocrat, eh ? Blue blood an' all that sort of ling, ain't yor ? No wonder this 'ere country is a-goin' ter the dawgs. Bloated capiterlists aro at the froats of the workin man. Just a slight vat that. Hold up yer chin, will yer? Yus, the Gov'mint is simply robbin' us right an' left. Razor cuttin' yer again, did yer say? Well, if yer will keep a movin' of yer 'ead, wot can yer expeck ? As I was say in', the Gov'mint oughter be kicked aht neck an' crop. We'd bo all the better for a few froat-slittin' Bolshies. No, it ain't another cut. Got one of them theer skins, that's wot's wrong wiv yer. Shave yer3elf, would yer. W'y yer'd be covered with blood from 'ead ter foot in no time. Don't 'appen ter know my name, 'does yer? Well, I'm Lenin, an' I've just arrived from Russia. Got a nico day fer it, too." When I went to the police station and told the officer the story he nearly fell off his high stool with fright. "Heavens, man!" he exclaimed', " that wasn't the barber at all, but his brother, who came out of an asylum a few weeks ago. He's going back to-morrow." —Bert; Ooote.

BUKIED BY A BLIZZARD. I don't know how I felt about it at the time, but when I look back upon the experience I just shiver. . That Christmas in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts was so different from the ones I had spent in merry old England. The thermometer was twenty degrees below zero. I was making some griddle cakes for breakfast when suddenly and without warning the lilac tree outside the kitchen window came crashing against the panes. Wo knew we were in for a blizzard.

It was some bliz., I assure you. In fonr hours we were snowed right under. It was an unforgettable Christmas. With quavering voices my brother, sister and myself sang snatches of hymn tunes to the two frightened children, who eventually sobbed themselves to sleep. Thalb was the longest night I have ever experienced. Wonld the dawn never come ? The question was gladly answered when at break of day we the sound of voices, now in the far distance, but coming nearer and more r.ear. Encouraging shouts came to us, and we could hear men digging. The rescue party had arrived, bringing with them a snow plough from the town twelve miles away. These American boys were splendid. After many hours of manly toil they l'ushed in-to wish us " the compliments of the season." We were all very happy— then. I cooked a couple of ducks; we had sweet potatoes and boiled celery,' homemade bread and cream cheese, and we drank toasts in cider fruit juice and spices made hot. Then we danced to the strains of the gramaphone, and afterwards the boys drove us to the house of sonio friends, where we spent the night in fun and frolic.

In that part of the country the scenery is glorious. A land of romance, where the bluebird sings to the summer skies and where in winter the crisp, clear air is like invigorating champagne. I love the place and I love the people, and I would fret myself into an early old lady's grave if I never saw them again. But I'm staying home this Christmasj I haven't got my " woollies" ready! —Connie" Ediss.

THE PRODIGAL. One Christmas Day I shall never forget. With a number of friends I had beeninvited to a party in the heart of the country. The lady of the house was a widow, with three pretty daughters at home. All were accomplished cooks, and the heapeclup piles of good things on the tables paid tribute to their capable hands. After the meal we pulled crackers, told stories, and drank toasts to everyone in general and our hostesses in particular..

Then a dramatic thing happened. The old lady was seated at the top of the table, and behind her rather forced smile I thought I detected something of sorrow. °

During an interval of comparative quietness she. rose to her feet, and in a voice that trembled slue asked the guests to be upstanding and drink a health. "To my boy," she said; "may he have a merry Christmas!"

The toast was honoured in silence. Four years previously her son had been sent to prison for embezzlement, and had mysteriously disappeared. Every effort had been made to trace the lad, without effect.

\\<t were just getting up from the table when the dining-room door was slowly opened, and a thin, tattered wretch stepped over the threshold. For a moment he hesitated, then drew back, but before he could utter a word the mother, with a glad little cry, rushed to the ragged figure and clasped liim in her arms.

There were tears in the mother's eyes as the two tenderly kissed and clung "together, but they were tears of joy. Amid the dancing and singing "that followed ono had only to glance at the old lady to see that hers was a joy unspeakable.

Celebrities and tbeir Strangest Experiences

-eserved.) || Later, clothed and fed, a glow had stolen over the pale features of the lad and as mother and son sat in a corner of the room, hand in hand, the old lady', face, radiant with smile?, I thought what a wonderful Christmas it must have been for her. For her wandering boy had coma home —riorrie Forde. A YULETIDE TRAGEDY. I was a good little hoy in the days of my extreme youth and beanty. Sane in the villago choir and got prizes for Scrip, ture knowlcdgo and all that sort of thine Always tried to do at least one kind action a day. In fact, I believe I was the oriri. nal boy scout.

Aid saving! Why, I used to save up like the most thrifty Scot that ever started collecting bawbees.

It's a long time back, but I remember it as vividly as if it had been yesterday. For months and months and 'months i had stowed away in a bottle all my Saturday threepenny bits.

It was that bottle that gave me an idea for another kind action. Knowing thai the old folks were going to give a little Christmas party, I collected all the coins I had put away, walked live miles to the nearest village, bought a bottle of pert wine for tho party—l wasn't the party of course —some holly, and borrowed "a, hammer and a quantity of nails. Then I set out on tho five miles walk back on Christmas Eve. I arrived at the gate cf our home with my precious burden.

I tip-toed quietly towards the door. I took the bottle carefully out of my poo . kot, and laid it gently on the doorstep. In the darkness I fumbled for my key, and bent down the better to locate the keyhole. That was when the tragedy happened. 1 bent down, ladies and gentle--inen, and in doing so the hammer slipped out of my pocket and fell—on the bottle. i In a few moments a trail as of red I blood stained the whiteness of the snow. j During that one testing moment of my I career my good resolutions received a | smashing blow. I forgot all the lessons I had ever learned in the Sunday-school. I swore so loudly that it was heard from the inside.

Explanations were futile. The sound thrashing I received left its imprint and denied me the happiness of being able to sit down on Christmay Day. I was so awfully sore about it that I immediately determined to resign my commission as president, secretary, treasurer, and committee of my own boy scout movement. It did not seem to pay. —Will Evans.

ON ELLIS ISLAND. Christmas on Ellis Island, New York, does not sound a very proposition. Neither is it. At this American port thousands of emigrants arrive every week. During the voyage from the Continent nothing interested me more than to go in and out among the third-cltss passengers, who formed the most cosmopolitan crowd that ever sailed the seas to-! gather. They wero pilgrims to the New World from the uttermost ends of the earth, mostly women and children from Greece and Armenia, from C'zecho-S»ova-kia, and Southern Italy, from Rumania and Poland.

On arriving at the other side the firstclass passengers undergo only a perfunctory examination, but the third-class are treated very differently before they. are allowed to enter the States. Many are rejected and sent back home again.

I felt so sorry for thein that, I voluntarily stayed behind to entertain them as best I could. They had been informed that they were to bo detained for three days on the steamer, where the conditions were anything but agreeable. It was, of course, impossible to visit a post office or telegraph station, but this trouble was minimised by the courtesy of the ship's officers. Food and drink were scare, drinking water being almost unobtainable. When we reached Ellis Island on Chrutmas Day the officials gladly welcomed the suggestion that I should entertain the emigrants while they were being detained for medical inspection.

First of all, I bought up all the apples and sweets I could get and distributed them among the children. Afterwards I sang to them. Mostly they did not know a word, but by gesture I tried to convey a sense of happiness to them, and when I had finished they cheered me in about fifteen different languages. Then I went the rounds with an interpreter. 'The officials on Ellis Island are wonderful linguists.) Many of the children were busy reading or writing letters. A twelve-year-old girl who had just received a letter from her mother in Yiddish was answering it in Russian. A fourteen-year-old Rumanian girl who was writing to h«r mother in French turned to say, " Oh, if I only knew when I could go to my mother. I would fast every holy day and burn candles in gratitude to the AllHigh if I were only with my mother. That Christmas * Day prayer brought

tears to my eyes. The little pilgrim's soul seemed to embody the spirit of Bethlehem—the love of a. little child for the world of mothers. —Lee White. SOME CHRISTMAS DINNER. I shall never forget the Christmas of 1907. Along with three other guests I stayed at a Boston (U.S.A.) hotel. Before many hours had gone bv I was wishing that I could be transported on a magic carpet across the broad Atlantic so thai. I could enjoy a real oldfashioned Christmas among the dear folks at home. The Americans do not celorate Yuletide in the same spirit as >yo English people do. They are most hospitable—but they can't make Christmas pudding! I ordered a helping of thin seasonable delicacy, and the waiter brought me » plate of something which null* hav* answered the designation satisfactorily *> the American mind, but would n*** passed muster in England. And to "*wasn it down" he gave me a glass of iced water! Not exactly a dainty dish to set before a King, was it? _, -Betty King.