CHRISTMAS AMONG THE “STARS.”

Otago Daily Times, Issue 18760, 13 January 1923, Page 13

CHRISTMAS AMONG THE “STARS.”

[All Eights Keseuved.j

A BEVY OF CELEBRITIES RECALL THEIR. STRANGEST EXPERIENCES. METHODS OF BARBARISM. My motor cycle sometimes takes me out lor a jazz. Jt gets 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 iUs aversion to me. Last Christmas Day I was careering along the highway at 50 miles per—perhaps i—to visit my family in the country. All went well until I got near to my journey’s end. Then it chittv-chitty-bang-banged into a pond. You know, one of those 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 shave at the local hairdresser’s. Tho shop was closed, of course, but after delivering a few 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 shave,” I said, iu my most polite manner. “Come fer a shave on Christmas Day, ’ave yer?” ho said. “I expeck you are one of them thecr toffs wot fink they should be waited on ’and an’ foot. Bloomin’ aristocrat, eh? Blue blood an’ all that sort of ting, ain’t yer? No wonder this ’ere country is a-goin’ ter the da.wgß.__ Bloated capiterlists are at the froats or the workin' man. Just a slight cut 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? AA'ell, if yer wall keep a-movin’ of yer ’cad, wot can yer expeck? As I was savin’, the Gov’mint oughter be kicked aht neck and crop. We’d be all the better for a few froat-slittin’ Bolshies. No, it ain’t another cut? Got one of them there thin skins, that’s wot’s wrong wiv yer. Shave yerself, would yer. AV’y ycr’d be covered wiv blood from ’ed to foot in no time. Don’t ’appen ter know my name, does yer? AVell, I’m Lenin, an I’ve just arrived from Got a nice dav for it, too.” AVhen 1 went to the police-station and told the officer my story he nearly fell off his high stool with fright. “Heaven’s, 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.” —Beet Coote. v A YUI.ETIDE TRAGEDY. I was a good little boy in the days of my extreme youth and beauty. Sang in the village choir and got prizes for Scripture knowledge and all that sort of thing. Always tried to do,at least one kind action a day. In fact, I believe I was the original Boy Scout. And saving! AVhy, I used to save up like the most thrifty Soot 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 cf action. Knowing that the old folks were going to give a little Christmas party, I collected all the coins I had put away, walked five miles to the nearest village, bought a bottle of port wine for the party—l wasn't the party, of course —some holly, and borrowed a hammer and a quantity of nails. Then I set out oh the five miles walk back on Christmas Eve. T arrived at the gate of our home with my precious burden.. I 'tip-toed quietly towards the door. I took the bottle carefully out of my pocket, 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. I bent down, ladies and gentlemen, and in doing so the hammer slipped out of mv pocket end fell—on the bottle. In a few moments a trail as of red blood stained the whiteness of the snow. During that one testing moment of my 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 Christmas 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. —AVill Evans. ON ELLIS ISLAND. Christmas on Ellis Island, New York, does- not sound a very attractive 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-class passengers, who formed the most cosmopolitan crowd that ever sailed the seas together. Thev were pilgrims to the New AA'orld from the uttermost ends of the earth, mostly women and children from Greece and Armenia, from Czechoslovakia and Southern Italy, from Roumania and Roland. 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 them that I voluntarily stayed behind to entertain them as best I could. ' They had been informed that they were to be detained for three days on the steamer, where the conditions were anyhing 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 scarce, drinking water being almost unobtainable. AVhen we reached Ellis Island on Christmas 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 tho children. Afterwards I sang to them. Mostly they did not know a word, hut by gesture I tried u* convoy 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 twdvc-vear-old girl who had just received a letter from her mother in Yiddish was answering it in Russian. A fourteen-year-old Roumanian girl who was writing to her mother in French turned to say, “Oh, if I only knew when I could go to my mother I would fast every hob- dav and burn' caudles in gratitude to the All-High 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 child for the world of mothers. —Lee AVhite. THE PRODIGAL. One Christmas Day 1 shall never forget. AYith a number cf friends I had been invited to a party in the heart of the country. The lady cf the house was a widow, with three pretty daughters at home. All were accomplished cooks, and the heaped-up piles of good things on the tables paid tribute to their capable hands. After the meal wo pulled crackers, told stories, and drank toasts to everyone in general and our hostess in particular. Then a dramatic thing happened. The old lady was seated nt the top of the table, and behind her rather forced smile I thought I detailed romething of sorrow. During an interval cf comparative quietness she roqe to her feet and in j

voice that trembled she 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 ernbezlement, and had mysteriously disappeared. EVery effort had been made to trace the lad, without effect. We 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 him 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 one had only to glance at the old Indy to see that hers was a joy unspeakable. 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's face radiant with smiles. I thought what a wonderful Christmas it must have been for her. For her wandering bov had come home. Floriue Foeue. SOME CHRISTMAS DINNER. T shall never forget the Christmas of 1907. Along with three hundred other guests I stayed at a Boston (U.S.A.) hotel. Before many hours had gone by I was wishing that I could be transported on a magic carpet across the broad Atlantic so that I could enjoy a real oldfashioned Christmas among the dear folks at home. The Americans do not celebrate Yuletide in the same spirit as we English people do. They are most hospitable—but thev can’t make Christmas pudding! T ordered a helping of this seasonable delicacy, and the waiter brought me a plate of something which may have answered the designation satisfactorily to the American mind, but would not have passed muster in England . And to “wash it down” he gave me a glass of iced water! N’f't exnctlv a. dainty dish to set before a King, was it? Hetty King.

THE PERFECT fCgRISTMAS) DAY. Can you beat this as an exceptional slab of the festive season? One Christ-

mas morning I looked out of, the window to find that an amazing thing had happened. There was ‘snow on the ground. Little I>ots were 1 pelting old ladies with snowballs, and the old ladies giggled and gurgled and didn’t mind a bit. Downstairs I found a pile of presents, and, wonder upon wonder, every one was something useful that I needed. And. if that were not strange enough, there were no mittens or mufflers. Of Christmas cards there were a score.-and on all of I hem w ptc sensible inscriptions and artistic designs. f • Then mv tradesmen called.' I offered them a Christmas Ivuc. but thev looked

pained. They refused to accept it. “No,” they said in effect, “we ard well paid, and, wo live in contentment and happiness. ‘Peace on earth and goodwill to all men’ is nur motto, and to serve you, kind gentleman, is sufficient reward.” I was dumb-struck. And then, to cap it all—my wife had bought me a Christmas gift out of iher own money! Aren’t dreams funny things? , Ernie Lotinge. BURIED BY A BLIZZARD. I don’t know how 1 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 girdle cakes for breakfast, when suddenly, and without warning, the lilac tree outside the kitchen window came crashing against the panes. We knew we were in for a blizzard. It was some bliz., I assure you. In four hours we were snowed right under. It was an unforgettable Christmas. With quavering voices mv brother, sister, and myself sang snatches of hymn tunes to the two frightened children, who eventually sobbed themselves to sleep. That was the longest night I have ever experienced. Would the dawn never come? The question was gladly answered when at break of day we heard the sound of voices, now in the far distance, but coming nearer and more near. 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 12 miles away.

These American boys were splendid. After many hours of manly toil they rushed 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 celerv. home-made bread and cream cheese, and we drank toasts in cider fruit juice and spices made hot. Then we danced to the strains of the gramophone, and afterwards the boys drove us to tho house of some 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. 1 jove the place, arid I love the people, and I would fret un-self into an early old lady’s grave if I never saw them again. But I’m staving home this Christmas; I haven't got my “woollies” readv! Connie Ediss.