(November 23 to December 22)
SAGITTARIUS IS the sign of the Archer, the shooter of arrows or, if you prefer the phrase, the thrower of the harpoon. Your special gift is the knowledge of the power of the spoken word, and in particular the derogatory word. Persons of coarse fibre, born under this sign, may expend their gift in indiscriminate abuse, but the more intelligent Sagittarians husband their abilities and say no more than is absolutely necessary to discomfit or perhaps to explode their rivals. Those most highly developed of all are able to shoot their arrows (or throw their harpoons) with such grace that they seem to speak in positive praise of those they seek to destroy, as thus: “Yes, you have to admit that good old Taurus never does less than his best, even when he has completely missed the point;” or, “Virgo and I have been friends since we were girls, and if she can only overcome a few of those nervous little ticks she may expect to marry as well as anyone.” People born under this sign often go a long way, though seldom as far as their friends could wish.
Your lucky colours give you a reasonably free hand in dress; they are black, blue, orange, sea-green, violet and purple. You have only one lucky flower, according to astrologers, and that is goldenrod. If you suffer from hay fever your luck will, of course, consist in seeing as little of it as possible; it is always possible to discover something lucky about everything; astrology is the Pollyanna of the occult sciences. Your lucky gems are the turquoise, diamond, emerald, amethyst and carbuncle. If the word carbuncle conjures up memories of a painful lump some member of your family once had, be at peace; the jewel is the garnet, cut en cabochon. You will not, in all likelihood, have to worry too much about lucky gems for Sagittarians are thought to be romantic souls, and of such is the kingdom of the diamond merchants. You are virtually certain either to receive a diamond, or give one; when that important preliminary is over, you may set about acquiring your other lucky gems at your leisure.
If you have an affliction, it is likely to smite you hip and thigh, for lumbago, sciatica and all the ills which make it hard to walk are considered by astrologers to have a particular fancy for people born at your time of the year. Painful as these troubles are, they are excellent themes for conversation, and if you have to do a lot of sitting, you will need something to talk about. You may discuss them freely without embarrassing anyone; talk about malignant or contagious diseases is likely to make your friends uneasy, but nobody has ever caught lumbago from another, and nobody ever thinks he will suffer from it until the moment when it strikes. Therefore your afflictions will serve to make you popular, for we always tend to like people who are less fortunate than ourselves, particularly when we are not called upon to do anything to lessen their misfortunes.
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REMOVAL OF COUSINS / Listened to a family discussion among some people who were trying to decide the relationship to themselves of the children of a brother of their grandfather’s second wife. It was perfectly clear to me, but they made a sad hash of it. The Welsh and the Scots are the only people who really understand the fine points of relationship, and I think that the Welsh have a slight edge on the Scots in this matter. Indeed, I have given some thought to writing a book on the subject with a special Appendix dealing with the Removal of Cousins. The number of people, apparently well-educated and intelligent, who cannot distinguish between a Second Cousin and a First Cousin Once Removed, is staggering and reflects unpleasantly on our educational system. What these poor softies do when they get into the flood-tide of genealogy, with Intermarriage of Cousins and Collateral Cousinship In The Second Generation, I dread to imagine.
CRITICS CRITICIZED / I always read newspaper criticisms of concerts I have attended, but often I wonder if the critic and I can have been at the same affair. It is not their discontent that puzzles me; tastes differ, and after all a critic’s stock-in-trade is a finer sensibility than that of the vulgar herd. And I make allowances for the fact that going to concerts is work for a critic, and there are plenty of people who have lost all love for the work by which they get their bread. No, it is the way most of them write that stuns me. They attempt to deal with the performances of artists who have spent not less than ten years acquiring insight and a formidable technique, in a maimed and cretinous prose which could not possibly give anybody any impression except one of confusion and depleted vitality. They are poor grammarians, and their vocabularies are tawdry. It is hard enough to interpret one art in terms of another under the best of circumstances, but when the critic has not understood that writing also is an art, his criticism becomes embarrassing self-portraiture.
RESTAURANT COWARDICE / What is wrong with me? I seem to be the sort of man whom waiters immediately put at a table near the kitchen which smells of other people’s food, or in a draught, or too near the orchestra, or someplace where nobody wants to sit. If anything is spilled, it is mine; if anything spilled is scraped up from the floor, and served with carpet-fluff in it, it is mine. Am I so broken a creature that I fear to make a row in a restaurant? Well, all the evidence points in that direction. I am even so base that I lack the courage to refuse when the waiter suggests that I eat something which I do not want. This evening, for instance, I was thus dragooned into eating a Greek sweetmeat called Baclava; it tasted like a Bible printed on India paper which had been thoroughly soaked in honey, and took just as long to eat. When I had chewed my way down to Revelation the waiter asked me if I had enjoyed it and I, spiritless wretch, managed to nod.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear and Valued Customer:
With a sensation of sick shock we find that you have not yet been in to do your Xmas shopping. Already the best of our stock is picked over and unless you hurry! Hurry!! HURRY!!! you will miss out on the finest array of Xmas yummies of all kinds that it has ever been our privilege and pleasure to stock.
Everything that you could possibly wish to give to a relative is to be found in our Pharmacy Department, and may be purchased by presenting a doctor’s prescription. Many goods in this line may be secured by signing a simple statement that you want to poison a dog.
In our Jewellery displays we have every sort of simulated gem with which husband or lover could wish to simulate affection.
In our Gigantic Kiddyland we have no less than three Santa Clauses, which avoids much of the queuing to shake hands with the genial saint which has caused irritation among busy tots at past Christmases.
You owe it to yourself to do your Christmas shopping RIGHT NOW. Stop owing it to yourself. Owe it to us.
J. Button Hook
(For the Bon Ton Elite Shoppery)
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To the Rev. Simon Goaste, B.D.
Dear Rector:
I suppose you have observed, in the course of your professional duties, the sad decline of literary exuberance in the writing of epitaphs? The modern epitaph is hardly worthy of the name, when one compares it with the great epitaph-writing of the eighteenth century.
Because I do not wish to be slighted on my tombstone, I am sending to you herewith my own epitaph, in order that you may circumvent any of my descendants or executors who want to do the thing on the cheap after I am gone.
(THE FULL ARMORIAL BEARINGS of the Marchbanks family)
Beneath this stone
Lies all that was Mortal
Of one
Who, in this transitory Life
Seemed to sum up in himself all those
Virtues
Which we are taught to admire
but which, alas,
We rarely see in action.
Pause, Passer-By and Ponder:
This man, beside an ample fortune for
Those Left to Mourn Him
Leaves a sum in trust to provide
Every child in this Parish
With copies of his own works
Durably bound in waterproof material,
As well as a medal bearing the impress of his
Noble Countenance
on the front, and on its rear
These Words:
‘For Memorial Purposes only:
Not Negotiable as Currency.’
Drop a Tear and Pass On
Drawing Such Consolation As You Can
From the indisputable fact that
We Shall Not Look Upon His Like Again.
There. I think that covers the ground pretty thoroughly, and will gladden the heart of the stone-mason, if not of my relatives. Oh yes, and on the top of the stone, please, an effigy of my own head, with the left eyelid drooping slightly, as though in salute to the living.
Yours cheerily,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
I have just been writing to Pastor Goaste about my epitaph. While I am clearing things up with regard to my funeral, permit me to inform you that among my gramophone records you will find one marked “For Pilgarlic only.” This is my funeral eulogy.
When my funeral is arranged, I want you to have a large public address system in the church, and a record player. Then when the time comes for the usual address, play the record. You had better warn the parson beforehand, or there may be some competition.
The address is, I flatter myself, rather novel. I personally admonish several people who are sure to be at my funeral, and make a few remarks that I have been hankering to make all my life. I also give a brief estimate of my own character, which is more interesting than anything the parson can do, for it is founded on first-hand information. I expect that my action in this matter will set a new style.
Yours gaily,
Sam.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Neighbour:
Aw, gee, I never thought you would mind me playing the hi-fi with my windows open! Aw, heck, I never thought you would resent a little thing like that skunk getting into your car! Not that I admit I did it. My lawyers told me that I shouldn’t. But I never thought you’d go to court about it. Gee, Marchbanks, you’re a cranky guy! Gee, haven’t you any spirit of give and take?
I’m just sick about the whole thing, and so is Lambie-Pie. She says you’re the worst crab in the world, but we ought to try to be friends with you because we’re neighbours, and after all, even you are human. She says we got to extend the Right Hand of Fellowship. Consider it extended. How about it, Marchbanks, old pal? By the way, I borrowed your lawn mower last month when you were away. I accidentally ran it over a big bolt somebody dropped on my lawn. I’ll bring it back just as soon as it is fixed. Or would you rather have it fixed to suit yourself?
Yours repentantly,
Dick Dandiprat.
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To Richard Dandiprat, ESQ.
Unspeakable Dandiprat:
I take note that you have extended the Right Hand of Fellowship. I have examined it. Take it back and wash it.
My legal action against you continues according to plan. I shall also sue you for the damage to my lawnmower.
You may inform Lambie-Pie (whom I take to be your consort) that I am not human. I sprang, full-grown, from a riven oak one midnight many years ago.
Yours in a very limited sense,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Dear Dr. Cataplasm:
I have met a good many people during the past two weeks who have wagged their heads dolefully and said, “A green Christmas makes a fat graveyard.” As a physician and a man of science, do you think that this is true? Watching the way that some of them have been eating and drinking over the festive season I would be more inclined to say, “A fat Christmas makes a green graveyard.”
How did the illusion grow up that cold winters are healthier than mild ones? Is it part of our Puritan insistence on the superiority of whatever is disagreeable and inconvenient? And can you tell me if the graveyards in Florida and California are especially fat? Personally I dislike the expression “fat graveyard”; it suggests that the earth of the graveyard is of a squelchy, suety, gustful, mince-meaty quality, with headstones stuck in it like blanched almonds in a plum pudding. An obscene fantasy, and one unbecoming such pure and airy spirits as yours and mine.
Your perennial patient,
S. Marchbanks.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Marchbanks:
Will you lend me your Santa Claus costume? I want it for the annual party of the Rowanis Club, of which I am Grand Exalted Merrymaker this year. We are having a Christmas celebration, and I thought it would be an original idea if I dressed up as S.C. and gave everybody presents containing sneeze powder, white mice, dribble glasses and etc.
I hope you are not brooding about that little matter of the skunk? We have led the lawyers a fine dance, haven’t we? Ha ha! Still, we are both men of the world, eh Marchbanks?
Will you send the S.C. suit to the cleaners right away, so that I can pick it up next week? I want to look well at the party, and those suits get pretty dirty when they are not taken care of.
Your neighbour,
Dick Dandiprat.
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To Mouseman, Mouseman and Forcemeat.
Dear Mr. Mouseman:
I am going out of my mind! That misbegotten ruffian Dandiprat has just written me a letter in which he virtually confesses that he put the skunk in my car!
Now Mouseman, what can you do to Dandiprat? Don’t talk to me about the gallows; it is too good for him. Is there a thumbscrew anywhere that we can borrow? Or what about the Chinese water torture? Should I ask my laundry man if he will co-operate? Or what do you say to Mussolini’s merry prank with a quart of castor oil? I warn you, Mouseman, if I do not have revenge I shall drown in my own gall! Get to work at once.
Yours furiously,
S. Marchbanks.
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EPIDERMIS / A medical acquaintance mentioned idly that you can tell a good deal about the age of a human being by pinching the skin on the backs of the hands; according as it retains the shape of the pinch, the patient is advanced in decay. Spent much of the day pinching the skin on the backs of my hands, which snapped back into place very quickly at some points, and at others remained obstinately curled up. From this I conclude that my skin reflects the character of my opinions, some of which are young and fresh, and others far gone in senility.
FASHION IN KISSES / To the movies, and as I sat through a double feature I was interested to observe that the audible kiss has come back into fashion. When the first talking pictures appeared, kisses were all of the silent variety; it was just about then that silent plumbing made its first appearance, and there may have been some connection. But now the shadow-folk of Hollywood kiss with a noise like a cow pulling its foot out of deep mud. In my younger days there were two types of kiss: the Romantic Kiss was for private use and was as silent as the grave; the Courtesy Kiss, bestowed upon aunts, cousins and the like was noisy and wet, generally removing two square inches of mauve face powder. A visiting aunt, having been welcomed by two or three nephews, needed substantial repairs. The Romantic Kiss also involved closing the eyes, to indicate extreme depth of feeling, though it often occurred to me that if one cannot see what one is kissing, a pretty girl and a kid glove of good quality are completely indistinguishable.
CUT-RATE AUTOGRAPHS / Had an opportunity to examine a collection of autographs, and wondered once again what makes people collect them. The futility of collecting scraps of paper upon which people have scribbled (autograph-collecting) seems to me to be exceeded only by the futility of collecting scraps of paper which people have licked (stamp-collecting). There is a certain interest, perhaps, in the manner in which a great man signs his name, though not much. I would be delighted to own a page of manuscript written by Ben Jonson or Cardinal Bembo, for both were masterly calligraphers; but letters from most modern authors and statesmen are mere scribbles. In childhood most of us have a spell during which we carefully collect the autographs of our families, the milkman, the baker and the laundry man; then we lose the album. But I am surprised whenever I am reminded that the craze continues into adult life, and that great sums of money are spent on signatures of writers, musicians, criminals, politicians, and the like. I have a little skill in forgery, and I am thinking of going into a business where I shall undertake to provide a good facsimile of anybody’s signature for twenty-five cents. Thus, for a modest sum, the eager collector will be able to get some rare items.
VALIANT FOR TRUTH / Received a letter from a cow, or it may simply have been from somebody who takes orders from a cow; I couldn’t quite make out. It appears that when I made public my intention of keeping a cow in my cellar I suggested that cows shed their horns annually; the letter denied this. It is possible, though improbable, that I am wrong. I am not sure that I would know a cow if I met one. A certain cloudiness of vision, caused by long hours poring over the Scriptures, makes it impossible for me to identify an animal or even a human being at a distance of more than five feet. The cows which Santa Claus employs to draw his sleigh certainly have horns, for I have seen pictures of them. But if cows do not shed their horns, how comes it that cow horns are so plentiful? Cow horns are used to make horn-rimmed spectacles, snuff boxes for Scotsmen, powderhorns for outlaws, inkhorns for scholars, horns for automobiles, and for a variety of purposes. Am I expected to believe that all these horns come from dead cows and represent a lifetime of patient horn-growing? No, no, I am not so foolish as that. Until I am shown otherwise I shall believe that cows shed their horns each Spring.
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To Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Dear Dr. Cataplasm:
The other day I read the autobiography of an Armenian gentleman named Nubar Gulbenkian; he hopes to live as long as his grandfather, who died at the age of 106. The book described this ancient’s meals in detail. Two facts about them impressed me; each meal (he ate four times a day) took 45 minutes; each meal ended with a plate of Turkish sweets.
I have never taken 45 minutes to eat a meal in my life. I can eat eight courses in fifteen minutes. Can it be that I eat too fast for long life and health?
I detest Turkish sweets. They appear to me to be made of raw mutton fat into which low-caste Turks have ground caraway seeds by rubbing it between the soles of their feet.
However, Gulbenkian eats slowly and he eats nasty things, and he expects to achieve a great age. Perhaps you would like to quote his example to a few patients who are not so hasty and fastidious as,
Your perennial patient,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
A few days ago I visited Toyland, as I do every year, just to see how the Christmas Racket is getting along. Toyland is as hot as ever; the temperature was not a smidgeon under 90°F. Most of the customers, like myself, wore full Winter outdoor dress, and were suffering hideously. The only really comfortable people appeared to be the gnomes and elves who were helping Santa; these were young women ranging from the toothsome to the merely wholesome, dressed in shirts and very short shorts. This association between Santa Clause and the female underpinning fascinated me; Santa was there for the children, but the gnomes were there for the fathers—in a very limited sense, of course.
Santa himself, beneath his paint and ample white beard, seemed to be about 25; when children approached him his eyes rolled in an agonized fashion which betrayed the youthful bachelor. A photographer was on the spot, assisted by a leggy female gnome, taking pictures of every tot with Santa. This impressed me as a fine stroke of commercial whimsy, and I started up the runway myself. “Where you goin’?” said a blonde gnome with a large bust, catching me by the arm. “To have my picture taken with Santa,” said I. “It’s just for the kids,” said she, trembling a little and looking for the manager. “I am a child at heart, gnome,” said I. But she had pressed a button in the wall beside her, and at this moment a store detective appeared, wearing the insensitive expression of his kind. “What gives?” said he. “This character wants to go up the runway with the kids,” said the gnome. “Oh, one of them sex-monsters eh?” said the detective, closing one eye in a menacing fashion. For a moment I feared that I might have to spend Christmas in jail with my friend Osceola Thunderbelly. But I talked my way out of it, and as I hastened away the detective gave the gnome a slap on the podex which was probably mere brotherly goodwill. Christmas is becoming a terribly complicated season, full of mixed and mistaken motives.
Yours, still blushing at the shame of it,
Sam.
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To Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Dear Dr. Cataplasm:
It was most kind of you to send me a Christmas card. It is a beautiful thing, and I shall probably have it framed. By the way, what is it? I did not know that you were interested in modern art.
Yours gratefully,
S. Marchbanks.
P.S. How foolish of me! I have been looking at your card upside down. Of course it is a lovely photograph of autumn colours.
S.M.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Marchbanks:
Through some oversight my secretary has sent you a coloured transparency representing a drunkard’s liver, in mistake for a Christmas card. If you will return it, a card showing myself and Mrs. Cataplasm on the verandah of our Summer home will be sent to you at once.
Yours sincerely,
Raymond Cataplasm.
*
Dear Marchbanks:
No card from you this year. Surely our little fuss with lawyers is not going to cause a breach between us?
Can I borrow your bladder for a New Year party? I mean the one you put on the table under a dinner plate and then pump up secretly, making the plate jump. You never seemed to use it effectively, and I know I could be the life of the party with it. Just leave it in the hall and I’ll pick it up.
Yours forgivingly,
Dick Dandiprat.
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To Richard Dandiprat, ESQ.
Sir:
You will hear from my lawyers, if they ever get around to it, which seems doubtful. I did not send you a card because I loathe and despise you.
My bladder is not yours to command. I have plans for a Happy New Year which require it.
An evil, ill-starred New Year to you and yours.
S. Marchbanks.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Sam:
From time to time I am moved to wonder where people get their ideas about food. Last night, for instance, I dined with friends, whom I took to be persons of some discrimination. But—I scarcely expect to be believed, though I vow that it is true—the last thing on the menu was halves of grapefruit which had been lightly boiled, and over which creme de menthe had been poured! I ate it, because I am a polite person and always eat what is set before me, but when I say that my gorge rose I am not employing a mere idle form of words. When, at last, I got out into the cold night air I allowed my gorge to rise all the way, after which I felt much better.—It is such trials, I suppose, that give us strength for even greater calamities, if greater calamities than boiled, booze-drenched grapefruit can be.
I hope the New Year will not use you too hardly.
Amyas Pilgarlic.
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Dear Mrs. Scissorbill:
Because I am a great admirer of novelty in any form, I write to congratulate you on your most successful performance as Santa Claus at the Christmas party which your club, The Militant Female Society, gave for the Misbegotten Orphans.
As you said in your speech to the Orphans, there is no reason whatever why Santa Claus should not be a woman. And I thought your costume and makeup excellent. It was a fine idea to wear your own abundant grey hair, loose and hanging down your back. This made up for the lack of the long beard which we associate with S. Claus. I think you would be wise another time to put some fire-proofing on your hair; I observed one well-developed male orphan, with quite a moustache, testing it with his cigarette-lighter. I think, too, that your pince-nez, and the natural austerity of your countenance, gave Santa an authority he sometimes lacks.
Altogether, it was a triumph, and I expect that the craze for female Santas will sweep the country.
Yours respectfully,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Miss Minerva Hawser.
Dear Miss Hawser:
It is all very well for you to write to me on Dec. 23rd, asking for a Christmas play which you can rehearse and present on Dec. 25th, but it imposes a strain on my invention. If your Sunday School group wants a play from my hand, this is the best I can do for them; I am not sure that it is entirely suited to a class of girls between 8 and 10 years of age, but you must do your best, as I have done mine.
THE RIVAL SANTAS A CHRISTMAS DRAMA
by Samuel Marchbanks
The curtain rises (or, if I know Sunday school stages, jerks painfully apart) to reveal a richly furnished drawing-room with a fireplace (indicated by some chairs from the vestry and a packing case decorated with red crepe paper). The sound of sleigh-bells is heard, then a few buckets of soot burst from the fireplace, followed by Santa Claus; he has a sack of toys on his back.
SANTA: Ho, ho, ho! Oh what a jolly old fellow I am. Ho, ho, ho! (He brushes his clothes, knocking a lot of soot into the front rows of the audience.) I am welcome everywhere. Nobody has ever breathed a word of criticism against me. Ho, ho, ho!
A VOICE: Stop saying Ho, ho, ho!
SANTA: Who said that?
A VOICE: I did.
SANTA: Who are you?
A VOICE: I’m St. Nicholas, that’s who.
SANTA: Go on! I’m St. Nicholas myself.
A VOICE: Have you any papers to show it?
SANTA: I don’t need papers. It’s a Well-Known Fact. Come on out and let me see you. (An old man in the robes of a mediaeval bishop enters the room (remind him not to trip over his crozier); he looks rather like Santa, but more intelligent and grouchy. He has on a long blue cloak, with fur on it. He is St. Nicholas.)
SANTA: Well, you’re a fine-looking old spook. Do you live here?
ST. NICK: You’re no Beauty Queen yourself. No: I’m a spirit and on Christmas Eve I wander the earth, doing good.
SANTA: Funny I’ve never heard of you. Come to think of it, I don’t remember ever seeing your picture on a magazine cover or an advertisement.
ST. NICK: I’m not always shoving myself forward, like Some People I Could Mention.
SANTA: Meaning me?
ST. NICK: If the cap fits, wear it.
SANTA: Now look here, I don’t want any trouble. I’m a popular spirit and I have my public. Little children love me. Storekeepers love me. Manufacturers love me. Everybody who is anybody loves me.
ST. NICK: Do parents love you?
SANTA: I suppose so. Parents love everything that is good for their children. If they don’t the children make them. You don’t understand what a force children are in the modern world.
ST. NICK: Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m the patron saint of children.
SANTA: You need a refresher course in child psychology.
ST. NICK: Do you know what I think? I think you’re the most egotistical old spirit I’ve ever met. Do you know why you’re so popular with children? Because children are egotists too. So you and little children love each other, eh? Ha Ha! Birds of a feather.
SANTA: That’s fine talk for a saint. You’re disgruntled and jealous of my popularity, that’s all. Next thing you’ll be sucking up to parents, trying to convince them that they have some share in Christmas.
ST. NICK: Yes, I will. I’ll promote a Parents’ League For the Reform of Christmas. No more indigestible food, no more noise, no more paper hats, no more mica snow getting up your nose. Just a quiet day at home with a jug.
SANTA: You’re a reactionary!
ST. NICK: You’re a Red!
SANTA: I am not!
ST. NICK: Yes you are; you’ve even got a red suit on!
SANTA: Those are fighting words! (He swings at St. Nick with his bag of toys: St. Nick cracks him over the head with his crozier. As they fight the Spirit of Christmas is lowered from above the stage on a wire. She should be a skinny little girl with frizzled hair and a fairy wand.)
SPT. OF CH. : Oh, do not fight
On Christmas night;
Nor air your peeve
On Christmas Eve.
Silent night
Holy night
Saints should know
It’s wrong to fight.
(St. Nick, who cannot stand her voice a moment longer, kicks the Spirit of Christmas hard on the caboose. She screams, and spins rapidly on her wire. As she whirls she gores Santa’s stomach with her wand and two old sofa cushions from the Rectory fall out. Amid general confusion the curtain falls.)
You may find that some people will not like this play; they will say that it does not reflect the true Christmas Spirit. Tell them from me that if they think they can do better at short notice to go ahead.
Yours in the Yuletide Spirit,
S. Marchbanks.
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To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
On Christmas Eve it is surely not indiscreet of me to confide the secrets of my Christmas List to you. As I told you earlier, I am giving Canadiana this year. Here is the list:
Uncle Fortunatus: an old drum, almost certainly used by troops in the 1837 rebellion. Both heads are gone, but can be easily replaced. All the decoration and regimental ornament have been worn, or rusted, away, but a skilful restorer could put them back again if we knew what they were. Spiteful people say it is an old cheese-box, but I have the true collector’s flair, and know it is a drum. Uncle will love it.
Brother Fairchild: an old Quebec heater, almost certainly the one around which the Fathers of Confederation sat when planning the future of this great Dominion. Who can say what historic spit may not cling to it? It is, in the truest sense, a shrine. As a stove, of course, it has seen its best days. Fairchild will be delighted.
Cousin Ghengis: A flag, used by a militia regiment which set out to quell the Riel Rebellion, but was detained in one of the bars in Toronto. It is a most interesting piece of work, which shows signs of having been an Orange Lodge banner before it was converted to its later purpose. It is rather stained with something which might be blood, though an analytical chemist says it still smells of whisky. Ghengis will be ecstatic.
Nephew Gobemouche: a stamp used by a Member of Parliament in mailing a letter from the Parliament Buildings. Such stamps are exceedingly rare, and a few philatelists deny that any genuine examples are in existence. I happen to know, however, that on September 12, 1896, the franking-machine was out of order for a few hours, and free stamps were given to members at the Parliamentary Post Office. Gobemouche will be tearful with pleasure.
Nephew Belial: a horn from Laura Secord’s famous cow. When blown it emits a musty smell but no sound. Belial will be livid.
And as for you, my dear friend—but no; you must wait until tomorrow to see what I have sent you.
A Merry Christmas!
Sam.
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IMPERFECT GROOMING / Met a man who, in casual conversation, referred to someone we both knew as “the sort of fellow who has never found out that you really can’t make a shirt do for more than one day.” This depressed me. I am always depressed in the presence of those who wear a clean shirt every day, bathe every day, never drop food on their fronts and always have their shoes shined and their trousers creased. I would fain be one of them. But alas, I never seem to be attending to what I am doing when I dress. Absent-mindedly I snatch whatever comes to hand; sometimes the effect is of a stunning elegance; more often it is not. If I bathe every day, especially in Winter, I develop a kind of all-over dandruff, and raw patches appear on my hide. I would love to be so clean that my presence was a reproach to lesser men, but I am not. I am not spectacularly dirty, either. I am just one of those people who has never completely convinced himself that a shirt will not do for more than one day. I comfort myself that in this I resemble Dr. Johnson, who only changed his shirt when his friends presented him with a petition; but alas, I have not the courage or determination to resemble him closely.
LET THE EAR JUDGE / Somebody in the States, I see, has conceived the notion of recording classics of literature on long-playing records. After listening to such a recording it would no longer be necessary to go through the fatigue of reading the Iliad, the Odyssey, Paradise Lost, the Divine Comedy, or any other exhausting work. It must be said for such a scheme that it would restore the ear as the first judge of poetry, and expose that false judge, the eye. But I doubt if many people would hear the great works often enough to get near the root of them.
CHRISTMAS CHEER / Finished my Christmas shopping. True, I finished it three weeks ago, but it is a job which I find requires finishing more than once. At the end of November I fought, bit and clawed my way through the shops, battling with savage women and bitten in the leg by cannibal children, and gathered enough assorted rubbish to fill, as I thought, my Christmas needs. But in the light of Christmas Week it has proved to be too little; my bosom is inflated, nigh to bursting, with Brotherly Love and eggnog, and today I sallied forth to shop again. The shops were almost empty, and although the clerks were a little vague and tended to hiccup when asked questions, I achieved my wishes in a short time and hurried home to decorate my tree. Preparatory to this task I nogged a couple of dozen eggs, and when visitors dropped in I was able to offer them a drink of the plushy, caressing fluid which does so much to take the bitterness out of Christmas.… I have made my own angel for the top of the Christmas tree. As a delineator of the female form I tend to express myself in unmistakable terms; I like even an angel to appear as if she had some fun in her. In consequence my angel looks a little like Diana of the Ephesians, what with eggnog and one thing and another.
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NOTHING SERVES to break the ice at Christmas so effectively as a good-humoured hoax or imposture perpetrated by some quick-witted member of the company upon an unsuspecting fellow guest. You may play the coveted role of wit, and earn the gratitude of your hostess, by thoroughly mastering the following simple, but effective jests.
Showing him your fountain pen, induce a fellow-guest to wager that it will not write any colour he cares to name. When he says (for example) “Green,” reveal nothing by your countenance but write the letters g-r-e-e-n upon a sheet of paper. Then appeal to the company at large as to whether you have not won your wager. His stupefaction will be very laughable. (If you are a lady, of course, you will wager half-a-dozen pairs of gloves rather than a sum of money.)
Another eminently “practical” joke is this: say to a fellow-guest (whom you have previously ascertained to be a philatelist) “Pardon me, sir (or if you are acquainted with him, “Colonel A,” or “Judge B”) but is it true that you collect stamps?” When he says “Yes,” bring your right shoe smartly down upon his left instep (or vice versa if you happen to be left-handed), saying at the same time, “Capital! collect this one!” Whatever his feelings may be, the laughter of the company will certainly give him his cue to take this as a good joke upon himself, for no true gentleman wishes to be a spoilsport, embarrassing his hostess and clouding the delight of the company. (If a lady, be sure that you bring the heel of your shoe upon the instep of your “victim,” as you may otherwise turn your ankle and be forced to send for your carriage.)
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To Big Chief Marchbanks.
How, Marchbanks:
This one hell country, Marchbanks. No place for honest man. Listen. Last week I no money. Christmas come. I good Indian, Marchbanks. Baptized lots of times. Want to do right by Gitche Manitou on he birthday. Want for buy case lilac hair juice for drink Gitche Manitou health on birthday. No money. Every place Christmas shopper. All spend. All sad face. All think selfs happy. So I think I sell Christmas trees. One place I see plenty little trees. All blue. I get hatchet and cut down four. Then woman come to door of house. She say what I do? I say cut Christmas trees. Thief, she say—awful loud voice, Marchbanks, for skinny woman—I call cops. You cut my blue spruce. I grab trees. I run. Soon cops come in white car. Hey you, say cops. What you do in white car, I say. Sell ice cream, maybe. Ha! Joke, Marchbanks. Cops mad. So mad they get out of car. That awful mad for cop, Marchbanks. Take me police court. Little fellow at desk he say I been drinking. How I drink, I say, with no money. Little fellow belch. He been drinking Marchbanks. I smell. Jail ten days he say, and belch again. I belch too, for show polite, Indian style. Another ten days for contempt, he say. This one hell country, Marchbanks.
Osceola Thunderbelly,
Chief of the Crokinoles.
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To judge from the number of books on the subject, it is easy for us to achieve the spiritual grandeur of Orientals by adopting their postures and systems of breathing. Oddly enough, no Orientals appear to believe that they can develop our scientific and governmental skill by posturing and breathing like us.
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