Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day, encircling all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped everything and every one around the Christmas fire; and made the little picture shining in our bright young eyes complete.
And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that, pausing as we advance at such a noticeable milestone in the track as this great birthday, we look back on the things that never were, as naturally and full as gravely as on the things that have been and are gone, or have been and still are? If it be so, and so it seems to be, must we come to the conclusion that life is little better than a dream, and little worth the loves and strivings that we crowd into it?

No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear reader, on Christmas Day! Nearer and closer in our hearts be the Christmas spirit, which is the spirit of active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of duty, kindness, and forbearance! It is in the last virtues especially that we are, or should be, strengthened by the unaccomplished visions of our youth; for, who shall say that they are not our teachers, to deal gently even with the impalpable nothings of the earth!

Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to your shelter underneath the holly! We know you, and have not outlived you yet. Welcome, old projects and old loves, however fleeting, to your nooks among the steadier lights that burn around us. Welcome, all that was ever real to our hearts; and for the earnestness that made you real, thanks to heaven!

Welcome everything! Welcome alike what has been, and what never was, and what we hope may be, in your shelter underneath the holly, to your places round the Christmas fire, where what is, sits openhearted!

Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces toward that City upon Christmas Day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved among us. In the Blessed Name wherein we are gathered together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us according to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, the people who were dear to us!

The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea it makes a rosy path, as if the Sacred Tread were fresh upon the water. A few more moments, and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in the prospect. In town and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather; there are flaming logs heaped high; there are joyful faces; there is healthy music of voices. Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples of the household gods, but be those memories admitted with tender encouragement! They are of Time and all the comforting and peaceful reassurances; and of the broad beneficence and goodness that too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds.

Once upon a time a man called Nicholas lived in Patara, a town in the East. Because he was very fond of children and was kind and generous to them, they came to think of him as their dear friend and their beloved saint. So it was that after a time the wonderful things he did were woven into a beautiful legend. You know that Santa means Saint and Claus stands for Nicholas, and that is how he came to be known as Santa Claus.
In Santa Claus’s own town, Patara, lived a great lord who had three daughters. He was very poor, so poor that one day he was on the point of sending his daughters out to beg for food from his neighbors. But it happened that Saint Nicholas not long before had come into a fortune, and as he loved giving to those in need, he no sooner heard of the trouble the poor lord was in than he made up his mind to help him secretly. So he went to the nobleman’s house at night, and as the moon shone out from behind a cloud, he saw an open window into which he threw a bag of gold, and with this timely gift the father was able to provide for his eldest daughter so that she could be married. On another night Santa Claus set off with another bag of gold, and threw it in at the window, so the second daughter was provided for. But by this time, the father had grown eager to discover who the mysterious visitor could be, and next night he kept on the lookout. Then for the third time Santa Claus came with a bag of gold upon his back and itched it in at the window. The old lord at once recognized his fellow townsman, and falling on his knees, cried out “Oh! Nicholas, servant of God, why seek to hide yourself?”

Is it not wonderful to think that this was so long ago, sixteen hundred years, yet we still look for the secret coming of Santa Claus with his Christmas gifts? At first he was said to come on his own birthday, which is early in December, but after awhile, as was very natural with Christmas so near, the night of his coming was moved on in the calendar, and now we hang up our stockings to receive his gifts on Christmas Eve. In some countries children still put their shoes by the fireside on his birthday. In others they say it is the Christ-Kindlein or Christ Child who brings the gifts at Christmastime. But it is always a surprise visit, and though it has happened so many hundreds or times, the hanging up of the Christmas stocking is still as great a delight as ever.

There was a man who went out in the dark night to borrow live coals to kindle a fire. He went from hut to hut and knocked. “Dear friends, help me!” said he. “My wife has just given birth to a child, and I must make a fire to warm her and the little one.”
But it was way in the night, and all the people were asleep. No one replied.

The man walked and walked. At last he saw the gleam of a fire a long way off. Then he went in that direction and saw that the fire was burning in the open. A lot of sheep were were sleeping around the fire, and an old shepherd sat and watched over the flock.

When the man who wanted to borrow fire came up to the sheep, he saw that three big dogs lay asleep at the shepherd’s feet. All three awoke when the man approached and opened their great jaws, as though they wanted to bark; but not a sound was heard. The man noticed that the hair on their backs stood up and that their sharp, white teeth glistened in the firelight. They dashed toward him.

He felt that one of them bit at his leg and one at this hand and that one clung to this throat. But their jaws and teeth wouldn’t obey them, and the man didn’t suffer the least harm.

Now the man wished to go farther, to get what he needed. But the sheep lay back to back and so close to one another that he couldn’t pass them. Then the man stepped upon their backs and walked over them and up to the fire. And not one of the animals awoke or moved.

When the man had almost reached the fire, the shepherd looked up. He was a surly old man, who was unfriendly and harsh toward human beings. And when he saw the strange man coming, he seized the long, spiked staff, which he always held in his hand when he tended his flock, and threw it at him. The staff came right toward the man, but, before it reached him, it turned off to one side and whizzed past him, far out in the meadow.

Now the man came up to the shepherd and said to him: “Good man, help me, and lend me a little fire! My wife has just given birth to a child, and I must make a fire to warm her and the little one.”

The shepherd would rather have said no, but when he pondered that the dogs couldn’t hurt the man, and the sheep had not run from him, and that the staff had not wished to strike him, he was a little afraid, and dared not deny the man that which he asked.

“Take as much as you need!” he said to the man.

But then the fire was nearly burnt out. There were no logs or branches left, only a big heap of live coals, and the stranger had neither spade nor shovel wherein he could carry the red-hot coals.

When the shepherd saw this, he said again: “Take as much as you need!” And he was glad that the man wouldn’t be able to take away any coals.

But the man stopped and picked coals from the ashes with his bare hands, and laid them in his mantle. And he didn’t burn his hands when he touched them, nor did the coals scorch his mantle; but he carried them away as if they had been nuts or apples.

And when the shepherd, who was such a cruel and hardhearted man, saw all this, he began to wonder to himself. What kind of a night is this, when the dogs do not bite, the sheep are not scared, the staff does not kill, or the fire scorch? He called the stranger back and said to him: “What kind of a night is this? And how does it happen that all things show you compassion?”

Then said the man: “I cannot tell you if you yourself do not see it.” And he wished to go his way, that he might soon make a fire and warm his wife and child.

But the shepherd did not wish to lose sight of the man before he had found out what all this might portend. He got up and followed the man till they came to the place where he lived.

Then the shepherd saw the man didn’t have so much as a hut to dwell in, but that his wife and babe were lying in a mountain grotto, where there was nothing except the cold and naked stone walls.

But the shepherd thought that perhaps the poor innocent child might freeze to death there in the grotto; and, although he was a hard man, he was touched, and thought he would like to help it. And he loosened the knapsack from his shoulder, took from it a soft white sheepskin, gave it to the strange man, and said that he should let the child sleep on it.

But just as soon as he showed that he, too, could be merciful, his eyes were opened, and he saw what he had not been able to see before, and heard what he could not have heard before.

He saw that all around him stood a ring of little silver-winged angels, and each held a stringed instrument, and all sang in loud tones that tonight the Saviour was born who should redeem the world from its sins.

Then he understood how all things were so happy this night that they didn’t want to do anything wrong.

And it was not only around the shepherd that there were angels, but he saw them everywhere. They sat inside the grotto, they sat outside on the mountain, and they flew under the heavens. They came marching in great companies, and, as they passed, they paused and cast a glance at the child.

There was such jubilation and such gladness and songs and play! And all this he saw in the dark night whereas before he could not have made out anything. He was so happy because his eyes had been opened that he fell upon his knees and thanked God.

What that shepherd saw, we might also see, for the angels fly down from heaven every Christmas Eve, if we could only see them.

You must remember this, for it is as true, as true as that I see you and you see me. It is not revealed by the light of lamps or candles, and it does not depend upon sun and moon; but that which is needful is that we have such eyes as can see God’s glory.

The First Battle of Ypres was over. The deluge in the second week of November 1914 decided that. Our battalion of the London Regiment (Territorials) was out at rest, leaving a memory of dead soldiers in feld grau (field grey) and khaki lying in still attitudes between the German and British lines. ‘Rest’ meant no more fatigues or carrying parties; it meant letters from home, parcels, hazy nights in the estaminets of Hazebrouck with cafe’-rhum and weak beer, clouds of smoke and noisy laughter,
After 48 hours clear, a daily route march, leading to nowhere and back again, with new faces of the drafts which had come up from the base. The war was now a mere rumour from afar: a low-flashing, dull booming beyond an eastern horizon of flat, tree-lined and arable fields gleaming with water in cart-rut and along each furrow.

In the first week of December 1914 the King Emperor George V arrived at St. Omer in northern France, headquarters of the British Expeditionary Force. Orders were given immediately at all units to prepare for a royal inspection.

The King in the service uniform of a field-marshal, brown-booted with gold spurs, brown-bearded, prominent pouches under his blue eyes, passed with Field-Marshal Sir John French and various general staff officers down the ranks of silent, staring-ahead, depersonalised faces thinking that the gruff tones in which the King spoke to the commander-in-chief were of that other world infinitely remote from what really happened.

Behind the King walked the Prince of Wales, seeming somehow detached from the massive power of red and gold, the big moustaches and faces and belts and boots and spurs all so shining and immaculate between the open ranks of the troops standing rigidly at attention. The slim figure of the Prince, in the uniform of a Grenadier, appeared to be looking for something far beyond the immediate scene-a slight, white-faced boy in the shadow of Father.

The next afternoon the platoon sergeant walked from billet to billet, with orders that we were going into the line that evening. A waning moon rode the sky, memento of estaminet nights, moon-silvered cobble stones, colour-washed house-fronts of the Grande Place. The decaying orb was ringed by scudding vapour; a wet wind flapped the edges of rubber groundsheets fastened over packs and shoulders of the marching men. A wind from the south-west brought rain to the brown, the flat, the tree-lined plain of Flanders.

Going back was by now a prospect of stoical acceptance, since marching in the rain absorbed nearly all personal memory, leaving little for coherent thought beyond the moment. We marched along a road lined with poplars towards the familiar hazy pallor thrown on low clouds by the ringed lights around Ypres — called’ ‘Ypriss’ by the old sweats who had been out since Mons. As we came nearer, the sky was tremulous with flashes: the night burdened by reverberation of cannon heard with the lisp of rainy wind in the bare branches of trees above our heads.

At last we halted, and welcome news arrived. The company was in reserve. We were to be billeted for the night in some sheds, and thatched lofts around a farm. Speculation ceased when the platoon commander said that we were taking over part of the line the following evening. The Germans, he said, had attacked down south; the battalion was to remain in brigade reserve. It was a quiet part of the line. There was to be diversionary fire from the trenches, to relieve the pressure.

‘Cushy, we said among ourselves as we entered our cottage, to sleep upon the floor. There was a large stove, radiating heat.

Bon for the troops!

The damp December dusk of next evening was closing down as No 1 Company approached the dark mass of leafless trees at the edge of a wood. Through the trees lay a novel kind of track, firm but knobbly to the feet, but so welcome after the mud of the preceding field. It was like walking on an uneven and wide ladder. Rough rungs, laid close together, were made of little sawn-off branches, nailed to laid trunks of oak trees. As we came near to the greenish-white German flares, bullets began to crack. The men of the new draft ducked at each overhead crack; but the survivors of the original battalion walked on upright, sometimes muttering, ‘Don’t get the wind-up, chum,’ as the old sweats had said to them when first they had gone into the line, many weeks before.

We came to a cross-ride in the wood, and waited there, while a cock-pheasant crowed as it flew past us. Dimly seen were some bunkers, in which braziers glowed brightly. The sight was homely, and cheering. Figures in balaclava woollen helmets stood about.

‘What’s it like, mate?’ came the inevitable question. ‘Cushy,’ came the reply, as a cigarette brightened. These were regulars, the newcomers felt happy again. Braziers, lovely crackling coke flames!

The relief company filed on down the path, and came to the luminous edge of the wood, beyond which the German parachute flares were clear and bright, like lilies. The trench was just inside the wood. There was no water in it, thank God! One saw sandbag-dugouts behind the occupants standing by for the relief. It was indeed cushy!

Thus began a period or cycle of eight days for No 1 Company: two in the front line followed by two days back in battalion reserve in billets, two in support within the wood and two more again in the front line.

It was not unenjoyable: danger was negligible-a whizz-bang arriving now and again-object more of curiosity than of fear-news of someone getting sniped; work in the trench, digging by day, revetting the parapet, and fatigues in the wood by night; for the weather remained fine. One trench had a well-made parapet with steel loopholes built in the sandbags, and paved along a length of 50 yards entirely by unopened tins of bully-beef taken from some of the hundreds of boxes lying about in the wood. These boxes had been chucked away by former carrying parties, in the days before ‘corduroy’ paths. The trench had been built by the regulars, now no longer bearded, though some of their toes showed through their boots. It was said that a cigarette end, dropped somewhere along it, was a ‘crime’ heavily punished.

Water to the waist

All form, and shape even, of the carefully-made trenches disappeared under rains falling upon the yellow clay which retained them, One was soaked all day and all night. The weight of a greatcoat was doubled by clay and water. ‘We volunteered for this!’ was an ironic comment among those in water sometimes to the waist.

After the rains, mist lay over a countryside which had no soul, with its broken farmhouse roofs, dead cattle in no man’s land, its daylight nihilism beyond the parapet with never a movement of life, never glimpse of the Alleyman (Allemand-German)-except those who were dead, and lying motionless in varying attitudes of stillness day after day upon the level brown field extending to the yellow sub-soil thrown up from the enemy trench, beyond its barbed wire obstacles.

At night mist blurred the brightness of the light-balls, the Very lights or flares as they were now generally called. The mists, hanging heavier in the wood, settled to hear, which rimed trees, corduroy paths, shed and barn; and clarified into keener air in sunlight. Frost formed floating films of ice upon the clay-blue water in shellholes, which tipped when mess-tins were dipped for brewing tea; the daily ration of tea being mixed in sandbags with sugar. It was pleasant in the wood, squatting by a little stick fire. Movement was, however, laborious now upon the paths not yet laid with corduroy by the sappers. Boots became pattened with yellow clay. Still, we said, it might be worse-for memory of the tempest that had fallen on the last day of the battle for Ypres, of the misery of cold and wet, the dereliction of that time, was still in the forefront of our minds.

One afternoon, towards Christmas, a harder frost settled upon the vacant battleheld. By midnight trees, bunkers, paths, sentries’ balaclavas and greatcoat shoulders became stiff, thickly rimed. From some of the new draft came suppressed whimpering sounds. Only those old soldiers who had scrounged sandbags and straw from Iniskilling Farm at one edge of the wood, and put their boots inside, lay still and sleeping. Lying with unprotected boots outside the open end of a bunker, one endured pain in one’s feet until the final agony, when one got up and hobbled outside, seeing bright stars above the treetops. The thing to do was to make a fire, and boil some water in a mess-tin for some Nestle’s cafe’-au-lait. There were many shell-fractured oak-branches lying about. They were heavy with sap, but no matter. One passed painful hours of sleeplessness in blowing and fanning weak embers amid a hiss of bubbling branch-ends.

The winter agony

As soon as I sat still, or stood up to beat my arms like a cabby on a hansom cab, the weak glow of the fire went dull. My eyes smarted with smoke, there was no flame unless I fanned all the time. My arms were heavy in the frozen greatcoat sleeves, mud-slabbed and hard as drainpipes; while the skirts of the coat were like boards. I went back to sleep, but pain kept me awake; so I crawled out again and was once more in frozen air, bullets smacking through trees glistening with frost. I was thirsty, but the water-bottle was solid. Later, when it was thawed out over a brazier, it leaked, being split, but there were many lying about in the wood, with rifles and other equipment.

We were issued with shaggy goatskin jerkins. Did it mean that the battalion was intended to be an Officers’ Training Corps? That there would be no more attacks until the spring? The jerkins had broad tapes which cross-bound the white and yellow hairy skins against the chest. Officers and men now looked alike, except for the expression of an officer’s face, and the fact that one appeared to stand more upright: an effect given, perhaps, by the shoulder-high thumhsticks of ash many of them walked about with.

Senior officers also wore Norwegian type knee-boots, laced to the knee and then treble-strapped. I thought of asking my father to send me a pair, but a thaw came at the beginning of the third week of December, and the misery of mud returned. And then, with a jump of concealed fear, orders were read out for an attack across no man’s land to the German lines. It was two days after the new moon. We were in support. The company lay out on the edge of the wood, shivering and beating hands and feet, in support of a regular battalion of the Rifle Brigade. The objectives were a cottage in no man’s land called Sniper’s House, and thence forward to a section of the enemy front line that enfiladed our dangerous T-trench.

The assault of muttering and tense-faced bearded men took place under a serried rank of bursting red stars of 18-pounder shrapnel shells, and supporting machine gun fire. Figures floundering across a root-field in no man’s land, with its sad decaying lumps of dead cows and men. Hoarse yells of fear became simulated rage; while short of, into and beyond the British front line dropped shell upon shell to burst with acrid yellow fumes of lyddite from the British Long-toms of the South African war of 1902, with their worn rifling.

The order came for the company to carry on the attack. Survivors, coming back through the wood, wet through and covered with mud, uniforms ripped by barbed wire, were stumbling as they passed through us. When they had gone away — away from the line, death behind them-a clear baritone voice floated back through the trees, singing Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove-far away, far away would I roam. They were wonderful, remarked a sergeant, a rugger-playing Old Blue in peacetime. Yes, because they were going out, I thought; they were euphoric, hurrying to warmth and sleep, sleep, sleep.

This local attack failed on the uncut German wire; but Sniper’s House was taken. Our colonel, one heard later, had protested against the carrying on of the attack by our company. Later, it was reported in ‘Comic Cuts’, or Corps Intelligence sheets, that the attack had been ordered to aid the Russians hard pressed on the Eastern Front. We laughed sceptically at that; a beginning of disillusion with ‘the well-fed Staff’. I had no fear at night, and used to wander about in no man’s land by myself, to feel some sort of freedom. One night I was sitting down by the German wire when a flare hissed out just by my face, I seemed, followed by another, and another, while machine ·guns opened up with loud directness, accompanied by the cracking air-shear of bullets passing only a few inches, it seemed, above my neck. Then up and down the line arose the swishing stalks of white lights, all from the German lines, by which one knew that they were not going to attack, but feared an assault from our lines. This was remote comfort, as I felt myself to be large and visible, sweating with fear of sorts, while bullets from our lines thudded and whanged away upwards in ricochet. The sky above me appeared to be lit by the beautiful white lilies of the dead, as I thought of them.

This was an occasion of that phenomenon known as wind-up. As before a wind, fire swept with bright yellow-red stabs of thorn-flame up the line towards the light ringed salient around Ypres: bullets in flight, hissing, clacking or whining, crossed the lines of the hosts of the unburied dead slowly being absorbed into Flanders field. The wind of fear, the nightly wind of the battlefield of Western Europe, from the cold North Sea to the great barrier of the Alps-a fire travelling faster than any wind, was speckling the ridges above the drained marsh that surrounded Ypres, stabbing in wandering aimless design the darkness on the slopes of the Commines canal, running in thin crenellations upon the plateau of Wytschaete and Messines, sweeping thence down to the plain of Armentieres, among the coal-mines and slags of Artois, across the chalk uplands of Picardy, and the plains of the rivers. The wind of fear rushed on, to die out, expended, beyond the dark forest of the Argonne, beyond the fears of massed men, where snow-field, ravine, torrent and crag ended before the peaks in silence under the constellation of Orion, shaking gem-like above all human hope.

It was still freezing hard on Christmas Eve. We had been detailed for what seemed to be a perilous fatigue in no man’s land going out between the lines to knock in posts in a zigzag line towards the German front line. Around the posts wire was to be wound. On this wire, hurdles taken from a shed were to be laid. Then drying tobacco leaves, hung on the hurdles (as the leaves had been in the shed), would give cover from view should it be necessary, in an attack, to reinforce the front line.

What an idea, I thought. It would draw machine gun fire. It was about as sensible as the brigade commander’s idea for the December 19 attack across no man’s land, for some men to carry straw palliasses, to lean against the German wire and enable men to cross over the entanglements. As for the knocking-in of posts into frozen ground, that was utterly wrong! And in bright moonlight, 40 yards away from the Alleyman!

Stab of fear

After our platoon commander, a courteous man in his early 20s and fresh from Cambridge, had outlined the plan quietly, he asked for questions. I dared to say that the noise of’ knocking in posts would be heard. There was silence; then we were told that implicit directions had come from brigade, and must he carried out. We debouched from the wood, and were exposed. After an initial stab of fear, I was not afraid. Everything was so still, so quiet in the line. No flares, no crack of the sniper’s rifle. No gun firing.

Soon we were used to the open moonlight in which all life and movement seemed unreal. Men were fetching and laying down posts, arranging themselves in couples, one to hold, the other to knock. Others prepared to unwind barbed wire previously rolled on staves. I was one who followed the platoon commander and three men to a tarred wooden shed, to fetch hurdles hung with long dry tobacco leaves, which we brought out and laid on the site of the reinforcement fence.

And not a shot was fired from the German trench. The unbelievable had soon become the ordinary, so that we talked as we worked, without caution, while the night passed as in a dream. The moon moved down to the treetops behind us. Always, it seemed, had we been moving bodilessly, each with his shadow.

After a timeless dream I saw what looked like a large white light on top of a pale put up in the German lines. It was a strange sort of light. It burned almost white, and was absolutely steady. What sort of lantern was it? I did not think much about it; it was part of the strange unreality of the silent night, of the silence of the moon, now turning a brownish yellow, of the silence of the frost mist. I was warm with the work, all my body was in glow, not with warmth but with happiness.

Suddenly there was a short quick cheer from the German lines-Hoch! Hoch! Hoch! With others I flinched and crouched, ready to fling myself flat, pass the leather thong of my rifle over my head and aim to fire; but no other sound came from the German lines.

We stood up, talking about it, in little groups. For other cheers were coming across the black spaces of no man’s land. We saw dim figures on the enemy parapet, about more lights; and with amazement saw that a Christmas tree was being set there, and around it Germans were talking and laughing together. Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!, followed by cheering.

Our platoon commander, who had gone from group to group during the making of the fence, looked at his watch and told us that it was eleven o’clock. One more hour, he said, and then we would go back.

‘By Berlin time it is midnight. A Merry Christmas to you all! I say, that’s rather fine, isn’t it?’, for from the German parapet a rich baritone voice had begun to sing a song I remembered from my nurse Minne singing it to me after my evening tub before bed. She had been maid to my German grandmother, one of the Lune family of Hildesheim. StiLle Nacht! HeiLige Nacht!

Tranquil Night! Holy Night! The grave and tender voice rose out of the frozen mist; it was all so strange; it was like being in another world, to which one had come through a nightmare: a world finer than the one I had left behind in England, except for beautiful things like music, and springtime on my bicycle in the country of Kent and Bedfordshire.

And back again in the wood it seemed so strange that we had not been fired upon; wonderful that the mud had gone; wonderful to walk easily on the paths; to be dry; to be able to sleep again.

The wonder remained in the low golden light of a white-rimed Christmas morning. I could hardly realise it; but my chronic, hopeless longing to be home was gone.

The post arrived while I was frying my breakfast bacon, beside a twig fire where stood my canteen full of hot sugary tea. I sat on an unopened 28-Ib box of 2-ounce Capstan tobacco: one of scores thrown down in the wood, with large bright metal containers of army biscuits, of the shape and size and taste of dog biscuits. The tobacco issue per day was reckoned to be 5,000 cigarettes at this time, or ‘L4 Ibs of tobacco. This was not the ‘issue’ ration, but from the many ‘Comforts for the Troops’ appeals in newspapers, all tobacco being duty free to our benefactors at home.

There was a Gift Package to every soldier from the Princess Royal. A brass box embossed with Princess Mary’s profile, containing tobacco and cigarettes. This I decided to send home to my mother, as a souvenir.

‘There’s bloody hundreds of them out there!’ said a kilted soldier to me as I sat there.

Face to face

I walked through the trees, some splintered and gashed by fragments of Jack Johnsons, as we called the German 5·9-inch gun, and into no man’s land and found myself face to face with living German soldiers, men in grey uniforms and leather knee-boots-a fact which was at the time for me beyond belief. Moreover the Germans were, some of them, actually smiling as they talked in English.

Most of them were small men, rather pale of face. Many wore spectacles, and had thin little goatee beards. I did not see one piclzelhaube. They were either bare headed, or had on small grey pork-pie hats, with red bands. Each bore two metal buttons, ringed with white, black and red rather like tiny archery targets: the Imperial German colours.

Among these smaller Saxons were tall, sturdy men taking no part in the talking, but regarding the general scene with detachment. They were red-faced men and their tunics and trousers above the leather knee-boots showed dried mud marks. Some had green cords round a shoulder, and under the shoulder tabs.

Looking in the direction of the mass of Germans, I saw, judging by the serried rows of figures standing there, at least three positions or trench lines behind the front trench. They were dug at intervals of about 200 yards.

‘It only shows,’ said one of our chaps, ‘what a lot of men they have, compared to our chaps. We’ve got only one line, really, the rest are mere scratches.’ He said quietly, ‘See those green lanyards and tassels on that big fellow’s shoulders? They’re sniper’s cords. They’re Prussians. That’s what some Saxons told me. They dislike the Prussians. “Kill them all,” said one, “and we’ll have peace”.’

‘Yes, my father was always against the Prussians,’ J told him. One of the small Saxons was contentedly standing alone and smoking a new and large meerschaum pipe. He wore spectacles and looked like a comic-paper ‘Hun’. The white bowl of the pipe bore the face and high-peaked cap of ‘Little Willie’ painted on it. The Saxon saw me looking at it and taking pipe from mouth said with quiet satisfaction: ‘Kronprinz! Prachtiger Kerl!’ before putting back the mouthpiece carefully between his teeth.

Someone told me that Prachtiger KerL meant ‘Good Chap’ or ‘Decent Fellow’. Of course, I thought, he is to them as the Prince of Wales is to us.

A mark of German efficiency I noted: two aluminium buttons where we had one brass button on our trousers. Men were digging, to bury stiff corpses. Each feld grau ’stiffy’ was covered by a red-black-white German flag. When the grave had been filled in an officer read from a prayer-book, while the men in feLd grau stood to attention with round grey hats clutched in left hands. I found myself standing to attention, my balaclava in my hand. When the grave was filled, someone wrote, in indelible pencil, these words on the rough cross of ration-box wood: Hier Ruht In Gott fin Unbekannter Deutscher Held. ‘Here rests in God an unknown German hero’, I found myself translating: and thinking that it was like the English crosses in the little cemetery in the clearing within the wood.

I learned, with surprise, that the German assaults in mass attack through the woods and across the arable fields of the salient, during the last phase of the Battle for Ypres, had been made by young volunteers, some arm in arm, singing, with but one rifle to every three. They had been ‘flung in’ (as the British military term went) after the failure of the Prussian Guard, the elite Corps du Garde, modeled on Napoleon’s famous soldiers, to break our line. And here was the surprise: ‘You had too many automatische pistolen. in your line, EngLische friend!’

As a fact, we had few if any machine guns left after the battle; the Germans had mistaken their presence for our ‘fifteen rounds rapid’ fire! Every infantry battalion had been equipped with two machine guns, of the type used in the South African War of 1902; with one exception. That was the London Scottish,the 14th Sattalion of the London Regiment, which had bought, privately before the war, two Vickers guns. These also were lost during the battle.

Another illusion of the Germans appeared to be that we had masses of reserve troops behind our front line, most of them in the woods. If only they had known that we had very few reserves, including some of the battalions of an Indian Division, the turbaned soldiers of which suffered greatly from the cold.

The truce lasted, in our part of the line (under the Messines Ridge), for several days. On the last day of 1914, one evening, a message came over no man’s land, carried by a very polite Saxon corporal. It was that their regimental (equivalent to our brigade, but they had three battalions where we had four) staff officers were going round their line at midnight; and they would have to fire their automatische pistolen, but would aim high, well above our heads. Would we, even so, please keep under cover, ‘lest regrettable accidents occur).

And at 11 o’clock-for they were using Berlin time-we saw the flash of several Spandau machine guns passing well above no man’s land.

I had taken the addresses of two German soldiers, promising to write to them after the war. And I had, vaguely, a childlike idea that if all those in Germany could know what the soldiers had to suffer, and that both sides believed the same things about the righteousness of the two national causes, it might spread, this truce of Christ on the battlefield, to the minds of all, and give understanding where now there was scorn and hatred.

I was still very young. I was under age, having volunteered after the news of the Retreat from Mons had come to us one Sunday in the third week of August 1914. Our colonel had made a speech to the battalion, then in London, declaring that the British Expeditionary Force of the Regular army was very reduced in numbers after the 90-mile retreat which had worn out boots and exhausted so many, and was in dire need of help.

And now the New Year had come, the frost was settling again in little crystals upon posts and on the graves and icy shell holes in no man’s land. Once more the light-balls were rising up to hover under little parachutes over no man’s land with the blast of machine guns, and the brutal downward droning of heavy shells. And the rains came, to fall upon Flanders field, while preparations were in hand for the spring offensive.

There is a Christmas custom here which pleased and interested me. The children make little presents to their parents, and to each other; and the parents to the children. For three or four months before Christmas the girls are all busy; and the boys save up their pocket money, to make or purchase these presents. What the present is to be is cautiously kept secret, and the girls have a world of contrivances to conceal it — such as working when they are out on visits, and the others are not with them; getting up in the morning before daylight; and the like. then, on the evening before Christmas day, one of the parlours is lighted up by the children, into which the parents must not go. A great yew bough is fastened on the table at a little distance from the wall, a multitude of little tapers are fastened in the bough, but so as not to catch it till they are nearly burnt out, and coloured paper hangs and flutters from the twings. Under this bough, the children lay out in great order the presents they mean for their parents, still concealing in their pockets what they intend for each other. Then the parents are introduced, and each presents his little gift, and then bring out the rest one by one from their pockets, and present them with kisses and embraces. Where I witnessed this scene there were eight or nine children, and the eldest daughter and the mother wept aloud for joy and tenderness; and the tears ran down the face of the father, and he clasped all his children so tight to his breast, it seemed as if he did it to stifle the sob that was rising within him. I was very much affected. The shadow of the bough and its appendages on the wall, and arching over on the ceiling, made a pretty picture, and then the raptures of the very little ones, when at last the twings and their needles began to take fire and snap! — Oh, it was a delight for them! On the next day, in the great parlour, the parents lay out on the table the presents for the children; a scene of more sober joy success, as on this day, after an old custom, the mother says privately to each of her daughters, and the father to his sons, that which he has observed most praiseworthy, and that which was most faulty in their conduct. Formerly, and still in all the smaller towns and villages throughout North Germany, these presents were sent by all the parents to some one fellow, who in high buskins, a white robe, a mask, and an enormous flax wig, personate Knecht Rupert, the servant Rupert. On Christmas night he goes round to every house, and says that Jesus christ his master sent him thither, the parents and elder children receive him with great pomp of reverence, while the little ones are most terribly frightened. He then inquires for the children, and, according to the character which he hears from the parent, he gives them the intended presents, as if they came out of heaven from Jesus Christ. Or, if they should have been bad children, he gives the parents a rod, and in the name of his master recommends them to use it frequently. About seven or eight years old the children are let into the secret, and it is curious to observe how faithfully they keep it.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.
There was a kindly nobleman whose wife had died of an illness leaving the nobleman and his three daughters in despair. After losing all his money in useless and bad inventions the family had to move into a peasant’s cottage, where the daughters did their own cooking, sewing and cleaning.

The next morning when the daughters awoke they found their stockings contained enough gold for them to get married. The nobleman was able to see his three daughters marry and he lived a long and happy life.

Children all over the world continue the tradition of hanging Christmas stockings. In some countries children have similar customs, in France the children place their shoes by the fireplace, a tradition dating back to when children wore wooden peasant shoes.

In Holland the children fill their shoes with hay and a carrot for the horse of Sintirklass. In Hungary children shine their shoes before putting them near the door or a window sill.

Italian children leave their shoes out the night before Epiphany, January 5, for La Befana the good witch. And in Puerto Rico children put greens and flowers in small boxes and place them under their beds for the camels of the Three Kings.

When it came time for the daughters to marry, the father became even more depressed as his daughters could not marry without dowries, money and property given to the new husband’s family.

One night after the daughters had washed out their clothing they hung their stockings over the fireplace to dry. That night Saint Nicholas, knowing the despair of the father, stopped by the nobleman’s house. Looking in the window Saint Nicholas saw that the family had gone to bed. He also noticed the daughters stockings. Inspiration struck Saint Nicholas and he took three small bags of gold from his pouch and threw them one by one down the chimney and they landed in the stockings.

OBERNDORF, Austria — Each year, on December 24, a special passenger train pulled by a bright red electric locomotive heads out of the train station in Salzburg for a half hour trip to the village of Oberndorf. A multitude of languages can be heard as passengers from all over the globe become Christmas pilgrims, heading for the birthplace of the world’s best loved Christmas carol “Silent Night.”
At the same time, the Oberndorf streets are crowded with cars bearing license plates from neighboring European Churches can be seen across the nations and filled with people who have raced along the autobahns to arrive in time for the special Christmas Eve “Silent Night” twilight service.

Throughout the world, “Silent Night” which has been translated into more than 200 languages, is an anchor for Christmas celebrations. Its lullaby-like melody and simple message of heavenly peace can be heard from small town street corners in mid-America to magnificent cathedrals in Europe and from outdoor candlelight concerts in Australia to palm thatched huts in northern Peru. The original church of St. Nicholas where “Silent Night” was first heard in 1818 was torn down in the early part of this century after sustaining damage from the flooding of the nearby Salzach River. The Silent Night Chapel was erected on the spot in front of the main altar where Gruber and Mohr stood with the choir to sing the six-stanza carol. In a higher section of town, another church was built and the original pulpit and altars from the old church were moved there. At Christmas Midnight Mass, singers stand in front of the same altars and recreate the moment when the song heard ’round the world was first performed.

Research by Bill Egan, Christmas Historian

The storm in the Barrens raged around the little reindeer with a nose like an olive. “Mommy! Daddy!” She’d lost her mother and father and brothers and sisters. The night wind shrieked. The snowflakes stung her eyes. “Mommy! Daddy! Where are you?” But no one could hear. And now - danger! - wolves. She could smell them. They were close. Maybe they got my family, she thought, and want me too. So the little reindeer ran as fast as she could. In the fierce storm she didn’t know where she was going. She just knew she had to get away. The wolves chased her, but she soon left them far behind. Even when she no longer picked up their scent, she ran and ran. Finally she came to the North Pole.

CHAPTER 2
Mrs. Claus

Gasping for breath, she found herself in front of Santa and Mrs. Claus’s house. Night here was calm and peaceful. She saw them arm in arm on their doorstep. They were looking at the stars. Santa Claus laughed when he saw the tired little reindeer. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Look, my dear. A reindeer with an olive for a nose! Goodness! Welcome to the North Pole, little one.” Mrs. Claus smiled. “Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing though! We’ll have to call you Olive. Right, Santa?” Santa nodded. “Do you like cookies, Olive?” “I don’t know, ma’am,” she said. “Well, try this,” said Mrs. Claus. She gave Olive a cookie. “It’s raisin and oatmeal fresh from my bakery.” Olive found it tasty. While she nibbled on it, Mrs. Claus tied a blue bow on her head. “There, Olive!” Mrs. Claus said, giving her a big hug. “You just needed a mite sprucing up.” “I hope you can stay a while, Olive,” said Santa. Olive felt she’d never see her family again. She was an orphan. So she decided to make the North Pole her home.

CHAPTER 3
Olive’s Jobs

As the years passed and she got bigger, Olive became one of the best skaters among the spare reindeer. She always won the friendly races against them at Candy Cane Pond. Olive also had important jobs to do during the Christmas season. She looked through the magic telescope to see which boys and girls were naughty or nice, and reported their names to Number One, the chief elf. She hauled boxes of presents to Santa Claus’s sleigh on the runway. She delivered muffins from Mrs. Claus’s bakery to the hospital. In the toy factory she checked for broken toys coming off a line in Quality Control. She liked these jobs, but the job Olive wanted more than anything was to be on Santa’s team. Will I be picked some day? she wondered.

CHAPTER 4
A Foolish Dream

It was Christmas Eve again. As always Olive wished she could go on the Big Trip. Many of her spare reindeer pals had gone. Why not me? she thought. But maybe that was a foolish dream. Only this morning an elf had shouted, “You over there - no, not you, Jingles. The other reindeer. Yes, you, green nose. Give us some help.” But at dusk when Olive got off shift, she began to do some serious thinking. Maybe it wasn’t a foolish dream at all. What did that smart alec elf know anyway? So she decided right then to visit Santa and ask him if she could join the team.

CHAPTER 5
A Meeting With Santa

As she stood in front of Santa’s house, Olive wasn’t so sure of herself. Just who do you think you are? she thought. But she’d come this far so what did she have to lose? All Santa could do
was say no. She hesitated then tapped at Santa’s door. She waited. No answer. She tapped again. No one home. She sighed. “Oh, well, I tried.” Just as Olive was about to leave, the door burst open. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Well, well, look who it is!” Santa said. He had only one boot on. “I’m just getting ready to go over to Mission Control to check things out before the Big Trip. What can I do for you, Olive?” “Hi, Santa. I thought I’d ask if there, uh, was - was -” “Was what, Olive?” “Well, anything I could do.” Santa thought. “No, I can’t think of anything.” “Oh.” “What did you have in mind?” “Well - uh - well -” Olive was tongue-tied. “Please, I’m really in a hurry,” Santa said. “Well?” When he hears what I want he’ll laugh at me, Olive thought. That’s worse than a simple no. She just blinked.

“I can’t think of a thing you could do,” Santa said. “Well, I just thought I’d, you know, ask anyway.” Santa shrugged. “Thank you for asking, Olive.” “You’re welcome, Santa.” She left and Santa scratched his head. “What a strange conversation,” he muttered.

CHAPTER 6
Countdown

Take-off time was ninety-seven minutes away. Best to forget about the Big Trip, Olive felt, by keeping busy. Maybe Mrs. Claus wanted some muffins taken to the hospital. She headed for the bakery. Lovely smells drifted from it: mincemeat tarts, chocolate cakes, jelly doughnuts, date squares, brownies, buns, bread, all kinds of muffins and cookies.

“Hi, Olive. That nose of yours sure works mighty fine,” Mrs. Claus said. “Here’s a nice warm raisin and oatmeal cookie just for you.” “No thank you, Mrs. Claus,” Olive said. “I’m not hungry. I just came over to see if you wanted some muffins taken over to the hospital.” “I’m sorry, we made the muffin delivery this afternoon when you were at the toy factory.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Claus gave Olive a close look. “What’s the matter, Olive? Why the glum looking face?” Olive pawed at the ground. “Well - it’s nothing. Nothing.” Mrs. Claus fixed Olive’s blue bow. It was crooked. “Something is bothering you. Tell me, Olive, don’t be shy with me. We girls have to stick together. What is it?” “It’s nothing, Mrs. Claus. I’d better go now and see if they need me one last time at the toy factory.” Olive trotted off. “You’re my favorite reindeer you know. I’m always around if you need me,” Mrs. Claus called after her.

CHAPTER 7
Too Late

At the toy factory Olive’s best friend, Boomer, the chubby harness elf, sat on a crate by the shipping dock. He munched on a peanut butter sandwich. “Hi, Olive!” Boomer shouted. He liked to shout rather than talk. “Hi, Boomer. Do they need any more help inside?” “Not now. They’re just tying up some loose ends. We’re ready.” “Oh.” She wasn’t needed here either. “What’s eating you, Olive? Huh? You look really sad.” “Well, it’s just that I’d love to go on the Big Trip,” Olive said. “Hey, come on! You’ll make it one day.” “Oh, I don’t know about that, Boomer.” “You will. You’re fast. You always win the races on Candy Cane Pond. And you’re strong too.” “I’m just a nobody. After all these years I’m still called the other reindeer.” “Aw, come on! Mrs. Claus for one doesn’t call you that,” Boomer said. “Tell her what you want.”

“Mrs. Claus doesn’t do the hiring.” “No, but I’m sure she’s got some clout with Santa.” “I just talked to Mrs. Claus and I couldn’t tell her about - about my dream.I just couldn’t.” “Huh? Why not?” “Well - I -” Boomer waved his sandwich in the air. “Sweet potaters, Olive! You can’t just wait for something to happen. And that’s what you’re doing.” “I know, Boomer, I know.” She wouldn’t mention her visit with Santa Claus or Boomer would get really steamed. “But I just don’t like to be - pushy.” Boomer snorted. “Pushy? You really tick me off sometimes. You know that? The squeaky wheel gets the grease. Things won’t come to you. And -” “And what, Boomer?” Boomer stared at his sandwich. “The Big Trip is only eighty-nine minutes away. But I have to say you can forget it just like the other ones. It’s too late.” Olive gulped. Maybe I should have said something to Mrs. Claus, she thought. I’ll be staying behind again.

CHAPTER 8
The Numbers Aren’t Good

Meanwhile Santa Claus, Number One, and Chip, the computer ace, were going over a few things in the Planning Room at Mission Control. They studied a wall map. Mittens, Santa’s orange cat, was on Santa’s shoulders. He seemed interested in the map too. “Santa, the numbers aren’t good,” Chip said. “We have a record number of kids this year and we just don’t have enough reindeer power.” Santa chuckled. “Chip, you worry too much. I have a great team, but we can always add one or two of the spare reindeer.” Mrs. Claus passed by. She cupped her ear to listen. “One or two won’t do it, Santa, even if we had them,” Number One said. “Dr. Winters called me just before you arrived. An odd thing. The spare reindeer are in the hospital sick.” Santa gasped. “Oh, dear! All of them at once? That’s terrible!” “And the sleigh is loaded to overflowing,” Chip said. “If we added any more toys we couldn’t lift off. Lots of toys have to be left behind.” He looked at his calculator. “The numbers aren’t good.” “They certainly aren’t, Chip,” Santa said. “Many places must be missed.” Chip pointed at the map with a baseball bat. “Here, here, and here. And there.” Santa Claus sank into an armchair with his head in his hands. Mittens almost fell off his shoulders. “But we can’t let down any children,” Santa moaned. “We can’t! You’re the computer expert, Chip. Think of something. Anything! We leave in fifty-six minutes. There must be something we can do.” Chip threw up his hands. “There isn’t, Santa, and that’s a fact.” After she heard this, Mrs. Claus hurried over to the hospital.

CHAPTER 9
Blackmail

In the hospital ward the spare reindeer lay in beds. With thermometers in their mouths were Speedy, Jingles, Flash, Igloo, Spinner, Rascal, Bingo, and Pokey. Dr. Winters took out the thermometers and read them. “Hmmm,” he said. “I can’t see anything the matter with any of you.” He looked at his watch. “It’s Christmas Eve with forty-three minutes ’til take-off. What if Santa needs some of you? Then what?” “Then that’ll be too bad,” Pokey stated. “We’re not going back to that gloomy old stable.” “Not until somebody paints it,” said Flash. “Hah! So that’s it,” Dr. Winters said. “Blackmail!” “That’s a mean thing to say,” said Bingo. “But we’re not going back to that stable. So there!” “Get up! Get up!” Dr. Winters yelled. “Where’s your pride? Where’s your courage? Where’s your loyalty? Get up! Immediately! This is nonsense! This is - uh, please. With jam on it. Well?” But the reindeer just snuggled in their beds and answered with snores. They weren’t going anywhere.

CHAPTER 10
Not A Very Nice Idea

Mrs. Claus rushed into the ward. She was alarmed by what she saw. “What’s going on, Doctor?” Dr. Winters shook his head. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, Mrs. Claus. Never in a million years. But what we’ve got here is a bunch of fakers who want to sleep all day long in nice comfy beds. In short, they’re on strike!” Mrs. Claus thought. “I think I’ve got an idea. It’s not a very nice one, but - ” She whispered into Dr. Winters’ ear. The reindeer squinted at them. What were they up to? The doctor held up a needle. He gave it a squirt. The reindeer stirred. “Now this might smart a little, you reindeer, but it’s for your own good,” Dr. Winters said. The reindeer shot up in bed. “Don’t be scared,” Dr. Winters said. “It’ll only take a second.” “I feel a lot better, Dr. Winters,” Jingles said. “M-m-me too,” Pokey stuttered. “See you, Dr. Winters,” said Igloo, bolting for the door. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” said the rest as they clomped after Igloo. Mrs. Claus and Dr. Winters split their sides as the reindeer stampeded down the corridor.

CHAPTER 11
Take-Off

Take-off was seconds away. From the runway red, gold, green, and blue fireworks lit the North Pole sky with fantastic patterns. Two elves at the front of the sleigh blew a trumpet fanfare. Tah-tah tah tah-tah tah tah. Tah-tah. Boomer sprinkled Santa’s reindeer from his bag of magic sparkles. The sparkles gave them the power to fly. Chip and Number One looked on with frowns. Everyone was nervous except for the reindeer. “I’m all set, chief,” said Dasher, and pawed at the ground. “Me too,” said Dancer, and shook his bells. “Let’s go, Santa,” said Comet. From the front of Santa’s team came a red glow and a giggle. The reindeer loved Christmas Eve. Santa didn’t have the heart to tell them thousands of children would be given a miss on this one. He slumped in his sleigh. Even his beard seemed to droop. Olive watched from a rise. Although she wanted to forget about the Big Trip, she just couldn’t help coming to see the show. She especially loved the fireworks. She heard the reindeer’s excited voices. Oh, how she wished she could be one of them. But I’ll always get left behind, she thought. Olive turned away. She’d seen enough. A tear trickled down her cheek. Suddenly there were cries of alarm. And…BANG!

CHAPTER 12
What Boomer Did

The sleigh had crashed. Santa Claus was tossed into a snowbank. The reindeer sprawled on the runway. Boxes of presents were scattered everywhere. Olive galloped to the overturned sleigh. Boomer stood near it. “Oh, no! This is awful!” Olive cried. “What happened, Boomer?” Boomer grinned. “I overloaded the sleigh when nobody was looking. I put a set of barbells across the back of the runners. “What! But why?” “You want to go with them, don’t you?” “Shh! Of course I want to go, but -” “Well, if the team can’t get airborne then you’re in. You’re in!” “But - but -” “Oh-oh!” Boomer clasped his mouth. “Look who’s coming.”

CHAPTER 13
No Time To Lose

Number One marched towards them. His face was red with anger. “I heard all that, Boomer. Oh, Santa! Santa!” he called. “I think there is something you should know.” Santa struggled to his feet and brushed snow off himself. “What’s going on here?” Santa said. “Tell Santa Claus the disgraceful thing you did, Boomer,” Number One ordered. “Go on.” Boomer hung his head. “I overloaded the sleigh with some barbells. I’m sorry, Santa, I really am. But please forget what I did and give Olive a chance to go with you. That’s why I did it. Olive is as fast as greased lightning.” Santa shook his head. The accident had confused him. “Olive?” he said. “Olive?” Then it dawned. “Yes, Olive! I was just talking to you. So you want to help deliver the presents, do you, Olive?” “Oh, yes, Santa. That’s really why I came to see you.” Boomer gave Olive a surprised look. “Huh? You did?” Santa stroked his beard. “So that was it! But why didn’t you say so? Oh, never mind. We’ve got no time to lose. Come along, Olive.” But Olive didn’t move. “I’d love to, Santa, but I don’t think it would be fair to go after this. If not for Boomer, you’d all be in the sky by now.” Boomer clenched his teeth. “Olive, you’re going to blow it.” “Hmm, I see,” Santa said. “I see.” For a while no one knew what to say. Finally Number One spoke up. He’d cooled off. “Santa, may I say something?” he said. “Although I do not approve of such a deed, I think Boomer is a good fellow. He has served us well for many years. Perhaps we can overlook what he did.” Santa nodded. “I agree, Number One. We’ll give Boomer a second chance. So, Olive? Do you want to come? Yes or no?” Olive could hardly believe it. Was her dream about to come true? “Whoopee!” she shouted. “You’ll see I’m really fast and strong, Santa.” Santa’s eyes twinkled. He patted Olive on the head. “Don’t worry, Olive,” Santa said. “I’ve had my eyes on you and I know how fast and strong you are. You were going to be on the team sooner or later. So as of now, you’re officially hired.” Chip joined them. He was studying his calculator and he didn’t look happy. “I hate to be a party pooper, Santa, but this won’t change much,” he said. “With the help of Olive we can make Los Angeles just before sun up. But many other places will still get left out.” Santa sighed. “I know, I know, I hadn’t forgotten, Chip. How could I? All those children will be heart-broken. They’ll never forgive me. But - but there’s nothing we can do.”

CHAPTER 14
Mrs. Claus’s Surprise

At that moment they heard a whistle in the distance. It came from Mrs. Claus. She wore a red-and-white Santa outfit. And she was driving a team made up of the eight spare reindeer. “Hee-hah! Giddy-up, my honeys!” Mrs. Claus urged. The spare reindeer looked as fit as ever. They came at full steam. Snow swirled around their pounding hooves. Santa’s mouth fell open as Mrs. Claus pulled up beside him. “Mrs. Claus! Goodness! What a surprise!” Santa said. “What are you doing here?” “Well, dear, I heard you had a problem,” Mrs. Claus said. “We do, we do. A whopper. But I thought all the spare reindeer were in the hospital.” Mrs. Claus smiled. “They were. Flat on their backs until Dr. Winters came up with a - cure, you might say. And then I did a little wheeling and dealing about giving their stable a new paint job. You really should see it, Santa.” “We can talk about that later, my dear. But right now I’d like to know why you’re here.” “Well, I thought we could load up my sleigh and I’ll - go with you. If you don’t mind.” Santa clapped his hands. “Mind? Why should I mind? That’s a terrific idea! You really want to go, don’t you, my dear?” “It would be a hoot. A real hoot.” “All these years and you’ve never once said anything.” “Well, wouldn’t a passenger have made the sleigh too heavy?” Mrs. Claus said. “So, dear? What do you say?”

CHAPTER 15
The Big Trip

Santa turned to Boomer. “Quick, Boomer! Hitch up Olive to Mrs. Claus’s team. That will give us nine reindeer each.” Boomer saluted. “Right away, Santa!” Boomer hitched Olive in the lead. A dozen elves gathered up the scattered toys. Another dozen brought the ones left over in the toy factory. The sleighs were quickly loaded. Boomer sprinkled Mrs. Claus’s reindeer with the magic sparkles. For a moment the reindeer rose and floated on air. Mrs. Claus’s team was now ready to fly. “Up and at ‘em, Olive!” whooped Mrs. Claus. “Ho-ho! Ho-ho!” Santa winked. “You’ve got the words, my dear, but, well, the tune needs some work.” Then with a merry “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and a “Ho-ho! Ho-ho!” Santa and Mrs. Claus whooshed off into the twinkling stars and over the moon. The elves jumped up and down and cheered the two sleighs in the sky. “Yippee! Yippee!” A few toasted each other with mugs of hot chocolate. As she led Mrs. Claus’s team, Olive held her head up high. All the boys and girls got their presents on time and they were delighted. So was Olive. And she did such a super job that from then on she made the Big Trip with Mrs. Claus every Christmas Eve.

-THE END-

One Christmas Eve the trees in a wood were very unhappy. They wished very much to keep Christmas, but they did not know how to do so.
“We look so brown,” said one.

“And so bare,” said another.

“If we only had our pretty green summer dresses,” said a third, “then we should be decorated and could keep Christmas.”

“Hush, children, hush!” whispered North Wind in quite a gentle voice for such a rough fellow. “Make haste and go to sleep.”

“Hush! children, hush!” softly murmured a sleepy little bird. He was roosting on one of the branches of the unhappy trees.

So the trees dropped off to sleep, one by one, while a little star twinkled peacefully overhead.

But while they slept something happened. And when the trees awoke they found that someone, perhaps North Wind, had, during the night, cast over each of them a lovely soft cloak of spotless feathery white.

“How beautiful we are!” said the trees. “Now we can keep our Christmas!”

“Lord Jesus, who didst take little children into Thine arms and laugh and play with them, bless, we pray Thee, all children at this Christmastide.
As with shining eyes and glad hearts they nod their heads so wisely at the stories of the angels, and a baby cradled in the hay at the end of the way of a wandering star, may their faith and expectation be a rebuke to our own faithlessness. Help us to make this season all joy for them, a time that shall make Thee, Lord Jesus, even more real to them.

Watch tenderly over them and keep them safe. Grant that they may grow in health and strength into Christian maturity. May they turn early to Thee, the Friend of children, the Friend of all. We ask in the lovely name of Him who was once a little child. Amen.”