From the Improvement Era, December 1927 –

The Spirit of Christmas

By Irvin L. Warnock

It all started one morning two weeks before Christmas. Chick Bowers pushed back his chair, assumed his favorite oratorical attitude and addressed the group about the breakfast table. “Gentlemen,” he began, “an important, yea, a momentous question confronts the K. T. Infant Fraternity. In fact an adamant question is demanding plausible if not immediate solution.”

“Gentlemen, the question stands, What is the Spirit of Christmas? We are divided by opinions various and sundry. What makes Christmas different from every other holiday? Why the universal appeal? What element or ingredient exalts the Christmas tide? An insignificant majority contend it is the psychology of love augmented by the spirit of giving.”

“I say Christmas is Christmas because of the fun of receiving,” broke in Dan. Smiles of disapproval passed among the boys, all except Homer Williams, who gave the speaker a slap on the shoulder, saying, “Atta boy.”

“Christmas wouldn’t be much fun without Santa Claus,” weakly piped Jimmy. A roar of laughter followed.

Chick resumed, “Gentlemen, K. T. traditions make it imperative that a thorough analysis be made. After the holidays we could, no doubt, perform a post mortem examination, but this being the tenth day of December this said Spirit of Christmas is a vigorous youngster, with increasing strength and vitality each moment until the day of December 25.”

“And this being the hour of eight a. m., I motion the discussion be postponed until after dinner,” suggested practical, red-haired Billy Murphy.

“One point before we disperse,” put in Chick. “Those who believe in Santa Claus may write their little letters to-night and I shall help them hang their stockings on Christmas Eve.” And he waved an elegant gesture toward the three freshmen opposite. Another roar went up.

Ten pairs of feet scuffed the floor. Ten chairs squeaked their protest. Nine neatly folded napkins rested serenely beside as many plates. One crumpled white heap on the floor marked the chair of Dan Multree. Dan was that way, thoughtless, ill-trained. Ten boys grabbed hats and books and the K. T. secret fraternity was once more absorbed in the myriad duties of the ordinary school day.

These ten boys, finding themselves thrown together by fate in the form of a boarding house, wisely or otherwise, banded themselves into a brotherhood. “A pure democracy,” Chick called it, “where we older and more intelligent fellows may regulate somewhat the actions of the greenies, that we be not swamped in mortification.” Their only secret was their name. K. T. was all anyone outside ever heard. Mrs. Wright, the landlady, slyly suggested perhaps it stood for Kitchen Thieves. But the boys merely smiled.

At the usual hour that night they sauntered into the study. One or two immediately buried themselves in text books. Dan Multree dived into the over-stuffed rocker and lost himself in its depths. Extracting two letters from an inside pocket he leisurely opened one; a business-looking letter in a plain envelope, and glanced at the few scrawled lines. Then his eye swept the accompanying check and lingered at the right edge, where the sum was designated. A scowl darkened his face. His lips pressed together and protruded. After a minute a freakish smile played at the corners of his mouth and twisted the thin lip line. Slowly he nodded his head.

“The Spirit of Christmas,” announced Chick, abruptly, “having agitated the intellects of this august and erudite assemblage, now comes forward for elucidation. Gentlemen, what is your pleasure?”

“Come down to earth,” popped in Jimmy. “Shades of Noah! Can’t you talk American? I have never learned but one language.”

Chick’s face clouded momentarily, but his genial smile soon chased the clouds off. “I condescend, little boy, by the cat’s paws. Will some of you guys please extend a handle whereby we may grasp the breakfast talk of this morning. Do you get the drift now, Jimmy Green?” A friendly laugh followed.

“The Good Book says ‘tis better to give than to receive; perhaps that is what makes Yuletide so different,” suggested Billy Murphy.

“Righto,” shouted Phil, eyes sparkling. “Ask McClintock. After their walloping Friday they should stoutly confirm the Good Book. Thirteen to four — wow-ee-e — I’ll say it’s better to give than to receive.” And he vehemently thumped the gleaming red letter on the breast of his immaculate white sweater.

Dan squirmed in the depths of his luxury. “It’s all according to what you are giving and what you are receiving.”

“And who is doing it,” finished Jimmy, with fitting emphasis and a significant glance.

“Oh, yes. Of course, that makes some difference,” Dan retorted, without losing his equanimity.

Dan’s selfishness was beginning to rasp on the finer natures of his companions. They could not refrain, at times, from giving quips that would have penetrated a less self-centered consciousness. He had been a thorn under the thumb nail of Chick Bowers since the term began. Chick whirled on him now with sudden violence. “See here, Dan, you’re spoiling. What makes you take that attitude? You wouldn’t be happy if everyone gave to you without you giving in return. All receiving and no giving would soon fall, even with you. Christmas must be misery and miserly to anyone who thinks only of receiving. It’s the altruism of Christmas that endears it. The beautiful custom of making gifts, prototyped by the supreme gift of God at Bethlehem. Humanity hungers for unselfish devotees at the shrine of service.”

“Oh, cut the sob stuff, Chick!” said Dan, with a shrug of resentment.

“But what makes you cling to that unfriendly position,” Chick persisted.

“It’s modern, Chick. Right up to date. Your ideas are antiquated. They became obsolete when Rockefeller invested in oil. Get — get — get, that’s America. Acquire, build, push. Get while the getting is good — and d n the cost. Moderns know only the eleventh commandment; get what you want, but get it.”

“Then you think that America has discarded the Golden Rule, Dan? That the three wise men at the stable in Bethlehem were fools. That their gifts to the infant Christ were folderol?” Chick faced Dan squarely, an intense fire in his eyes and an unquestionable earnestness in his voice. “Dan, do you honestly believe that the Spirit of Christmas is dying?”

“Oh, maybe not as steep as that. But it lacks the ring of genuineness. There’s much that isn’t apparent on the surface. We’re not a nation of philanthropists, you know, Chick.”

The boys were all listening attentively now. The discussion had taken the aspect of a dialogue. Chick, big of body, big of mind, and big of heart, was easily the favorite, yet not drawing on his assets. He felt no need of reserves, either.
Always he met the moment’s exigency with cool control and stored his surplus personality in the bank of friendship.

From the practical mind of Billy Murphy came another suggestion. “Fellows, isn’t it possible that the compromise between the two extremes is the true Christmas Spirit? What I mean is this, the joy of giving is enhanced by the anticipation of receiving?”

“That’s just it,” shouted Dan, “only more of it. Christmas gifts would be as scarce as ice in the Sahara if the donors did not expect in return just as much, or a little more, than they gave. I’ve seen it.”

Again Chick took up the defense. “My view of the ideal Christmas gift is that it be given without sordidness. Also it should fit the character of the recipient and the measure of esteem that prompted it.”

“One other point,” added Dan.

“What?”

“It should fit the purse of the donor.” Dan won a point, as the smiles testified.

Mrs. Wright stood in the door, smiling. Friendly, congenial smiles, quite unlike the proverbially parsimonious landlady.

“Welcome, Mother Wright!” shouted several voices in unison.

“No serious trouble, though!” reassured Chick, blandly, offering his chair.

“Thanks, boys. And I didn’t come anticipating trouble, Chick, neither to pacify it. It just isn’t needed, among my boys.” And she gave him a smile of approval, the smile they all worshiped. “I came to ask about the holidays. How many are going home for Christmas? I want to do some planning. You see, if you are all going to leave, Marvin will see that the pipes and furnace are kept from freezing and Daddy Wright will take Margie and me out to the old homestead to spend Christmas with the married children — and the babies. Oh, we’d love to go. Haven’t had any kiddies around for four years now. and Christmas doesn’t seem natural without the little tots. Frank and Emily are coming this year, too.” Her enthusiasm was contagious, but she hesitated, smothered a wistful sigh, and added, “But I mustn’t influence any of you by my childish anticipations.”

“I’m going.” “And I.” “And I.” “And I.” It echoed around the group until it came back to the big rocker where Dan Multree slumped. Dan never moved.

A razor-edged silence persisted for a full minute. All eyes were riveted on the figure half hidden among the bulging leather cushions. All knew that Dan had heard the words of Mrs. Wright and all knew that she felt in duty bound to forego her plans should any of them remain over the holidays. Chick broke the silence by asking calmly, “How about it, Dan? We’ve all answered but you.”

A smile woke on the lips of Mrs. Wright but died suddenly as Dan answered, deliberately, without turning. “I’m going to stay.”

Something akin to a swear word welled up in the throat of Chick Bowers, but it perished between his teeth. A cold tenseness gripped the other boys, and Mrs. Wright hastily turned to the door she had just entered. “Wait, Mother Wright,” called Chick, then turned to Dan. There was no trace of anger in his face or voice, instead a deep solicitude edged his words. “Dan,” he said, quietly, “I want to get this thing straight. If it’s the price of the fare you lack, I’ll loan it to you until you get back.”

“Oh, no. I just received a pittance from the Governor,” tapping his pocket.

“Then why aren’t you going?”

“Excuse me, old top, but can’t a fellow stick around his boarding place without starting a squabble?”

“But it isn’t fair, — just now.”

“I’m paying my way. Chick.” Dan spoke with a note of finality.

Chick followed Mrs. Wright to the kitchen. He promised to take care of Dan, assuring her that Dan would undoubtedly go to Metropolis even if he would not go home. If Marvin was going to stay and care for the furnace and keep the house from freezing there was really no reason for remaining. Couldn’t Dan get his meals in town? And as for bed — well, it wouldn’t hurt, just for ten days). By dint or argument and many reassurances Chick persuaded her to consummate her plans for spending the Yuletide at the old homestead. Why not Marvin and Dan keep bachelor’s hall?

Marvin was studying art, with a capital A. He tended the furnace in the big Wright house for the privilege of occupying the cot in the furnace room, and using the empty corner as studio. He paid tuition fees by doing janitor work, washed dishes at the cafeteria for his staff of life and daubed water colors on Movie Display Pictures, a slouchy job he loathed, for the filthy lucre that kept him clothed, and paid for paints and books.

The K. T. exclusive fraternity held its last session on Wednesday night before Christmas. Two of the boys caught the 10 p. m. interurban and were home in a few hours. Six others straggled out the next morning. Chick used every subtle argument at his command to induce the Wrights to go. Finally he told them he was going to ask Dan to go home with him.

An ugly mood had been growing on Dan for more than a week, in fact, since the night he and Chick had argued the Spirit of Christmas. All the while the others were absorbed in the joyful preparations for the home visits, Dan became silent and taciturn. Snatches of song, spilled out in glee, drove him further within himself. The banter at meal times widened the abyss between himself and the others. He narrowed his conversation to replies when spoken to. Even these were barely within the boundary of civility. Chick noticed, or thought he did, a particular restraint when he approached any group where Dan was. This troubled him, as he wondered if he had over-stepped in trying to make Dan realize his selfishness. He did not want to antagonize Dan.

Mr. and Mrs. Wright, with their daughter Margie, drove away in the big car early Friday morning. Having waved a hearty farewell to them, Chick took the steps to the house in a bound, and barely missed bumping into Dan at the door, evidently waiting for him. The two boys faced each other; neither spoke for the fraction of a second. Chick was surprised and wondering. Dan was slightly agitated and a mocking grin twisted the line between his lips. He spoke with the slightest hint of sneer. “Well, guardian angel, what is your game?”

“Game? Why? What are you driving at?”

“Oh, nothing, sweet innocence. But, I was just curious to know why you gave up your vacation plans to remain at my side. We’ve never played Damon and Pythias before, you know. I’m not sure that spending Christmas together would strengthen our bond of affection. We don’t always jibe on our ideas of celebrating, you see.”

“That is so. Dan. But can’t a fellow decide to hang around his boarding house over the holidays without starting a squabble?” Dan received the thrust as a slap in the face. Hot blood surged to his temples and his chin twitched just a little as he retorted. “I’m telling you, Chick, if you are sacrificing yourself for my pleasure, your sentimentality is distinctly not appreciated. I’m spending Christmas Eve after my own fashion. Any shadowing or interference will not alone be offensive but might brew trouble.”

“I beg your pardon, old man,” said Chick, placing a friendly hand on the other’s shoulder. “No offense intended, I assure you.” Dan shrugged his shoulder away. “I’ve been wanting to ask you, Dan, if you would accept an invitation to come home with me. Mother is a wonderful cook, and Dad, — well Dad is just the best pal ever. Will you come, old top?”

“No.”

“We could catch that nine o’clock creeper and be out there by two this afternoon.”

“No.”

“Mother always bakes Christmas cake at Thanksgiving time and Dad is the best hand in the state at roasting baby pigs. There will be home-made cider, too.” Chick’s face brightened as he pictured the feast. “Come, old fellow, forget our grievances, and let’s hit the home trail, together.”

“No,” snapped Dan. “If I wanted a home celebration I would have been there by now. But to go where there is a bunch of kids — no, thanks. Squalling babies, — hub-bub, — litters of toys to stumble over, — deafening horn and drums, — clang, clang and more noise, — baugh!” He shrugged his shoulders and vanished up the stairs.

Chick gazed after him. “Something wrong inside,” he mused, “nothing exterior will ever affect him. Must come from the inside out.”

Mid-afternoon came and Dan had not stirred from his room, although Chick could hear footsteps and occasionally catch the sound of whistling. Answering the telephone Chick heard a feminine voice ask for Mr. Multree. He moved to the Foot of the stairway and called Dan. The half of the conversation he heard was. “Hello! Yes— You don’t say.— Well, get someone else. — Curses, why so late? — Oh, all right. — Great, great! — Yes. Sure. Just two? — I’ll say he will. — I love it. — Don’t worry, I’ll be ready — ta-ta.”

Dan’s feelings, as shown outwardly, were quite changed from what they were several hours before when Chick faced him in the door-way. Now he seemed bubbling over with happiness; the carefree happiness that borders on recklessness. Chick noticed and marvelled at the change.

To-night Marvin felt a mingled thrill of exaltation and depression, as he washed his smoky hands in the laundry tub, in the basement. His cot in the corner of the furnace room served as chair as he worked at the improvised easel on the edge of the little table. But tonight he was going to work. Surely on Christmas Eve he need not paint. And besides he must distribute his gifts. These were dainty cards he had decorated in colored landscapes. Not much, to be sure, but had he not daubed two dozen Movie Displays for the money to buy stock and then spent hours in decorating? His exaltation came from having put his soul into his tiny gifts. His depression arose in fear that his tokens might not please. But the subtle spirit of Christmas gave wings to his feet and melody to his voice as he passed under the big French window where Dan sat, half interestedly reading a magazine. Marvin’s voice trailed off down the street. Dan glanced at his watch, shuffled his position and returned to his book.

Three quarters of an hour later Marvin returned, approaching the front door. Simultaneously Chick Bowers came from the opposite direction. “Hello, Marvin,” he called, cheerfully, “Come in. Deliciously crisp out tonight, isn’t it?”

“Thanks, Mr. Bowers,” returned Marvin, following inside. “I’m playing Santa Claus. These cards are all I could afford.” He handed one to Chick. “And here is one for you Mr. Multree. I’ll just leave these others here for the rest of the boys when they come back.”

“Beautiful, Marvin, exquisite,” exclaimed Chick. “And hand painting, I’ll declare. Marvin, that’s artistic. You’ll make the race, boy, you’ve got the goods.” As Chick examined the delicately traced card, extolling its consummate design, the face of the young artist beamed in delight. His mat of brown hair tossed, his quiet, blue eyes sparkled and a touch of color shone through the transparency of his cheeks. A morsel of praise was more than bread.

Dan glanced carelessly at his gift and tossed it to the table, “Thanks, kid,” he said, “it will be handy as a book-mark.”

The light died from Marvin’s eyes but the color froze in his cheeks. Chick saw the hurt and his two big hands clinched. His eyes traveled to Dan’s placid face, but before he could speak Dan jumped up, fretfully. “It isn’t my custom to give Christmas presents, Marvin; so I hope you won’t expect a silk handkerchief, or an etching outfit in return for your card.”

Marvin choked and reeled. Chick glowered at Dan, then placed an arm around the shoulders of the artist and guided him toward the basement steps, saying something about wanting to see more of his work.

Dan, left alone, smiled a sickly, sardonic smile, studied his watch and paced twice across the room. He stopped abruptly, listened impatiently, then muttered, “Why don’t they come, it’s ten o’clock already.”

Shortly a footstep resounded on the cement porch. Dan’s face brightened. Not waiting for the bell he sprang to the door and wrenched it open, switching the outside light as he did so. A gust of bitter cold air struck his face, but it was the sight of a ragged, shivering urchin that swept him back in astonishment.

The child raised big, sober, wistful eyes and asked, between chattering teeth, “P-please, M-M-Mister, is Sa-Sa-Santa Claus here? I b-been lookin’ ever wh-where.”

Dan’s first impulse was to say, no, and close the door. Then an absurd desire to laugh struck him. But he did not laugh. The simple faith and earnestness of the child arrested him. Instead of laughing he said “No, kid, there isn’t any Santa Cl…” He did not finish the word.

Into the upturned face of the child came the tragedy of shattered hope, and Dan recognized it. The two great glistening tears that coursed down the little cheeks were the first that had ever touched his heart, but he felt that these were melting into his soul. Nothing can be more potent than baby tears in fusing human hearts.

“Come in, Sonny, and warm up while I tell you what became of Santa Claus.”

Dan snatched a cushion from a chair and spread it over the low radiator beneath the French window, then deposited his small visitor a-top. Taking the cold, blue hands between his own he pressed and warmed them. The child was scantily but neatly dressed, a mat of golden hair matching the fair face and blue eyes. Dan guessed his age at five or six.

The child’s astonished eyes wandered over the room several times but each time returned to gaze into Dan’s face. Each time they came back, Dan felt discomfited. Why, he did not know, unless it was that they seemed to be looking beyond his face, into his mind; yes, beyond that, right down into his very soul. Dan thought he had never seen such big, transparent, trusting, thoughtful eyes. Desperately he wondered how he was to meet the inevitable. Could he dis-illusion this child on the Santa Claus hoax? He was quite unfortified when the boy suddenly laughed a musical little laugh and threw himself into his arms with the question, “Will you please be my Daddy? An’ take me to Santa Claus’ house? Will you, Mister, please?”

Dan found himself kneeling beside the radiator with the tiny form crushing his shirt front, two little hands playing havoc with his tie and collar. But for once in his life Dan Multree was not thinking of himself. The piping voice was babbling close to his ear. “Momie says if I had a Daddy then old Santa Claus would come. But I ain’t ever had a Daddy an’ I ain’t ever seen Santa. But last year he left some stockings fer me and a little doll fer Betty over to Mrs. Higgs’s. An’ tonight I told Betty I wuz goin’ t’ find Santa’s house an’ tell him how good we been.

You’ll take me, won’t you. Mister, ‘cause Betty wants some dishes jist awful an’ she’s been jist awful good.”

Dan was speechless. Utterance failing, he merely held the throbbing little body closer, blankly staring at the cream curtains and drawn blinds of the window, but they seemed misty and distant. He felt glad they were alone. A new, unknown sensation pulsed somewhere inside him and warmed its way to the surface while a determination formed within his mind.

“Where do you live? Sonny?” Finally words came.

“Down on K. Street, jist across the street this way from the fire house,” answered the boy, pointing.

“And what is your name?”

“Otto. Otto Mullin.”

“Well, Otto boy, let me tell you something. Santa Claus is awfully busy tonight; there are so many little boys and girls to see — so he may be late getting around to your house, but he’ll come, Otto, I’m sure he’ll .”

“There he is now,” screamed the youngster, wild with delight, “Just like the pictures. Oh-h goody, goody!”

Dumfounded, Dan whirled around, and sure enough, standing in the hall door stood Santa Claus, with Marvin just behind. It would be hard to tell which face showed the greatest astonishment, Marvin’s, Dan’s, the child’s, or that of Santa Claus.

Collecting his scattered senses Dan joined the glee of the youngster, while Santa Claus began desperately to look for his toy sack. Marvin snatched a china doll from the mantle and thrust it into the hand of the bewildered Santa. The situation was saved. The doll was presented to Otto with all due ceremony with profuse promises of a later visit and toys for Betty, then Dan placed him again a-top the radiator and followed Santa to the hall.

“Well done, Watson, very well done,” whispered Santa to Marvin as Dan closed the door behind them.

Say fellows, are you game for a real live Christmas party?” asked Dan, eagerly. His enthusiasm was like fire in a box factory. “He lives down on K, and has a widowed mother and baby sister. They’ve been ‘awful good’ in hopes Santa Claus would find them this year. The poor kid’s tramped half the town over trying to find him. We can do it, can’t we?”

“I’ll say,” cried Chick, his big heart swelling up into his throat.

“Sh-sh-sh,” warned Marvin, tingling with excitement. “Not too loud.”

“But where did you come by the togs?” asked Dan.

“Some I planned to use at home,” answered Chick, “But not being there Marvin and I were just stepping out for high adventure.”

“Well, you didn’t have to step far,” said Dan. “I’ll take the kid home and be waiting for you. Just across south from the K Street fire station. And here, take these.” Dan pushed three crackling green bills into Chick’s hand. “I insist, Chick. This is my party. There will be some shops open yet. I intended spending more than that tonight, anyhow.” It was Dan’s first thought, since the urchin came in, about his original plans. An impatient haste seized him; a frenzied desire to be off. Hastily bundling the child into a big, red, jumbo sweater, buttoned full length, he fairly tossed him up against his shoulder as he rushed for the door.

From the porch he called back, “Oh, Chick, if anyone calls for me just tell them I’ve got an engagement with the Spirit of Christmas.”

Before he reached the end of the block he heard the big car stop in front of the Wright house and the noisy group of thoughtless revellers shriek his name. Dodging around the corner he pressed the boy closer to his breast, murmuring in the tiny ear, “There will be one lacking in their carousal tonight, thanks to you, my Babe of Bethlehem.”

The hour past midnight found the three boys re-entering the boarding house. A radiance of joy shone from each countenance. Dan’s face was really brilliant, for an exuberance of happiness filled his heart.

“Fellows,” he cried, having removed over coats, “I never believed that youngsters could be made so happy. Wasn’t it classic? They certainly got under my hide. Mercy though, you should have seen the poor mother when Otto said he had found a Daddy! Really, her confusion was quite beautiful. That’s what I call fun.” Suddenly his face sobered. “You see, boys, being the only child in our family, which means being pampered and spoiled, I have really never seen a bonafide Christmas before. Not like this one, I mean.”

“I’ve been thinking all the night,” said Marvin, “That we were the three wise men of modern times.”

“Rather the three wise boys,” corrected Chick.

“I’m not so strong on the wisdom part,” added Dan, “But I’ll vouch for one much wiser boy. The Know Thyself Infant Fraternity has one member ready to do post-graduate work.”

“Silent night, Holy night!
All is calm, all is right,
Round yon virgin mother and Child!
Holy Infant, so tender and mild;
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.”

Like a clarion came the tender notes through the crisp, clear night, a golden tenor leading the melody. “Carolers,” whispered Marvin, intensely thrilled. Dan sat immovable, every fiber of his being tingling with the delicate harmony of the singers. He experienced an entirely new and strange sensation. Chills quivered up and down his spine and his temples throbbed. Speechless, they listened till the last silvery notes trailed into silence.

Dan moved, leaned forward, placed a hand over his forehead and blinked as if just waking from a dream. “Marvin,” he said, “I owe you an apology for my rudeness. Can you forgive my ill-manners?” Then he extended a hand to Chick. “You win. old chap. I concede the Spirit of Christmas is virile and unsoiled, prompted by the noblest impulse inherent in man. — And by the way, if that invitation is still open perhaps we can catch that 4:30 train. I’ll be glad to sample your mother’s Christmas dinner.”