From the Improvement Era, December 1932 –

Christmas Bills

By Christie Lund

“Well, look what the wind has blown in,” Ruth Smedley called gaily from the living room as her husband seemed literally to be blown into the small reception hall, his arms filled with packages, his hat tipped hectically on one side of his head, his whole appearance one of confusion.

“Hello, Sweetness,” he greeted her. ‘How’s the wife? Grab a few parcels – and no peeking on peril of your glass eye.”

When she had deposited some of the mysterious bundles on a small table and helped him remove his snow-sprinkled coat he took her in his arms and held her tightly, smiling into her upturned eyes. “Well, how are you. And how was I. I’m asking you, how was I?”

“How were you?” she repeated. “You were immense, marvelous.”

“Did I stretch a’em out before their loud speakers, no foolin’?”

“You did and no fooling! You really were wonderful. Your voice was like – well, like the deep clear tones of a pipe organ. I actually wept.”

“Atta-girl! I told you you’d be in tears before I got through with you. But lady, you weren’t the only one; even old Bergson had a strange feeling, decided he was sprouting a heart and raised me to six hundred iron men a week – once every seven days and an autographed contract.”

“Oh, Bruce, dear, actually?”

“Actually. Kiss Daddy.” When she had dutifully obliged him he picked her up bodily and whirled her into the other room, saying, “Let’s eat.”

“I’ll say we’ll eat. You can gorge yourself – indigestion at your own risk.” When they were seated and dinner was being served by their only servant she said, excitedly, “Gee, what a Christmas present.”

“What a Christmas present is right. Now you can have that Japanese Mink you’ve been raving about.”

“That isn’t half of it, darling,” she assured him, flushing. ‘Now I can have that new home I’ve been raving about.”

“Oh, yeah!” he laughed. “Not this week.” Then, in mock seriousness, “I’ll have to have a consultation with Saint (Big Shot) Nicholas about this. say, by the way, have you got the goose for tomorrow? You know Dad and the Mater will be here. We’ll have to spread ourselves.”

“I’ve got the goose and N.B.C.’s new featured artist will have to muss his-self all up helping get dinner. Listen, Bruce, before I forget it, whose poem was that you read last? That was what put the lump in people’s throats.”

“Oh, that? That was just a little piece somebody sent me through the studio. I did myself proud on that, no less.”

“It was a poignant thought and just the way a child might reason. I suppose there are homes where Santa won’t come and the man feels that he has failed those who trusted him,” she mused.

“Hey, quit getting soggy. it’s just a lot of sentimental bosh but with the depression on and Christmas in the air people swallow it whole. But, believe me you, the depression is over as far as yours truly and his spouse are concerned.”

She shook her head at him and half smiled. “You’re peculiar. You read as though you had known all the sorrow in the world and there’s no sympathy in you.”

“You don’t say? Well, I’ll bet the man or woman that wrote that hasn’t much more. Can we help it if we’re talented. There were several dozen phone calls congratulating me and asking for the name of the author of the piece but of course, I didn’t give it out. Do you want to hear me read it, just to see if the “mike” does me justice?” He took a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and began reading slowly, beautifully:

“A CHILD’S PRAYER.”

“God, Daddy lost his job today
And we all cried, because
My Mama said at Christmas time
There’d be no Santa Claus.

“My Daddy said he felt the worst
Because we had such faith in him,
And felt so sure he would succeed
And be like big, important men.

“But God, You know that he is just
The finest man of all.
And we know just as well as you
’Twas not his fault at all.

“He’s done his very, very best,
And think how bad he’ll feel
If Santa doesn’t come, he’ll think
It was his fault – for real.

“So you surprise my Mama, God,
Tell Santa sure to come this way
And let my Daddy get a job –
In Jesus’ name I pray.”

When he had finished, tears glistened in his young wife’s eyes. “I wish we could have done something for someone unfortunate, Bruce, this Christmas,” she murmured. “We have so much.”

“Don’t be silly. Be Thankful we’re able to take care of ourselves. Now, you run upstairs and finish wrapping and I’ll go in and get my program lined up for next week. We’ve raved so much about Christmas giving, after tomorrow we can start talking about the bills.”

When he entered his dimly lighted study he was startled to see the figure of a man bending above his small safe. He hesitated, then thought to step quietly forward to his desk, but the man turned and in a low voice, not quite steady, said, “Don’t move, and put up your hands.”

Bruce raised his hands, smiling. “You’re a bit early for this sort of thing aren’t you?”

“Yes,” retorted the stranger, who was a man about forty with a good face and a wistful smile. “But you see, the money I was goin’ to get wouldn’t be much good if I got it much later.”

Bruce looked at him thoughtfully, and after a moment the other man went on nervously. “I’m not really a thief. I’ve never thought of stealing a thing in my life until about two hours ago.

“I was listening in on the radio and sort of wondering if it was all worthwhile and some old feller began reading some poetry. I don’t know who he was or who wrote the stuff but I knew suddenly that it might have been written by my own little girl. I knew too that Santa Claus wasn’t going to disappoint her if I had to take a chance on jail to get him there. So, here I am.”

“Well – ” began Bruce, startled, then hesitated and said rather slowly, coldly, “Don’t bother explaining. Take what you want and get out.”

The man went to turn back to the safe but instead began talking again. ‘You see I haven’t just one little girl. There are six kids at home who think I am “the finest man of all,” as that poem said. You don’t understand; you’re just a kid yourself, but the one who wrote that poem understood and the one who read it. I’m honestly sorry to break in on you this way and sorrier to have you catch me. Say the word and I’ll get out.”

Bruce smiled. “My arms are getting tired so you’ll have to go pretty quick, but there isn’t any money in that safe. If you’ll let me get my hand to my pocket I’ll give you some, though.”

Much to his surprise his visitor lowered the gun, saying, “Sure.” And Bruce knew he was telling the truth. This man wasn’t a professional thief. He could no sooner have reached for his gun than this man could have disappointed six pairs of eager eyes. he reached in his pocket, drew out six one hundred dollar bills and handed them to him. “This should make a pretty good Christmas.”

He shook his head, tears in his eyes. “Gee, I couldn’t take all of that.”

“Why not? If you’re not working you’ll need something to tide you over a little while.”

“Well, there is a Santa Claus. But just to prove that I’m not really bad, you give me your name and address and I’ll pay ever cent of this back. I don’t know when, but I will.”

“Don’t blubber. I don’t want it back. I’ll just figure it in with the rest of my Christmas expenses. Now beat it, and a Merry Christmas!”

Bruce gave a start a few moments later and turned from the window where he was standing as Ruth came into the room.

“Why all the star-gazing?” she queried.

“Well, among other things, there was a star in that story of the first Christmas – if I remember correctly,” he retorted with a short, forced laugh.

“Gee, Bruce, you look like you’ve been crying,” she accused him.

“Who? Me? On a night like this? What a laugh.”