This was a genuine disappointment, as poignantly felt as will be any more obvious tragedy of your adult years. But, like all sorrows of childhood, it had the blessed quality of brevity. Now, on the day after Christmas, you contemplate with favor your tin monkey. One of his legs is broken, but he has come off his stick, and is therefore the more agreeable companion. Your father's apology for Santa Claus--to the effect that the baboon of your desire would have walked off with your stockings if he had been placed in them--seems reasonable. And there is manna for your soul in the thought that your father will take you to the Bronx Zoo this afternoon, and that you then can show your tin monkey to the baboon that lives there.

This peaceful meditation is one of the most delightfully comfortable features of the day after Christmas. This day has not the concentrated excitement of Christmas. It is, I think, the most restful day in the year. It is not marked, like January 2, with the shock of receiving bills and the strain of keeping new resolutions. It is a delightfully lazy day, a sort of sublimated Sunday afternoon.

And one conclusion which you should draw from your St. Stephen's Day meditation is that the n.o.bility of Christmas traditions and customs is proved by their surviving the most unfavorable, even absurd, conditions of life. It was not difficult for the Puritans to destroy the Maypole; its gay garlands never rose from the dust into which their iron heels trod them. But the Christmas tree--which even more than the Maypole was an idolatrous abomination to those of our forefathers who turned "the sword of the Lord and of Gideon" against the primitive red citizens of New England--the Christmas tree blooms with new splendor every year. It is set up even in the conventicle and New Salems which the Pilgrims established, and as its green branches glow with their precious freight of scarlet and gold, around it dance--tango, in fact--the descendants of John Alden and Priscilla Mullens.

But the Christmas tree and its attendant glories have survived an a.s.sault sterner than that of the Puritans. They are healthily surviving modern metropolitan conditions--the deadly foe of many gracious things.

And the mere fact of survival is itself beautiful. It is very fine, of course, for Santa Claus to clamber down the broad chimney of a great farmhouse. But it is really n.o.ble of him to penetrate the mysterious smokestacks of a New York building, and, making some subtle use, I suppose, of the steam radiator, to visit every apartment which has its complement of childhood. It is admirable for a country child to believe in Santa Claus; but how much more admirable is the faith of the city child, the faith which stands the shock of the imitation Santa Clauses who strut about the department stores and beg at every corner!

These things, I said, are natural fruits of after-Christmas meditations.

And the Christmas tree remains--although the gifts that surrounded it have been taken away, it is a pleasanter sight than it was yesterday, because it is already a beautiful old friend, a friend to whom we are grateful. It does not look ridiculous because its great day is gone, as, for example, a fire-cracker looks ridiculous on July 5. For Christmas is more than a day, it is a season, of which December 25 is only the commencement. And as the Christmas tree seems pleasanter and more friendly when some of its needles have formed little green aromatic heaps on the carpet, and when the china angel and two or three of the red gla.s.s b.a.l.l.s have been taken down for the baby to play with--so does the Christmas season seem pleasanter and more friendly when its first great feast and pageant has come to its joyous close and become a part of time's rich treasury of golden days.

FUGITIVE PIECES

THE ASHMAN

PEOPLE

AN ASHMAN.

A POLICEMAN.

A LITTLE GIRL IN GREEN.

SCENE: _A city alley. The ASHMAN is fastening a nosebag on his horse, which is harnessed to a wagon half-filled with ashes. A POLICEMAN is watching him._

TIME: _Noon._

POLICEMAN

What do you feed him? Ashes?

ASHMAN

No, I don't!

I feed him Harps. Come over here, you b.o.o.b, And let him bite your face, he's hungry!

POLICEMAN

Aw!

You're nothing but a Harp yourself, you poor Old G.o.d-forsaken ashman; Or a wop, Or some fool kind of foreigner.

ASHMAN

O h.e.l.l!

You make me sick, you big fat pie-faced mutt!

Get out, you spoil my horse's appet.i.te!

POLICEMAN

I'd hate to be your horse, but then I guess I'd rather be your horse than you. (_Exit._)

(_A LITTLE GIRL IN GREEN appears from behind the wagon._)

LITTLE GIRL

h.e.l.lo!

ASHMAN

h.e.l.lo there, kiddo! Where did _you_ come from?

(_Climbs to his seat on the wagon, takes out a tin pail, and begins to eat his lunch._)

LITTLE GIRL

I think I'd like some bread and b.u.t.ter, please!

ASHMAN

All right, old girl, just take a bite of that.

(_Tosses his half loaf down to her._)

LITTLE GIRL

There isn't any b.u.t.ter on it.

ASHMAN

No.

I haven't got no b.u.t.ter. But it's good, It's first-rate bread, all right.

LITTLE GIRL (_tossing back the loaf, from which she has taken a bite_)

Thanks very much! Thanks, Captain Thunder!

ASHMAN

Huh?

You're a queer kid, all right, and hungry, too, To eat dry bread. (_Eats some of the bread._) Why d.a.m.n my eyes!

G.o.d's wounds!

Here's scurvy provender. (_Throws the bread down._) And scurvy mirth!

What, Kate! Dear Kate o' the Green, well met, well met.

Slip up and sit beside me, la.s.s! It's not The first time you have been upon this seat.

LITTLE GIRL (_climbing up beside him_)