by A. A. Milne
* * *
"What difference, I should like to know?" says the old hen-turkey, pretty snappishly.
* * *
"People have got souls, and turkeys haven't," says the other little girl.
* * *
"I don't see how that makes it any better," says the old hen-turkey. "It don't make it any better for the turkeys. If we haven't got any souls, we can't live after we've been eaten up, and you can."
* * *
The other little girl was awfully frightened to have the hen-turkey take that tack.
* * *
"I should think she would 'a' been," said the little girl; and she cuddled snugger into her papa's arms. "What could she say? Ugh! Go on."
* * *
Well, she didn't know what to say, that's a fact. You see, she never thought of it in that light before. All she could say was, "Well, people have got reason, anyway, and turkeys have only got instinct; so there!"
* * *
"You'd better look out," says the old hen-turkey; and all the little turkey chicks got so mad they just hopped, and the oldest little he-turkey, that was just beginning to be a gobbler, he dropped his wings and spread his tail just like his father, and walked round the other little girl till it was perfectly frightful.
* * *
"I should think they would 'a' been ashamed."
* * *
Well, perhaps old First Premium was a little; because he stopped them. "My dear," he says to the old hen-turkey, and chick-chickledren, "you forget yourselves; you should have a little consideration. Perhaps you wouldn't behave much better yourselves if you were just going to be eaten."
* * *
And they all began to scream and to cry, "We've been eaten, and we're nothing but turkey ghosts."
* * *
"There, now, papa," says the little girl, sitting up straight, so as to argue better, "I knew it wasn't true, all along. How could turkeys have ghosts if they don't have souls, I should like to know?"
* * *
"Oh, easily," said the papa.
* * *
"Tell how," said the little girl.
* * *
"Now look here," said the papa, "are you telling this story, or am I?"
* * *
"You are," said the little girl, and she cuddled down again. "Go on."
* * *
"Well, then, don't you interrupt. Where was I? Oh yes."
* * *
Well, he couldn't do anything with them, old First Premium couldn't. They acted perfectly ridiculous, and one little brat of a spiteful little chick piped out, "I speak for a drumstick, ma!" and then they all began: "I want a wing, ma!" and "I'm going to have the wish-bone!" and "I shall have just as much stuffing as ever I please, shan't I, ma?" till the other little girl was perfectly disgusted with them; she thought they oughtn't to say it before her, anyway; but she had hardly thought this before they all screamed out, "They used to say it before us," and then she didn't know what to say, because she knew how people talked before animals.
* * *
"I don't believe I ever did," said the little girl. "Go on."
* * *
Well, old First Premium tried to quiet them again, and when he couldn't he apologized to the other little girl so nicely that she began to like him. He said they didn't mean any harm by it; they were just excited, and chickledren would be chickledren.
* * *
"Yes," said the other little girl, "but I think you might take some older person to begin with. It's a perfect shame to begin with a little girl."
* * *
"Begin!" says old First Premium. "Do you think we're just beginning? Why, when do you think it is?"
* * *
"The night after Thanksgiving."
* * *
"What year?"
* * *
"1886."
* * *
They all gave a perfect screech. "Why, it's Christmas Eve, 1900, and every one of your friends has been eaten up long ago," says old First Premium, and he began to cry over her, and the old hen-turkey and the little turkey chicks began to wipe their eyes on the backs of their wings.
* * *
"I don't think they were very neat," said the little girl.
* * *
Well, they were kind-hearted, anyway, and they felt sorry for the other little girl. And she began to think she had made some little impression on them, when she noticed the old hen-turkey beginning to untie her bonnet strings, and the turkey chicks began to spread round her in a circle, with the points of their wings touching, so that she couldn't get out, and they commenced dancing and singing, and after a while that little he-turkey says, "Who's it?" and the other little girl, she didn't know why, says, "I'm it," and old First Premium says, "Do you promise?" and the other little girl says, "Yes, I promise," and she knew she was promising, if they would let her go, that people should never eat turkeys any more. And the moon began to shine brighter and brighter through the turkeys, and pretty soon it was the sun, and then it was not the turkeys, but the window-curtains--it was one of those old farm-houses where they don't have blinds--and the other little girl--
* * *
"Woke up!" shouted the little girl. "There now, papa, what did I tell you? I knew it was a dream all along."
* * *
"No, she didn't," said the papa; "and it wasn't a dream."
* * *
"What was it, then?"
* * *
"It was a--trance."
* * *
The little girl turned round, and knelt in her papa's lap, so as to take him by the shoulders and give him a good shaking. That made him promise to be good, pretty quick, and, "Very well, then," says the little girl; "if it wasn't a dream, you've got to prove it."
* * *
"But how can I prove it?" says the papa.
* * *
"By going on with the story," says the little girl, and she cuddled down again.
* * *
"Oh, well, that's easy enough."
* * *
As soon as it was light in the room, the other little girl could see that the place was full of people, crammed and jammed, and they were all awfully excited, and kept yelling, "Down with the traitress!" "Away with the renegade!" "Shame on the little sneak!" till it was worse than the turkeys, ten times.
* * *
She knew that they meant her, and she tried to explain that she just had to promise, and that if they had been in her place they would have promised too; and of course they could do as they pleased about keeping her word, but she was going to keep it, anyway, and never, never, never eat another piece of turkey either at Thanksgiving or at Christmas.
* * *
"Very well, then," says an old lady, who looked like her grandmother, and then began to have a crown on, and to turn into Queen Victoria, "what can we have?"
* * *
"Well," says the other little girl, "you can have oyster soup."
* * *
"What else?"
* * *
"And you can have cranberry sauce."
* * *
"What else?"
* * *
"You can have mashed potatoes, and Hubbard squash, and celery, and turnip, and cauliflower."
* * *
"What else?"
* * *
"You can have mince-pie, and pandowdy, and plum-pudding."
* * *
"And not a thing on the list," says the Queen, "that doesn't go with turkey! Now you see."
* * *
The papa stopped.
* * *
"Go on," said the little girl.
* * *
"There isn't any more."
* * *
The little girl turned round, got up on her knees, took him by the shoulders, and shook him fearfully. "Now, then," she said, while the papa let his head wag, after the shaking, like a Chinese mandarin's, and it was a good thing he did not let his tongue stick out. "Now, will you go on? What did the people
eat in place of turkey?"
* * *
"I don't know."
* * *
"You don't know, you awful papa! Well, then, what did the little girl eat?"
* * *
"She?" The papa freed himself, and made his preparation to escape. "Why she--oh, she ate goose. Goose is tenderer than turkey, anyway, and more digestible; and there isn't so much of it, and you can't overeat yourself, and have bad--"
* * *
"Dreams!" cried the little girl.
* * *
"Trances," said the papa, and she began to chase him all round the room.
Christmas
William Henry Davies
Christmas
Christmas has come, let's eat and drink—
This is no time to sit and think;
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
Let all men now get rid of care,
And what one has let others share;
Then 'tis the same, no matter which
Of us is poor, or which is rich.
Let each man have enough this day,
Since those that can are glad to pay;
There's nothing now too rich or good
For poor men, not the King's own food.
Now like a singing bird my feet
Touch earth, and I must drink and eat.
Welcome to all men: I'll not care
What any of my fellows wear;
We'll not let cloth divide our souls,
They'll swim stark naked in the bowls.
Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see
That hand of yours dislodge a flea,—
While you sit at my side and beg,
Or right foot scratching your left leg.
Farewell restraint: we will not now
Measure the ale our brains allow,
But drink as much as we can hold.
We'll count no change when we spend gold;
This is no time to save, but spend,
To give for nothing, not to lend.
Let foes make friends: let them forget
The mischief-making dead that fret
The living with complaint like this—
"He wronged us once, hate him and his."
Christmas has come; let every man
Eat, drink, be merry all he can.
Ale's my best mark, but if port wine
Or whisky's yours—let it be mine;
No matter what lies in the bowls,
We'll make it rich with our own souls.
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
A Christmas Mystery
The Story of Three Wise Men
William J. Locke
A Christmas Mystery
Three men who had gained great fame and honour throughout the world met unexpectedly in front of the bookstall at Paddington Station. Like most of the great ones of the earth they were personally acquainted, and they exchanged surprised greetings.
* * *
Sir Angus McCurdie, the eminent physicist, scowled at the two others beneath his heavy black eyebrows.
* * *
"I'm going to a God-forsaken place in Cornwall called Trehenna," said he.
* * *
"That's odd; so am I," croaked Professor Biggleswade. He was a little, untidy man with round spectacles, a fringe of greyish beard and a weak, rasping voice, and he knew more of Assyriology than any man, living or dead. A flippant pupil once remarked that the Professor's face was furnished with a Babylonic cuneiform in lieu of features.
* * *
"People called Deverill, at Foulis Castle?" asked Sir Angus.
* * *
"Yes," replied Professor Biggleswade.
* * *
"How curious! I am going to the Deverills, too," said the third man.
* * *
This man was the Right Honourable Viscount Doyne, the renowned Empire Builder and Administrator, around whose solitary and remote life popular imagination had woven many legends. He looked at the world through tired grey eyes, and the heavy, drooping, blonde moustache seemed tired, too, and had dragged down the tired face into deep furrows. He was smoking a long black cigar.
* * *
"I suppose we may as well travel down together," said Sir Angus, not very cordially.
* * *
Lord Doyne said courteously: "I have a reserved carriage. The railway company is always good enough to place one at my disposal. It would give me great pleasure if you would share it."
* * *
The invitation was accepted, and the three men crossed the busy, crowded platform to take their seats in the great express train. A porter, laden with an incredible load of paraphernalia, trying to make his way through the press, happened to jostle Sir Angus McCurdie. He rubbed his shoulder fretfully.
* * *
"Why the whole land should be turned into a bear garden on account of this exploded superstition of Christmas is one of the anomalies of modern civilization. Look at this insensate welter of fools travelling in wild herds to disgusting places merely because it's Christmas!"
* * *
"You seem to be travelling yourself, McCurdie," said Lord Doyne.
* * *
"Yes--and why the devil I'm doing it, I've not the faintest notion," replied Sir Angus.
* * *
"It's going to be a beast of a journey," he remarked some moments later, as the train carried them slowly out of the station. "The whole country is under snow--and as far as I can understand we have to change twice and wind up with a twenty-mile motor drive."
* * *
He was an iron-faced, beetle-browed, stern man, and this morning he did not seem to be in the best of tempers. Finding his companions inclined to be sympathetic, he continued his lamentation.
* * *
"And merely because it's Christmas I've had to shut up my laboratory and give my young fools a holiday--just when I was in the midst of a most important series of experiments."
* * *
Professor Biggleswade, who had heard vaguely of and rather looked down upon such new-fangled toys as radium and thorium and helium and argon--for the latest astonishing developments in the theory of radio-activity had brought Sir Angus McCurdie his world-wide fame--said somewhat ironically:
* * *
"If the experiments were so important, why didn't you lock yourself up with your test tubes and electric batteries and finish them alone?"
* * *
"Man!" said McCurdie, bending across the carriage, and speaking with a curious intensity of voice, "d'ye know I'd give a hundred pounds to be able to answer that question?"
* * *
"What do you mean?" asked the Professor, startled.
* * *
"I should like to know why I'm sitting in this damned train and going to visit a couple of addle-headed society people whom I'm scarcely acquainted with, when I might be at home in my own good company furthering the progress of science."
* * *
"I myself," said the Professor, "am not acquainted with them at all."
* * *
It was Sir Angus McCurdie's turn to look surprised.
* * *
"Then why are you spending Christmas with them?"
* * *
"I reviewed a ridiculous blank-verse tragedy written by Deverill on the Death of Sennacherib. Historically it was puerile. I said so in no measured terms. He wrote a letter claiming to be a poet and not an archæologist. I replied that the day had passed when poets could with impunity commit the abominable crime of distorting history. He retorted with some futile argument, and we went on exchanging letters, until his invitation and my acceptance concluded the correspondence."
* * *
McCurdie, still bending his black brows on him, asked him why he had not declined. The Professor screwed up his face till it looked more like a cuneiform than ever. He, too, found the question difficult to answer, but
he showed a bold front.
