by jeff brown
Mr. Lambchop cleared his throat. “I understand, Mr.—No, that can’t be right. What is the proper form of address?”
“Depends where you’re from. ‘Santa’ is the American way. But I’m known also as Father Christmas, Père Noel, Babbo Natale, Julenisse … Little country, way off somewhere, they call me ‘The Great Hugga Wagoo.’”
“Hugga Wagoo?” Arthur laughed loudly, and Mrs. Lambchop shook her head at him.
Mr. Lambchop continued. “We understand, sir—Santa, if I may?—that you propose not to make your rounds this year. We are here to ask that you reconsider.”
“Reconsider?” said Sarah’s father. “The way things are these days? Hah! See for yourselves!”
The big TV in the corner clicked on, and he switched from channel to channel.
The first channel showed battleships firing flaming missiles; the second, airplanes dropping bombs; the third, cars crashing other cars. Then came buildings burning, people begging for food, people hitting each other, people firing pistols at policemen. The last channel showed a game show, men and women in chicken costumes grabbing for prizes in a pool of mud.
Sarah’s father switched off the TV. “Peace on Earth? Goodwill toward men? Been wasting my time, it seems!”
“You have been watching far too much television,” said Mrs. Lambchop. “No wonder you take a dim view of things.”
“Facts are facts, madam! Everywhere, violence and greed! Hah! Right here in my own office, a whole family come begging for Christmas treats!”
The Lambchops were deeply shocked.
“I’m greedy sometimes,” said Stanley. “But not always.”
“I’m quite nice, actually,” Arthur said. “And Stanley’s even nicer than me.”
“I, dear,” said Mrs. Lambchop. “Nicer than I.”
Mr. Lambchop, finding it hard to believe that he was at the North Pole having a conversation like this, chose his words with care.
“You misjudge us, sir,” he said. “There is indeed much violence in the world, and selfishness. But not everyone—we Lambchops, for example—”
“Hah! Different, are you?” Sarah’s father spoke into the little box on his desk. “Yo! Elf Ewald?”
“Central Files,” said a voice from the box. “Ewald here.”
“Ewald,” said Sarah’s father. “Check this year’s letters, under ‘U.S.A.’ Bring me the ‘Lambchop’ file.”
5
The Letters
Elf Ewald had come and gone, leaving behind a large brown folder.
“Not greedy, Lambchops? We shall see!” Sarah’s father drew a letter from the folder and read it aloud.
“ ‘Dear Santa, My parents say I can’t have a real car until I’m grown up. I want one now. A big red one. Make that two cars, both red.’ Hah! Hear that? Shameful!”
Mrs. Lambchop shook her head. “I should be interested,” she said, “to learn who wrote that letter?”
“It is signed—hmmmm … Frederic. Frederic Lampop.”
Stanley laughed. “Our name’s not ‘Lampop!’ And we don’t even know any Frederics!”
“Mistakes do happen, you know! I get millions of letters!” Sarah’s father drew from the folder again. “Ah! This one’s from you!”
“‘Dear Santa,’ he read. ‘I hope you are fine. I need lots of gifts this year. Shoes and socks and shirts and pants and underwear. And big tents. At least a hundred of each would be nice—’ A hundred! There’s greediness!”
“It does seem a bit much, Stanley,” said Mr. Lambchop. “And why tents, for goodness sake?”
“You’ll see,” said Stanley.
Sarah’s father read on. “ ‘… of each would be nice. But not delivered to my house. It was on TV about a terrible earthquake in South America where all the houses fell down, and people lost all their clothes and don’t have anywhere to live. Please take everything to where the earthquake was. Thank you. Your friend, Stanley Lambchop. P.S. I would send my old clothes, but they are mostly from when I was flat and wouldn’t fit anybody else.’ ”
“Good for you, Stanley!” said Mrs. Lambchop. “A fine idea, the tents.”
“Hmmph! One letter, that’s all.” Sarah’s father chose another letter. “This one’s got jam on it.”
“Excuse me,” said Arthur. “I was eating a sandwich.”
“ ‘Dear Santa,’ Sarah’s father read, ‘I have hung up a pillowcase instead of a stocking—’ Hah! The old pillowcase trick!”
“Wait!” cried Arthur. “Read the rest!”
“ ‘… instead of a stocking. Please fill this up with chocolate bars, my favorite kind with nuts. My brother, Stanley, is writing to you about an earthquake, and how people there need clothes and tents and things. Well, I think they need food too, and little stoves to cook on.
So please give them the chocolate bars, and food and stoves. The bars should be the big kind. It doesn’t matter about the nuts. Sincerely, Arthur Lambchop.’
Mrs. Lambchop gave Arthur a little hug.
“All right, two letters,” said Sarah’s father. “But from brothers. Count as one, really.”
He took a last letter from the folder. “Nice penmanship, this one … Mr. and Mrs. George Lambchop! Now there’s a surprise!”
“Well, why not?” said Mrs. Lambchop.
Mr. Lambchop said, “No harm, eh, just dropping a line?”
Their letter was read.
“ ‘Dear Sir: Perhaps you expect letters from children only, since as people grow older they often begin to doubt that you truly exist. But when our two sons were very small, and asked if you were real, we said “yes.” And if they were to ask again now, we would not say “no.” We would say that you are not real, of course, for those who do not believe in you, but very real indeed for those who do. Our Christmas wish is that you will never have cause to doubt that Stanley and Arthur Lambchop, and their parents, take the latter position. Sincerely, Mr. and Mrs. George Lambchop, U.S.A.’ ”
Sarah’s father thought for a moment. “Hmmm … Latter position? Ah! Do believe. I see.”
“See, Poppa?” said Sarah. “No greediness! Not one—”
“Fine letters, Sarah. I agree.” There was sadness in the deep voice now. “But all, Sarah, from the same family that thought to deceive me with that ‘flatness’ story. Flat indeed!”
Mrs. Lambchop gasped. “Deceive? Oh, no!”
“Round is round, madam.” Sarah’s father shook his head. “The lad’s shape speaks for itself.”
The hearts of all the Lambchops sank within them. Their mission had failed, they thought. For millions and millions of children all over the world, a joyful holiday was lost, perhaps never to come again.
Arthur felt especially bad. It was his fault, he told himself, for thinking of that bicycle pump.
Stanley felt worst of all. If only he hadn’t grown tired of being flat, hadn’t let Arthur blow him round again! If only there were proof—
And then he remembered something.
“Wait!” he shouted, and stood on tiptoe to whisper in Mrs. Lambchop’s ear.
“What … ?” she said. “I can’t—the what? Oh! Yes! I had forgotten! Good for you, Stanley!”
Rummaging in her bag, she found her wallet, from which she drew a photograph. She gave it to Sarah’s father.
“Do keep that,” she said. “We have more at home.”
The snapshot had been taken by Mr. Lambchop the day after the big bulletin board fell on Stanley. It showed him, quite flat, sliding under a closed door. Only his top half was visible, smiling up at the camera. The bottom half was still behind the door.
For a long moment, as Sarah’s father studied the picture, no one spoke.
“My apologies, Lambchops,” he said at last. “Flat he is. Was, anyhow. I’ve half a mind to—” He sighed. “But those red cars, asking for two, that—”
“That was LamPOP!” cried Arthur. “Not—”
“Just teasing, lad!”
Sarah’s father had jumped up, a great smile
on his face.
“Yo, elves!” he shouted into his speaker phone. “Prepare to load gifts! Look lively! Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, you know!”
The next moments were joyful indeed.
“Thank you, thank you! … Hooray! … Hooray! … Hooray!” shouted Mr. and Mrs. Lambchop, and Stanley and Arthur and Sarah.
Sarah’s mother kissed everyone. Mrs. Lambchop kissed Sarah’s father, and almost fainted when she realized what she had done.
Then Sarah’s father asked Stanley to autograph the sliding-under-the-door picture, and when Stanley had written “All best wishes, S. Lambchop” across the picture, he pinned it to the wall.
“Blew him round, eh?” he said to Arthur. “Like to have seen that!”
He turned to Sarah. “Come, my dear! While I freshen up, teach me those reindeer names. Then I will see our visitors safely home!”
6
Going Home
A crowd of elves had gathered with Mrs. Christmas and Sarah to say good-bye. “Bless you, Lambchops!” they called. “Thank goodness you came! … Think if you hadn’t! … Whew! … Farewell, farewell!”
In the Great Sleigh, Sarah’s father took up the reins. “Ready, Lambchops?”
He made a fine appearance now, his hair and beard combed, and wearing a smart green cloak and cap. The famous red suit, he had explained, was reserved for delivering gifts.
“Good-bye, everyone!” called Mrs. Lambchop. “We will remember you always!”
“You bet!” cried Stanley. “I’ll never forget!”
“But you will, dear,” said Mrs. Christmas. “You will all forget.”
“Hardly.” Mr. Lambchop smiled. “An evening like this does not slip one’s mind.”
“Poppa will see to it, actually,” said Sarah. “Snow City, all of us here … We’re supposed to be, you know, sort of a mystery. Isn’t that silly? I mean, if—”
“Sarah!” her father said. “We must go.”
The Lambchops looked up at the night sky, still bright with stars, then turned for a last sight of the little red-roofed house behind them, and of the elves’ cottages about the snowy square.
“We are ready,” said Mr. Lambchop.
“Good-bye, good-bye!” called Mrs. Lambchop and Stanley and Arthur.
“Good-bye, good-bye!” called the elves, waving.
The eight reindeer tossed their heads, jingling their harness bells. One bell flew off, and Stanley caught the little silver cup in his hand. Suddenly, as before, the jingling stopped, all was silence, and the pale mist rose again about the sleigh.
Sarah’s father’s voice rang clear. “Come, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen! Come, Comet, Cupid, Donder and … oh, whatsisname?”
“Blitzen!” Stanley called.
“Thank you. Come, Blitzen! ”
The mist swirled, closing upon the sleigh.
7
Christmas
The Lambchops all remarked the next morning on how soundly they had slept, and how late. Mr. Lambchop ate breakfast in a rush.
“Will you be all day at the office, George?” Mrs. Lambchop asked. “It is Christmas Eve, you know.”
“There is much to do,” said Mr. Lambchop. “I will be kept late, I’m afraid.”
But there was little to occupy him at his office, since a practical joker had left word he would not be in. He was home by noon to join friends and family for carol singing about the neighborhood.
Mrs. Lambchop had the carolers in for hot chocolate, which was greatly admired. She had added cinnamon, she explained; the idea had just popped into her head. The carolers were all very jolly, and Frank Smith, who lived next door, made everyone laugh, the Lambchops hardest of all, by claiming he had seen reindeer on their lawn the night before.
On Christmas morning, they opened their gifts to each other, and gifts from relatives and friends. Then came a surprise for Stanley and Arthur. Mr. Lambchop had just turned on the TV news.
“… and now a flash from South America, from where the earthquake was,” the announcer was saying. “Homeless villagers here are giving thanks this morning for a tremendous supply of socks, shirts, underwear, and food. They have also received a thousand tents, and a thousand little stoves to cook on!” The screen showed a homeless villager, looking grateful.
“The tents, and the little stoves,” the villager said. “Just what we need! Bless whoever sends these tents and stoves! Also the many tasty chocolate bars with nuts!”
“He’s blessing me!” cried Stanley. “I asked for tents in my letter. But I wasn’t sure it would work.”
“Well, I wrote about stoves.” Arthur said. “And chocolate bars. But they didn’t have to have nuts.”
Happy coincidences! thought Mr. and Mrs. Lambchop, smiling at each other.
Christmas dinner, shared with various aunts, uncles, and cousins, was an enormous meal of turkey, yams, and three kinds of pie. Then everyone went ice-skating in the park. By bedtime, Stanley and Arthur were more than ready for sleep.
“A fine holiday,” said Mr. Lambchop, tucking Arthur in.
“Yes indeed.” Mrs. Lambchop tucked in Stanley. “Pleasant dreams, boys, and—What’s this?” She had found something on the table by his bed. “Why, it’s a little bell! A silver bell!”
“It was in my pocket,” Stanley said. “I don’t know what it’s from.”
“Pretty. Good night, you two,” said Mrs. Lambchop, and switched off the light.
The brothers lay silent for a moment in the dark.
“Stanley … ?” Arthur said. “It was a nice holiday, don’t you think?”
“Extra nice,” said Stanley. “ But why ? It’s as if I have something wonderful to remember, but can’t think what.”
“Me too. Merry Christmas, Stanley.”
“Merry Christmas, Arthur,” said Stanley, and soon they were both asleep.
THE END
DON’T MISS ANY OF THESE
OUTRAGEOUS STORIES:
Flat Stanley: His Original Adventure!
Stanley and the Magic Lamp
Invisible Stanley
Stanley’s Christmas Adventure
Stanley in Space
Stanley, Flat Again!
AND CATCH FLAT STANLEY’S
WORLDWIDE ADVENTURES:
The Mount Rushmore Calamity
The Great Egyptian Grave Robbery
The Japanese Ninja Surprise
The Intrepid Canadian Expedition
The Amazing Mexican Secret
Jeff Brown created the beloved character of Flat Stanley as a bedtime story for his sons. He has written other outrageous books about the Lambchop family, including Flat Stanley, Stanley and the Magic Lamp, Invisible Stanley, Stanley’s Christmas Adventure, Stanley in Space, and Stanley, Flat Again! You can learn more about Jeff Brown and Flat Stanley at www.flatstanleybooks.com.
Macky Pamintuan is an accomplished illustrator. He lives in the Philippines with his wife, Aymone, their baby girl, Alison, and their pet Westie, Winter.
For exclusive information on your favorite authors and artists, visit www.authortracker.com.
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The Big Bulletin Board
Breakfast was ready.
“I will go wake the boys,” Mrs. Lambchop said to her husband, George Lambchop. Just then their younger son, Arthur, called from the bedroom he shared with his brother, Stanley.
“Hey! Come and look! Hey!”
Mr. and Mrs. Lambchop were both very much in favor of politeness and careful speech. “Hay is for horses, Arthur, not people,” Mr. Lambchop said as they entered the bedroom. “Try to remember that.”
“Excuse me,” Arthur said. “But look!”
He pointed to Stanley’s bed. Across it lay the enormous bulletin board that Mr. Lambchop had given the boys a Christmas ago so that they could pin up pictures and messages and maps. It had fallen, during the night, on top of Stanley.
But Stanley was not hurt. In fact, he would still have bee
n sleeping if he had not been woken by his brother’s shout.
“What’s going on here?” he called out cheerfully from beneath the enormous board.
Mr. and Mrs. Lambchop hurried to lift it from the bed.
“Heavens!” said Mrs. Lambchop.
“Gosh!” said Arthur. “Stanley’s flat!”
“As a pancake,” said Mr. Lambchop. “Darndest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Let’s all have breakfast,” Mrs. Lambchop said. “Then Stanley and I will go see Dr. Dan and hear what he has to say.”
In his office, Dr. Dan examined Stanley all over.
“How do you feel?” he asked. “Does it hurt very much?”
“I felt sort of tickly for a while after I got up,” Stanley Lambchop said, “but I feel fine now.”
“Well, that’s mostly how it is with these cases,” said Dr. Dan.
“We’ll just have to keep an eye on this young fellow,” he said when he had finished the examination. “Sometimes we doctors, despite all our years of training and experience, can only marvel at how little we really know.”
Mrs. Lambchop said she thought Stanley’s clothes would have to be altered by the tailor now, so Dr. Dan told his nurse to take Stanley’s measurements.
Mrs. Lambchop wrote them down.
Stanley was four feet tall, about a foot wide, and half an inch thick.
Copyright
FOR DUNCAN
Stanley’s Christmas Adventure
Text copyright © 1993 by Jeff Brown
Illustrations by Macky Pamintuan, copyright © 2010 by HarperCollins Publishers.
