WEDNESDAY. DECEMBER 17, 1930
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UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN, LAWRENCE, KANSAS
- CHALKINGS-
A CHRISTMAS CARO(USA)L
This evening as I sat in the reserve room of the library reading history, but at the same time keeping a mental eye open on the subject of a Christmas story he wrote to write for the editor of this column, a Russian friend of mine came by.
"S——" I said, "Give me an idea for a Christmas story."
"Tell one about a Christmas tree," he replied instantly, his dark face grimming and his words coming out with a Jewish rapidity.
"Tell how they celebrate Christmas in Russia."
I was interested. "How do they do
it?"
His griming face sparkled the more "Just like they do here only everybody gets drunk as hell about midnight."
We kidded each other a bit and he went on to his work.
I sat there a moment and tried to go back to the history. Then I thought of it—one of the stories that the sage told me about Christmas trees became intoxicated.
Now as you all know, be a Christmas tree in no joke. First you are shuilt and bursts into a sprig of seed until a spring rain comes along and bursts it; wherever you push up through the earth and scream for air, you get old Old Mother Nature. Then a cold bit wind blows on you awake—then the tree snaps up and you jump up into your needles and you grow. After you grow awhile, you naturally increase in size, and by the time you reach the bottom, obliging bulky fellow comes in and helps you along with an ax. Then you turn to a girl who asks, "Do you ask, did you say?"—brothers hells—the villains gavage you and rub your needles off and there is none of that concern; that writes wrongly you believe.
When you finally get out, it is only to have braces naked onto your trunk and be set up in some only glittering clothing. You should also personality for about a week and be loaded down with all sorts of junk. You get all tied down with green and white clothing. It's a terrible feeling? Ask any Christmas tree. In the warm room, all your needles begin to press off, too, and before long you will be pregnant (the human wrestle) dispense with you anyway, but you hardly have time to enjoy the outdoors after being touched in the back yard when you are cut up and thrown in
Well, as I was saying, being a Christmas tree is a decidedly unpleasant occupation, but if you're born in it, what can you do?
This feeling got circulated about among the evergreens from year to year and rest of despondency seemed to rest over the whole collection bush get an idea. He lived up on a cold slope and was rather lonesome and felt that his berries were unappreciated. That was about the time that they came out of the crude oil/alcohol solution mixed with arsenic and forget what a nice juicy beverage could be made from the little red peltes. They were good for little pines and spruces in the vicinity his plan. They were a bit skeptical, but the word got about as words do, you know, and before long all of the little Christmas trees-elect know what the
Accordingly, as Christmas drew near, an expectant, rushing hush fell over the congregation of forest babies all the same. A mason-hood. Each and every one had his instructions and in the woodcutters came, they got busy. Every time one arrived, a crowd gathered; maybe he fell-down a little too soon and crashed against the woodcutter's biphask and drank up the old war cry. Many of them got well lit up at this time. Of course only a limited number of them could get their cues that easily. Many of them got to the big cities and the country hamlets, the school Christmas exercises and the apartment house parties. Many of them got to the town store windows. Some of them off trucks and as the drivers were coming in, they took them into the paths of anger motorists and let their branches soak up the revelting spirits flowing from the broken windows. They filled postes for decoration of the city street received their share from late goer home who were ready to listen to an event that the tree that waved to them.
As Christmas approached and preparations for New Year's were well under way, their opportunities were tipped to be made as assistants were equally tripped as they went proudly along the streets; those inside houses could crush the gaily capreseened desserts setting the fragrant lougers drip from limb to limb, drop the fragments of paper wrapped glues to the floor and pretended that they didn't do anything. And themselves well hot with the fumes of the brandy in the cooking mincemeat permeating their branches. One even fell from the top of a twenty-inch table while another certain thing that cures a thing while is represented by two capital letters and landed in a boottender's whole earl's truck. He got a tremendous笑.
Then came Christmas Eve-ah! that was an occasion! Hundreds of trees
fell over into punchbowl, many were fortunate enough to be in the corner where little Johnny and his sweetheart from next door exchanged samples of their favorite wine and as the night were on—well, practically all of the Christmas trees in the world got it up. What a surprise! They did not write about it, but was the night that Christmas really got celebrated and how? As they (the dissolve wretches) got happier and then they got drunk, intoxicated, lit up, exhibited, stupifying, tighter than drums, besides being delirious and having a fear of fire, had been flung on Eizla's on the ice from chair to mantlepiece to sofa to floor. By the time they (the insane mermakers) were ready to unwrap the dress, they had been flung in every direction, and tramped upon, and torn to shreds, and altogether were in a terrible state, but they had been flung in every direction, and enjoyed them, and father would get no neckties or siecles or ties that would be torture undulated to use, the miserable girl who had been flung in three other sizes larger—baby, it was a swell size! There would be no need, either for anyone to make her feel better, or for three
There's one thing that brothers mear about Christmas though. How come that everything is slick as a whistle when the door is running on the floor, and the presents are arranged in a colorful array? And how come children come down in the morning? And how come I've got a splitting headache that starts the whole day wrong?
Maybe I just dreamed this—o maybe—"
Elliott Penner. Quill Club.
To One Who Will Understand
My armor, dear, graw, heavy-
I cannot wear it long.
But dare I put it off?
This gay, sarcastic cloak.
This lance of bitter words
Cannot endure much more
But won't you give a sign
To tell me that it's safe
To take my arm oril?
My pride is tender, dear—
Or will you ever care?
Or must I keep my cloak?
A REAL CHRISTMAS By E. Clyde Thoroman
The day before Christmas was fast drawing to a close. "Lucky Bill" Denton watched the bustle and bustle about him with a rather melancholy refrence. Christmas was just another day. He saw that he was filled. He beamed grimly at the thought of the name, Perhaphe he was luckier. However it did not seem so to him.
He had take nit very well and gom to work, and in the twelve years that followed he had become a private office with his name in gold letters on the door. But somehow at Christmas time when she brought out much of things and very much alone, Christmas meant only a short respite from the grind of daily life. He took her to the office were chattering to each other about the things they were going to do on Christmas, and all the men were going to Christmas." He wished they wouldn't. The office had closed at noon and one by one they had filed out, each going to Christmas."
Bill had been overexercised in the war and by one of those peculiar tricks of fate had come out of the hospital well in every respect except for the one he had seen. He was not a newborn who he was or where came from, but his past was a black
"The worst of it is I can't get any connections that will get me home until late tomorrow afternoon. I never missed Christmas at home before."
"I was," she answered, and there was a little catch in her voice. He waited. She took it out of the bag and would finish this report, and I didn't realize it was so late."
He was tired; he dropped his head on his desk. Sometimes later he swore in a bottle and then looked at his watch. Past four o'clock. He put on his overcoat, took up his hat, and walked out of the girl stood looking out of a window. "Why, Mice Burke," he exclaimed. "What?"
Devil of a fx, though Bill to himself.
Hated it terribly.
"How far is it home?" he asked.
"Oh, almost two hundred and fifty miles," she answered with a wry little smile.
Confound it be might as well take the girl home and at least make one porron happy for Christmas
"Are you ready to go?" he asked
That is, could you leave right away?
"Why, yes, I have my bag here a the office, but—"
"Well, we'll go as soon as I can bring my ear around. Can't let you miss your Christmas like this."
"Nothing to do myself but loaf
around. Till be slud to."
As he went to get the car he thought to himself. No wl have put my foot in it. I suppose the girl has a half a dozen younger brothers and sisters who will be under one's feet or on one's lap. Well it's done now. Here we
He bundled her into the car and soon they were spending along the highway. On the way she told him to be careful. The mother, her younger brother just finishing school, old Mrs. Hassler who lived with her friend. He half-ladles her son to bed. They tuck in his mind. Funny, about that tune, he thought, it was the only connection between the press and past life. If he could only remember.
It was late when they arrived at the Burke home but the family were still decorating the Christmas tree and arranging the decorations and the presents. Funny, thought Bill as he enjoyed it. The novelty of it all, Merry Christmas is guessed to be Christmas. This Alba is nice girl people too. And that brother, how did he be filled important with gifts, and how did Bill wonder if he had been as much of a boy at his age. Well, it was Christmas Eve. He turned out the light and
Morning was cold, and it was late when Bill arose. He looked out of
--the window to be greeted by a white work world, he knew, he said to him. "The morning has gone and I had forgotten to get a few things so he decided to go down town. It was dinner time."
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The family was waiting for him when he returned. "This," said Alma, "is quite clear. We had a granddaughter, sweet, old lady with beautiful white hair. Bill had almost forgotten what Alma had said about the woman. He was a great success. One of those affairs with turkey, and drowning. Bill knew what she was like that back in his keyhole days.
After dinner when Bill was alone for a few minutes he thought of Mrs. Hsler. Strangely familiar, she seemed. As he was thinking of her daughter he said, "What was she playing? It was his tune, his old tune. As she played he hummed
Rowlands
it. Suddenly it all came back to him.
He knew who he was. The gray hairied woman turned down the piano. "Billy Boy," the voice overrover.
To Be Sung to One's Self
 Their weekly scheme of social life is ten. a bridge, two dimmers. a fireplace, two dressers. a lime they must be direct sunners.)
"Muvur," sobbed Bill. She was in his arms in an inster, the white head against his shoulder. "Ive waited so long, Billy Boy."
Now I've stayed home with some good
...
This month I'm ten pounds thinner—but, ch to, ch in the social life With bridge, a tea, and dinner! —Jaka Turone.
No time than winter could be worse
for writing sentimental verse.
One should instead be rather tense
when expressing one's feelings and curse.
Nor wish to occupy a hearse.
But now though sadly out of purse,
I'll quit to prove I need no nurse.
And that I've learned there are things
... none.
Than even sentimental verse. N.C.
SEARCH
She passed the one lone hyacinth that bloomed beside her door . . .
She said there was no beauty, Except in things that were no more.
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She sought for beauty far away,
Nor thought to look near-by ...
She watched her only hyacinth
Turn palm, and fade away, and die
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