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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT, by WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS Poet's Biography First Line: About the end of august, one hot day Last Line: His voice came back, and Iawoke, of course. Alternate Author Name(s): Howells, W. D. Subject(s): Christmas; Santa Claus; Nativity, The; Nicholas, Saint | |||
I About the end of August, one hot day, As on the new-mown rowan grass I lay Under the ash whose flickering foliage made A crazy-quilt of sunshine and of shade For that soft bed, there came up from the sea A curious figure floundering on toward me. His coat looked somewhat like a coat of mail, And somewhat like a weather-beaten sail; His fluffy hair and beard were white as foam That crests the curling breakers when they comb Upon the beach, with glints of that cold green Which through the water's shattering bulk is seen, Showing itself within; and all without His head was rudely garlanded about With what at first seemed sea-weed. In his hand He bore, to help his steps, a sturdy wand, And as he wavered up my ragged lawn, He looked like Neptune with his sea-legs on, Using his trident for a walking-stick; And then my vision played itself the trick Of finding hitched below my sagging pier The god's sea-chariot with its team of queer Sea-horses resting in the gentle surf, And browsing on the edges of the turf There tangled with the tresses of the moss That round the wave-worn ledges sway and toss. All this I saw with half-shut, dreamy eyes, To which it did not bring the least surprise, And without troubling to get up and greet My unexpected visitor on my feet, "Chaire, Poseidon!" I began to speak, Lazily hailing him in his native Greek (Chaire, I will interpret, means Hello, Or at least Arnold's First Book taught me so), And then as he came staggering through my clover, "Sit down, old fellow; you seem half-seas-over, Even on the shore," I added for a joke, Always acceptable to seafaring folk. But suddenly, to my astonishment, Up-straightening from the staff on which he leant, He thundered, after an indignant pause, "Poseidon nothing! I am Santa Claus!" II The thunder of his tones was somewhat cracked, But otherwise I cannot say he lacked A certain majesty, and I own he made Me involuntarily sit up. Dismayed, But bound he should not think he had frightened me, I forced a laugh, and answered mockingly: "What are you giving me? At this time of year, You, Santa Claus! What are you doing here, Full four months before Christmas? Ah, come off!" He faltered, as if daunted by the scoff, And I pursued: "Neptune, this will not do; If you are Santa Claus, and are not you, Where are his emblems?" "Where are his emblems, man?" With renewed self-possession he began, "If these are not his emblems, what are these? This stifling beard and wig, and, if you please, This wreath of ground-pine? This fur overcoat White rabbit edging on a ground of goat? And these abominable rubber boots That stumble with me on your rowan roots, Worse than they ever do through drifted snow? And this long whip-stock? And down there below Under your pier, whose faithful reindeer wait, With whose accustomed sledge and well-known freight Of Christmas goods?the same old sweets and toys, For those same everlasting girls and boys! Which is their best way up?" I looked again, And saw that he was right. It was as plain As could be to that second glance, and I Humbled myself to make a fit reply. I owned the break that I had made, but pleaded, With somewhat more prolixity than needed, How the remarkable resemblance had Deluded me. Yet it was not so bad: Neptune was of an ancient family, And there were several much worse gods than he. "A heathen god!" Santa Claus frowned and puffed; But I perceived that he was not so huffed As if't had been some low-down demi-god. "Of course," I said, "but it was not so odd, Here by the sea-shore," and I tried to make The saint confess the logic of my break; And when I thought I had him pacified, I said 'twould always be a source of pride With me that he had called upon me here At thisfor himunpleasant time of year. What did I owe the honorWith a bellow, "Have you forgot?" the violent old fellow Demanded, and although I well could pardon Much to the heat, and would not have been hard on Any one who had lost his temper on a day Like that if dressed in his peculiar way, Still, it makes one always feel rather rotten To be reminded that he has forgotten. I roared, "Forgotten what?" in fierce disdain, And then was daunted when he came again. "Forgotten? Well, I am glad to have you hear it: You were to write about The Christmas Spirit For the next Christmas number of the WEEKLY. And I would counsel you to take it meekly. I come as editorially appointed, And I do not propose to be aroynted." "All in good time," I answered, hardily. "As to the promised paper, I agree. But why should I write of the Christmas Spirit In the hot heart of midsummer, or near it?" "Because," he said, "if you will keep your patience! They have arranged for copious illustrations, And these take time, as you yourself must own, Even with reproductions in half-tone, And still more time if they decide to print The illustrations in some sort of tint. Bring out your kodak-fiend, then, and I'll get My team of reindeer up out of the wet." He seemed to think that he had made a joke, And his old bleared eyes twinkled as he spoke, And turned to go for them. And I arose, And leaning on the tree, assumed a pose. But "Wait!" I said. "One moment, my dear friend! You may be Santa Claus, as you pretend. You look it, somewhat, but as Santa Claus You are no nearer than Poseidon was To the true Christmas Spirit. Oh, I know What you will say about the new-fallen snow, And stockings by the chimney, and the trees Hung with the tinselled overflow from these, Mistletoe, ground-pine, holly wreaths, and all The garnish for the transoms and the hall; Presents of every sort, and Christmas geese And turkeys for the poor, to leave in peace The rich man with his conscience; for the bowl Of wassail general liquors, and the whole Catalogue of your holiday paraphernalia Borrowed for Christmas from the Saturnalia You used to riot in, you ancient fraud, Who turn your nose up at a heathen god Look at your nose!" The feat was difficult, And he attempted it without result; But I looked at it, and I made it turn From purple-red to crimson-red and burn To a dull ashen-gray in the fierce blaze Shot from my highly concentrated gaze. "Look at your cheeks!" I shouted, "with that net Of pimples and congested veins that fret Their surfaces; and if you would despise Yourself as you deserve, look at your eyes, Bloodshot with drunkenness and gluttony! Then drop your glance, in utter shame, and see The tremulous, pendulous paunch that has displaced Anything like the semblance of a waist You ever had! You old, profane buffoon, With a face like a dissipated moon, You dare to call yourself the Christmas Spirit? Off of my grass! Get your reindeer and clear it Off of my beach, before I go and bring Action against you all for trespassing! You call yourself the Christmas Spirit, you Who never imagined anything to do At Christmas-tide, except on Christmas eve, Mock with bright dreams the children who believe That you come down the chimney, and then fright Their surfeit with nightmares all Christmas night; And at those awful early family dinners Inspire the saints to gormandize like sinners, And in the riot to which you have won them Lose all the good the sermon might have done them; Who fill the Christmas week with every folly, And bring the New Year in with melancholy Thoughts of bills payable, and the ruinous rifts Made in men's pocket-books by Christmas gifts Not blessed to her who thought she had to give More than they were to him who must receive! And do you fancy that you are the type Of that which was fulfilled when time was ripe, And peace was promised upon all the earth, And unto men good-will with that great Birth Which angels, thronging from the upper skies, Prophesied in their glad antiphonies? Off, hoary trifler! What have such as you With sacred memories like these to do! Poor, pagan outcast, derelict forlorn! Back, with the perished gods and creeds outworn From which you came, back into eldest night! Or, if you still must haunt this age of light, Look well about you, see what has been done: How life smiles everywhere beneath the sun; See the whole world at peace, from the Transvaal To the far Philippines, one rapture all Of peace with freedom. Ev'n the Europeans, By the decision of their kings and queens, Are getting ready to lay down their arms. The sea no longer quakes at the alarms Of the embattled fleets: each fell machine Embodied in the mercantile marine, The Trusts' rich products bears from shore to shore, And blesses lands it bullies now no more. No more the poor toil for starvation's wage; No more the incorporate employers rage At strikes, and outside hints of arbitration: Prosperity is shared by the whole nation. No famishing woman now need sell herself, No man part with his principles for pelf To bribe the wolf that used to haunt the door. Especially, in the Southern States, no more The little child watches the whirring loom Weaving into the web its life's young bloom; No more at Newport by the sad sea wave, Divorce digs in the sand love's soon lost grave. "Can you look round on such a state as this, And fail to see how much you come amiss? How utterly superfluous you are In the economy of this happy star? Away with you! Or, if you still would choose To stay, and try to make yourself of use, Amidst a world of busy people, each Striving to practice what the others preach, Lay off these foolish symbols with your coat (I'm glad you were frank enough to own it goat), Leave guttling, guzzling, set a good example You'll find the opportunity is ample, For with the spread of our prosperity, We are all in risk of victualling too free Put from you far the homes of wealth and pride, And spend your days doing good on the East Side. From your old ways return, reform, repent, And be what the true Christmas Spirit meant!" III At these stern words I looked to see him shrink Struck through and through with bitter shame, and sink Before me. And at first he did seem taken Rather aback, and turned, a good deal shaken, As if in silence to depart; and then He turned and meekly fronted me again; And as he spoke he seemed to gather force And held with rising dignity his course. "The Christmas Spirit did I say I was? I only said that I was Santa Claus! And very likely, if your supposition Holds, I am but a childish superstition; Yes, very probably, I used to be No better than a pagan deity, Not one of the swell gods, but of the sort That went about the country to resort Among the lanes in rustic neighborhoods, The meadows, and the depths of twilight woods, Befriending the poor husbandman and shepherd Whose fields and folds and homes the wild things jeopard. But I have been converted and baptized, And I should be considerably surprised If some born Christians had a better claim Than I can urgenot boastto wear the name. I will not speak of any good I do I leave all that to moralists like you; But, in the course of pleasure, once a year, I come to bring men's hearths a little cheer; To scatter here and there a little kindness; A little deafness and a little blindness To one another's faults among you mortals; And not distinguishing between your portals Or chimneys, ratherin my rounds I try To visit rich and poor alike; for I, Strange as it may appear, have found, indeed, Every one living lives somehow in need Of help, of comfort, and even of that jollity You seem to have no use for in your polity. Since you are virtuous, shall there be no more Of cakes and ale? Aye, but there shall, galore! I will see to it, with both meat and drink Oh, by-the-way! Now that I come to think, What are your virtues?" Here the saint broke off With what appeared a very sinful scoff Lurking in bearded mouth and winking eye. Ere I could frame a suitable reply He turned, unceremonious, on his heel, And stumbled through the rowan with a peal Of mocking laughter, downward to my beach, Which with few giant strides he seemed to reach. There at my pier his reindeer team he twitched Loose from the pile to which they had lain hitched, And clucking to them swung his whip; and they Sped seaward out across the shining bay, Beating the brine into a diamond dust Beneath their hooves, while in a final thrust, "Au revoir 25th December!" hoarse His voice came back, and Iawoke, of course. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SAINT NICHOLAS by MARIANNE MOORE PANCAKES WITH SANTA by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE WITH BEST WISHES by DOROTHY PARKER A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS by CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE CHRISTMAS EVE by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE CHRISTMAS MORNING by BURGES JOHNSON THE EAVESDROPPER by BURGES JOHNSON |
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