AN EDITOR’S CHRISTMAS DAY

[Welland Tribune, 27 December 1917]

There is no servant of the public whose time is more fully occupied than is that of the newspaper editor. Even in his religion he has to abridge and usually he finds sufficient inspiration of righteousness in three portions of the Gospels, viz, the story of the Birth of Christ, the Sermon on the Mount, and the Crucifixion. In the first he sees the Hand of God presenting mankind with the richest gift even the Almighty can bestow, in the second he finds the highest moral guide with which the world has been blessed, and in the third he finds the consummation of all that awakens the noblest instinct of pity and piety of which the human breast is capable. Though the claims on his time may prevent him from attending service never so irregularly, yet is it with disappointment akin to sorrow when those claims deter him from worship on Christmas Day and Good Friday.

Christmas day of the year 1917 was one of these sad days for a certain editor. An ailment of an excruciatingly painful nature, though we trust temporary, confined him to the house. This is his description of his experience:-

Those who have experienced the ailment by which I was attacked know that, in its extreme severity one’s physical and mental condition varies from feebleness to hysteria. The power of thinking clearly or writing accurately fails, continuity of ideas is broken and all occupation has to be cast aside for the one task of combating the pain.

At one time during the afternoon I stood in my bay window, gripping tightly the back of a chair. As this expenditure of energy somewhat alleviated my pain, there gradually came up a consciousness of being interested in the passers-by. This was the old newspaper instinct, prompting me to make copy out of what I saw through my window, as I was unable to go out and visit the usual sources of Christmas Day news.

I think it was the sight of children that most helped me to forget my pain. My own childhood was a hard one, though I knew it not then, for I was happy despite hardships. Is it unreasonable to believe that this happy unconsciousness of their wrongs is one of the blessings bestowed upon the children of the poor by the Babe that lay in the manger on that day, 1917 years ago, and who when He reached manhood said, :Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven?”

The children I saw from my window were poor, unusually ill-clad for Canadians. Each was carrying a small paper parcel, possibly food, possibly cheap presents they had received from some good charitable soul. The eldest of the bunch of five was not more than seven years of age. All were chattering and all had the air of anticipation of some festivity. A merry bunch of little ones on rejoicing bent.

A moment later a group of three came along. Two were almost babes, each holding the hand of an older child, a pale-faced, delicate girl, who walked between them. It was a case of a Little Mother and her little charge. Poverty and sorrow was depicted on the girl’s face, yet, was she proud of her responsibility, and of the faith and sense of safety the lesser one showed in their “big” sister, who was taking them into some new and wonderful country, perhaps a few hundred yards away from their home.

Meanwhile, going in another direction, a sturdy lad passed the three and they turned and looked solemnly after him. He was blowing discordant blasts from a five cent bugle and enjoying his achievement mightily. He crossed the road, so intent on the blowing of his bugle, he did not see an approaching auto, occupied by a heedless party of adult “joyriders.” The joy-riders in the the car gave no warning, but it chanced that the youngster paused for an instant to admire his instrument. In that instant the car dashed past the bugler at a great speed, and so closely that I held my breath with alarm. Was it the hand of the Babe in the manger that bade the boy pause and thus spared the life of a future soldier for some great service to his country in the years to come?

A stern elderly man was my next passer. He was probably seventy years of age, yet carried himself erect and walked with the step of a soldier. A veteran and an old one, surely. He was dressed to visit some brother veteran, to fight their battles over again, and there was that in his face which said, woe betide those who may dare to tell me the old brigade were not as heroic as the best man somewhere in France today!

A group of foreigners all talking aloud and at once went by. They seemed at a loss to realize what kind of country this is in which they are making their abode. A young couple, dressed in their best, was my next study. The young man was wheeling a perambulator, the occupant of which was well buried in a heap of shawls. There was no mistaking that it was a first born enroute to be proudly exhibited to grandmother.

So the procession proceeded, all intent on some kind of enjoyment of the most precious holiday of the year. Yet, though I watched and waited, no passerby displayed any token of being churchward bent. “Ah,” thought I, “here at last,” as I saw in the distance two figures which I took for Salvation Army men of the citadel. I watched the two figures apparently clad in red vests half hidden by black jackets till they neared my window. They were two skaters, both wearing red, decorated sweaters and carrying their skates across their shoulders. They were not seeking either church or citadel; they were heading for the ice-bound river. Yet, they were two well built, manly youths, with faces the picture of good health.

May it not be that by following their own inclination, and enjoying their good health, this pair were intuitively celebrating the Natal Day in a manner of which the Savior of mankind may approve, as He would surely approve of those little children all enjoying the happiness they best understood.