"Well," he said presently, "what is it that is wrong with
Christmas?"
"Why," I answered, "all the romance, the joy, the beauty
of it has gone, crushed and killed by the greed of commerce
and the horrors of war. I am not, as you thought I was,
a hundred years old, but I can conjure up, as anybody
can, a picture of Christmas in the good old days of a
hundred years ago: the quaint old-fashioned houses,
standing deep among the evergreens, with the light
twinkling from the windows on the snow; the warmth and
comfort within; the great fire roaring on the hearth;
the merry guests grouped about its blaze and the little
children with their eyes dancing in the Christmas
fire-light, waiting for Father Christmas in his fine
mummery of red and white and cotton wool to hand the
presents from the yule-tide tree. I can see it," I added,
"as if it were yesterday."
"It was but yesterday," said Father Time, and his voice
seemed to soften with the memory of bygone years. "I
remember it well."
"Ah," I continued, "that was Christmas indeed. Give me
back such days as those, with the old good cheer, the
old stage coaches and the gabled inns and the warm red
wine, the snapdragon and the Christmas-tree, and I'll
believe again in Christmas, yes, in Father Christmas
himself.
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