As I post this from Cape Cod, it's the height of the summer season. Temperatures are in the 80s and the beaches are full of tourists carefully dipping their toes in the waters of Coast Guard Beach and dozens of other Cape beaches. They are swimming with care for the sharks are there - lurking just 50 yards off shore.
To help cool down the temperature from the hot sun and the fever from the shark frenzy, here's an excerpt from Christmas Classics Refreshed - a volume of ancient holiday tales that I have updated and annotated for today's readers. This book and its heart warming stories, has been downloaded more than 21,000 times. Here's a sample story
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/731417
The book is available for free at Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, Kobo-Walmart, Apple and most other major online booksellers
Another narrative in the
series of family friendly
Christmas/bedtime stories,
compiled and annotated by
Bill Russo in Christmas Classics Refreshed
To be an enduring classic, a story doesn’t always need three ghosts
rattling chains and promising some old soul, hellfire and damnation if he
doesn’t change his miserly ways. Sometimes just a little bit of magic
from a small boy or a tiny puppy will do the work of a whole graveyard full of spectral
apparitions.
Such is the case with today’s tale, written by Chicago author, businessman,
and legislator James W. Linn. He was the nephew of the great reformer
Jane Addams, who was an activist, philosopher, social worker and co-founder of
the American Civil Liberties Union.
Much of Ms. Addams passion for the poor and for charitable causes rubbed on
her nephew, as evidenced in this gentle story that starts out in the Chicago
financial district but soon winds its way to the poor side of town.
Read on now and take a look inside the mind of a very rich man who battles
with himself about balancing the ‘conservation of his fortune with the needs of
the people’.
James titled his story………
The Philanthropist’s Christmas
“Did you see this
committee yesterday, Mr. Mathews?” asked the philanthropist.
His secretary looked up.
“Yes, sir.”
“You recommend them then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For fifty thousand?”
“For fifty thousand—yes,
sir.”
“Their corresponding
subscriptions are guaranteed?”
“I went over the list
carefully, Mr. Carter. The money is promised, and by responsible people.”
“Very well,” said the
philanthropist. “You may notify them, Mr.
Mathews, that my fifty
thousand will be available as the bills come in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Old Mr. Carter laid down the
letter he had been reading, and took up another. As he perused it his white
eyebrows rose in irritation.
“Mr. Mathews!” he snapped.
“Yes, sir?”
“You are careless, sir!”
“I beg your pardon, Mr.
Carter?” questioned the secretary, his face flushing.
The old gentleman tapped
impatiently the letter he held in his hand. “Do you pay no attention, Mr.
Mathews, to my rule that NO personal letters containing appeals for aid are to
reach me? How do you account for this, may I ask?”
“I beg your pardon,” said
the secretary again. “You will see, Mr. Carter, that that letter is dated
three weeks ago. I have had the woman’s case carefully investigated. She is
undoubtedly of good reputation, and undoubtedly in need; and as she speaks of her
father as having associated with you, I thought perhaps you would care to see
her letter.”
“A thousand worthless
fellows associated with me,” said the old man, harshly. “In a great factory,
Mr. Mathews, a boy works alongside of the men he is put with; he does not pick
and choose. I dare say this woman is telling the truth. What of it? You know
that I regard my money as a public trust. Were my energy, my concentration, to
be wasted by innumerable individual assaults, what would become of them? My
fortune would slip through my fingers as unprofitably as sand. You understand,
Mr. Mathews? Let me see no more individual letters. You know that Mr.
Whittemore has full authority to deal with them. May I trouble you to ring? I
am going out.”
A man appeared very promptly
in answer to the bell.
“Sniffen, my overcoat,” said
the philanthropist.
“It is ‘ere, sir,” answered
Sniffen, helping the thin old man into the great fur folds.
“There is no word of the dog, I suppose, Sniffen?”
“None, sir. The police was
here again yesterday sir, but they said as
‘ow—“
“The police!” The words were
fierce with scorn. “Eight thousand incompetents!” He turned abruptly and went
toward the door, where he halted a moment.
“Mr. Mathews, since that
woman’s letter did reach me, I suppose I must pay for my carelessness—or yours.
Send her—what does she say—four children?-- send her a hundred dollars. But,
for my sake, send it anonymously. Write her that I pay no attention to such
claims.” He went out, and Sniffen closed the door behind him.
“Takes losin’ the little dog
‘ard, don’t he?” remarked Sniffen, sadly, to the secretary. “I’m afraid there
ain’t a chance of findin’ ‘im now. ‘E ain’t been stole, nor ‘e ain’t been
found, or they’d ‘ave brung him back for the reward. ‘E’s been knocked on the
‘ead, like as not. ‘E wasn’t much of a dog to look at, you see—just a pup, I’d
call ‘im. An’ after ‘e learned that trick of slippin’ ‘is collar off—well, I
fancy Mr. Carter’s seen the last of ‘im. I do, indeed.”
Mr. Carter meanwhile was
making his way slowly down the snowy avenue, upon his accustomed walk. The
walk, however, was dull to-day, for Skiddles, his little terrier, was not with
him to add interest and excitement. Mr. Carter had found Skiddles in the
country a year and a half before. Skiddles, then a puppy, was at the time in a
most undignified and undesirable position, stuck in a drain tile, and unable
either to advance or to retreat. Mr. Carter had shoved him forward, after a
heroic struggle, whereupon Skiddles had licked his hand. Something in the
little dog’s eye, or his action, had induced the rich philanthropist to bargain
for him and buy him at a cost of half a dollar.
Thereafter Skiddles became his
daily companion, his chief distraction, and finally the apple of his eye.
Skiddles was of no known
parentage, hardly of any known breed, but he suited Mr. Carter. What, the
millionaire reflected with a proud cynicism, were his own antecedents, if it
came to that? But now Skiddles had disappeared.
As Sniffen said, he had
learned the trick of slipping free from his collar. One morning the great front
doors had been left open for two minutes while the hallway was aired. Skiddles
must have slipped down the marble steps unseen, and dodged round the corner. At
all events, he had vanished, and although the whole police force of the city
had been roused to secure his return, it was aroused in vain. And for three
weeks, therefore, a small, straight, white bearded man in a fur overcoat had
walked in mournful irritation alone.
He stood upon a corner
uncertainly. One way led to the park, and this he usually took; but to-day he
did not want to go to the park—it was too reminiscent of Skiddles. He looked
the other way. Down there, if one went far enough, lay “slums,” and Mr. Carter
hated the sight of slums; they always made him miserable and discontented. With
all his money and his philanthropy, was there still necessity for such misery
in the world? Worse still came the intrusive question at times: Had all his
money anything to do with the creation of this misery? He owned no tenements;
he paid good wages in every factory; he had given sums such as few men have
given in the history of philanthropy. Still—there were the slums. However, the
worst slums lay some distance off, and he finally turned his back on the park
and walked on.
It was the day before
Christmas. You saw it in people’s faces; you saw it in the holly wreaths that
hung in windows; you saw it, even as you passed the splendid, forbidding houses
on the avenue, in the green that here and there banked massive doors; but most
of all, you saw it in the shops. Up here the shops were smallish, and chiefly
of the provision variety, so there was no bewildering display of gifts; but
there were Christmas-trees everywhere, of all sizes. It was astonishing how many
people in that neighborhood seemed to favor the old-fashioned idea of a tree.
Mr. Carter looked at them
with his irritation softening. If they made him feel a trifle more lonely, they
allowed him to feel also a trifle less responsible—for, after all, it was a
fairly happy world.
At this moment he perceived
a curious phenomenon a short distance before him—another Christmas-tree, but
one which moved, apparently of its own volition, along the sidewalk. As
Mr. Carter overtook it, he saw that it was borne, or dragged, rather by a small
boy who wore a bright red flannel cap and mittens of the same peculiar
material. As Mr. Carter looked down at him, he looked up at Mr. Carter, and
spoke cheerfully:
“Goin’ my way, mister?”
“Why,” said the philanthropist, somewhat taken back, “I WAS!”
“Mind draggin’ this a little
way?” asked the boy, confidently, “my hands is cold.”
“Won’t you enjoy it more if you manage to take it home by yourself? “
“Oh, it ain’t for me!” said
the boy.
“Your employer,” said the
philanthropist, severely, “is certainly careless if he allows his trees to be
delivered in this fashion.”
“I ain’t deliverin’ it,
either,” said the boy. “This is Bill’s tree.”
“Who is Bill?”
“He’s a feller with a back
that’s no good.”
“Is he your brother?”
“No. Take the tree a little
way, will you, while I warm myself?”
The philanthropist accepted
the burden—he did not know why. The boy, released, ran forward, jumped up and
down, slapped his red flannel mittens on his legs, and then ran back again.
After repeating these maneuvers two or three times, he returned to where the
old gentleman stood holding the tree.
“Thanks,” he said. “Say,
mister, you look like Santa Claus yourself, standin’ by the tree, with your fur
cap and your coat. I bet you don’t have to run to keep warm, hey?” There was
high admiration in his look. Suddenly his eyes sparkled with an
inspiration.
“Say, mister,” he cried,
“will you do something for me? Come in to Bill’s—he lives only a block from
here—and just let him see you. He’s only a kid, and he’ll think he’s seen Santa
Claus, sure. We can tell him you’re so busy to-morrow you have to go to lots of
places to-day. You won’t have to give him anything. We’re looking out for
all that. Bill got hurt in the summer, and he’s been in bed ever since.
So we are giving him a Christmas—tree and all. He gets a bunch of things—an air
gun, and a train that goes around when you wind her up. They’re great!”
“You boys are doing this?”
“Well, it’s our club at the
settlement, and of course Miss Gray thought of it, and she’s givin’ Bill the
train. Come along, mister.”
But Mr. Carter declined.
“All right,” said the boy.
“I guess, what with Pete and all, Bill will have Christmas enough.”
“Who is Pete?”
“Bill’s dog. He’s had him
three weeks now—best little pup you ever saw!”
A dog which Bill had had
three weeks—and in a neighborhood not a quarter of a mile from the avenue. It
was three weeks since Skiddles had disappeared. That this dog was Skiddles was
of course most improbable, and yet the philanthropist was ready to grasp at any
clue which might lead to the lost terrier.
“How did Bill get this dog?”
he demanded.
“I found him myself. Some
kids had tin-canned him, and he came into our entry. He licked my hand, and
then sat up on his hind legs. Somebody’d taught him that, you know. I thought
right away, ‘Here’s a dog for Bill!’ And I took him over there and fed him, and
they kept him in Bill’s room two or three days, so he shouldn’t get scared
again and run off; and now he wouldn’t leave Bill for anybody. Of course, he
ain’t much of a dog, Pete ain’t,” he added “he’s just a pup, but he’s mighty
friendly!”
“Boy,” said Mr. Carter, “I
guess I’ll just go round and”—he was about to add,” have a look at that dog,”
but fearful of raising suspicion, he ended—“and see Bill.”
The tenements to which the
boy led him were of brick, and reasonably clean. Nearly every window showed
some sign of Christmas.
The tree-bearer led the way
into a dark hall, up one flight—Mr. Carter assisting with the tree—and down
another dark hall, to a door, on which he knocked. A woman opened it.
“Here’s the tree!” said the
boy, in a loud whisper. “Is Bill’s door shut?”
Mr. Carter stepped forward
out of the darkness. “I beg your pardon,
madam,” he said. “I met this
young man in the street, and he asked me
to come here and see a
playmate of his who is, I understand, an
invalid. But if I am
intruding—“
“Come in,” said the woman,
heartily, throwing the door open. “Bill will be glad to see you, sir.”
The philanthropist stepped
inside.
The room was decently
furnished and clean. There was a sewing machine in the corner, and in both the
windows hung wreaths of holly. Between the windows was a cleared space, where
evidently the tree, when decorated, was to stand.
“Are all the things here?”
eagerly demanded the tree-bearer.
“They’re all here, Jimmy,”
answered Mrs. Bailey. “The candy just came.”
“Say,” cried the boy,
pulling off his red flannel mittens to blow on his fingers, “won’t it be great?
But now Bill’s got to see Santa Claus. I’ll just go in and tell him, an’
then, when I holler, mister, you come on, and pretend you’re Santa Claus.” And
with incredible swiftness the boy opened the door at the opposite end of the
room and disappeared.
“Madam,” said Mr. Carter, in
considerable embarrassment, “I must say one word. I am Mr. Carter, Mr. Allan
Carter. You may have heard my name?”
She shook her head. “No,
sir.”
“I live not far from here on
the avenue. Three weeks ago I lost a little dog that I valued very much I have
had all the city searched since then, in vain. To-day I met the boy who has
just left us. He informed me that three weeks ago he found a dog, which is at
present in the possession of your son. I wonder—is it not just possible that
this dog may be mine?”
Mrs. Bailey smiled. “I guess
not, Mr. Carter. The dog Jimmy found hadn’t come off the avenue—not from the
look of him. You know there’s hundreds and hundreds of dogs without homes, sir.
But I will say for this one, he has a kind of a way with him.”
“Hark!” said Mr. Carter.
There was a rustling and a
snuffing at the door at the far end of the room, a quick scratching of feet.
Then:
“Woof! woof! woof!” sharp
and clear came happy impatient little barks.
The philanthropist’s eyes
brightened. “Yes,” he said, “that is the dog.”
“I doubt if it can be, sir,”
said Mrs. Bailey, deprecatingly.
“Open the door, please,”
commanded the philanthropist, “and let us see.” Mrs. Bailey complied. There was
a quick jump, a tumbling rush, and Skiddles, the lost Skiddles, was in the
philanthropist’s arms. Mrs. Bailey shut the door with a troubled face.
“I see it’s your dog, sir,”
she said, “but I hope you won’t be thinking
that Jimmy or I—“
“Madam,” interrupted Mr.
Carter, “I could not be so foolish. On the contrary, I owe you a thousand
thanks.”
Mrs. Bailey looked more
cheerful. “Poor little Billy!” she said. “It’ll come hard on him, losing Pete
just at Christmas time. But the boys are so good to him, I dare say he’ll
forget it.”
“Who are these boys?”
inquired the philanthropist. “Isn’t their action—somewhat unusual?”
“It’s Miss Gray’s club at
the settlement, sir,” explained Mrs. Bailey. “Every Christmas they do
this for somebody. It’s not charity; Billy and I don’t need charity, or take
it. It’s just friendliness. They’re good boys.”
“I see,” said the
philanthropist. He was still wondering about it, though, when the door opened
again, and Jimmy thrust out a face shining with anticipation.
“All ready, mister!” he said. “Bill’s waitin’ for you!”
“Jimmy,” began Mrs. Bailey, about to explain, “the gentleman—“
But the philanthropist held
up his hand, interrupting her. “You’ll let me see your son, Mrs. Bailey?” he
asked, gently.
“Why, certainly, sir.”
Mr. Carter put Skiddles down
and walked slowly into the inner room. The bed stood with its side toward him.
On it lay a small boy of seven, rigid of body, but with his arms free and his
face lighted with joy. “Hello, Santa Claus!” he piped, in a voice shrill
with excitement.
“Hello, Bill!” answered the
philanthropist, sedately.
The boy turned his eyes on
Jimmy.
“He knows my name,” he said,
with glee.
“He knows everybody’s name,”
said Jimmy. “Now you tell him what you want, Bill, and he’ll bring it
to-morrow.
“How would you like,” said
the philanthropist, reflectively, “an—an—“ he hesitated, it seemed so incongruous
with that stiff figure on the bed—“an airgun?”
“I guess yes,” said Bill,
happily.
“And a train of cars,” broke
in the impatient Jimmy, “that goes like sixty when you wind her?”
“Hi!” said Bill.
The philanthropist solemnly
made notes of this.
“How about,” he remarked,
inquiringly, “a tree?”
“Honest? “said Bill.
“I think it can be managed,”
said Santa Claus. He advanced to the bedside.
“I’m glad to have seen you,
Bill. You know how busy I am, but I hope—I hope to see you again.”
“Not till next year, of
course,“ warned Jimmy.
“Not till then, of course,”
assented Santa Claus. “And now, good-bye.”
“You forgot to ask him if
he’d been a good boy,” suggested Jimmy.
“I have,” said Bill. “I’ve
been fine. You ask mother.”
“She gives you—she gives you
both a high character,” said Santa Claus.
“Good-bye again,” and so
saying he withdrew. Skiddles followed him out. The philanthropist closed
the door of the bedroom, and then turned to Mrs. Bailey.
She was regarding him with
awestruck eyes.
“Oh, sir,” she said, “I know
now who you are—the Mr. Carter that gives so much away to people!”
The philanthropist nodded,
deprecatingly.
“Just so, Mrs. Bailey,” he
said. “And there is one gift—or loan rather—which I should like to make to you.
I should like to leave the little dog with you till after the holidays. I’m
afraid I’ll have to claim him then; but if you’ll keep him till after Christmas—and
let me find, perhaps, another dog for Billy—I shall be much obliged.”
Again the door of the
bedroom opened, and Jimmy emerged quietly.
“Bill wants the pup,” he
explained.
“Pete! Pete!” came the
piping but happy voice from the inner room.
Skiddles hesitated. Mr.
Carter made no sign.
“Pete! Pete!” shrilled the
voice again.
Slowly, very slowly,
Skiddles turned and went back into the bedroom.
“You see,” said Mr. Carter,
smiling, “he won’t be too unhappy away from me, Mrs. Bailey.”
On his way home the
philanthropist saw even more evidences of Christmas gaiety along the streets
than before. He stepped out briskly, in spite of his sixty-eight years; he even
hummed a little tune.
When he reached the house on
the avenue he found his secretary still at work.
“Oh, by the way, Mr.
Mathews,” he said, “did you send that letter to the woman, saying I never paid
attention to personal appeals? No? Then write her, please, enclosing my check
for two hundred dollars, and wish her a very Merry Christmas in my name, will
you? And hereafter will you always let me see such letters as that one—of
course after careful investigation? I fancy perhaps I may have been too rigid
in the past.”
“Certainly, sir,” answered
the bewildered secretary. He began fumbling excitedly for his note-book.
“I found the little dog,”
continued the philanthropist. “You will be glad to know that.”
“You have found him?” cried
the secretary. “Have you got him back, Mr.
Carter? Where was he?”
“He was—detained—on Oak
Street, I believe,” said the philanthropist. “No, I have not got him back
yet. I have left him with a young boy till after the holidays.”
He settled himself to his
papers, for philanthropists must toil even on the twenty-fourth of December,
but the secretary shook his head in a daze. “I wonder what’s happened?” he said
to himself.
The End
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