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Pawprints and Purrs, Inc.
A Christmas Celebration
A Non-Profit 501(c)(3) Organization
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Copyright © 1997 - 2010 |
Christmas: "Tis the season for kindling the fire of hospitality in the hall, the genial fire of charity in the heart." ~ Washington Irving, American Author
Kaddo Katz' Christmas Stories
Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus
In September 1897, eight year old Virginia Hanlon of West 95th Street in New York City, NY USA wrote the following letter to The New York Sun:
Dear Editor:
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says "If You see it in The Sun, it's so." Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O'Hanlon
In one of the most famous editorials ever written, the editors replied:
Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
~ The New York Sun, September 21, 1897 ~
The Most Beautiful Thing
The sides of the path were covered with rugs of white snow. But in the center, its whiteness was crushed and churned into a foaming brown by the tramp, tramp of hundreds of hurrying feet. It was the day before Christmas. People rushed up and down the path carrying arm loads of bundles. They laughed and called to each other as they pushed their way through the crowds. Above the path, the long arms of an ancient tree reached upward to the sky. It swayed and moaned as strong winds grasped its branches and bent them toward the earth. Down below a haughty laugh sounded, and a lovely fir tree stretched and preened its thick green branches, sending a fine spray of snow shimmering downward to the ground.
"I should think," said the fir in a high smug voice, "That you'd try a little harder to stand still. Goodness knows you're ugly enough with the leaves you've already lost. If you move around anymore, you'll soon be quite bare."
"I know," answered the old tree. "Everything has put on its most beautiful clothes for the celebration of the birth of Christ. Even from here I can see the decorations shining from each street corner. And yesterday some men came and put the brightest, loveliest lights on every tree along the path - except me of course."
He sighed softly, and a flake of snow melted in the form of a teardrop and ran down his gnarled trunk.
"Oh, indeed! And did you expect they'd put lights upon you so your ugliness would stand out even more?" smirked the fir.
"I guess you're right," replied the old tree in a sad voice. "If there were only somewhere I could hide until after the celebrations are over, but here I stand, the only ugly thing among all this beauty. If they would only come and chop me down," and he sighed sorrowfully.
"Well, I don't wish you any ill will," replied the fir, "But you are an eyesore. Perhaps it would be better for us all if they came and chopped you down." Once again he stretched his lovely thick branches. "You might try to hang onto those three small leaves you still have. At least you wouldn't be completely bare."
"Oh, I've tried so hard," cried the old tree. "Each fall I say to myself, 'this year I won't give up a single leaf, no matter what the cause,' but someone always comes along who seems to need them more than I." And he sighed once again.
"I told you not to give so many to that dirty little paper boy," said the fir. "Why you even lowered your branches a little bit, so that he could reach them. You can't say I didn't warn you then."
"Yes you did at that," the old tree replied. "But they made him so happy. I heard him say he would pick some for his invalid mother."
"Oh, they all had good causes," mocked the fir, "that young girl, for instance, colored leaves for her party indeed! They were your leaves!"
"She took a lot, didn't she?" said the old tree, and he seemed to smile. Just then a cold wind blew down the path and a tiny brown bird fell to the ground at the foot of the old tree and lay there shivering, too cold to lift its wings. The old tree looked down in pity and then he quickly let go of his last three leaves. The golden leaves fluttered down and settled softly over the shivering little bird, and it lay there quietly under the warmth of them.
"Now you've done it!" shrieked the fir. You've given away every single leaf! Christmas morning you'll make your path the ugliest sight in the whole city!"
The old tree said nothing. Instead he stretched out his branches to gather what snowflakes he could that they might not fall on the tiny bird. The young fir turned away in anger, and it was then he noticed a painter sitting quietly a few feet from the path, intent upon his long brushes and his canvas. His clothes were old and tattered, and his face wore a sad expression. He was thinking of his loved ones and the empty, cheerless Christmas morning they would face, for he had sold not a single painting in the last months.
But the little tree didn't see this. Instead he turned back to the old tree and said in a haughty voice, "At least keep those bare branches as far away from me as possible. I'm being painted and hideousness will mar the background."
"I'll try," replied the old tree. And he raised his branches as high as possible.
It was almost dark when the painter picked up his easel and left. And the little fir was tired and cross from all his preening and posing.
Christmas morning he awoke late, and as he proudly shook away the snow from his lovely branches, he was amazed to see a huge crowd of people surrounding the old tree, ah-ing and oh-ing as they stood back and gazed upward. And even those hurrying along the path had to stop for a moment to sigh before they went on.
"Whatever could it be?" thought the haughty fir, and he too looked up to see if perhaps the top of the old tree had been broken off during the night. Just then a paper blew away from the hands of an enraptured newsboy and sailed straight into the young fir. The fir gasped in amazement, for there on the front page was a picture of the painter holding his painting of a great white tree whose leafless branches, laden with snow, stretched upward into the sky. While down below lay a tiny brown bird almost covered by three golden leaves. And beneath the picture were the words, "The Most Beautiful Thing Is That Which Hath Given All."
The young fir quietly bowed its head beneath the great beauty of the humble old tree.
~ Author Unknown ~
The 'Little Ole' Donkey That Had Little To Say
It was the night before Christmas when all the beasts came together from the farthest places of the earth to talk. The first voice to be heard was the deep, rich bass of the lion. "I speak," he said, "as the king of beasts." And truly he looked a king with his beautiful thick mane and his tawny rippling muscles. "I won't repeat my good deeds. I shall not again tonight repeat the shining stories of the days when the Romans loved me. I shall not recall the story of the one man, Daniel, who defied me in my own den - a story humbling to me - which I have often told you to prove I am not proud. I shall say nothing of my stealthy fury that makes the whole continent tremble at the very sound of my name..."
"Then I shall speak," - and by the trumpet sound, the beasts knew the elephant spoke. "I am the biggest beast on earth. My size and my strength awe nations. Yet I can walk so softly and lightly that no ear can hear my coming. Isn't that something to be proud of? And I don't believe any of you can flip a tremendous teak log over your shoulder as handily as I can. That takes power. Yes, and who else here has been a beast of war? Who else has crossed the Alps? You know how very high the Alps are! I and my strong brothers helped the famous General Hannibal and his soldiers over them in one of his great campaigns. And Hannibal's in history books all over the world..."
A strange, whispering voice broke in: "You know me, the giraffe. Usually I stay silent, but I hope you'll remember I'm the tallest and can look down on you. But please don't think I am bragging because I'm up here above you. I eat from the tops of trees. Nobody else here can do that. Besides, being the tallest, I can run faster than most..."
"Let me interrupt." It was the leopard's voice. "You'd have to move pretty fast to outrun certain striped and spotted cousins of mine who hold most of the speed records. Right, cousins?" The tiger nodded his head and the cheetah, fastest of all, smiled.
The camel, till now, had been chewing his cud and watching with sad eyes. He cleared his throat and his voice rasped out: "I am neither handsome nor fleet. I have some trouble keeping clean. But I have the right to feel as proud as anyone here. I helped build the pyramids of Egypt! Have any of you ever tackled a job that big? I am also the only animal in the world that can have two humps on his back. I am used to going many days without water, across scorching sands that would burn the feet off most of you within hours. My friends, the camel counts, and I have a right to feel happy."
For a long while after the camel's speech, there was silence. Then the llama coughed and said: "I am by nature modest. One thing, however - I have had much experience crossing mountains. You have heard of the Andes, my home, and the war work I've done."
Others spoke too. The goose honked, "I laid a golden egg once. Who else has done that?" The turtle said, "I'm the slowest. It's better. When you go fast, you go round in circles." The fox said: "I am the slyest, the trickiest, and probably the brainiest of you all." The zebra said: "For confusion, I'm best. Am I black with white stripes or white with black?" The grizzly bear said: "Who that is as heavy as I can climb a tree as well?" And the polar bear said: "Can anybody but me swim with icebergs or catch fish with a paw?"
All this time a little grey beast stood listening. Finally, the other animals looked his way. There wasn't much he could do but speak. "I am a donkey," he began, in a voice so hoarse and low that the beasts leaned forward to hear. "I can't run fast or go days without water. I couldn't swim a stroke among icebergs. I've never climbed a tree. Nobody is afraid of me."
Lower and lower sank the little donkey's voice. His ears drooped, and his head was bowed. The other beasts could hardly hear him. Suddenly he raised his head. His eyes looked far away in time and space and there was a strange glow around him. "Only one thing I have ever done has stuck in my mind. It happened a long, long time ago...on the way to Egypt in the dark of night, I carried a mother who carried a King."
~ C. Ralph Bennett ~
Billy Miske's Last Fight
On an afternoon in 1923, as the first snow of the winter fell on the city of St. Paul, Billy Miske got to thinking about Christmas. As you may remember, Miske was one of the best heavyweight prize fighters of his day. In his ring career of more that 100 bouts he fought Jack Dempsey. Tommy Gibbons and Harry Greb. Only one opponent - Dempsey - ever scored a knockout against him.
He was 29 years old, blond and blue-eyed, muscular and graceful. He looked like a champion. But he was dying, and he knew it.
It was a well-kept secret. The only persons who knew of his condition were Jack Reddy, his manager; George Barton, a sports writer on the Minneapolis Tribune; and Dr. Andrew Sivertsen, who five years before had said, "I won't lie to you, Billy - you have Bright's disease. If you quit fighting and take care of yourself you may live five years."
Billy did not quit. To his wife, Marie, he reported casually that he had "a little kidney trouble," which would be all right with diet and doctoring. Such was his courage and unfailing gaiety that she never suspected that his ailment was more serious than he had admitted.
He climbed into the ring 70 times after the death sentence was pronounced. He made money, and because he knew his fighting days were numbered he put all his savings into an automobile sales business in partnership with a friend. The business was to be security for Marie and the children when he was gone. But within two years the venture was on the verge of bankruptcy.
The day after his third fight with Jack Dempsey he used his entire purse - $18,000 to pay debts owed by the partnership.
From then on there were fewer fights and he was paid less money for them. It was a painful struggle for him to train enough to keep appearances for the sports writer.
In January, 1923 Billy knocked out Harry Foley in one round, but when it was over he felt terrible. The doctor had no trouble persuading him to stay home and rest; for weeks he didn't have enough strength to walk around the block. All through the spring, summer and autumn he hung around the house, resting, keeping to his milk diet, playing with the children, while Marie did the housework and worried about the bills.
Now, as he walked the streets on the day of the first snowfall, looking at the store windows, Billy worried, too. The snow made him think how close it was to Christmas, and how bleak the day would be for Marie and the children unless he made some money quickly. He could not bear that Christmas should be anything but the way it had always been in the past - warm and safe and bright and abundant, something to remember.
He knew of only one way to get money fast. It was simple. Hard, but simple. He walked rapidly to Jack Reddy's office.
"Jack," he said, "get me a fight."
The manager looked at him unbelievingly. "You're a sick man, Billy," he said. "Remember, I know all about you. I won't put you in the ring. I wouldn't have it on my conscience."
Billy leaned forward in agonized earnestness. "Please, Jack, I'm flat broke. You know I lost everything in the automobile business. You know about the doctor bills. We've even sold most of our furniture. You've got to get me one more fight so I can give my family a happy Christmas." Reddy argued, pleaded, reasoned. He offered to lend or give the fighter money if he would stay out of the ring. But Billy repeated stubbornly, "No, Jack; get me a fight before Christmas."
In the end the manager gave in. A few days later he arranged a match with Bill Brennas, to be held at Omaha. Brennan was a tough fighter. He had battled Dempsey in New York and was ahead on points up to the - 12th round, when Dempsey knocked him out.
Word of the coming Miske-Brennan bout soon reached George Barton. Knowing of Miske's condition, he angrily reached for the telephone and called Jack Reddy.
"Are you so hungry for a buck that you'd risk Billy Miske's life for it?" he said. "You know he isn't in any shape to fight. I'm going to write a story blasting you as you deserve to be blasted."
"There's an angle you don't know about, George," Reddy answered. "Hold it until I get Billy and bring him over to your office so he can explain."
In a half hour they were there, and Billy was telling Barton about the debts, the children and Christmas. When he had finished, Billy leaned forward with his big hands clasped between his knees. "George," he said, "You've always been my friend. Do one more thing for me. Don't write anything about me being sick."
Barton said, "Billy, do you realize if you fight you may die in the ring?"
Billy nodded. "I'm a fighter, George. I might as well die in the ring as sitting in a rocking chair waiting for it."
That ended the talk. Barton agreed to keep the secret.
Billy was far too ill to train for the fight. When newspapermen and boxing fans asked why he wasn't working out as usual at the Rose Room gymnasium in St. Paul, Reddy explained that Miske had a gym rigged up at his summer place on Lake Johanna and would do all his training there before leaving for Omaha to work out in public.
Actually Billy was spending most of his time in bed, saving his strength. He left for Omaha only a few days before the fight. Oddly, he was still a fine looking specimen; the illness that was destroying him had not caused him to lose weight or become haggard. Possibly the examination of fighters was merely cursory in those days, or it may be that only a test for kidney ailments (which was not given) would have revealed Miske's condition. At any rate, he had no trouble passing whatever examination there was.
The fight had a fiction-story quality. In the opening round of the match sports writers at the ringside noticed that Brennan appeared much slower than he had been when he made such a good showing against Dempsey, while Miske was fast and smooth. For 121 minutes Billy was not a dying man, even to himself; he was Billy Miske, "the St. Paul Thunderbolt." It was all there - the aggressiveness, the nimble footwork, the "nitroglycerine" punches.
For the first two rounds the fighting was at close range, with Brennan doing considerable backing away. In the third round Billy hooked Brennan with a left and Brennan went down, helpless. The bell saved him as the referee reached the count of five. Brennan's seconds dragged him back to his corner and worked over him, but when he came out for the next round he was obviously still dazed by Miske's powerful punch in the third. Just as he got to the center of the ring Miske met him with a terrific right to the jaw, and he fell crumpled to the canvas. He tried valiantly to get up, but couldn't, and was counted out.
As Billy Miske's arm was raised in the victor's salute he smiled, for the last time, at the crowd.
He received $2,400.00 for the fight. He took the purse back to St. Paul and began to do the things he most wanted to do before the end came. He bought furniture to fill the rooms that had been empty since he and Marie sold everything except the beds, a kitchen table and a few chairs. He went on his last duck-hunting trip. Then, as the shop windows began to glow with Christmas red and green tinsel, he went downtown again.
He bought a piano for Marie; she had a lovely contralto voice and had always wanted a piano of her own. He had a fine time choosing gifts for the children - a bicycle and a red coaster for each of the boys, dolls and a teddy bear for little Donna. There was enough money left for a Christmas check for his parents, paid for a Christmas feast, and something Marie could put aside for the need that would come. His shopping finished, Billy went home exhausted and went to bed.
The intense suffering had begun, but he was able to conceal it by staying in his room during the worst hours. He managed to smile and make cheerful conversation every time Marie or the children came near. Marie still had no inkling that his illness was more than a bothersome passing ailment.
She trimmed the tree alone that Christmas Eve. After midnight, when she finished, Billy came downstairs in his pajamas and bathrobe to admire it. Standing by his wife's side, he took her hand and looked for a long time.
"It's the prettiest tree we've ever had," he said. Marie's heart swelled as she looked up at him. "Billy, you're so good to us." He grinned. "Merry Christmas, honey," he said, bending over to kiss her. "It is going to be a Merry Christmas, isn't it!"
He was in his place at the head of the table at Christmas dinner, looking the picture of happy, carefree young father with his family around him. In the gaiety and excitement of the children's delight over the tree and the toys, only Marie noticed that Billy ate very little. When he caught her watching him he winked as if he were enjoying it like a hungry kid. "Gee, honey," he said, "you're a swell cook!"
The day after Christmas he was in agony. Waiting until Marie was rattling dishes in the kitchen, he got out of bed, stumbled to the telephone and called Jack Reddy. "For God's sake, Jack, come and get me," he whispered. "I can't stand the pain any longer."
Reddy came with his car. Marie, terrified, helped her husband into the back seat, and Reddy drove to the hospital. As Marie sat in the car, holding Billy in her arms, feeling him tremble with the pain, he told her the truth at last.
Six days later, on the morning of the New Year, Billy Miske died.
~ Dorothy Kilgallen and Richard Kollmar ~
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