“DADDY CHRISTMAS.”

Taranaki Daily News, 15 December 1922, Page 1 (Supplement)

“DADDY CHRISTMAS.”

AN AFTERNOON TN TOTO. (By “Tychieus,” Taranaki). Some pessimistic folk say that romance is dead, but it isn’t true. Romance is very much alive during Christmastide in the world whore “Daddy Christmas” reigns. All the way down to New Plymouth my little mannikin plied me with so man.v questions . about Daddy Christmas that I must confess to feeling almost weary. From the train to the shop my boy hopped and skipped and prattled on about “Father Christmas.” Arriving in toyland we elbowed our way through the crowd till we stood in front of a magnificent “make up.” •My small son, with something like awe on his face, gaze.d and wondered; then, gaining Courage, began to-say in little piping tones, “Please, Daddy Christmas, I want you to bring me a blue watering can, a train that runs on wheels, a bag of big marbles, and some blocks.” At the end of his recital a look of disappointment was visible on his baby face. Poor, hot, frantic Daddy Christmas was far too busy selling his wares to listen to my wee man. He was darting on to the ground for pennies, scattered hither and thither; he bobbed up again and dived into his bag for change. Seeing the tears near the surface of my laddy’s eyes. I told him: “Daddy Christmas is too busy selling things to little boys and girls to hear you, but there’s a lovely fairy behind a big chair, and /lie is listening to hear all about the nice things you want, and she will tell Daddy Christmas what to put in your stocking.” The wee lad brightened up and cheerfully followed me to get an ice cream. The ice cream department was just as busy and noisome and gladsome. Oh, the crowd of merry, palpitating young folk, living in a busy and important world all their own, ana each intent on his own concerns! Some were earnestly engaged in Sucking the last drop of ice cream from the paper plate; others clamoured for soft drinks; and others still glowed with pride at precious toy balloons or talking dolls. Their mothers shared the happiness of their little mites. On Christmas Eve I donned a red coat, white whiskers, white wadding eyebrows, and dabbed some red ochre on my nose. From a mysterious bag I produced a blue watering can, a toy railway, a bag of marbles. and a box of bricks. My mannikin’s eyes rounded into wonder, and his little heart —God bless him—was glad. No, romance is not. dead, and never will be in the wonderland where children dwell.