Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 303, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 December 1915 — DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS [ARTICLE]

DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

When the Joy of Your Kiddies Brings Tender Memories of Years Ago. In these strenuous shopping days, writes Louis James, have you caught yourself remembering suddenly, in all sorts of queer, unexpected places, all sorts of queer, half forgotten things? Have you remembered how these days before Christmas are the wonderful days in the life of the child, more wonderful days, perhaps, than any that are to come? You know that yourself. You can’t help recalling how time went by those days before the great day. You remember how each day seemed somehow more wonderful than the one before, each day a prelude of real joy to that first marvelous moment of Christmas morning, when, after a night of little if any sleep, you scrambled up and stood breathless on the threshold of the room which had been forbidden you all those interminable hours that went before. The child you take with you through

the wonderlands of the modern toy department wants what you did. The little girl stops before the baby doll, wide eyed, still with desire. The ooy stands flooded with happiness before an ark in which is every imaginable creatiqn. You remember what a small thing your own was, a fourth the size. But his joy is no greater than yours. He pushes toward the rocking horse. Now it runs by machinery, when once you ran your own across the floor to the imminent danger of total’destruction to persons and furniture that might stand in the way. But Christmas day was your day. The day when “don’ts” were not and you were king or queen in your kingdom of toys. You pass on to trains and there again electricity is running them. You pulled them yourself.

Then you catch the look on the face of your boy. He is watching the huge engine move slowly, smoothly along. It passes under Infinite tunnels and bridges and over made hills that present intricate difficulties of passage. Your tunnels were of chairs and the t ’ le in your kitchen made a splendid bridge to cross. He turns to you, the child of this twentieth century. His smile is beatific. He wants it —that train. He never wanted anything so much before. He never will again he is sure.

And as you move away you smile, a little sadly, a little gladly. You are proud to be able to make him so wonderfully happy, this child of yours, but yo u are sure, too, that he is no happier than you were these same preChristmas days, those years before.