The Worlds Wit and Humor: An Encyclopedia in 15 Volumes. 1906. Vols. IV: American
The Society Reporters Christmas
By James L. Ford (18541928)
From The Literary Shop
EARLY morn in the little parlor of a humble white cottage, where Susan Swallowtail sat waiting for her husband to return from the ball. It lacked but a few days of Christmas, and she had arisen with her little ones at five oclock in order that William, her husband, might have a warm breakfast and a loving greeting on his return after his long nights work.
Seated before the fire with her sewing on her lap, Susan Swallowtails thoughts went back to the days when William, then on the threshold of his career as a society reporter, had first won her young heart by his description of her costume at the ball of the Ladies Daughters Association of the Ninth Ward. She remembered how gallantly and tenderly he had wooed her through the columns of the four weekly and Sunday papers in which he conducted the Fashion Chit-chat columns, and then the tears filled her eyes as memory brought once more before her the terrible night when William came to the house and asked her father, the stern old house and sign painter, for his daughters hand.
And yet, said Susan to herself, my life has not been altogether an unhappy one, in spite of our poverty. William has a kind heart, and I am sure that if he had anything to wear besides his dress-suit and flannel dressing-gown he would often brighten my lot by taking me out somewhere in the daytime. Ah, if papa would only relent! But I fear he will never forgive me for my marriage.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of familiar footsteps in the hall, and the next moment her husband had clasped her in his arms, while the children clung to his ulster and clamored for their early morning kiss.
My darling, he said, as soon as they were alone, I fear that our Christmas will not be a very merry one. You know how we always depend on the ball of the Gilt-edged Coterie for our Christmas dinner?
Indeed I do, replied the young wife, with a bright smile. What beautiful slices of roast beef and magnificent mince pies you always bring home from that ball! Surely they will give their entertainment on Christmas Eve this year as they always have?
Then, said William hoarsely, I will tell you. I am not going to that ball. The city editor is going to take the assignment himself, and I must go to a literary and artistic gathering where there will be nothing but tea and recitations.
My darling, replied William Swallowtail in faltering tones, I fear you are doomed to another disappointment. I have done my best to-night, but this is all I could get my hands on, and with these words he drew from the pockets of his heavy woolen ulster a paper bag filled with wine jelly, a box of marrons glacés, and two pint bottles of champagne.
Is that all? said Susan reproachfully. The children have had nothing to eat since yesterday morning except patés de foie gras, macaroons, and hothouse grapes. All day long they have been crying for corned-beef sandwiches, and I have had none to give them. You told me, William, when we parted in the early evening, that you were going to a house where there would be at least ham, and perhaps bottled beer, and now you return to me with this paltry package of jelly and that very sweet wine. I hope, Williamand a cold, hard look of suspicion crept into her facethat you have not forgotten your vows and given to another
Susan, I implore you, listen to me, and do not judge me too harshly. There was ham, but there were several German noblemen there, tooBaron Sneeze of the Austrian legation, Count Pretzel, and a dozen more. The smell of meat inflamed them, and I fought my way through them in time to save only this from the wreck.
He drew from his ulster pocket something done up in a piece of paper, and handed it to his wife. She opened the package and saw that it contained what looked like a long piece of very highly polished ivory. Then her face softened, her lips trembled, and her eyes brimmed over with tears.
Forgive me, William, for my unjust suspicions! she exclaimed, as she threw herself once more into his arms. This mute ham-bone tells me, far more strongly than any words of yours could, the story of the society reporters awful struggle for life.
I hope, she said cheerfully, as she took a dish of lobster salad from the oven, where it had been warmed over, that you will keep a sharp lookout for quail this week. It would be nice to have one or two for our Christmas dinner. Of course we cannot afford corned beef and cabbage, like those rich people whom you call by their first names when you write about them in the Sunday papers; but I do hope we will not be obliged to put up with cakes and pastry and such wretched stuff.
As soon as William had gone to bed Susan took from its hiding-place the present which she had prepared for her husband and proceeded to sew it to the inside of his ulster as a Christmas surprise for him. She sighed to think that it was the best she could afford this year. It was a useful rather than an ornamental gifta simple rubber pocket, made from a piece of an old mackintosh, and intended for William to carry soup in.
But Susan had a bright, hopeful spirit, and a smile soon smoothed the furrows from her face as she murmured, How nice it will be when William comes home with his new pocket filled with nice, warm, nourishing bouillon! and then she glanced up from her work and saw that her daughter, little golden-haired Eva, had entered the room, and was looking at her out of her great, truthful, deep-blue eyes.
It was Christmas Eve, and as Jacob Scaffold trudged through the frosty streets the keen air brought a ruddy glow to his cheeks and tipped his nose with a brighter carmine than any that he used in the practise of his art. Entering the hall in which the ball of the Gilt-edged Coterie was taking place, the proud old house and sign painter quickly divested himself of his outer wraps and made his way to the committee room.
Then, adorned with a huge badge and streamer, he strolled out to greet his friends who were making merry on the polished floor of the ball-room. But, although the band played its most stirring measures and the lights gleamed on arms and necks of dazzling whiteness, old Jacob Scaffold sighed deeply as he seated himself in a rather obscure corner and allowed his eyes to roam about the room as if in search of some familiar face.
The fact was that the haughty, purse-proud old man was thinking of another Christmas Eve ten years before, when his daughter Susan had danced at this same ball, the brightest, the prettiest, and the most sought-after girl on the floor.
And to think, said the old man to himself, that, with all the opportunities she had to make a good match, she should have taken up with that reporter in the shiny dress-suit! Its five years since Ive heard anything of her, but of late Ive been thinking that maybe I was too harsh with her, and perhaps
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, who told him that some one desired to see him in the committee room. On reaching that apartment he found a little girl of perhaps eight years of age, plainly clad, and carrying a basket in her hand. Fixing her eyes on Jacob Scaffold, she said:
I am the reporter of the Sunday Guff. My papa has charge of the What the Four Hundred Are Doing column, but to-night he is obliged to attend a chromo-literary reception, where there will be nothing to eat but tea and cake. Papa has reported your balls and chowder excursions for the past five years, and we have always had ham for dessert for a week afterward. We had all been looking forward to your Christmas Eve ball, and when papa told us that he would have to go to the tea-and-cake place to-night mama felt so badly that I took papas ticket out of his pocket when he was asleep and came here myself. Papa has a thick ulster, full of nice big pockets, that he puts on when he goes out to report, but I have brought a basket.
The old man grew pale and his lips trembled as he gathered his grandchild in his arms. The other members of the committee softly left the room, for they all knew the story of Susan Scaffolds mésalliance and her fathers bitter feelings toward her and her husband.
It was a happy family party that sat down to dinner in William Swallowtails humble home that bright Christmas Day, and well did the little ones enjoy the treat which their generous new-found grandparent provided for them. They began with a soup made of wine jelly, and ended with a delicious dessert of corned-beef sandwiches and large German pickles; and then, when they could eat no more, and not even a pork pie could tempt their appetites, Grandpa Scaffold told his daughter that he was willing to lift his son-in-law from the hard and ill-paid labor of writing society chronicles and give him a chance to better himself with a whitewash brush. And, continued the old man, if I see that he possesses true artistic talent, I will some day give him a chance at the side of a house.