Christmas Eve
Some Sights and Sounds Caught on
Houston Streets and Elsewhere
Houston is a typical Southern town. Although a busy, growing city that is easily holding its place among the half dozen metropolitan cities of the South, it retains most of the old-time Southern customs and traditions.
The all-absorbing haste, the breathless rush, the restless scramble for gain so noticeable in Northern cities is absent here. Houston people are prosperous, and they take things easy, believing that one may gather a few roses of pleasure on the way through life and still keep up with the march of progress. In no city in the South is Christmas more merrily welcomed with social pleasures, the exchanging of friendly offerings, and general rejoicing than in Houston. The immense crowds of people that have lined our streets and stores for the past week testify to the fact.
Yesterday was probably the busiest day among the merchants that the season has witnessed; and there is no question but that it brought to the children anticipations of the brightest nature.
Stand for a few moments on the corner and view the people.
They are moving like a colony of ants, some going, some coming, threading in and out in an endless tangled maze. When the gods lean over the edge of Mount Olympus and gaze down upon this world, while the waiter is out filling their glasses with nectar, they must be highly entertained by the little comedy that is holding the boards on earth. Our world must look to them very much as a great ant bed, over which we crawl and scramble, and run this way and that, apparently without purpose or design.
That light streak across the sky, which we call the Milky Way, is nothing more nor less than the foam spilt from tankards of nectar as the gods quaff and laugh at our strange antics. But it is Christmas eve, and what do we care for their laughter? Turn up the lights; let the curtain rise, and the Christmas crowd is on!
Did you ever watch a young lady buy a Christmas present for her father?
If not, you have missed a good thing.
They all go about it the same way. In fact, young ladies who buy Christmas presents for their fathers are just as sure to perform the operation in exactly the same way, as they are to sit on one foot while reading a novel. She always has just two dollars for this purpose, which is handed her by her mother, who suggests the idea. She goes out late in the afternoon on the day before Christmas. She first goes to a jeweler’s and looks at several trays of diamond studded watches, and wonders which one her father would like. Then, after examining about one hundred diamond rings, she suddenly remembers the amount of money she has, sighs and goes off to a clothing store, where she closely scrutinizes an $18 smoking jacket, and a $40 overcoat. She says she believes she will think over the matter before buying, and leaves. Next she visits a book store, three dry goods stores, two more jewelers, and a candy shop. When Christmas morning comes, her father finds himself the proud possessor of a new red pen wiper with the fifteen cent cost mark carefully erased, and there are to be observed in a certain young lady’s dressing case a new pair of gloves and a box of nice chocolate bonbons.
The fat man who is taking home a red wagon is abroad in the land.
He is generally a pompous man who prides himself on being self-made, and glories in showing his democracy by carrying home his own bundles. He holds the wagon in front of him and pushes his way through the crowd with a sterling-citizen-risen-from-the-ranks air that is quite wonderful to observe.
How the girls in their cloaks with high turned-up collars laugh and chatter and gaze in the show windows with “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” at everything they see! If you happen to be standing near a group of them you will hear something like this:
“Oh, Mabel, look at that lovely ring—squeezed my hand and said—sealskin, indeed! I guess I know plush when—and five from Papa, so I guess I’ll buy that—going to hang them up, of course; I bet they’ll hold more than yours, you old slim—good gracious! Belle let me pin your—papa asked him how he wanted his eggs for breakfast, and Charlie got mad and left, and the clock hadn’t struck—No, I wear these kind that—sixteen inches around the—Oh! look at that lovely-forgot to shave, and it scratched all along—I’ll trade with you, Lil; Tom said—with lace all round the—come on, girls, let’s—”
The noise of a passing street car drowned the rest.
The children are out in full force.
Did you ever reflect that children are the wisest philosophers in the world? They see the wonderful things in the windows for sale; and they listen gravely to the tales told them of Santa Claus; and, without endeavoring to analyze the situation, they rejoice with exceeding joy. They never measure the chimney or calculate the size of Santa’s sleigh; they never puzzle themselves by wondering how the old fellow gets his goods out of the stores, or question his stupendous feat of climbing down every chimney in the land on the same night. If grown folks would dissect and analyze less things that are mysteries to them, they would be far happier.
Two men meet on Main Street and one of them says:
“I want you to help me think. I want to get even with my wife this Christmas, and I don’t exactly know how to do it. For the last five years she has been making me ostensible Christmas presents that are not of the slightest possible use to me, but are very convenient for herself. Under the pretense of buying me a present, she simply buys something she wants for herself and uses Christmas for a cloak for her nefarious schemes. Once she gave me a nice wardrobe, in which she hangs her new dresses. Again she gave me a china tea set; at another time a piano; and last Christmas she made me a present of a side-saddle, and I had to buy her a horse. Now I want to get something for her Christmas present this year that I can use, and that will be of no possible service to her.”
“H’m,” said the other man thoughtfully, “it’s going to be a hard thing to do. Let’s see. You want something she can’t make use of. I have it! Have yourself a new pair of trousers made, and present them to her.”
“Won’t do,” says the first man, shaking his head. “She’d have ’em on in ten minutes and be clamoring for a bicycle.”
“Buy her a razor, then; she can’t use that.”
“Can’t she? She has three corns.”
“Say! There ain’t anything you can get that you can use and she can’t.”
“Don’t believe there is. Well, let’s go take something anyhow.”
The lights are beginning to burn in the show windows, and people are gathering in front of them.
To many of the lookers-on this gazing in the windows is all the Christmas pleasure they will have. Many of them are from the country and little towns along the fourteen lines of railroad that run into Houston. A country youth presses through the crowd with open mouth and wondering eyes. Holding fast to his hand, follows Araminta, bedecked in gorgeous colors, beholding with scarce-believing optics the fairy-like splendors of Main Street. When they return to Galveston they will long remember the glories of the great city they visited at Christmas.
A solemn man in a high silk hat, attired in decorous black, edges his way along the sidewalk. One would think him some city magnate making his way home, or a clergyman out studying the idiosyncrasies of human nature. He opens his mouth and yells in a high, singsong voice: “What will mamma say when Willie comes home with a mustache just like papa’s—buy one right now, boys; you can curl ’em, twist ’em, pull ’em, and comb ’em just like real ones—come on boys!” He fixes below his nose a black mustache with a wonderful curl to the ends and goes his way, occasionally selling one to some smooth-faced boy, who shyly makes his purchase. On the edge of the sidewalk a little man is offering “the most wonderful mechanical toy of the century, causing more comment and excitement than any other article exhibited at the great World’s Fair.” The public crowds about him and buys with avidity. Not twenty steps away in a Houston toy shop the same kind of toy has been sold for years.
On a corner stand a group of—well, say young men. They wear new style high turn-down collars and chrysanthemums. Their hats tilt backward and their front hair is brushed down low. They are gazing at the ladies as they pass. How Charles Darwin would have loved to meet these young men! But, alas! he died without completing the chain. Listen at the scraps of alleged conversation that can be distinguished above their simultaneous jabber:
“Deuced fine girl, but a little too—cigarette? I’ll owe you one—she’s a nice girl, but—the loveliest necktie you ever—would have paid my board, but saw that elegant suit at—kicked me clear out of the parlor without—that girl has certainly got a—haven’t a cent, old man, or I would—old man said I had to go to work, but—look at that blonde with the smiled right at me, and—the little one with the blue—he struck me in the eye, and I won’t speak to him now—no, the brunette in the white—I was real mad, and said, confound it—link buttons, of course.”
At a corner sits a woman with blue goggles, grinding an organ, on which stands a lamp chimney, in which burns a tallow candle.
Why the candle, the observer knoweth not. At her side crouches her pale little boy. A philanthropist bends toward her with a nickel between his fingers. Far away, among the wilds near Alvin, he has a little boy about the same age, and his heart is touched. The little boy springs up. He has a cigarette in his mouth, and he hurls a big fire-cracker between the philanthropist’s feet. It explodes; the boy yells with delight; and the philanthropist says: “Gol darn the kid” and reserves his nickel for beer.
Gazing with far off, longing eyes into a show window that glistens with diamonds and jewelry, stands a woman.
Her black dress and veil proclaim that she is a widow. One year ago the strong arm upon which she leaned with such love and security was her pride and joy. Tonight, beneath the sod of the churchyard, it is turning back to dust. And yet, she is not altogether desolate. She has sweet memories of her loved one to sustain her; and besides that, she is holding to the arm of the man she is engaged to marry when her time of mourning is up, and she is out selecting an engagement ring.
A policeman lurks in the shadow of an awning with his club in his hand ready to strike.
Two doors away there lives an alderman who voted against his being put on the force. It will not be long before the alderman’s little boy will come out on the sidewalk and shoot off a Roman candle, and then the policeman will strike; a city ordinance will be carried out, and a little boy carried in.
A man steps up to a salesman in a fancy goods store.
“I want to get something,” he says, “for my wife’s mother. I think—”
“James,” calls the salesman, “show this gentleman the 5-cent counter.” Merchants who make a study of their customers are quick to know what they want.
A man who is unmistakably a clergyman goes into a grocery store that is next door to a saloon. The salesman attends upon him. He buys 10 cents worth of minced meat for pies, and then lingers, clearing his throat.
“Anything else?” asks the salesman.
The clerical-looking man fumbles with his white cambric tie, and says:
“Tomorrow will be Christmas, you know day of holy thoughts—peace on earth, and—and—and—our hearts should carol forth praises however, we must dine—er—er—mince pie, you know; the little ones in the family enjoy it—have the meat here—thought, perhaps—something to flavor—just a drop of—”
“Here, Jimmy,” yells the salesman, “go in next door and get this gent a pint of whisky.”
Christmas brings pleasure to many; it brightens some lives that hardly ever know sunshine; it is abused by too many and made a season of revelry and sin; but to the little ones it is a joy forever, so let the tin horns blow and the red drums rattle, for those restless little feet and those grimy little hands come first in the making up of Heaven’s kingdom.
Merry Christmas to all.
(Houston Daily Post, Wednesday morning, December 25, 1895.)
New Year’s Eve and How It Came to Houston
Sketched at Random as the Old Year Passed
We that would properly welcome the new year should view it with the eye of an optimist, and sing its praises with the coated tongue of a penitent.
We should dismiss from our hearts the cold precept that history repeats itself, and strive to believe that the deficiencies of the day will be supplied by the morrow. Since fancy whispers to us that at the stroke of midnight the old order will change, yielding to the new, let us put aside, if possible, all knowledge to the contrary and revel in the fairy tale told by the merry bells.
Man’s arbitrary part of the time into hours, days and years causes no perceptible jolt beneath the noiseless pneumatic tire of the cycle of years. No mortal tack can puncture that wheel. Old Father Time is a “scorcher,” and he rides without lamp or warning bell. The years that are as mile-stones to us are as gravel spurned beneath him. But to us, of few days and an occasional night off, they serve as warnings to note the hour upon the face of a mighty clock upon which the hands move silently and are never turned back.
The New Year is feminine. There is no question but that the world has become badly mixed as to the gender of time. And again, the New Year is no cherubic debutante with eyes full of prophetic joys, but a grim and ancient spinster who flutters coyly into our presence with a giddy giggle, rejuvenated for the occasion. We have made obeisance to those same charms time out of mind; we have whispered soft nothings into those same ears many moons ago; we have lightly brushed those painted and powdered cheeks in time gone by when they glowed with the damask bloom of youth. But let us hug once more the dear delusion. Let us say that she is fair and fresh as the rising morn, and make unto ourselves a season of mirth and heedless joy.
The fiddles strike up and the hautboys sigh. Your hand, sweet, coy New Year—take care of that rheumatic knee—come, let us foot it as the gladsome bells proclaim your debut—number 1896.
The last day of the year is generally spent in laying in as big a stock as possible of things suitable for use the next day for swearing-off purposes.
It is so much easier to resolve to do without anything when we have just had too much of it. How easy it is on New Year’s day, just after dinner, when we are full of good resolutions and turkey, to kneel down and solemnly affirm that we will never touch food again. The man who on the morning of the glad New Year stands trembling with fear on the center table, while snakes and lizards merrily play hide and seek on the floor, finds no difficulty in forswearing the sparkling bowl. The dark brown, copper-riveted taste which accompanies what is known to the medical profession as the New Year tongue, is a great incentive to reform.
The beautiful siren-like, Christmas-present cigar that is so fair to gaze upon, when lit turns like a viper and stings us into abjuring my Lady Nicotine forever.
When we attempt to sit upon the early scarlet runner, hand-embroidered rocking-chair cushion presented to us by our maiden aunt and slide out upon the floor upon our spinal vertebrae, we feel inclined to kneel in our own blood with a dagger between our teeth and swear by heaven never to sit down again.
When we go upon the streets wearing the neckties presented to us by our wife, and the loiterer upon the corner sayeth, “Ha, Ha,” and the newsboy inquireth, “What is it?” is it any wonder that we curse the necktie habit as an enemy of man, and on New Year’s morning swear to abjure it forever?
When we say farewell, and with clenched teeth wend our way into the shirt made for us by the fair hands of our partner in sorrow, and find the collar tighter than the last one worn by the late lamented Harry Hayward, and the tail thereof more biased than a populist editorial, and the bosom in billowy waves that heave upon our manly chest like a polonaise on a colored cook on Emancipation Day, and the sleeves dragging the floor as we walk about, saying, “It’s so nice, my dear—just what I wanted,” what wonder that we register an oath with the Lord of Abraham and Jacob as the glad New Year bells peal out, nevermore to wear again a garment made by that portion of the earth’s inhabitants that sits on the floor to put on its shoes, and regards the male torso as a waste basket for remnant AA sheeting and misfit Butterick patterns?
There are so many things we take a delight in forswearing on New Year’s Day.
While strolling aimlessly about the streets of Houston on the last evening of 1895, little sights and sounds obtrude themselves and reveal the spirit of the time, as little pulse beats indicate the general tone of the human system.
It is nearly 6 o’clock, and there is a lively crowd moving upon the sidewalks. Here comes a lovely little shopgirl, as neat and trim as a fashion plate. Her big hat plumes wave, and her little boot heels beat a merry tictac upon the pavement. Debonaire and full of life and fun, she moves, cheery and happy, on her way to supper. Her bright eyes flash sidelong glances at the jeweler’s windows as she passes. Some day she hopes to see upon her white finger one of those sparkling diamonds. Her lips curve in a meaning smile. She is thinking of the handsome, finely-dressed man who comes so often to her counter in the big store, ostensibly to buy her wares. How grand he is, and what eloquent eyes and a lovely mustache he has! She does not know his name; but, well, she knows that he cares a little for the goods she sells. How soft his voice as he asks the price of this and that, and with what romantic feeling he says that we will surely have rain if the clouds gather sufficiently! She wonders where he is now. She trips around a corner and meets him face to face. She gives a little scream, and then her face hardens and a cold glitter comes into her eye.
On his arm is a huge market basket, from which protrudes the cold, despairing legs of a turkey, from which the soul has filed. Two yards of celery trail behind him; turnip greens, cauliflower and the alleged yellow yam nestle against his arm. On his brow is confusion; in his face are hung the scarlet banners of a guilty conscience; in his romantic eyes she reads the tell-tale story of a benedict; by the hand he leads a cold-nosed but indisputable little boy.
She elevates her charming head to a supercilious angle, snaps out to herself the one word “married!” and is gone.
He jerks the limp, sad corpse of the turkey to the other side, snatches the cold-nosed little boy about five feet through the air and vows that never again will he go to market during the joyous year of 1896.
It is New Year’s eve.
A citizen is restlessly pacing the floor of his sitting room. There is evidently some crisis near, for his brow is contracted, and his hands are nervously clasped and unclasped behind his back. He is waiting expectantly for something. Suddenly the door opens and his family physician enters smiling and congratulatory. The citizen turns upon him a look full of inquiry.
“All is well,” says the physician. “Three fine boys, and everybody getting along first rate.”
“Three?” says the citizen in a tone of horror, “Three!” He kneels on the floor and in fervent accents exclaims: “Tomorrow will be the New Year, and I hereby solemnly swear that—”
Breaking in upon his resolutions comes the merry chime of the New Year bells.
The people come and the people go.
In the stores, looking over remnants of Christmas goods, are to be found that class of people who received presents on Christmas Day without giving any, and are now striving to make late and lame amends by returning the compliment on New Year’s Day. The New Year’s present is a delusion and contains about as much warmth and soul as a eulogy on the South by the New York Sun.
Two ladies are at a bargain counter, maintaining an animated conversation in low but dangerous tones.
“She sent me,” says one of them, “a little old nickel-plated card receiver on Christmas Day, and I know she bought it at a racket store. Goodness knows, I never would have thought of sending her anything, but now I’ve got to return it, of course—the old deceitful thing and I don’t know what to get for her. Let’s see—oh yes; I have it now. You know they say she used to be a chambermaid in a St. Louis hotel before she was married; I’ll just send her this little silver pin with a broom on it. Wonder if she’s bright enough to understand?”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” says the other lady. “That reminds me that George gave me a nice new opera cloak for a Christmas present, and I just forgot all about him. What are those horn collar-buttons worth?”
“Fifteen cents a dozen,” says the salesman.
“Let me see” says the lady meditatively—“Yes, I will; George has been so good to me. Give me three of those buttons, please.”
Viva el rey; el rey está muerto!
The Spanish phrase looks better than the hackneyed French, and it is correct, having been carefully revised by one of the most reliable tamale dealers on Travis Street. The old year is passing; let us stand in with the new. In happy Houston homes light feet are dancing away the hours ’neath holly and mistletoe, but outside stalk those who inherit want and care and misery, to whom the coming season brings nothing of hope or joy.
Two young men are wending their way up Preston Street. One is holding the other by the arm and guiding his steps. The sidewalk seems to run in laps and curves, twisting itself into hills and hollows and labyrinthine mazes. One of the young men thinks he is dying. The other one is not sure about it, but he hopes he is not mistaken. They are both good friends of the old year, and they hate to see it leave so badly that they have sewed their sorrow up in a sack and tried to drown it.
“Goo’ bye, old frien’,” says the dying one. “Go ’way and leave me to die here on thish boundless prairie. Sands of life’s runnin’ out like everyshing. Zat las’ dish chick’n salad’s done its work. Never see fazzer’n muzzer any more.”
“Bob,” says the other one, “you’re ’fern’l idiot. Never shay die. Zis town Houston can’t be more’n ten miles away. We’re right on Harvey Wilshon’s race track now goin’ round’n round. Whazzer mazzer wiz livin’ for country’n so forth?”
“Can’t do it, old boy; ’stremities gettin’ coldsh now. Light’s fadin’ out of eyes’n worldsh fadin’ from view. Can’t shay ’er prayer, old boy, ’fore vital spark expires! Can’tcher say lay’m down to sleep, Jim?”
“Don’t be a fool, Bob; come on, lesh find city Houston ’n git a drink.”
“Jim, I’ dead man. Been wicked ’n told liesh, ’n played poker. Zhere ain’t no hope for handshome, unscrup’loush shociety man like me. Been giddy butterfly ’n broke senty-five lovin’ creaturesh hearts—jus’ listen Jim, I hear angelsh shingin’ an’ playin’ harpsh, ’n I c’n see beau’ful lights ’n heavensh wiz all kind colors flashin’ from golden gates. Jim, don’t you hear angel throng shingin’ shongs ’n see lights shinin’ in New Jerushalem?”
“Bob, you d’graded lun’tic, don’t you know what that ish? That’s Salvation Army singin’, ’n Ed Kiam’s ’lectric sign you shee. Now I know where we’re at. Zere’s five saloonsh on nex’ block.”
“Jim, you’ve shaved m’ life. Lesh make one more effort ’fore I die, ’n tell barkeep’ put plenty ice in it.”
Midnight draws on apace, and while some welcome with revelry the advent of the New Year, others stray in the land of dreams, and allow it to approach unheralded.
Ladies over 30 years of age take on a grim look about the jaw, and bend with a deadly glitter in their eyes over the article in the Sunday paper that treats of “How to avoid wrinkles,” and sadly shake their heads when they read that Madame Bonjour, the famous French beauty, kept young and lovely until after 110 years of age by using Bunker’s Bunco Balm.
The New Year brings to them sad prospects of another gray hair, or a crow’s foot around the eye.
To the little folks the season is but a prolongation of Christmas, and they welcome the turning over of the new leaf without a misgiving.
Would that we all might trace a record upon it as fair as that their chubby hands will scrawl.
Happy New Year to all.
(Houston Daily Post, Wednesday morning, January 1, 1896.)