THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
(Founded upon the Farce of Christmas Cards.)
Scene—A London Drawing Room. Paterfamilias discovered reading a paper, and Materfamilias superintending the despatch of a number of cards.
Mater. (in a tone of irritation). I really think, John, that, considering you have nothing earthly to do this afternoon, you might come and help me.
Pater. You have said that twice before, my dear. Don't you see I am enjoying myself?
Mater. So like you! As if you couldn't give up that stupid paper—you declare there's no news in it—and do me a favour!
Pater. (putting down his paper). Well, anything for a quiet life! What is it?
Mater. I am sending a card to Mrs. Brown.
Pater. (taking up his paper again). Send it.
Mater. My dear John, do attend. I want to know what I shall put into the envelope.
Pater. (giving up paper, and examining Christmas Cards with some vague show of interest). Oh, well—here. (Casually picking up a picture of a country churchyard by moonlight). Won't this be the sort of thing?
Mater. (shocked). How can you, John! Don't you know that Mrs. Brown lost her husband only a year ago?
Pater. Then why are you wishing her "A Merry Christmas"?
Mater. Well, you see she has married again, and so I thought of sending her something with "A Happy New Year" in it.
Pater. (taking up a card showing an owl in an ivy bush). Why not this?
Mater. Well that would be better, but then she might think that the owl was intended for a sneer at her second husband. And then I always like to keep the happy new year cards till Christmas is over, as you can send them afterwards to the people who have remembered you when you have forgotten them.
Pater. But you wouldn't have "A Merry Christmas," and now you object to "A Happy New Year." What do you want?
Mater. Can't you get something impersonal?
Pater. (taking up card). Well, here's a yacht in full sail.
Mater. Oh, how cruel! It will remind her of her cousin who was lost at sea!
Pater. (selecting another sketch). Then why not this bouquet of flowers?
Mater. Not for worlds! One never knows what the flowers may mean, and we might offend her.
Pater. (trying again). Well, here is a windmill.
Mater. My dear John, you are absolutely provoking. A windmill is suggestive of frivolity, and I wouldn't let Mrs. Brown think that we meant that on any account.
Pater. (making another selection). Well, here's a parrot in a cage.
Mater. You surely are not serious? Fancy sending such a card! Why, as everyone knows that dear Mrs. Brown is rather talkative, all the world would say it was an "insult."
Pater. (losing patience). Oh, hang Mrs. Brown!
Mater. I am ashamed of you, John! And I suppose you would hang the cards, too! You would curse "Merry Christmas."
Pater. (promptly). That I would, and what is more, I would—well never mind—the glad New Year!
[Scene closing in upon an anti-seasonable squabble.
Disgusted Keeper (who has just beaten up a brace or so of Pheasants, which young Snookson has missed "clane and clever"—to dog, which has been "going seek" and "going find" from force of habit). "Ah, Ruby, Ruby, bad dog! T' heel, Ruby, t' heel! Ah muust apologise for Ruby, Sir. You see, Ruby's been accustomed to pick 'em up!"