“New sunshades and parasols—splendid presents for Christmas.” “New summer hats—just the thing for a Christmas present.” “Indian muslins, just arrived—nothing better for a Christmas present.” It was all lost upon me. For parasols I insisted upon reading “umbrellas”; for summer hats, “furs and snow-boots”; for Indian muslins, “warm West of England tweeds”—habits like mine cannot be broken in a moment. Of course, there are toy fairs arranged for the youngsters, and there is even a pretence of having Father Christmas in traditional garb. But what can the white-bearded, frosted patriarch mean to children who have never seen snow and whose patriarchs are sunburnt with long exposure to the atmosphere in the hot Bush?
Most of all I miss the poultry display. Those long lines of turkeys and geese killed a week in advance of Christmas, and exhibited in enticing fashion until Christmas Eve!—we have none of that here. Imagine a turkey being hung day after day for a week in an atmosphere like this! There is one display, and that is on Christmas Eve, and even that one is modest compared with what we have been accustomed to in the Old Country. The birds are not killed until the last minute, hence they are not so tender as English turkeys. It is mere slavery, this traditional eating of turkey and plum-pudding at Christmas time; but the older folk here permit themselves to be willing victims of custom. It is turkey and plum-pudding at home; then it shall be that here, so they argue. Climate and season protest against it, but in vain. One family of which I heard drew down their blinds one Christmas, and lit the gas, and ate their Christmas dinner under artificial light. It was the nearest approach they could make to the Old Country way.
The younger generation is making the daring experiment of trying to abandon the English Christmas, and to replace it by an Australian festival. They argue that the transplanting of Northern customs to these hot climes is ridiculous, and that whereas rich and heavy meals may be in place at Christmastide in a climate where snow and frost are found, they are utterly out of place here under azure-burning skies. Some plants will not bear transplanting, and this is one of them. The Yule-log and furs have never established themselves here at midsummer, neither should the turkey and plum-pudding be permitted to do so. Hence the young Australian is quietly dropping the traditional Christmas fare, and substituting for it ices, cool drinks, and fruit. And as peaches and apricots are now selling at one penny per pound, he finds it advantageous, in more ways than one, to accept the natural boon of the country rather than the artificial one of tradition.
A new Christmas is being born in which the old spirit is finding fresh forms more consonant with the climate. God forbid that the old spirit should ever die!
The great heat which ushered in our last Christmas week in Australia was exceptionally trying during the hours of public worship. For many, church-going was out of the question. People remained at home, seeking coolness in darkened houses. Those who ventured out to church on the Sunday morning had to travel in stifling railway carriages, or walk over baking pavements. Within the church electric fans were moving, together with a multitude of hand fans. At first it is distracting to a preacher to speak to hundreds of people who are fanning themselves; after a time, however, neither preacher nor audience takes any notice of the motion. The feminine portion of the congregation is clad wholly in white; the men affect light cashmeres, tweeds, or tussore silk. Scarcely a black hat is seen. “Topees,” tropical helmets, and straws are the order of the day. At night the church was full for a special Christmas service. But everybody was languid. The hymns were sung without the usual enthusiasm. The great heat had, for the time being, ruined the organ, which remained silent. The poor preacher used up a handkerchief or two in the effort to keep his face dry. Then it was that the incongruity of keeping the traditional Christmas under the Southern Cross was manifest in its fullest form. For the choir stood and sang the carol, beginning:
“See amid the winter snow,”
and the thermometer registered over ninety degrees!
They sang again Rossetti’s beautiful song,
“In the bleak mid-winter,”
and the great organ solemnly protested that it had been ruined temporarily by midsummer heat.