At the close of the feast a huge pie was placed upon the table, and instantly opened by Mr. McClure. Thereupon, to the delight of all the guests, Mr. J. K. Bangs sprang forth and sang a solemn and beautiful hallelujah in praise of the Harper publications.
After the applause which followed this unexpected encomium of the great publishing-house had subsided, Mr. McClure introduced to his employees the literary centipede, Mr. Harry Thurston Peck, who stood up in his place, with a pen in each claw, and explained how it was possible not only to work with all his tentacles at once, but also to give the lie to the old story of the Crow and the Fox, by editing a magazine with his teeth, and at the same time lecturing to the Columbia College students without letting go of his job.
During Mr. Peck’s remarks the giver of the feast quietly withdrew, and, as the speaker ended, the curtains were withdrawn, revealing the great, brilliantly lighted tree, and Mr. McClure himself in the garb of Santa Claus, ready to distribute the Christmas gifts. There was a present for every one, and all had been chosen with special reference to individual tastes. To one was given a sled, to another a pair of skates, to a third a suit of warm underwear, and to a fourth a silver-mounted ivory foot-rule for scanning poetry.
To such of the workmen as held an unusually high record for a year of industrious work, not marred by any breakage of valuable goods, Mr. McClure gave also an order for some article which could easily be prepared in odd moments, and which would be liberally paid for when completed and packed for shipment.
Among the orders thus given were twelve for plain, hand-sewed, unbleached Christmas stories for actors, to sign in the holiday numbers of the dramatic weeklies. The great annual syndicate article, “Christmas in Many Lands,” was ordered from the foreman of each department, in recognition of the high quality of goods turned out in every part of the shop.
Other literary plums given out for the picking were “Christmas Eve on the East Side,” “Christmas at the North Pole,” “Christmas in Patagonia,” “Christmas at the South Pole,” “Christmas in the Lunatic Asylum,” “Christmas in the Siberian Mines,” “Christmas with Hall Caine,” and “Christmas in the Condemned Cell.”
While the delighted guests were opening their bundles and examining their presents, the noble-hearted Master Mechanic stepped forward and announced that the Christmas prize offered by the New York Journal, to be competed for by the inhabitants of Syndicate, had been awarded to the author of “Christmas Inside the Anaconda,” described by a Journal representative who got swallowed on Christmas Eve.
Santa Claus then announced that there was still one present to be given, but that the person for whom it was intended had been prevented by reason of rheumatism and other infirmities incidental to old age from being present. This person, he explained, was the oldest poet in his employ, one who had for years innumerable labored faithfully at bench and lap-stone, and had been one of the first to find employment in the now bustling model village of Syndicate. “His poems,” cried Mr. McClure, warmly, “lie scattered throughout the valley of American letters, from the earliest pages of Petersons’ and Godey’s down to the very latest of the Century and Scribner’s. Unlike the distinguished gentleman who has already addressed you, he became wedded in early life to the literary customs of an older generation, and has never been able to learn how to write with his feet. For that reason his output is limited. I am sure that you will all rejoice with him over a gift which is designed to make him comfortable during the rest of his days, and I call upon a committee of his friends to bear to his humble home these nice warm blankets, these thick woolen socks, and an order to write a weekly article on ‘Books that have Helped Me,’ so long as the breath remains in his body.”
At this new instance of generosity on the part of their beloved employer the entire company uttered a mighty shout of approval, and, seizing the gifts from the hands of Santa Claus, departed in a body to inform worthy old bedridden Peleg Scan of his good fortune.