Jonas Jutt’s Cottage, Topmast Tickle,
Labrador Coast.
Respected Sir:
Regret erroneous report. Mistake of a clerk in the Bureau of Information. Santa Claus got away at 9:36. Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh.
Snow, Chief Clerk.
Then there was a great outburst of glee. It was the doctor who raised the first cheer. Three times three and a tiger! And what a tiger it was! What with the treble of Sammy, which was of the thinnest description, and the treble of Martha, which was full and sure, and the treble of Jimmie, which dangerously bordered on a cracked bass, and what with Matilda’s cackle and Skipper Jonas’s croak and my own hoorays and the doctor’s gutteral uproar (which might have been mistaken for a very double bass)—what with all this, as you may be sure, the shout of the wind was nowhere. Then we joined hands—it was the doctor who began it by catching Martha and Matilda—and danced the table round, shaking our feet and tossing our arms, the glee ever more uproarious—danced until we were breathless, every one, save little Sammy, who was not asked to join the gambol, but sat still in his chair, and seemed to expect no invitation.
“Wind blowing due south, strong and fresh,” gasped Jimmie, when, at last, we sat down. “He’ll be down in a hurry, with they swift deer. My! but he’ll just whizz in this gale!”
“But ’tis sad ’tis too late t’ get word to un,” said Martha, the smile gone from her face.
“Sad, is it?” cried the doctor. “Sad! What’s the word you want to send?”
“’Tis something for Sammy, zur.”