“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.