Jack. Oh, come off, now, Santa. You almost gave me a chill. Let’s get a big box of those drums and whistles packed up for the sleigh.
Jack Frost
Santa Claus. No; I am in dead earnest. My head never was clearer. I’ll tell you how it is. You will hardly believe me, but up at the Wireless to-day, I got the shock of my life. I went up and sat on an iceberg at the foot of the Pole to listen to what the children of different playgrounds were saying about Christmas, and what gifts they expected, and so on. I had my note-book ready to write what this one and that one wanted. And—oh, I can hardly tell you—I heard children from three different cities talking about Christmas and saying they did not believe in Santa Claus.
All. Not believe in Santa Claus? Impossible! Preposterous! And that, too, after all the gifts—dolls and Noah’s arks and bags of candy you have scattered around the world!
Jack. Maybe they think I have been chasing reindeer to the end of the rainbow for—nobody!
Santa Claus. I knew you’d hardly believe it. I would not believe it myself if I hadn’t heard the words just as plainly as I hear you all talking now. One little girl in Boston was talking to quite a lot of little comrades. “Pooh,” she said, “no well-informed person nowadays believes in Santa Claus. Santa Claus is only a medieval myth”—
Jennie. Medieval! What’s that? There’s nothing evil about you, Santa. You are just three hundred pounds of solid goodness.
Santa Claus. Oh, Jennie, I thought they all loved me as you do; and it is hard to find they don’t believe in me, after all my years of Christmas visits.
Mother Goose. Go on, Santa dear. What else did you hear over that horrid wireless line?