have agreed to consider as the turn of the solar year and as the rebirth of hope!  It falls also immediately before the end of the calendar year, and thus prepares us for a fresh beginning that shall put the old to shame.  It could not be better timed.  Further, its traditional spirit of peace and goodwill is the very spirit which we desire to foster.  And finally its customs—­or at any rate, its main customs—­are well designed to symbolize that spirit.  If we have allowed the despatch of Christmas cards to degenerate into naught but a tedious shuffling of paste-boards and overwork of post-office officials, the fault is not in the custom but in ourselves.  The custom is a most striking one—­so long as we have sufficient imagination to remember vividly that we are all in the same boat—­I mean, on the same planet—­and clinging desperately to the flying ball, and dependent for daily happiness on one another’s good will!  A Christmas card sent by one human being to another human being is more than a piece of coloured stationery sent by one log of wood to another log of wood:  it is an inspiring and reassuring message of high value.  The mischief is that so many self-styled human beings are just logs of wood, rather stylishly dressed.

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And then the custom of present-giving!  What better and more convincing proof of sympathy than a gift?  The gift is one of these obvious contrivances—­like the wheel or the lever—­which smooth and simplify earthly life, and the charm of whose utility no obviousness can stale.  But of course any contrivance can be rendered futile by clumsiness or negligence.  There is a sort of Christmas giver who says pettishly:  “Oh!  I don’t know what to give to So-and-So this Christmas!  What a bother!  I shall write and tell her to choose something herself, and send the bill to me!” And he writes.  And though he does not suspect it, what he really writes, and what So-and-So reads, is this:  “Dear So-and-So.  It is nothing to me that you and I are alive together on this planet, and in various ways mutually dependent.  But I am bound by custom to give you a present.  I do not, however, take sufficient interest in your life to know what object it would give you pleasure to possess; and I do not want to be put to the trouble of finding out, nor of obtaining the object and transmitting it to you.  Will you, therefore, buy something for yourself and send the bill to me.  Of course, a sense of social decency will prevent you from spending more than a small sum, and I shall be spared all exertion beyond signing a cheque.  Yours insincerely and loggishly * * *.”  So managed, the contrivance of present-giving becomes positively sinister in its working.  But managed with the sympathetic imagination which is infallibly produced by real faith in goodwill, its efficacy may approach the miraculous.

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