“But this year,” interrupted the boy, “potatoes are so scarce that we couldn’t have ’em.  Mother says that next year perhaps we will have some real Christmas.”

They were so brave about it that my heart went out to them.  Children and no Christmas gifts!  Only the chill, bare room, the wretched, meagre meal.  I ransacked my brain.  Finally something occurred to me.  After dinner I excused myself and hurried back to the church.  There were two small wicker baskets there which were used for the collection—­old but rather pretty.  I selected the best one.  Fortunately I had in my grip a neat little “housewife” which contained a pair of scissors, a huge thimble, needles, thread, a tiny little pin-cushion, an emery bag, buttons, etc.  I am, like most ex-sailors, something of a needleman myself.  I emptied the contents into the collection basket and garnished the dull little affair with the bright ribbon ties ripped off the “housewife” and went back to the house.

To the boy I gave my penknife which happened to be nearly new, and to the girl the church basket with the sewing things for a work-basket.  The joy of those children was one of the finest things I have ever witnessed.  The face of the little girl was positively filled with awe as she lifted from the basket, one by one, the pretty and useful articles the “housewife” had supplied and when I added the small box of candy that my children had provided me, they looked at me with feelings of reverence, as a visible incarnation of Santa Claus.  They were the cheapest and most effective Christmas presents it was ever my pleasure to bestow.  I hope to be forgiven for putting the church furniture to such a secular use.

Another Christmas day I had a funeral.  There was no snow, no rain.  The day was warm.  The woman who died had been the wife of one of the largest farmers in the diocese.  He actually owned a continuous body of several thousands of acres of fine land, much of it under cultivation.  She had been a fruitful mother and five stalwart sons, all married, and several daughters likewise, with numerous grandchildren represented her contribution to the world’s population.  They were the people of the most consideration in the little community in which they lived.  We had the services in the morning in the Methodist church, which was big enough to hold about six hundred people.  As it was a holiday, it was filled to the very doors.  One of my farmer friends remarked as we stood on the front steps watching the crowd assembling: 

“My, doc, all of them wagons gatherin’ here makes it seem more like circus day than a funeral.”

I had been asked to preach a sermon, which I essayed to do.  The confusion was terrific.  In order to be present themselves the mothers in Israel had been obliged to bring their children, and the most domestic of attentions were being bestowed upon them freely.  They cried and wailed and expostulated with their parents in audible tones until I was nearly frantic.  I found myself shouting consoling platitudes to a sobbing, grief-stricken band of relatives and endeavouring to drown the noise of the children by roaring—­the lion’s part a la Bottom.  It was distracting.  I was a very young minister at the time and the perspiration fairly rained from me.  That’s what makes me remember it was a warm day.