XXX

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

As a pretty tribute to that element of our population which is under twenty-two years of age, these are called “the Holidays.”

This is the only chance that the janitors of the schools and colleges have to soak the floors of the recitation halls with oil to catch the dust of the next semester, and while this is being done there is nothing to do with the students but to send them home for a week or two.  Thus it happened that the term “holidays” is applied to that period of the year when everybody else is working just twice as hard and twice as long during the week to make up for that precious day which must be lost to the Sales Campaign or the Record Output on Christmas Day.

For those who are home from school and college it is called, in the catalogues of their institutions, a “recess” or “vacation,” and the general impression is allowed to get abroad among the parents that it is to be a period of rest and recuperation.  Arthur and Alice have been working so hard at school or college that two weeks of good quiet home-life and home cooking will put them right on their feet again, ready to pitch into that chemistry course in which, owing to an incompetent instructor, they did not do very well last term.

That the theory of rest during vacation is fallacious can be proved by hiding in the coat closet of the home of any college or school youth home for Christmas recess.  Admission to the coat closet may be forced by making yourself out to be a government official or an inspector of gas meters.  Once hidden among the overshoes, you will overhear the following little earnest drama, entitled “Home for the Holidays.”

There was a banging of the front door, and Edgar has arrived.  A round of kisses, an exchange of health reports, and Edgar is bounding upstairs.

“Dinner in half an hour,” says Mother.

“Sorry,” shouts Edgar from the bath-tub, “but I’ve got to go out to the Whortleberry’s to a dinner dance.  Got the bid last week.  Say, have I got any dress-studs at home here?  Mine are in my trunk.”

Father’s studs are requisitioned and the family cluster at Edgar’s door to slide in a few conversational phrases while he is getting the best of his dress shirt.

“How have you been?” (Three guesses as to who it is that asks this.)

“Oh, all right.  Say, have I got any pumps at home?  Mine are in the trunk.  Where are those old ones I had last summer?”

“Don’t you want me to tie your tie for you?” (Two guesses as to who it is that asks this.)

“No, thanks.  Can I get my laundry done by tomorrow night?  I’ve got to go out to the Clamps’ at Short Neck for over the week-end to a bob-sledding party, and when I get back from there Mrs. Dibble is giving a dinner and theatre party.”

“Don’t you want to eat a little dinner here before you go to the Whortleberry’s?” (One guess as to who it is that asks this.)