My legal action against you continues according to plan. I shall also sue you for the damage to my lawnmower.
You may inform Lambie-Pie (whom I take to be your consort) that I am not human. I sprang, full-grown, from a riven oak one midnight many years ago.
Yours in a very limited sense,
Samuel Marchbanks.
*
To Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Dear Dr. Cataplasm:
I have met a good many people during the past two weeks who have wagged their heads dolefully and said, “A green Christmas makes a fat graveyard.” As a physician and a man of science, do you think that this is true? Watching the way that some of them have been eating and drinking over the festive season I would be more inclined to say, “A fat Christmas makes a green graveyard.”
How did the illusion grow up that cold winters are healthier than mild ones? Is it part of our Puritan insistence on the superiority of whatever is disagreeable and inconvenient? And can you tell me if the graveyards in Florida and California are especially fat? Personally I dislike the expression “fat graveyard”; it suggests that the earth of the graveyard is of a squelchy, suety, gustful, mince-meaty quality, with headstones stuck in it like blanched almonds in a plum pudding. An obscene fantasy, and one unbecoming such pure and airy spirits as yours and mine.
Your perennial patient,
S. Marchbanks.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Marchbanks:
Will you lend me your Santa Claus costume? I want it for the annual party of the Rowanis Club, of which I am Grand Exalted Merrymaker this year. We are having a Christmas celebration, and I thought it would be an original idea if I dressed up as S.C. and gave everybody presents containing sneeze powder, white mice, dribble glasses and etc.
I hope you are not brooding about that little matter of the skunk? We have led the lawyers a fine dance, haven’t we? Ha ha! Still, we are both men of the world, eh Marchbanks?
Will you send the S.C. suit to the cleaners right away, so that I can pick it up next week? I want to look well at the party, and those suits get pretty dirty when they are not taken care of.
Your neighbour,
Dick Dandiprat.
*
To Mouseman, Mouseman and Forcemeat.
Dear Mr. Mouseman:
I am going out of my mind! That misbegotten ruffian Dandiprat has just written me a letter in which he virtually confesses that he put the skunk in my car!
Now Mouseman, what can you do to Dandiprat? Don’t talk to me about the gallows; it is too good for him. Is there a thumbscrew anywhere that we can borrow? Or what about the Chinese water torture? Should I ask my laundry man if he will co-operate? Or what do you say to Mussolini’s merry prank with a quart of castor oil? I warn you, Mouseman, if I do not have revenge I shall drown in my own gall! Get to work at once.
Yours furiously,
S. Marchbanks.
*
• REFLECTIONS •
EPIDERMIS / A medical acquaintance mentioned idly that you can tell a good deal about the age of a human being by pinching the skin on the backs of the hands; according as it retains the shape of the pinch, the patient is advanced in decay. Spent much of the day pinching the skin on the backs of my hands, which snapped back into place very quickly at some points, and at others remained obstinately curled up. From this I conclude that my skin reflects the character of my opinions, some of which are young and fresh, and others far gone in senility.
FASHION IN KISSES / To the movies, and as I sat through a double feature I was interested to observe that the audible kiss has come back into fashion. When the first talking pictures appeared, kisses were all of the silent variety; it was just about then that silent plumbing made its first appearance, and there may have been some connection. But now the shadow-folk of Hollywood kiss with a noise like a cow pulling its foot out of deep mud. In my younger days there were two types of kiss: the Romantic Kiss was for private use and was as silent as the grave; the Courtesy Kiss, bestowed upon aunts, cousins and the like was noisy and wet, generally removing two square inches of mauve face powder. A visiting aunt, having been welcomed by two or three nephews, needed substantial repairs. The Romantic Kiss also involved closing the eyes, to indicate extreme depth of feeling, though it often occurred to me that if one cannot see what one is kissing, a pretty girl and a kid glove of good quality are completely indistinguishable.
CUT-RATE AUTOGRAPHS / Had an opportunity to examine a collection of autographs, and wondered once again what makes people collect them. The futility of collecting scraps of paper upon which people have scribbled (autograph-collecting) seems to me to be exceeded only by the futility of collecting scraps of paper which people have licked (stamp-collecting). There is a certain interest, perhaps, in the manner in which a great man signs his name, though not much. I would be delighted to own a page of manuscript written by Ben Jonson or Cardinal Bembo, for both were masterly calligraphers; but letters from most modern authors and statesmen are mere scribbles. In childhood most of us have a spell during which we carefully collect the autographs of our families, the milkman, the baker and the laundry man; then we lose the album. But I am surprised whenever I am reminded that the craze continues into adult life, and that great sums of money are spent on signatures of writers, musicians, criminals, politicians, and the like. I have a little skill in forgery, and I am thinking of going into a business where I shall undertake to provide a good facsimile of anybody’s signature for twenty-five cents. Thus, for a modest sum, the eager collector will be able to get some rare items.
VALIANT FOR TRUTH / Received a letter from a cow, or it may simply have been from somebody who takes orders from a cow; I couldn’t quite make out. It appears that when I made public my intention of keeping a cow in my cellar I suggested that cows shed their horns annually; the letter denied this. It is possible, though improbable, that I am wrong. I am not sure that I would know a cow if I met one. A certain cloudiness of vision, caused by long hours poring over the Scriptures, makes it impossible for me to identify an animal or even a human being at a distance of more than five feet. The cows which Santa Claus employs to draw his sleigh certainly have horns, for I have seen pictures of them. But if cows do not shed their horns, how comes it that cow horns are so plentiful? Cow horns are used to make horn-rimmed spectacles, snuff boxes for Scotsmen, powderhorns for outlaws, inkhorns for scholars, horns for automobiles, and for a variety of purposes. Am I expected to believe that all these horns come from dead cows and represent a lifetime of patient horn-growing? No, no, I am not so foolish as that. Until I am shown otherwise I shall believe that cows shed their horns each Spring.
*
• FROM MY ARCHIVES •
To Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Dear Dr. Cataplasm:
The other day I read the autobiography of an Armenian gentleman named Nubar Gulbenkian; he hopes to live as long as his grandfather, who died at the age of 106. The book described this ancient’s meals in detail. Two facts about them impressed me; each meal (he ate four times a day) took 45 minutes; each meal ended with a plate of Turkish sweets.
I have never taken 45 minutes to eat a meal in my life. I can eat eight courses in fifteen minutes. Can it be that I eat too fast for long life and health?
I detest Turkish sweets. They appear to me to be made of raw mutton fat into which low-caste Turks have ground caraway seeds by rubbing it between the soles of their feet.
However, Gulbenkian eats slowly and he eats nasty things, and he expects to achieve a great age. Perhaps you would like to quote his example to a few patients who are not so hasty and fastidious as,
Your perennial patient,
Samuel Marchbanks.
*
To Amyas Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
A few days ago I visited Toyland, as I do every year, just to see how the Christmas Racket is getting along. Toyland is as hot as ever; the temperature wa
s not a smidgeon under 90°F. Most of the customers, like myself, wore full Winter outdoor dress, and were suffering hideously. The only really comfortable people appeared to be the gnomes and elves who were helping Santa; these were young women ranging from the toothsome to the merely wholesome, dressed in shirts and very short shorts. This association between Santa Clause and the female underpinning fascinated me; Santa was there for the children, but the gnomes were there for the fathers—in a very limited sense, of course.
Santa himself, beneath his paint and ample white beard, seemed to be about 25; when children approached him his eyes rolled in an agonized fashion which betrayed the youthful bachelor. A photographer was on the spot, assisted by a leggy female gnome, taking pictures of every tot with Santa. This impressed me as a fine stroke of commercial whimsy, and I started up the runway myself. “Where you goin’?” said a blonde gnome with a large bust, catching me by the arm. “To have my picture taken with Santa,” said I. “It’s just for the kids,” said she, trembling a little and looking for the manager. “I am a child at heart, gnome,” said I. But she had pressed a button in the wall beside her, and at this moment a store detective appeared, wearing the insensitive expression of his kind. “What gives?” said he. “This character wants to go up the runway with the kids,” said the gnome. “Oh, one of them sex-monsters eh?” said the detective, closing one eye in a menacing fashion. For a moment I feared that I might have to spend Christmas in jail with my friend Osceola Thunderbelly. But I talked my way out of it, and as I hastened away the detective gave the gnome a slap on the podex which was probably mere brotherly goodwill. Christmas is becoming a terribly complicated season, full of mixed and mistaken motives.
Yours, still blushing at the shame of it,
Sam.
*
To Raymond Cataplasm, M.D., F.R.C.P.
Dear Dr. Cataplasm:
It was most kind of you to send me a Christmas card. It is a beautiful thing, and I shall probably have it framed. By the way, what is it? I did not know that you were interested in modern art.
Yours gratefully,
S. Marchbanks.
P.S. How foolish of me! I have been looking at your card upside down. Of course it is a lovely photograph of autumn colours.
S.M.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Marchbanks:
Through some oversight my secretary has sent you a coloured transparency representing a drunkard’s liver, in mistake for a Christmas card. If you will return it, a card showing myself and Mrs. Cataplasm on the verandah of our Summer home will be sent to you at once.
Yours sincerely,
Raymond Cataplasm.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Marchbanks:
No card from you this year. Surely our little fuss with lawyers is not going to cause a breach between us?
Can I borrow your bladder for a New Year party? I mean the one you put on the table under a dinner plate and then pump up secretly, making the plate jump. You never seemed to use it effectively, and I know I could be the life of the party with it. Just leave it in the hall and I’ll pick it up.
Yours forgivingly,
Dick Dandiprat.
*
To Richard Dandiprat, ESQ.
Sir:
You will hear from my lawyers, if they ever get around to it, which seems doubtful. I did not send you a card because I loathe and despise you.
My bladder is not yours to command. I have plans for a Happy New Year which require it.
An evil, ill-starred New Year to you and yours.
S. Marchbanks.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Sam:
From time to time I am moved to wonder where people get their ideas about food. Last night, for instance, I dined with friends, whom I took to be persons of some discrimination. But—I scarcely expect to be believed, though I vow that it is true—the last thing on the menu was halves of grapefruit which had been lightly boiled, and over which creme de menthe had been poured! I ate it, because I am a polite person and always eat what is set before me, but when I say that my gorge rose I am not employing a mere idle form of words. When, at last, I got out into the cold night air I allowed my gorge to rise all the way, after which I felt much better.—It is such trials, I suppose, that give us strength for even greater calamities, if greater calamities than boiled, booze-drenched grapefruit can be.
I hope the New Year will not use you too hardly.
Amyas Pilgarlic.
*
To Mrs. Kedijah Scissorbill.
Dear Mrs. Scissorbill:
Because I am a great admirer of novelty in any form, I write to congratulate you on your most successful performance as Santa Claus at the Christmas party which your club, The Militant Female Society, gave for the Misbegotten Orphans.
As you said in your speech to the Orphans, there is no reason whatever why Santa Claus should not be a woman. And I thought your costume and makeup excellent. It was a fine idea to wear your own abundant grey hair, loose and hanging down your back. This made up for the lack of the long beard which we associate with S. Claus. I think you would be wise another time to put some fire-proofing on your hair; I observed one well-developed male orphan, with quite a moustache, testing it with his cigarette-lighter. I think, too, that your pince-nez, and the natural austerity of your countenance, gave Santa an authority he sometimes lacks.
Altogether, it was a triumph, and I expect that the craze for female Santas will sweep the country.
Yours respectfully,
Samuel Marchbanks.
*
To Miss Minerva Hawser.
Dear Miss Hawser:
It is all very well for you to write to me on Dec. 23rd, asking for a Christmas play which you can rehearse and present on Dec. 25th, but it imposes a strain on my invention. If your Sunday School group wants a play from my hand, this is the best I can do for them; I am not sure that it is entirely suited to a class of girls between 8 and 10 years of age, but you must do your best, as I have done mine.
THE RIVAL SANTAS A CHRISTMAS DRAMA
by Samuel Marchbanks
The curtain rises (or, if I know Sunday school stages, jerks painfully apart) to reveal a richly furnished drawing-room with a fireplace (indicated by some chairs from the vestry and a packing case decorated with red crepe paper). The sound of sleigh-bells is heard, then a few buckets of soot burst from the fireplace, followed by Santa Claus; he has a sack of toys on his back.
SANTA: Ho, ho, ho! Oh what a jolly old fellow I am. Ho, ho, ho! (He brushes his clothes, knocking a lot of soot into the front rows of the audience.) I am welcome everywhere. Nobody has ever breathed a word of criticism against me. Ho, ho, ho!
A VOICE: Stop saying Ho, ho, ho!
SANTA: Who said that?
A VOICE: I did.
SANTA: Who are you?
A VOICE: I’m St. Nicholas, that’s who.
SANTA: Go on! I’m St. Nicholas myself.
A VOICE: Have you any papers to show it?
SANTA: I don’t need papers. It’s a Well-Known Fact. Come on out and let me see you. (An old man in the robes of a mediaeval bishop enters the room (remind him not to trip over his crozier); he looks rather like Santa, but more intelligent and grouchy. He has on a long blue cloak, with fur on it. He is St. Nicholas.)
SANTA: Well, you’re a fine-looking old spook. Do you live here?
ST. NICK: You’re no Beauty Queen yourself. No: I’m a spirit and on Christmas Eve I wander the earth, doing good.
SANTA: Funny I’ve never heard of you. Come to think of it, I don’t remember ever seeing your picture on a magazine cover or an advertisement.
ST. NICK: I’m not always shoving myself forward, like Some People I Could Mention.
SANTA: Meaning me?
ST. NICK: If the cap fits, wear it.
SANTA: Now look here, I don’t want any trouble. I’m a popular spirit an
d I have my public. Little children love me. Storekeepers love me. Manufacturers love me. Everybody who is anybody loves me.
ST. NICK: Do parents love you?
SANTA: I suppose so. Parents love everything that is good for their children. If they don’t the children make them. You don’t understand what a force children are in the modern world.
ST. NICK: Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m the patron saint of children.
SANTA: You need a refresher course in child psychology.
ST. NICK: Do you know what I think? I think you’re the most egotistical old spirit I’ve ever met. Do you know why you’re so popular with children? Because children are egotists too. So you and little children love each other, eh? Ha Ha! Birds of a feather.
SANTA: That’s fine talk for a saint. You’re disgruntled and jealous of my popularity, that’s all. Next thing you’ll be sucking up to parents, trying to convince them that they have some share in Christmas.
ST. NICK: Yes, I will. I’ll promote a Parents’ League For the Reform of Christmas. No more indigestible food, no more noise, no more paper hats, no more mica snow getting up your nose. Just a quiet day at home with a jug.
SANTA: You’re a reactionary!
ST. NICK: You’re a Red!
SANTA: I am not!
ST. NICK: Yes you are; you’ve even got a red suit on!
SANTA: Those are fighting words! (He swings at St. Nick with his bag of toys: St. Nick cracks him over the head with his crozier. As they fight the Spirit of Christmas is lowered from above the stage on a wire. She should be a skinny little girl with frizzled hair and a fairy wand.)
SPT. OF CH. : Oh, do not fight
On Christmas night;
Nor air your peeve
On Christmas Eve.
Silent night
Holy night
Saints should know
It’s wrong to fight.
(St. Nick, who cannot stand her voice a moment longer, kicks the Spirit of Christmas hard on the caboose. She screams, and spins rapidly on her wire. As she whirls she gores Santa’s stomach with her wand and two old sofa cushions from the Rectory fall out. Amid general confusion the curtain falls.)