THE NOME NUGGET
Published Monday, Wednesday and Friday by The
NOME PUBLISHING CO.
Nome, Alaska
Telephone: Main 125 p. O. Box 618
W. A. and EMILY BOUCHER .. Editors
*1.50 PER MONTH $16.00 A YEAR
Entered as second class matter October 14, 1943. at the postoffice
at Nome, Alaska, under the Act of March 3, 1879.
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Wednesday, December 24, 1947
Adventures In Christinas Giving
(By Mrs. Glenn Frank in “The Coronet”)
SNOW WAS DRIFTING down on the 'Missouri vil
lage, a Christmas Eve snowfall that whitened trees and
cottages. The evening bell in the Methodist Church
steeple was summoning the villagers to the Community
Christmas tree.
A man and a little girl wrere hurrying along the street
to the church. The man was in his early fifties, but his
hair was white and his steps were labored, the result of
a batte wound at Shiloh.
The child tugged at her father’s hand and her lips
moved. “Please, God, make Papa walk faster.”
The little girl was I. Papa sensed my impatient excite
ment. I had written Santa Claus for a doll with golden
curls and a blue satin dress. The doll was sure to be on
the tree and Santa Claus would give it to be with his
very own hands.
At the first corner Mr. Farrington overtook us. My
heart sank. He and papa would begin arguing religion
again and that would slow Papa’s pace.
“Merry Christmas,” said Mr. Farrington. “May I go
to church with you and Mary? I’ve been thinking all af
ternoon about our talks in your library, Mr. Smith. You
are right. It is not necessary to understand Jesus. We
only need to feel Him.”
Papa said we’d be delighted to have him join us. But
that was all he said—until we reached the church steps.
Then he turned to Mr. Farrington.
“What you’ve just told me is the best Christmas pres
ent possible. All the years I’ve known you, you’ve tor
mented yourself with doubts. At last, you realize that
faith is feeling—not understanding.”
In recent years I have often recalled those words. I
know now that the best part of our old-fashioned com
munity was the feeling. Everyone was happy. Our vil
lage was transformed. The Christmas spirit entered the
hearts of everyone, sweeping away envy, bitterness and
sorrow. They forgave their enemies and loved their
neighbors, freshened their ideals and revitalized their
faith.
This Christmas of 1947 is perhaps the most significant
to mankind since the first Christmas, almost 2,000 years
ago. For many generations, men who have preached a
Christmas of good deeds carried over into daily life have
been called impractical idealists.
But now, in our new atomic age, the scientists—re
garded as intellectuals rather than idealists—are
preaching the same gospel! Not as a passport to heaven
but as a means of survival on earth. The onyl answer to
the atomic bomb, they say, is religion’s simple procla
mation: “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”
So this year, more than ever before, we should not
profane the celebration of Christ’s birth with competi
tive, insincere or obligatory gifts. What we give should
come straight from the heart.
My first year out of college, I taught Latin in a well
to-do St. Louis suburb. Most of my pupils were allergic
to Latin. But one freshman boy, William Schuyler, was
a brilliant exception—so brilliant that I asked the prin
cipal about his background.
I learned that he was perhaps the only really poor boy
in the school; that his mother, a widow, was struggling
to educate her children and that William worked after
school in the local drugstore.
The last day before the Christmas holiday, as the pu
pils of each class came to my room, they placed presents
on my desk. All but William Schuyler had a gift for me.
I put the presents away and went to luncheon. When
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THE CHILDREN ARE NESTLED-- '
wpS" _
I came back, on my desk lay a thin package wrapped in
red paper and tied with green cord. Inside was a blotter.
On one side was a picture of the Madonna, and in the
corner in fine print the name of the firm that had sent
this blotter to the drugstore for free Christmas distri
bution. With the gift was a note in William’s handwrit
ing: “When you work at your desk, maybe you’d like to j
have this. I think the picture is pretty. I wish you a,
Merry Christmas.”
William had no money for a “present.” Yet the mem
ory of his gift is still as fresh and inspiring as if I had re
ceived it yesterday.
Gifts from the heart are not obligators.
Last December 20,1 was riding on a crowded bus. Two
women close to me, their arms full of bundles, were dis-;
cussing the day's purchases. Suddenly one cried: “Oh, I
forgot to get something for Edna! Is it too late to go
back?”
“Don’t worry,” answered the companion. “You prob
ably can find something at home to give her.”
“I hope so,” said the first woman. Then she added re
sentfully, “I wish she hadn’t started this Christmas ex
change!”
Gifts from the heart want no exchange. Passing on a
gift one doesn’t want, and has no reason to believe any
one else wants, is dishonoring the idea of Christmas.
The best gift of all is the sympathy of a loving heart.
Last Christmas Eve I sat alone in a hotel suite in a,
large city. I was turning over in my mind all the Christ
mases of my son’s life—from the first when he was 18
days old to the last when he was a man of 21.
I remembered that the Christmas he was seven, he
left a sandwich and glass of milk near the fireplace for
Santa, for he still believed in this most beautiful of
myths. Later, how disappointed he was when an older
playmate told him there was no Santa Claus! But his
father softened the disappointment by explaining the
symbolism and assuring him that as long as there was
love on earth, there would be a Santa Claus.
And now, on this Christmas Eve of 1946, I was alone.
My son and his father were dead. I didn’t see how I
could live through the hours until the holiday was over.
Then there came a knock on my door and the bellboy
handed me a special-delivery letter. It was from an old
teacher now in a home for the aged. She had never
known a husband’s or a son’s love, yet she could under
stand my grief.
“You were brave as a girl,” she wrote. “I know you
are brave now.”
It was a sacrifice for my old teacher to buy even a
special-delivery stamp on her meager budget. But her
letter was the Christmas gift I needed. It brought me
new oourage and a sense of strength. It revitalized my
faith again, just as Christmas Eve had revitalized the
Missouri village of my childhood.
After Twenty
Centuries We
Are Still Groping
This Christmas we celebrate, as
always, the birthday of One who
leads all others in history for
greatness, humility and simplicity.
His great heart understood so
much more than we have been
able to learn in twenty centuries
of heartaches after His birth. He
knew, then, the long, sad road
ahead until groping mankind could
reach nobility of soul through hu
mility. Perhaps that was why He
was called “The Man of Sorrows.” )
Mankind, wounds smarting
from the dirt of the recent battle
field, throat hoarse with cries of
hate and pain, is a strange wor
shipper of the Prince of Peace.
Freed from battlefields so recent
ly hushed, mankind must learn to
speak softly again.
Are we very far removed today
from our ancestors in mankind’s
dismal past, who tied a stick and
a stone together and wondered if
this hammer of his own fashioning *
would serve him best to bring
food and build huts, or to bash in
the skull of another ancestor?
We hold this new hammer in
our hands today—atom energy,
the fire from heaven; germ bombs,
man’s DDT; rocket bombs; toy:-1.;,
one cubicf inch of which is potent
enough to kill every person in the
United States and Canada.
Yet these hammers of Thor are
not our greatest ills. In the fantas
tic corridors if the human nrnd
we find the most explosive forces.
In our thoughts are hidden the
most diabolic chain reactions that
can, if we let them, destroy us.
We might ask ourselves: Do we
see more tonight, our telescopes
trained on the sky, that we did
the many years ago when our gaze,
unaided was transfixed on the bright
star, that shone over Bethlehem?
Knowing the answer, we pray
for faith in the future—the same
faith that little children have who
burn their notes on the open
hearth and watch the smoke carry
their wishes to Santa Claus..
We pray for a faith that is not
cheaply bought, for a philosophy
that is not only sentiment, and for
a Christmas that is more than
mere emotional gratification.
We pray that the nettles of hate
be driven from our hearts, and
that love of our fellowmen be
lodged these instead.
We pray that we may lose our
bitterness and intolerance, our
passion and greed, our dishonesty
and arrogance, our malice and big
otry. We pray that we may find
freedom from ignorance, as well
as freedom from want and fear.
We pray that we may straighten
our weary shoulders and find the
dignity that should be ours. We
pray that we may fashion a world
that will but joy in the hearts of lit
tle children, so all may smile again.
We pray that we may be saved
from ourselves, and that we may
find peace on earth and good will
toward men.
We pray that we may realize
these hopes that we, like little
children, burn on our heraths to
night, watching the smoke drift
skyward. We pray that we may
find the faith our children have
that these wishes will come true.
We pray that we may advance
further in the journey begun by
our forebears so long ago — by
these forebears who squatted
around their campfires in the
black of night aware of their lim
itations, who listened to the stories
the crackling flames told, who
dreamed of where the smoke went,
and who wondered if the dying
embers s*ar«? in the sky.