Frenzied Fiction by Stephen Leacock (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) đź“•
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“Oh, no, we see no harm in that.”
“Nor the sale of it?”
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Narrowpath, “not if sold properly.”
“Nor the drinking of it?”
“Oh, no, that least of all. We attach no harm whatever, under our law, to the mere drinking of whisky.”
“Would you tell me then,” I asked, “since you have not forbidden the making, nor the selling, nor the buying, nor the drinking of whisky, just what it is that you have prohibited? What is the difference between Montreal and Toronto?”
Mr. Narrowpath put down his glass on the “desk” in front of him. He gazed at me with open-mouthed astonishment.
“Toronto?” he gasped. “Montreal and Toronto! The difference between Montreal and Toronto! My dear sir—Toronto—Toronto—”
I stood waiting for him to explain. But as I did so I seemed to become aware that a voice, not Mr. Narrowpath’s but a voice close at my ear, was repeating “Toronto—Toronto—Toronto—”
I sat up with a start—still in my berth in the Pullman car—with the voice of the porter calling through the curtains “Toronto! Toronto!”
So! It had only been a dream. I pulled up the blind and looked out of the window and there was the good old city, with the bright sun sparkling on its church spires and on the bay spread out at its feet. It looked quite unchanged: just the same pleasant old place, as cheerful, as self-conceited, as kindly, as hospitable, as quarrelsome, as wholesome, as moral and as loyal and as disagreeable as it always was.
“Porter,” I said, “is it true that there is prohibition here now?”
The porter shook his head.
“I ain’t heard of it,” he said.
XVIII. Merry Christmas
“My Dear Young Friend,” said Father Time, as he laid his hand gently upon my shoulder, “you are entirely wrong.”
Then I looked up over my shoulder from the table at which I was sitting and I saw him.
But I had known, or felt, for at least the last half-hour that he was standing somewhere near me.
You have had, I do not doubt, good reader, more than once that strange uncanny feeling that there is some one unseen standing beside you, in a darkened room, let us say, with a dying fire, when the night has grown late, and the October wind sounds low outside, and when, through the thin curtain that we call Reality, the Unseen World starts for a moment clear upon our dreaming sense.
You have had it? Yes, I know you have. Never mind telling me about it. Stop. I don’t want to hear about that strange presentiment you had the night your Aunt Eliza broke her leg. Don’t let’s bother with your experience. I want to tell mine.
“You are quite mistaken, my dear young friend,” repeated Father Time, “quite wrong.”
“Young friend?” I said, my mind, as one’s mind is apt to in such a case, running to an unimportant detail. “Why do you call me young?”
“Your pardon,” he answered gently—he had a gentle way with him, had Father Time. “The fault is in my failing eyes. I took you at first sight for something under a hundred.”
“Under a hundred?” I expostulated. “Well, I should think so!”
“Your pardon again,” said Time, “the fault is in my failing memory. I forgot. You seldom pass that nowadays, do you? Your life is very short of late.”
I heard him breathe a wistful hollow sigh. Very ancient and dim he seemed as he stood beside me. But I did not turn to look upon him. I had no need to. I knew his form, in the inner and clearer sight of things, as well as every human being knows by innate instinct, the Unseen face and form of Father Time.
I could hear him murmuring beside me, “Short—short, your life is short”; till the sound of it seemed to mingle with the measured ticking of a clock somewhere in the silent house.
Then I remembered what he had said.
“How do you know that I am wrong?” I asked. “And how can you tell what I was thinking?”
“You said it out loud,” answered Father Time. “But it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. You said that Christmas was all played out and done with.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “that’s what I said.”
“And what makes you think that?” he questioned, stooping, so it seemed to me, still further over my shoulder.
“Why,” I answered, “the trouble is this. I’ve been sitting here for hours, sitting till goodness only knows how far into the night, trying to think out something to write for a Christmas story. And it won’t go. It can’t be done—not in these awful days.”
“A Christmas Story?”
“Yes. You see, Father Time,” I explained, glad with a foolish little vanity of my trade to be able to tell him something that I thought enlightening, “all the Christmas stuff—stories and jokes and pictures—is all done, you know, in October.”
I thought it would have surprised him, but I was mistaken.
“Dear me,” he said, “not till October! What a rush! How well I remember in Ancient Egypt—as I think you call it—seeing them getting out their Christmas things, all cut in hieroglyphics, always two or three years ahead.”
“Two or three years!” I exclaimed.
“Pooh,” said Time, “that was nothing. Why in Babylon they used to get their Christmas jokes ready—all baked in clay—a whole Solar eclipse ahead of Christmas. They said, I think, that the public preferred them so.”
“Egypt?” I said. “Babylon? But surely, Father Time, there was no Christmas in those days. I thought—”
“My dear boy,” he interrupted gravely, “don’t you know that there has always been Christmas?”
I was silent. Father Time had moved across the room and stood beside the fireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece. The little wreaths of smoke from the fading fire seemed to mingle with his shadowy outline.
“Well,” he said presently, “what is it that is wrong with Christmas?”
“Why,” I answered, “all the romance, the joy, the beauty of it has gone, crushed and killed by the greed of commerce and the horrors of war. I am not, as you thought I was, a hundred years old, but I can conjure up, as
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