CHRISTMAS SHOPPING
By HELEN DAVENPORT
(1882—). Mrs. Helen Davenport Gibbons is a graduate of Bryn Mawr. Her literary work appears in various publications. Among her books areThe Red Rugs of Tarsus; Les Turcs ont Passe Là!; A Little Gray Home in France; Paris Vistas.
(1882—). Mrs. Helen Davenport Gibbons is a graduate of Bryn Mawr. Her literary work appears in various publications. Among her books areThe Red Rugs of Tarsus; Les Turcs ont Passe Là!; A Little Gray Home in France; Paris Vistas.
A good essay is much like part of a conversation,—the part spoken by an interesting speaker. It is breezy, unconventional, and free in its use of familiar terms. How well all this is brought out in the following extract from an essay on Christmas.
A good essay is much like part of a conversation,—the part spoken by an interesting speaker. It is breezy, unconventional, and free in its use of familiar terms. How well all this is brought out in the following extract from an essay on Christmas.
My husband and I would not miss that day-before-Christmas last-minute rush for anything. And even if I risk seeming to talk against the sane and humane “shop-early-for-Christmas” propaganda, I am going to say that the fun and joy of Christmas shopping is doing it on the twenty-fourth. Avoid the crowds? I don't want to! I want to get right in the middle of them. I want to shove my way up to counters. I want to buy things that catch my eye and that I never thought of buying and wouldn't buy on any day in the year but December twenty-fourth. I want to spend more money than I can afford. I want to experience that panicky feeling that I really haven't enough things, and to worry over whether my purchases can be divided fairly among my quartet. I want to go home after dark, reveling in the flare of lamps lighting up mistletoe, holly wreaths, and Christmas-trees on hawkers' carts, stopping here and there to buy another pound of candy or a box of dates or a foolish bauble for the tree. I want to shove bundle after bundle into the arms of my protesting husband and remind him that Christmas comes but once a year until he becomes profane. And, once home, on what other winter evening would you find pleasure in dumping the whole lot on your bed, adding to thejumble of toys and books already purchased or sent by friends, and, all other thoughts banished, calmly making the children's piles despite aching back and legs, impatient husband, cross servants, and a dozen dinner-guests waiting in the drawing-room?