A Case for Care.

The person who protests that Christmas has been commercialised is one eye short in his mental vision. Of course, it is commercialised; if it were not, where would be the bright lights on Christmas eve, the life and gaiety of the city, the colourful gifts, the seasonal delicacies, the catering to merriment, the coloured bugles, the purple false noses, and all the panoply of the gala and the “props” necessary to stage a successful carnival? Let commerce do its part; let the wheels whirr and the hurdy gurdy of the festive season spin to the strains of “Ain't We Got Fun.” For—

If you can't feel happy at Christmas time, There's something wrong with your reason's rhyme, And you ought to get medical help for your head, For it's clear that up north of the ears you are dead; You're clearly a case for a doctor's inspection, That's if you're immune from the Christmas infection.

Even if you don't believe in Father Christmas; even if you do get cigars you can't smoke, socks you wouldn't be buried in and ties you wouldn't put round the neck of a bottle, that is no reason for you to get a grouch on Christmas. Half the fun of Christmas is its recklessness which causes one to send a cocktail shaker to Aunt Prue who is president of the Tiny Tots’ Anti-gin League, a pair of running pants to Uncle Stodge who hasn't seen the toes of his shoes for twenty years, and a spade and bucket to grandpa. You, in your turn, will receive all the wrong things given in the right spirit, and the more incongruous the gift, the more you will think about the giver. And so, even such errors serve a very useful purpose.

Charge your glasses with the spirit of the season and, looking towards Christmas, give the toast, “Afore ye go.”