North Carolina Newspapers

Page 6 HIGH LIFE Friday, December 18, 1925 C’lIlHSTMAS IN THE WIND AND FLAMES lit) CJlknx Hoi.uke There is a mournful menace in the wind tonight. It mutters and moans of the failings of men as it whirls around the chimney corner now in a minor, plain tive sort of funeral sound, now in a w’ail ing crescendo of sorrow’. I sit by the gaily dancing flames, listening, wonder ing, and I all] sad. It is nearly C’hristmas time, and the C'hristrnas feel is in the air. It tingles in your blood, (^ueerly elating you even when you are thinking of sorrowful things. It makes you remember that the Holy Season is near at hand, when the spirit of (iiving, such as was felt by the Wise .Men as they j)oured out their gifts before the stable stall wherein lay the Heing on that wonderful night long ago, makes most of the world hai)py. But the wind sobs of the rest, of those who will not be happy on Christmas Morning —perhaps of the wanderer who will sit in a hotel lobby that day, homeless, friendless, (lodless, bitterly watching the hapi)y faces of those who blithely hurry to and fro, imbued with the Spirit that is Christmas. Now the voice of the wind becomes a crooning diminuendo, and it w’hispers to me of the Babe that lay in the Manger in the little village of Bethlehem long ago. It softly sings of .Mother Love and of hapi)y family groups around the (’liristrnas hearth. Again it becomes a shrill shrieking roar. It scrcjims of those w'ho do not know the meaning of Christmas, and who do mit care; those w’ho look U])on it merely as a time of lrinking and feast. I look into the firelight, and forget the wind and its tortured refrain. For in the cheery, glowing heart of the lea])- ing flames I read a message of i)eace, contentment, good will to men—the real Si)irit of C’hristmas is there. LKT US IIAVK I’KACK Hu (iraha.m; Todd Peace—like that which is portrayed in the face of an old man whose life work is done; who goes into his grave leaving a si)otless record of service and fellow- shij) behind; and who is not forgotten after the stonecutter pounds the last chLsel to form his epitai)h; should be our's on this nineteen-hundred and twen ty-fifth C'hristmas. Love—like that which Is portrayed on the face of an aged Mother, a white- haired, plump, little wisp of heaven; Mother, who has watched her older boy forsake her for a wife and home, older girls likewLse for a husband and home, younger hoy and girl for parties, college and good-times; ami love them still as if they were the same babes and rais- chievious children that once were. And why not peace and love toward our fellows? There is no war, draining the blood of our “youth” and the income of our “age”. There is life, throbbing, pulsing, busy life; and prosperity as there has not been for many a year. lA*t us them have peace of soul and mind—and nations. We are the coming generation, and the youth of today, the age of tomorrow; it is with us, and it is for us to decide—let us have peace! AFTER-GI.OW By Ernkst Williams Christmas, the symbol of universal peace and happiness, is bearing down upon us with express train si>eed. The.se last few days before Christmas are fraught with excitement and anticipation. Everywhere we see shimmering tinsel, glittering Christmas trees, holly wreath ed windows and glistening festival dec orations. The winter winds bring to our ears the faint far away tones of melo dious Christmas carols. The material exhibition of Christmas, on every hand, whirls us into the magic grasp of the holiday spirit; then suddenly with a bang! Christmas arrives and departs, leaving a wrecked and toppling world of materialism. The lasting afterglow suffices the world after the first spectacular flare of Christmas. The spirit of the Prince of Peace, that we feel in the after-glow, permeates and prevails in the hearts of meh, bringing that quiet peacefulness that only the spirit of Christ can bring. The tranquil peace of the after-glow lives; the material things fade and die. 'I'lIE GIFT By Elizabktii Kockweli. “I would be giving and forget the gift.” Only eight small words, yet they con vey a big thought—a beautiful thought; they embody the spirit that dominates the multitude the month of December and that manifests the approach of Christmas. 'rhere are two kinds of gifts; those that are given in a spirit of love and gratitude, and those that are given with a view’ to the returns they will bring. Low’ell has said: “Not w’hat we give, hut w’hat we share; For the gift without the giver is bare.” After all, every man, w’oman and child is endowed with the power to give the most jjerfect and most precious of gifts —the gift of hapjiiness. Apjiroximately nine peoide out of every ten never think of giving gifts excejd at Chri.stmas time, altliough there are 3(j6 days in the year when an o])portunity presents itself to do a C’hrist-like deed in bestowing happiness upon others. Somewhere there is some one whose every desire and whim is grat ified, but who is, nevertheless, unhappy; and it may he your jirivilege to supply the little spark that will penetrate the gloom. Not, in this instance, by an elab orate or costly gift, but by a token that radiates heartfelt love and ajipreciation. OXCE A YEAR By .foH-v Mkban'e 'I'hroughout the ages of the ])ast there is one season that has never changed. .Men say that things change. They even go so far as to ])rove that each year a higher stage of development is achiev- e(i. But there is one season that carries w’ith it, alw’ays, the same unaltered sen timent, the same mental and spiritual attitude. The birth of Christ comes tlirougli the generations bearing w’ith it the same thoughts, the same delightful atmosphere. h’.ach year w’e continue to find tliat the more w’e give, the more jileasure we derive from giving. No one would dare to tell us that W’e cannot eat yarls of pei)per- mint caiuly or that our mechanical toys are (juite useless and w’ili soon break. F.aeh year the same signs, “Do your Christmas Sho])ping FiUrly” appear in gaudily clothed window’s. But w’e hesi tate until we read “'I’liree more shopiiing days until Christmas” and then grasp w’ildly at every available token because W’e realize that it is too late for the long- contemidated, sensihle reasoning. Each year Santa Claus makes display of his long, flow’ing, white beard and his pack of toys. lie struts in front of the large toy sho]>s and makes tiny hearts happy and thrilled. Each year the toy-filled shop w’indows assume the delicate glow of red and green. The very w’indows, themselves, fill one W’ith the si)irit of the season. There is no one of us who does not de rive a real, satisfying pleasure from the bustle and clamor of frenzied shopping because it adds to the happiness of oth ers. At this wonderful season an un natural feeling of ffappiness overcomes and conquers us entirely. We hold no grudges. And it is then that we draw vast resources from our huge reservoir of Kindness. THE O'lTTER SAXTA CT.AUS By Paul Wimbisii There is a Santa Claus! AH who read this may laugh at such a statement, but they forget the days of their childhood. Then they believed and then their dreams at Christmas w’ere built around this won derful old man w’ho gave freely to the deserving and punished the w’icked. In the lives of the grow’n-ups there re mains this Santa Claus, but he stands in the form of another person and acts in another name. He also gives the good and bad their just deserts, but not only at Christmas; his w’ork goes on the year round and HE is called the Christ. Indeed, Christmas is to celebrate the arrival of the Christ-child on this earth. The presents given are representing the “peace oji earth, good w’ill tow’ard men.” There remains in the w’orld today a San ta Claus and there he will alw'ays remain in the hearts of the people. For He “The (liver of Gifts is the Santa Claus to the grow’nups, as the other Santa is to the children. IS THERE A SAXTA CLAUS? By John Mebane “Ma, there ain’t no Santa Claus.” “No Santa Claus? Why, child, who put .such an idea beneath your curly lock? No Santa Claus? Why, of course there is a Santa Claus.” 'I’hat mother is right. There is a San ta Claus. Not a little, fat fellow’ with a long, flowing white beard who drives over housetops with his reindeer. No, not a ])lump, little man in a red fur suit, w’ho climbs dow’n through your chimney with a i)ack on his back, nor a jolly old fellow who lives at the North Pole and creates all kinds of wonderful toys for you. No. But Santa Claus is created by just such an atmosphere. A spirit cre ated by the atmosphere of happiness, of joy, of kindness. A spirit created by the fancies of youthful mind and the fantasies of old. A spirit promoted by the fanciful visions of thousands of hap py, immature minds. A sensation en couraged by the unknown millions. A sensation developed through ages of im maturity into the highest degree of ex cellence. A sensation developed from an idea into a reality. To childish minds Santa Claus is iiecu- liarly related to a fairy. Not exactly wierd, fastastic sort of creature, but liv ing, human, filled with the real life. To them Santa Claus is gifted with the power of “changeahility.” He can enter through the smallest chimneys; he can ride over millions of snow-covered house-toi)s. Ah, how human to a little child. But to us, a living spirit, and it will live on and on through the years until the end of eternity as it has lived through the countless ages past. It w’ill develoi) through the years as it has develoi)ed; it will continue to be the joyous exj^ecta- tion of hai)py youth. And it W’ill remain a reality, a living sensation for ever. CHIMES By Henry Biqos Chimes, rich, mellow’ chimes, announc ing tlie hirtliday of the Savior, send their joyous message to the w’aking world. Then the soft, deep tones w’hisper to the sleeping children, rich children, poor children, fair children, under nourished children, telling them of all the wonders of toyland while visions of hapjiy hours dance merrily through their brains. 'I’hey sooth the w’ounded spirits; they brighten the gloom of garrets; they herald the anniversary of the coming of the Man of Gallilee. Nothing can surpass the beauty of the chimes. The chimes of Milan and Venice are among the w’onders of the world. The hells of Notre Dame are an inspira- ti(ni to all that hear them. The chimes in High Point are beautiful. (i. H. S. has no bells to ring, no chimes to send forth the sjiirit of Christmas; but we are able at this Christmas time to bring happiness and joy to others: needy children, and those w’ho are destined to suffer the panks of blighted hopes and loneliness. Through kindness and sym pathy we can ring as deep and true as the sw’eetest of chimes. 'ITIE CHRISTMAS TREE By Weijk)n Beacham I like a Christmas tree; to me a Christ mas W’ithout a Christmas Tree just isn't. It’s one thing that still signifies Christ mas to me. I've been robbed of Santa Claus, that w’himsical old gentleman w’ho doesn’t come to .see big boys. On Christmas morning I do not get a thrill out of rushing to the front room to see what toys there are for me to play with. No longer am I allow’ed the make-believe of playing trains, or of making string har ness for tin horses. Now’, on Christmas morning, after my brother wakes me by pounding me on the head with his new’ pop gun, I just wan der sleepily into the front room, look longingly at my brother’s mechanical toys, open a few boxes of handkerchiefs and get ready for breakfast. The only remnant of childhood-Christ- mas left to me is the Tree. I hope that I never have to give it up too. “Presents,” I often say, “Endears ab sence.” —Lamb. FOLLOW THE S'l’AR By James Cijjments , Nearly one thousand, nine hundred and twenty five years ago in the hills of far off Judea a group of shepherds and wise men saw a certain star. This star was by far the brightest star that had ever been seen and the rays of light from it lit up the w’hole Heaven. The shep herds and w’ise men followed the star until they came to w’here the Christ Child lay in the manger. Even today like those men of the olden days we can still follow the star. Yes, even today in this twentieth century of industry we can still follow the star as the sons of old Judea did. The questions (do and it is natural that they should) arise in our minds, as to how, when and where. 'I’he answer comes from the star; let us follow our ambition, right now A. D. 1925 here in the city of Greensboro. Yes, if we take our ambition for our star and follow it we are not liable to go wrong. Eventually w’e will reach our goal as the shej)herds and wise men did. And the goal W’ill be success. We may have difficulties in following our star. The men of Judea did. But we can overcome these. Sometimes we think we haven't any ambition. These are foolish thoughts, or “apple sauce” so to say. We may not have our life work picked out yet, but the desire to make good is an ambition. We should start right now this second to follow our star. We are now fast be coming what W’e will be. Only work and more w’ork w’ill enable us to follow the star. But we can do it. Of cour.se, in some cases, it may not be possible to follow’ the star. But if not to follow it means to help someone else, let us help them first always, like “The Other Wise Man.” May w’e remember the same Clirist Child said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have don it unto me.” Students of the Greensboro High School, let's follow our star, ambition, and we will reach our goal, the portal of success. Or w’e, like the other Wise Man, will have the satisfaction of know'ing we have fought a good fight. CHRIS'lAIAS CAROLS AT DAWX OF HAY By Mary Tilly Outside—the w'histle of the wind as it w'hisked through the ice-laden bowers of the trees—a crunching sound of many feet in the distance—soft chords of mu sic far aw’ay—gradually louder as the crunching of the foot.stei)s drew near. They became soft vibrating sounds— beautiful—reverent echoes that seemed to cry out in the semi-darkness—which was the dawn of Christmas day. It seemed to pierce into the hearts, and to creej) into the very souls of those who were fortunate enough to hear. Inside—a cold, bare, dingy little room —a mere hovel. In the darkness lay a man, a poor, lonely, heartbroken man— alone, forgotten, crest-fallen. His stairy, cold, blue eyes opened—still wider—and he strained his ears to catch a sound—a faint, vibrating sound. His soul was fill ed with a longing—just to have another chance. He was dying of starvation— he was creeping nearer—still nearer to the verge of death. A prayer—only a faint childlike pray er, from the lips of an old, old man— even though he could not be a child once more, he was born again that Christmas morn. THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT By Marguerite Mason Is it true as some folks say Christmas spirit lives one day? Or does it last throughout the year Spreading joyous old time cheer? Christmas spirit is an art, Of our very lives a part—- Giving of our wealth of love Kin to that of God’s above. So instead of one day’s cheer I.,et this spirit rule the year I.et it reign within the heart And of living make an art. Not W’hat W’e give, but what w’e share, For the gift w'ithout the giver is bare. —Lowell. CHRISTMAS LIKKER By GiJ'Inn Hoijier Julius Caesar drove his chariot up to the taxi stand on Buchanan St. It was a dilapidated old truck w’ith a cheese cloth banner, bearing the words “Julius Caesar—Moving and Hauling” in gro tesque red-ink characters, fluttering from the side. Snorting and w’heezing^ for Julius’ frame is amply upholstered with avoir dupois, he shakily descended from the ancient vehicle. “Whoopee, ah’s done gone and done it now. It’s Christmuss day, and I is gonna cellebrate in de good ole fashun way. Dis is de best ole sho nuff honest to goodnes.s, rip snortin’, fire eating bottled-in-bond, bootleg booze whut is ever been diskivered. Yessuh, it’s de real ole cawn. Step right up, gents, and we’ll all take a swaller,” he shouted, pulling a quart bottle filed with a yel lowish fluid out of his hip pocket and brandishing it over his head. Instantly he was surrounded by an eagerly snatch ing and gesticulation mob of dusky trans fer and cab drivers. Each in turn ele vated the flask, allower some of the liquid to trickle down his throat, smack ed his lips, and passed it on to the next man. ICventually it reached the end of the line and was returned to Julius. “Come on, Juley, let’s have another little drink. Jest a mite of a dram,” they began to wheedle. “Now’ you go on, nigguhs. You don‘t git no mo’ ob dis here likker. Dey’s just about a good Jule-size sw’aller left, and Jule sho is gonna swaller it. Come to papa, baby booze,'’ and he put the mouth of the bottle to his lips. But the bottle w’as never tilted upw’ards. Staring in horrified suspense, Jule saw’ big, bluff, blue coated Gene Jolmson bearing down upon them. Gene had wandered station- w’ard from his usual loafing place on Jefferson Square and sjiying the gang of negroes, liad determined to discover the cause of excitement. “Uh-huh, got you again, Julius Cae sar”, he said, grabbing the fat negroe’s arm in a gra.sji of steel. “Lord, that w’hiskey must have scrambled up w’hat little brains there is in that fat, kinky old head of yours. Don’t you remember Judge Collins soakin’ you fifty bucks for gittin’ drunk last Monday? You’re in for it now.” “Nawsuh, Mi.stuh Gene, tain’t so. Mah brains is all funkshunin’ plumb proper and suitable, like they always does. Trouble is, dis here long, lean muddy drink of water here done tempted me by telling me bout dat good ole Scotch he drunk las’ month”, pointing to a very tall, very black cab-driver. “Taste it nohow’, Mistuh Gene.” The officer, nothing loath, smelled it, looked jmzzled, and then tasted it. “Aw, it ain’t nothing but lemonade. What’s the matter with you, anyhow?” he dis gustedly queried. “Well, you .see, Cap’n Gene, it’s dis w'ay. Here it is Christmas day an’ I ain’t got no likker to git drunk on. So I buys me some lim’nade and puts it in a whis key bottle and drinks it, so’s I kin kid my stummick into thinkin’ it’s gettin some good ole caw’n. Dat’s all they is to it.” “I'm a great mind to run you in on general principles and let Judge Collins get ahold of you again. He’ll give you a spell in jail this time.” “Nawsuh, Judge Collins ain't gonna put me in no jail. Mistuh Caffeuy done told him not to send me back up there no mo’, cause I eats too much. “Naw suh,” Jule solemnly wagged his head. Without a w’ord Gene turned on his heel and strode around the corner, chuck ling to himself. No sooner had he gotten out of sight than Jule became convulsed with laugh ter. “He-he-he. Thot I was drinkin’ likker. He-he-he. Fooled him that time. He-he-he.” “What you laughin’ at, you black buz zard you,” Gene yelled, reappearing around the corner. “Nohtin’ atall, Cunel Gene. Just at ole Ambrose here,” pointing to the long, lean, muddy drink of water. “He was skeered you was gonna rest me’n him. He-he-he.” A gift is precious stone in the eyes of him that hath it. Old Testament Proverbs—17-8.