Mince Pie | Page 3

for the Bottle
Volcanic is in his best flow of secret smiling (save an unfortunate
dilution of Riley):
Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, The
salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire.... O sad deceiving ink, as
bad as liquor in its way-- All demons of a bottle size have pranced from
you to-day, And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a
broom, And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom.
And yet when I am extra good ... [_here I omit the transfusion of
Riley_] My bottle spreads a rainbow mist, and from the vapor fine Ten
thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line.
I suppose it is the mark of a trifling mind, yet I like to hear of the little
particulars that surrounded those whose pens struck sparks. It is
Boswell that leads us into that habit of thought. I like to know what the
author wore, how he sat, what the furniture of his desk and chamber,
who cooked his meals for him, and with what appetite he approached
them. "The mind soars by an effort to the grand and lofty" (so dipped
Hazlitt in some favored ink-bottle)--"it is at home in the groveling, the
disagreeable, and the little."
I like to think, as I look along book shelves, that every one of these

favorites was born out of an ink-well. I imagine the hopes and visions
that thronged the author's mind as he filled his pot and sliced the quill.
What various fruits have flowed from those ink-wells of the past: for
some, comfort and honor, quiet homes and plenteousness; for others,
bitterness and disappointment. I have seen a copy of Poe's poems,
published in 1845 by Putnam, inscribed by the author. The volume had
been bought for $2,500. Think what that would have meant to Poe
himself.
Some such thoughts as these twinkled in my head as I held up the
Pierian bottle against the light, admired the deep blue of it, and filled
my ink-well. And then I took up my pen, which wrote:
A GRACE BEFORE WRITING
On Filling an Ink-well
This is a sacrament, I think! Holding the bottle toward the light, As
blue as lupin gleams the ink: May Truth be with me as I write!
That small dark cistern may afford Reunion with some vanished
friend,-- And with this ink I have just poured May none but honest
words be penned!

OLD THOUGHTS FOR CHRISTMAS
[Illustration]
A new thought for Christmas? Who ever wanted a new thought for
Christmas? That man should be shot who would try to brain one. It is
an impertinence even to write about Christmas. Christmas is a matter
that humanity has taken so deeply to heart that we will not have our
festival meddled with by bungling hands. No efficiency expert would
dare tell us that Christmas is inefficient; that the clockwork toys will
soon be broken; that no one can eat a peppermint cane a yard long; that
the curves on our chart of kindness should be ironed out so that the
"peak load" of December would be evenly distributed through the year.

No sourface dare tell us that we drive postmen and shopgirls into
Bolshevism by overtaxing them with our frenzied purchasing or that it
is absurd to send to a friend in a steam-heated apartment in a
prohibition republic a bright little picture card of a gentleman in
Georgian costume drinking ale by a roaring fire of logs. None in his
senses, I say, would emit such sophistries, for Christmas is a law unto
itself and is not conducted by card-index. Even the postmen and
shopgirls, severe though their labors, would not have matters altered.
There is none of us who does not enjoy hardship and bustle that
contribute to the happiness of others.
There is an efficiency of the heart that transcends and contradicts that
of the head. Things of the spirit differ from things material in that the
more you give the more you have. The comedian has an immensely
better time than the audience. To modernize the adage, to give is more
fun than to receive. Especially if you have wit enough to give to those
who don't expect it. Surprise is the most primitive joy of humanity.
Surprise is the first reason for a baby's laughter. And at Christmas time,
when we are all a little childish I hope, surprise is the flavor of our
keenest joys. We all remember the thrill with which we once heard,
behind some closed door, the rustle and crackle of paper parcels being
tied up. We knew that we were going to be surprised--a delicious
refinement and luxuriant seasoning of the emotion!
Christmas, then, conforms to this