Mr. Bingle | Page 2

the window with a
shiver, "how I pity the poor unfortunates who haven't a warm fire to sit
beside tonight. It is going to be the coldest night in twenty years,
according to the--there! Did you hear that?" He stepped to the window
once more. The double ring of a street-car bell had reached his ears,
and he knew that a car had stopped at the corner below. "According to
the weather report this afternoon," he concluded, re- crossing the room
to sit down beside the fire, very erect and expectant, a smile on his
pinched, eager face. He was watching the hall door.
It was Christmas Eve. There were signs of the season in every corner of
the plain but cosy little sitting-room. Mistletoe hung from the
chandelier; gay bunting and strands of gold and silver tinsel draped the
bookcase and the writing desk; holly and myrtle covered the wall
brackets, and red tissue paper shaded all of the electric light globes; big
candles and little candles flickered on the mantelpiece, and some were
red and some were white and yet others were green and blue with the
paint that Mr. Bingle had applied with earnest though artless disregard
for subsequent odours; packages done up in white and tied with red
ribbon, neatly double-bowed, formed a significant centrepiece for the
ornate mahogany library table--and one who did not know the Bingles
would have looked about in quest of small fry with popping, covetous

eyes and sleekly brushed hair. The alluring scent of gaudily painted
toys pervaded the Christmas atmosphere, quite offsetting the hint of
steam from more fortunate depths, and one could sniff the odour of
freshly buttered pop-corn. All these signs spoke of children and the
proximity of Kris Kringle, and yet there were no little Bingles, nor had
there ever been so much as one!
Mr. and Mrs. Bingle were childless. The tragedy of life for them lay not
in the loss of a first-born, but in the fact that no babe had ever come to
fill their hungry hearts with the food they most desired and craved. Nor
was there any promise of subsequent concessions in their behalf. For
fifteen years they had longed for the boon that was denied them, and to
the end of their simple, kindly days they probably would go on longing.
Poor as they were, neither would have complained if fate had given
them half-a-dozen healthy mouths to feed, as many wriggling bodies to
clothe, and all the splendid worries that go with colic, croup, measles,
mumps, broken arms and all the other ailments, peculiar, not so much
to childhood as they are paramount to parenthood.
Lonely, incomplete lives they led, with no bitterness in their souls,
loving each other the more as they tried to fill the void with songs of
resignation. Away back in the early days Mr. Bingle had said that
Christmas was a bleak thing without children to lift the pall--or
something of the sort.
Out of that well-worn conclusion--oft expressed by rich and poor
alike--grew the Bingle Foundation, so to speak. No Christmas Eve was
allowed to go by without the presence of alien offspring about their
fire-lit hearth, and no strange little kiddie ever left for his own bed
without treasuring in his soul the belief that he had seen Santa Claus at
last--had been kissed by him, too--albeit the plain-faced, wistful little
man with the funny bald-spot was in no sense up to the preconceived
opinions of what the roly--poly, white-whiskered, red- cheeked annual
visitor from Lapland ought to be in order to make dreams come true.
The Bingles were singularly nephewless, nieceless, cousinless. There
was no kindly-disposed relative to whom they could look for the loan
of a few children on Christmas Eve, nor would their own sensitiveness

permit them to approach neighbours or friends in the building with a
well-meant request that might have met with a chilly rebuff. One really
cannot go about borrowing children from people on the floor below and
the floor above, especially on Christmas Eve when children are so
much in demand, even in the most fortunate of families. It is quite a
different matter at any other time of the year. One can always borrow a
whole family of children when the mother happens to feel the call of
the matinee or the woman's club, and it is not an uncommon thing to
secure them for a whole day in mid-December. But on Christmas Eve,
never! And so Mr. and Mrs. Bingle, being without the natural comforts
of home, were obliged to go out into the world searching for children
who had an even greater grudge against circumstances. They frequently
found their guests of honour in places where dishonour had left them,
and they gave them a merry