one bright morning about six weeks before christmas day the spirit of diligence in well-doing descended like a dove and took complete possession of the brain and soul of mr. s. s. mcclure, the benevolent founder of the thriving literary village of syndicate, which stands on the banks of the hackensack river, an enduring monument to his far-seeing philanthropy.
from that moment he seemed to lose interest in the great loom-room, where busy hands made the shuttles fly to and fro as they wove their reminiscences of abraham lincoln. at midnight, when[pg 352] the foreman opened the furnace door and the fierce flames lit up the grimy but intellectual faces of the workmen who stood watching the history of our war with spain, as it was run into the moulds, mr. mcclure was not present. his face was seen no more in the noisy blacksmith-shop, where strong arms forged the hitherto unpublished portraits of american statesmen. even when a careless workman in the packing-room dropped a railroad story and shivered that fragile bit of literary bric-à-brac into a thousand pieces, the great master forgot to reprimand him, so busy was he with his own thoughts.
but the literary workmen did not take advantage of the preoccupation of the great master mechanic of all modern letters and slight the tasks that had been intrusted to them. on the contrary, they plunged into their tasks with redoubled energy, for well they knew that it was some plan for their happiness that filled[pg 353] the busy mind of the master, some scheme for the fitting celebration of christmas eve, which, next to mcclure’s birthday, is the chief holiday in the literary calendar. and so, into the web and woof of many a recollection of daniel webster and later life of lincoln were woven bright anticipations of the merry christmas which s. s. mcclure was preparing for his trusty employees.
each year mr. mcclure devises a new form of holiday celebration, and this year his bounty took the shape of a huge christmas tree, from whose branches hung the packages that contained presents for his guests.
christmas eve is always a half-holiday at the mcclure works; and at precisely noon on saturday the factory whistle blew, the great wheels began to slow up, the dynamos, which furnish light, heat, and ideas for the entire factory, ceased to throb, and the cheerful workers put aside[pg 354] their uncompleted tasks and set about the welcome labor of making ready for their christmas celebration. in less time than it takes to tell it, the huge store-room, in which the winter supply of literature had already begun to accumulate, was swept clean, garnished with boughs of evergreen, and brightened with sprigs of holly. scarcely had this work been completed when a shout told of the arrival of the christmas tree, drawn by four oxen, on the huge extension-wagon used in transporting scotch serial stories from the foundry to the steamboat landing. in the twinkling of an eye, a score of able-bodied bards seized the great evergreen and placed it upright in the curtained recess at one end of the room, and then every one withdrew, leaving mr. mcclure himself, with four trustworthy aids, to deck the tree and hang the presents on its limbs.
during the afternoon the happy littérateurs, released from their daily toil, threw[pg 355] themselves heartily into the enjoyment of all kinds of winter sport. some put on skates and sped up and down the frozen surface of the hackensack, while others coasted downhill, threw snowballs at one another, and even made little sliding-places on the sidewalk, where they enjoyed themselves to their hearts’ content. when twilight fell upon the settlement they all entered their homes, to emerge half an hour later clothed in sunday attire, with their faces and hands as clean as soap and water could make them, ready to sit down to the great christmas banquet provided for them by their employer.
it is doubtful if there has ever been as large a number of literary men seated at any banquet-table as gathered on this evening as the guests of master mechanic mcclure. the host sat at the upper end of the great horseshoe table, and beside him were invited guests representing the literary profession in its many phases. the[pg 356] guests were deftly and quickly served by a corps of one-rhyme-to-the-quatrain poets who had formerly been contributors to mr. spencer’s organ of thought, the illustrated american, and were thoroughly accustomed to waiting.
at the dose of the feast a huge pie was placed upon the table, and instantly opened by mr. mcclure. thereupon, to the delight of all the guests, mr. j. k. bangs sprang forth and sang a solemn and beautiful hallelujah in praise of the harper publications.
after the applause which followed this unexpected encomium of the great publishing-house had subsided, mr. mcclure introduced to his employees the literary centipede, mr. harry thurston peck, who stood up in his place, with a pen in each claw, and explained how it was possible not only to work with all his tentacles at once, but also to give the lie to the old story of the crow and the fox, by editing[pg 357] a magazine with his teeth, and at the same time lecturing to the columbia college students without letting go of his job.
during mr. peck’s remarks the giver of the feast quietly withdrew, and, as the speaker ended, the curtains were withdrawn, revealing the great, brilliantly lighted tree, and mr. mcclure himself in the garb of santa claus, ready to distribute the christmas gifts. there was a present for every one, and all had been chosen with special reference to individual tastes. to one was given a sled, to another a pair of skates, to a third a suit of warm underwear, and to a fourth a silver-mounted ivory foot-rule for scanning poetry.
to such of the workmen as held an unusually high record for a year of industrious work, not marred by any breakage of valuable goods, mr. mcclure gave also an order for some article which could easily be prepared in odd moments, and which[pg 358] would be liberally paid for when completed and packed for shipment.
among the orders thus given were twelve for plain, hand-sewed, unbleached christmas stories for actors, to sign in the holiday numbers of the dramatic weeklies. the great annual syndicate article, “christmas in many lands,” was ordered from the foreman of each department, in recognition of the high quality of goods turned out in every part of the shop.
other literary plums given out for the picking were “christmas eve on the east side,” “christmas at the north pole,” “christmas in patagonia,” “christmas at the south pole,” “christmas in the lunatic asylum,” “christmas in the siberian mines,” “christmas with hall caine,” and “christmas in the condemned cell.”
while the delighted guests were opening their bundles and examining their presents, the noble-hearted master mechanic stepped forward and announced[pg 359] that the christmas prize offered by the new york journal, to be competed for by the inhabitants of syndicate, had been awarded to the author of “christmas inside the anaconda,” described by a journal representative who got swallowed on christmas eve.
santa claus then announced that there was still one present to be given, but that the person for whom it was intended had been prevented by reason of rheumatism and other infirmities incidental to old age from being present. this person, he explained, was the oldest poet in his employ, one who had for years innumerable labored faithfully at bench and lap-stone, and had been one of the first to find employment in the now bustling model village of syndicate. “his poems,” cried mr. mcclure, warmly, “lie scattered throughout the valley of american letters, from the earliest pages of petersons’ and godey’s down to the very latest of the[pg 360] century and scribner’s. unlike the distinguished gentleman who has already addressed you, he became wedded in early life to the literary customs of an older generation, and has never been able to learn how to write with his feet. for that reason his output is limited. i am sure that you will all rejoice with him over a gift which is designed to make him comfortable during the rest of his days, and i call upon a committee of his friends to bear to his humble home these nice warm blankets, these thick woolen socks, and an order to write a weekly article on ‘books that have helped me,’ so long as the breath remains in his body.”
at this new instance of generosity on the part of their beloved employer the entire company uttered a mighty shout of approval, and, seizing the gifts from the hands of santa claus, departed in a body to inform worthy old bedridden peleg scan of his good fortune.
