Letters from Father Christmas by JRR Tolkien. 1930.
Watch on KineScope.
Christmas 1930
My dears,
I have enjoyed all your letters. I am dreadfully sorry there has been no time to answer them, and even now I have not time to finish my picture for you properly or to send you a full long letter like I mean to.
I hope you will like your stockings this year: I tried to find what you asked for, but the stores have been in rather a muddle—you see the Polar Bear has been ill. He had whooping cough first of all. I could not let him help with the packing and sorting which begins in November-because it would be simply awful if any of my children caught Polar whooping cough and barked like bears on Boxing Day.
So I had to do everything myself in the preparations.
Of course, Polar Bear has done his best—he cleaned up and mended my sleigh, and looked after the reindeer while I was busy. That is how the really bad accident happened. Early this month we had a most awful snowstorm (nearly six feet of snow) followed by an awful fog. The poor Polar Bear went out to the reindeer-stables, and got lost and nearly buried: I did not miss him or go to look for him for a long while. His chest had not got well from whooping cough so this made him frightfully ill, and he was in bed until three days ago. Everything has gone wrong, and there has been no one to look after my messengers properly.
Aren’t you glad the Polar Bear is better? We had a party of Snowboys (sons of the Snowmen, which are the only sort of people that live near—not of course men made of snow, though my gardener who is the oldest of all the snowmen sometimes draws a picture of a made Snowman instead of writing his name) and Polar Cubs (the Polar Bear’s nephews) on Saturday as soon as he felt well enough.
He didn’t eat much tea, but when the big cracker went off after, he threw away his rug, and leaped
in the air and has been well ever since.
I’ve drawn you pictures of everything that happened-Polar Bear telling a story after all the tea things had been cleared away; me finding Polar Bear in the snow, and Polar Bear sitting with his feet in hot mustard and water to stop him shivering. It didn’t-and he sneezed so terribly he blew five candles out.
Still he is all right now—| know because he has been at his tricks again: quarrelling with the Snowman (my gardener) and pushing him through the roof of his snow house; and packing lumps of ice instead of presents in naughty children’s parcels. That might be a good idea, only he never told me and some of them (with ice) were put in warm storerooms and melted all over good children’s presents!
Well my dears there is lots more I should like to say-about my green brother and my father, old Grandfather Yule, and why we were both called Nicholas after the Saint (whose day is December sixth) who used to give secret presents, sometimes throwing purses of money through the window. But I must hurry away—I am late already and I am afraid you may not get this in time.
Kisses to you all,
Father Nicholas Christmas
P.S. (Chris has no need to be frightened of me).