Letters from Father Christmas by JRR Tolkien. 1938
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Christmas 1938
My dear Priscilla and all others at your house
Here we are again! Bless me, I believe I said that before-but after all you don’t want Christmas to be different each year, do you?
I am frightfully sorry that I haven’t had the time to draw any big picture this year, and Ilbereth (my secretary) has not done one either; but we are all sending you some rhymes instead. Some of my other children seem to like rhymes, so perhaps you will.
We have all been very sorry to hear about Christopher. I hope he is better and will have a jolly Christmas. I only heard lately when my messengers and letter collectors came back from Oxford. Tell him to cheer up-and although he is now growing up and leaving stockings behind, I shall bring a few things along this year. Among them is a small astronomy book which gives a few hints on the use of telescopes-thank you for telling me he had got one. Dear me! My hand is shaky— hope you can read some of this?
I loved your long letter, with all the amusing pictures. Give my love to your Bingos and all the other sixty (or more!), especially Raggles and Preddley and Tinker and Tailor and Jubilee and Snowball. I hope you will go on writing to me for a long while yet.
Very much love to you-and lots for Chris-from
Father Christmas
Again this year, my dear Priscilla,
when you’re asleep upon your pillow;
Bad rhyme! That’s beaten you!
beside your bed old Father Christmas
[The English language has no rhyme
to Father Christmas: that’s why I’m
not very good at making verses.
But what I find a good deal worse is
that girls’ and boys’ names won’t rhyme either
(and bother! either won’t rhyme neither).
So please forgive me, dear Priscilla,
if I pretend you rhyme with pillow!]
She won’t.
As I was saying —
beside your bed old Father Christmas
(afraid that any creak or hiss must
wake you up) will in a twinkling
fill up your stocking, (I’ve an inkling
that it belongs, in fact, to pater,
but never mind!) At twelve, or later,
he will arrive—-and hopes once more that
he has chosen from his store
I did it
the things you want. You’re half past nine;
She is not a clock!
but still I hope you’ll drop a line
for some years yet, and won’t forget
old Father Christmas and his Pet,
the North Polar Bear (and Polar Cubs
as fat as little butter-tubs),
and snowboys and Elves—in fact the whole
of my household up near the Pole.
Upon my list, made in December,
your number is, if you remember,
fifty six thousand, seven hundred,
and eighty five. It can’t be wondered
Weak!
at that I am so busy, when
you think that you are nearly ten,
and in that time my list has grown
by quite ten thousand girls alone,
even when l’ve subtracted all
the houses where I no longer call!
You all will wonder what’s the news;
if all has gone well, and if not who’s
to blame; and whether Polar Bear
has earned a mark good, bad, or fair,
for his behaviour since last winter.
Well-first he trod upon a splinter,
Just rhiming nonsens: it was a nail-rusty, too
and went on crutches in November;
and then one cold day in December
he burnt his nose and singed his paws
upon the Kitchen grate, because
without the help of tongs he tried
to roast hot chestnuts. “Wow!” he cried,
I never did!
and used a pound of butter (best)
to cure the burns. He would not rest,
I was not given a chance.
but on the twenty-third he went
and climbed up on the roof. He meant
to clear the snow away that choked
his chimney up—of course he poked
his legs right through the tiles and snow
in tons fell on his bed below.
He has broken saucers, cups, and plates;
and eaten lots of chocolates;
he’s dropped large boxes on my toes,
and trodden tin-soldiers flat in rows;
You need not believe all this!
he’s over-wound engines and broken springs,
and mixed up different children’s things;
he’s thumbed new books and burst balloons
and scribbled lots of smudgy Runes
on my best paper, and wiped his feet
on scarves and hankies folded neat—
And yet he has been, on the whole,
a very kind and willing soul.
He’s fetched and carried, counted, packed
and for a week has never slacked:
here hear!
I wish you wouldn’t scribble on my nice rhyme!
he’s climbed the cellar-stairs at least
five thousand times—the Dear Old Beast!
– Paksu sends love and Valkotukka —
They are still with me, and they don’t look a
year older, but they’re just a bit
more wise, and have a pinch more wit.
The GOBLINS, you’ll be glad to hear,
have not been seen at all this year,
not near the Pole. But I am told,
they’re moving south, and getting bold,
and coming back to many lands,
and making with their wicked hands
new mines and caves. But do not fear!
They’ll hide away, when I appear.
Christmas Day. ELF.
Now Christmas Day has come round again—
and poor North Polar Bear has got a bad pain!
They say he’s swallowed a couple of pounds
of nuts without cracking the shells! It sounds
a Polarish sort of thing to do-
but that isn’t all, between me and you:
he’s eaten a ton of various goods
and recklessly mixed all his favourite foods,
honey with ham and turkey with treacle,
and pickles with milk. I think that a week’ll
be needed to put the old bear on his feet.
And I mustn’t forget his particular treat:
plum pudding with sausages and turkish delight
covered with cream and devoured at a bite!
And after this dish he stood on his head—
it’s rather a wonder the poor fellow’s not dead!
Absolute ROT:
I have not got
a pain in my pot.
Rude fellow!
I do not eat
turkey or meat:
I stick to the sweet.
Which is why
(as all know) I
am so sweet myself,
you thinuous elf!
Goodby!
He means fatuous
No I don’t, you’re not fat, but thin and silly.
You know my friends too well to think
(although they’re rather rude with ink)
that there are really quarrels here!
We’ve had a very jolly year
(except for Polar Bear’s rusty nail);
but now this rhyme must catch the Mail—
a special messenger must go,
in spite of thickly falling snow,
or else this won’t get down to you
on Christmas day. It’s half past two!
We’ve quite a ton of crackers still to pull,
and glasses still to fill!
Our love to you on this Noel—
and till the next one, fare you well!
Father Christmas
Polar Bear
Ilbereth
Paksu and Valkotukka