Christmas Every Day

The little girl came into her father's room, like she always did every Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story. He tried to make an excuse that morning because he was very busy writing letters, but she would not let him. So he began:

"Well, there was a little pig..."

She put her hand over his mouth and stopped him. She said she had heard little pig-stories until she was sick of them.

"Well, what kind of story do you want, then?"

"About Christmas. It's nearly Christmas now."

"I think," her father said, "that I've told you as many stories about Christmas as about little pigs."

"Christmas is more interesting."

Her father tried hard for a moment and stopped himself writing. "Well, then, I'll tell you about the little girl that wanted Christmas every day of the year. How would you like that?"

"Fantastic!" said the little girl; and she sat in his lap, ready to listen.

"Very well, then, this little pig... Oh, what are you hitting me for?"

"Because you said little pig instead of little girl."

"I'd like to know what's the difference between a little pig and a little girl that wants Christmas every day!"

"Daddy," said the little girl, "if you don't tell the story, I'll hit you!" And her father began to tell it as fast as he could.

Well, there was a little girl who liked Christmas so much that she wanted Christmas every day of the year. As soon as December began, she began to send postcards to old Father Christmas to ask him to do this for her. But old Father Christmas never answered any of the postcards. After a while, the little girl found out that Father Christmas was quite choosy and only replied to letters, not postcards. So, then, she began to send him letters asking for Christmas every day. In about three weeks - just the day before Christmas - she got a letter from Father Christmas, saying she could have Christmas every day for a whole year, and then they could think about having it even longer.

The little girl was very excited, preparing for the old-fashioned, once-a-year Christmas that was coming the next day, and perhaps Father Christmas's promise didn't mean so much to her. She just decided not to say anything, and surprise everybody when it kept happening. Then she forgot about it.

She had a wonderful Christmas. She went to bed early to let Santa Claus fill her stocking in her bedroom, and in the morning she got up before everybody else and went and felt it. She found hers full of candy, and oranges and grapes, and books and balls, and all kinds of small presents, and her older sister's had a new umbrella inside, and her father's and mother's were full of potatoes in tissue paper, just like they always were every Christmas. Then she waited till the rest of the family got up, and she was the first to run into the living room, when the doors were opened, and look at the large presents under the Christmas tree: books, and clothes, and dolls, and dozens of handkerchiefs, and pens, and photographs, and boxes of paints, and biscuits, and fruit, and candied fruit, and dolls' houses, all under the big Christmas tree, lighted and standing in the middle of the room.

She had a fantastic Christmas all day. She ate so much candy that she did not want any breakfast; and the whole morning the presents kept coming in from neighbours; and she went round giving out the presents she had got for other people, and came home and ate turkey for lunch, and plum pudding and nuts and oranges and more candy, and then went out and came in with a stomach ache, crying; and her father said he would not have another Christmas like this next year; and they had a light dinner, and quite early everybody went to bed angry.

Here the little girl hit her father on the back, again.

"Well, what now? Did I say pigs?"

"You made them behave like pigs."

"Well, didn't they?"

"It's not important; you shouldn't put it into a story."

"Alright, then, I'll take it all out."

Her father went on:

The little girl slept very late, but she was woken up at last by the other children dancing round her bed with their stockings full of presents in their hands.

"What is it?" said the little girl, and she tried to get up.

"Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!" they all shouted, and showed her their stockings.

"It was Christmas yesterday."

Her brothers and sisters just laughed. "We don't know about that. It's Christmas today, anyway. You come into the living room and see."

Then suddenly the little girl remembered: Father Christmas' promise, and her year of Christmases was beginning. She was very sleepy, but she jumped up like a little bird - a little bird that has overeaten itself and gone to bed angry - and ran into the living room. There it was again! Books, and clothes, and dolls, and dozens of handkerchiefs ....

"You don't need to say it all again, Daddy; I can remember what was there," said the little girl.

Well, and there was the Christmas tree. Her father seemed very confused, and her mother was ready to cry. "I don't see what I'm going to do with all these things," said her mother, and her father said it seemed they'd had something just like it the day before, but he supposed he must have dreamed it. This seemed to the little girl as the best kind of joke; and so she ate so much candy she didn't want any breakfast, and went round carrying presents, and had turkey for dinner, and then went out and came in with a stomach ...

"Daddy!"

"Well, what now?"

"What did you promise?"

"Oh! oh yes!"

Well, the next day, it was just the same thing over again, but everybody was getting angrier; and it went on like that for a week.

The little girl began to get frightened about keeping her secret; she wanted to tell her mother, but she didn't dare to; and she was ashamed to ask Father Christmas to take back her wish. It seemed rude, and she thought she would try to live with Christmas every day, but she didn't know how she could for a whole year. It went on and on, and it was Christmas on Valentine's Day, just the same as any day and then it was Christmas in summer.

After a while it began to get hard to find potatoes, so many were in tissue paper to make jokes on fathers and mothers. Turkeys were about a thousand dollars each ...

"Daddy!"

"Well, what?"

"You're beginning to lie."

"Well, two thousand, then."

And shop owners started to sell almost anything for turkeys - chickens, little birds from the garden - real turkeys were so difficult to find. And plums - well, they asked a diamond for a plum. All the forests were cut down for Christmas trees, and where the forests used to be there were empty fields. After a while they had to make Christmas trees out of rags because there were lots of rags, because people got so poor, buying presents for one another, that they couldn't get any new clothes, and they just wore their old ones till they were rags. Except the shopkeepers, and the picture-book sellers; they all got so rich and proud that they did not want to sell things to a customer when he came to buy.

Well, after it had gone on about three or four months, the little girl, whenever she came into the room in the morning and saw those disgusting presents around everywhere, used to sit down and cry. In six months she was so tired that she couldn't even cry anymore. About the beginning of October she started sitting down on dolls wherever she found them - she hated them so much.

By that time people didn't carry presents around nicely anymore. They threw them into the garden or through the window, or anything; and, instead of trying to write 'For dear Daddy,' or 'Mummy,' or 'Brother,' or 'Sister,' or 'Susie,' or 'Sammie,' or 'Billie,' or 'Bobbie,' or 'Jimmie,' or 'Jennie,' or whoever it was, and trying to get the spelling right, and then writing their names, they used to write, 'Take it, you horrible old thing!' and then go and bang it against the front door. Nearly everybody had built special rooms to hold their presents, but quite soon they were full, and then people used to let them lie in the rain, or anywhere. Sometimes the police came and told them to move their presents out of the road or they would arrest them.

"I know what's going to happen. She found it was all a dream," suggested the little girl.

"No!" said her father. "It was all true!"

"Well, what did happen, then?"

"Well, after a year, Father Christmas asked her if she wanted it to be Christmas every day and she said no. So, Father Christmas said it wasn't ever going to be Christmas anymore. Now it's time for breakfast."

The little girl held her father around the neck.

"You can't go, if you're going to leave it like that!"

"How do you want it to be?"

"Christmas once a year."

"All right," said her papa; and he went on again.

Well, there was great happiness all over the country. The people met everywhere, and kissed and cried with happiness. The city garbage collectors went around and took all the candy and nuts, and threw them into the river; and it made the fish sick; and the whole United States, as far out as Alaska, was one huge fire, where the children were burning up their presents of all kinds. They had the most fantastic time!

The little girl went to thank old Father Christmas because he had stopped it being Christmas every day, and she said she hoped he would keep his promise and see that Christmas never, never came again. Then Father Christmas asked her if she was sure she knew what she meant; and the little girl asked her, 'Why not?' and old Father Christmas said that now she was behaving as stupidly as before, and she should be careful. This made the little girl think it over again, and she said she wanted to have Christmas about once in a thousand years; and then she said a hundred, and then she said ten, and at last she got down to one. Then Father Christmas said that was the good old way that had pleased people ever since Christmas began, and he agreed.

"How's that?" asked the father.

"Great!" said the little girl; but she hated to stop the story stop. However, her mother looked into the room and asked her father:

"Are you never coming to breakfast? What are you telling that child?"

"Oh, just a story."

The little girl caught him around the neck again.

"We know! Don't you tell what, papa! Don't you tell what!"