The merriest day. The saddest day. The day that you are happiest over all you have had. The day that your heart aches most for all that you have missed or have had and lost. That"s Christmas. The day that sets you tingling with joyous anticipation for weeks beforehand. The day you wish you could sleep straight through and thus wipe off your calendar. That"s Christmas. The day that rouses in you all that is generous and tolerant and kindly. The day that wearies you with sentimentality and disappointment and despair … that"s Christmas.
Christmas is like the illusion produced by the East Indian fakir. There he squats in the dust, waving a bright-colored rag. One onlooker sees a star of hope. Another, a tree glittering with gifts, another an octopus of bills squeezing and crushing, another no
