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Her father thought a while. His mind went back over the interminable parade of Christmas books he had read at the bedsides of his children.
"Well," he started tentatively. "Once upon a time it was the week before Christmas, and all the little elves at the North Pole were sad."
"I'm tired of elves," she whispered. And he could tell she was tired, maybe almost as weary as he was himself after the last few feverish days.
"OK," he said. "There was once, in a city not very far from here, the cutest, wriggly, little puppy you ever saw. The snow was falling, and this little puppy didn't have a home. As he walked along the streets, he saw a house which looked quite a bit like our house, and at the window.. . . "
"Was a little girl who looked quite a bit like me," she sighed. "I'm tired of puppies. I love Pinky, of course. I mean story puppies."
"OK," he said. "No puppies. This narrows the field."
"What?"
"Nothing. I'll think of something. Oh, sure. There was a forest, way up in the North, farther even than where Uncle Ed lives. All the trees were talking about how each one was going to be the grandest Christmas tree of all. One said, "I'm going to stand in front of the White House where the president of the United States lives, and everybody will see me." Another beautiful tree said proudly, "I am going to be in the middle of New York City, and all the people will see me and think I am the most beautiful tree in the world." Then a little fir tree spoke up, "I am going to be a Christmas tree, too." All the trees laughed and laughed and said, "A Christmas tree? You? Who would want you?"
"No trees, Daddy," she said. "We have a tree at school and at Sunday school and at the supermarket and downstairs, and a little one in my room. I am very tired of trees."
"You are very spoiled," he said.
"Hmmm," she replied. "Tell me a Christmas story."
"Let's see. All the reindeer up at the North Pole were looking forward to pulling Santa's sleigh--all but one, and he felt sad because . . . " he began with a jolly ring in his voice, but quickly realized that this wasn't going to work either. His daughter didn't say anything; she just looked at him reproachfully.
"Tired of reindeer, too?" he asked. "Frankly, so am I. How about Christmas on the farm when I was a little boy? Would you like to hear about how it was in the olden days, when my grandfather would heat up bricks and put them in the sleigh and we'd all go for a ride?"
"Yes, Daddy," she said, obediently. "But not right now. Not tonight."
He was silent, thinking. His repertoire, he was afraid, was exhausted. She was quiet, too. Maybe, he thought, I'm home free; maybe she has gone to sleep.
"Daddy," she murmured, "tell me a story of Christmas."
Then it was as though he could read the words, so firmly were they in his memory. Still holding her hand, he leaned back: "And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. . . . "
Her hand tightened a bit in his, and he told her a story of Christmas.
Bill Vaughan was a long-time columnist with the Kansas City Star. Reprinted by permission of the Kansas City Star.
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