THE CHRISTMAS MEGAPACK

      Edited by Robert Reginald, Mary Wickizer Burgess, and John Gregory Betancourt

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2012 by Wildside Press LLC

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      INTRODUCTION, by Robert Reginald

      Christmas—the very word conjures up memories, for many of us, of the most wondrous childhood holiday of all—filled with the glitter of colorfully-wrapped presents, family visits, carols, photographs, decorating the tree, attendance at church to celebrate the birth of the Christ child, and tummy-stuffing dinners tucked with treats seen at no other time of the year.

      Christmas.

      But the yule holiday has been celebrated for at least two centuries in North America, and our writers have been producing memorable stories about this unique day for almost as long.

      Here are twenty-five Christmas stories old and new, tales to delight, to entrance, to beguile, even sadden a whole new generation of readers. From Nina Kiriki Hoffman’s poignant “Lazelle Family Christmas” to Jacob A. Riis’s gut-wrenching portrait of the holiday in the 1890s slums of New York to Johnston McCulley’s riveting tale of Christmas in the Old West, we experience every possible facet of this most precious day of the year.

      So sit back and relive your memories once again, as recreated through the eyes of some of the finest writers of their time.

      Christmas!

      DEDICATION

      For our families—and fond memories

       of Christmases past and present!

      THE SUBSTITUTE SHOPPER, by Edna A. Collamore

      Edmund Dustan, age forty-two (Dustan & Pierce, manufacturing chemists), was a personable bachelor of the safe and sane variety, with a carefully framed code of behavior which he was punctilious to a degree in observing.

      This code demanded, among other sacrifices, that each Christmas he journey from New York to a small New England town which a less polite person might have comprehensively described as a beastly hole, and there partake of a Christmas dinner that was festive only in intention, and exchange holiday greetings with a score or more of suffering kinsfolk.

      Mr. Dustan never suspected that his own formal manner was the chief contributing cause to the general deadliness of the family gathering. He was at heart fond of seeing people enjoy themselves, but his precise exterior never betrayed this secret, and he was quite ignorant of the art of inaugurating an era of joviality.

      Other members of the clan, holding Edmund’s financial and moral solidity in deep respect, felt compelled to comport themselves in his presence with unusual discretion, lest Edmund be shocked or distressed, and to the most unnatural quiet and decorum they condemned their offspring.

      As a preliminary to his annual excursion, Mr. Dustan was in the habit of devoting December 14 (a date he had arbitrarily selected as appropriate) to a shopping expedition, that he might provide himself with a supply of neat parcels containing suitable, and singularly uninteresting presents. When he discovered on the 13th of December that his business affairs demanded that he proceed immediately to Atlanta, and remain there till the 21st, a rearrangement of his schedule seemed inevitable.

      “I should not wish to rush madly about, trying to make numerous Christmas purchases before train time,” meditated Mr. Dustan, “nor do I think it proper to leave the matter until my return. As for shopping outside of New York, that may be done, but is contrary to my inclination and habits. I must delegate some suitable person to attend to this shopping for me.”

      Mr. Dustan’s further meditations developed the idea that the suitable person was one James Keene, an obscure chemist in Mr. Dustan’s employ, who owed his position to the fact that he was born and bred in the very town whither Mr. Dustan journeyed for the Christmas festivities. Yes, James Keene knew all the members of the Dustan clan, ages, manner of life, approximate incomes, and moreover, he would perform his task with the extremely painstaking conscientiousness that was his most notable characteristic.

      Mr. Dustan wrote a list of names and addresses, annotated it with conservative suggestions, placed it in an envelope with a sum of money large enough to satisfy his generous, though not extravagant instincts, and then wrote a brief note asking his stenographer to give the envelope to Jas. Keene, with the request that he attend to Mr. Dustan’s Christmas shopping, and send the gifts to the recipients in due season.

      In the employ of Mr. Dustan was another person named Keene, a vivid, vibrant office boy, answering to the baptismal name of Joseph. Although he was Mr. James Keene’s nephew he did not resemble him in the least. He differed from him widely in ideals, taste, and experience. To put it briefly, he was a horse of quite another color

      Mr. Dustan’s stenographer had never made the acquaintance of the quiet and obscure Mr. James Keene but with Joseph Keene, who was always very much in evidence, she was entirely familiar. “Jas.,” said Mr. Dustan’s careful writing. “Jas. is a mistake, he meant Jos.” concluded the stenographer, a most indefensible conclusion.

      Joseph Keene accepted the commission with delight. He loved to spend money. He fancied his own taste extremely. He patted the roll of bills, and set forth with the purpose of getting the money’s worth to the uttermost penny, in color, glitter, and show.

      The list was long; it began, “Mrs. Sarah Dustan, books.” Mrs. Dustan was ninety-one. Her grandson was in the habit of providing her with beautifully bound volumes of religious platitudes. Joseph Keene’s literary tendencies never had taken that direction. He selected books by the simple method of examining the frontispiece. Simple love clinches he discarded in favor of illustrations promising vigorous and unceasing action.

      “Mrs. Alfred Dustan, something in crystal,” Joseph allowed the clerk to choose some handsome liqueur glasses, because he needed to devote a great deal of time to the next item, “Alfred Dustan, classic Victor records.” Joseph interpreted classic to mean classy.

      “John Dustan, slippers and socks. Violet silk hose and up-to-the-minute dancing pumps made Joseph sigh in ecstasy.

      “Paul Dustan, cravats,” Joseph wallowed in color.

      Through the long list he sailed gaily, jubilant with success. He bought two pictures that did not lack punch, whatever else they may have lacked. He bought feminine trinkets galore—a green and yellow parasol, with a gold-and-purple parrot on the handle was one triumph, a gold cigarette case which he ordered engraved and filled with monogrammed cigarettes, was another.

      At the end of the list came, “Mrs. Marian Andrews, flowers.” Perhaps by this time Joseph’s color hunger had been surfeited, and so the sight of hundreds of bloated, top-heavy red roses caused a slight nausea. At any rate he ordered from the florist’s display a whole bush of delicate, fragrant white lilacs for the last named recipient of Mr. Dustan’s bounty.

      The anteprandial gathering of the Dustan clan was marked by vivacious questioning and conjecture as to the probable cause of the psychological change in Mr. Edmund Dustan.

      “Dance-mad, that’s what he is,” volunteered Uncle Alfred, the host. “He sent me some of the snappiest new records you ever heard. We’ll put back the rugs tonight and give them a try-out. I don’t believe he’s half so stiff as you folks have always made out.”

      “Sure thing. Look at my purple silk socks, and gassy pumps,” corroborated old Uncle John, proudly extending his nether limbs for public inspection. “I didn’t suppose that he remembered that I could shake a leg with any of them twenty years ago. They say nobody in New York is too old to dance and, by gum, I’ll show him tonight that I ain’t either.”

      “I think Uncle Edmund has gone crazy,” put in Estelle, the pertest of the nieces. “He sent Aunt Martha a cigarette case. H-m, Aunt Martha!”

      “That is hardly