Ashley Sterne A Christmas Island Christmas

This is an Ashley Sterne Christmas column from World-Radio, December 22, 1933.



A Christmas Island Christmas


Of all the far-flung outputs of the British Empire there is none which should be nearer our thoughts at this joyous juncture of the rolling seasons than that charming little chunk of volcanic mud and rock known as Christmas Island, which I must ask the reader not to confuse with the Christhmus of Panama.  Upon its visiting-cards Christmas Island’s address is pithily, though perhaps a little obscurely, given as latitude 1deg 57min N and longitude 157deg 27min W.  But for those who don’t understand algebra it is perhaps as well to add that the island lies in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, somewhat less that half-way between Honolulu and the Tropic of Capricorn, and rather more than half-way between the Tropic of Capricorn and Honolulu.  This is a very curious phenomenon when you reflect that, whichever way they are measured, Honolulu and the Tropic of Capricorn are precisely the same distance apart.  However — Christmas Island is, of course, coloured red upon the map, partly because it is a British Possession, and partly because it has got turned that colour owing to its proximity to the Equator and its consequent exposure to so much sun.

With the exception of myself (as will transpire later) nobody seems to know very much about Christmas Island, save that it was discovered on Christmas Day, and , by that same token, received its name — much after the fashion of the Isle of Dogs, which was discovered during the first dog-watch on the first of the dog-days by that famous pre-Raphaelite navigator, Sir Dandie Dinmont, who also discovered the island of Terrier del Fuego.

The credit for the discovery of Christmas Island, however, has not yet been allotted.  Some geographers incline to the belief that the cachet belongs to redoubtable Captain Cook, who made quite a little hobby of discovering Pacific islands until that unfortunate day when he had the bad luck to discover a cannibal island whose inhabitants clung tenaciously to the theory that one more Cook improved the broth.

An Unknown Hero

Others, again, attribute the exploit to Vasco da Gama, the adventurous Portuguese navigator who first doubled the Cape, and subsequently negotiated so many other doubles that he invented grand-circle sailing of Safety Thirst principles.  But the most popularly accepted theory is that Christmas Island was discovered by one of those inevitable and ubiquitous Scotsmen who are always to be found prowling about in the most unexpected corners of the globe, seeking some uncompetitive spot wherein to open a new branch-bank.  As, however, he omitted to sign the hotel register, his identity must remain a mystery.

But be these things as they may, Christmas Island undoubtedly “stands today where then it stood” — it hasn’t moved a yard — foursquare to whichever of the winds of Heaven happens to be functioning for the time being.

So much by way of prelude.

It was in the autumn of last year that the BBC approached me with the suggestion that I should undertake a trip to Christmas Island, and secure a gramophone record of the Yuletide festivities held there with the idea of making an Empire Broadcast of it this coming Christmas.  Normally this task would have been undertaken by the BBC’s Outside Broadcast Staff; but, as all these gentlemen were engaged elsewhere, I (who had been threatening the BBC to write another radio review) was invited, for some reason I have been unable to fathom, to undertake the job.

On the very threshold of my Odyssey, however, I encountered misfortune. I left the whole of the recording apparatus behind me in the railway cloak-room of my hometown, Thames Ditton — an omission of which I was entirely unaware until I was actually going through the Customs of Christmas Island, when, asked specifically whether I had any brandy, silk underwear, tobacco, saccharine, or gramophones to declare, I suddenly remember that I had omitted to retrieve the vital impedimenta from the custody of the Southern Railway on my departure.

For this lamentable lapse of memory I found it hard to account, as the cloak-room at Thames Ditton is practically next-door to the refreshment buffet.  However, it was no use crying over spilt beans, as you might say, and to make the best of a bad job I took voluminous notes of all that transpired during my stay on the island.

I was most hospitably received on landing by the native chief, who was an Old Etonian (in fact, he was wearing a loin-cloth in the Old Etonian colours), and he accorded me every facility for observing the manner in which his subjects celebrated Christmas.  Thanks to his own English education he had succeeded in instilling into their benighted minds much of the Christmas spirit which we strive to cultivate here at home, even to the extent of asking the wife’s people to share the Christmas cheer.

Beware of the Cactus

The equatorial climate is naturally all against such seasonal decor as snow and robins; but, with the help of whitewash and a troupe of specially trained hummingbirds, the natives succeeded in producing a mise-en-scene worthy of Mr. C. B. Cochran himself.  Holly and mistletoe likewise do not form part of the indigenous flora of the island; but, nevertheless, the inhabitants make effective play with the discarded skins of moulted rattlesnakes and with the various species of cactus with which the interior of the island, to say nothing of the exterior of the islanders, is liberally punctuated.

One might think that osculating beneath a mass of cactus would not be a very romantic substitute for that fine old English custom of kissing under the mistletoe; but despite the earnest endeavours of Chief Nujiwaja Sidney B. Oojabooja, M.A (Cantab.) to lead them to higher things, the natives stubbornly adhere to the old pagan custom of rubbing noses as a token of affection.  That being so, it seems of scant importance under what sort of vegetable matter they elect to perform this repellent rite.  Carolling parties are organised for Christmas Eve, and it says much for the advanced state of musical culture attained by the natives when I add that the efforts of the carollers meet with precisely the same reception there as they do here: to wit, profanity through the letter-box and lumps of coal from the bedroom windows.

The giving and receiving of presents, too, is a recognised Christmas custom of the islanders, though obviously the character of the gifts is different, as the cigarette coupon system has not yet penetrated so far, nor is there a Woolworth’s nearer than San Francisco.  Hence that pretty English custom of the husband’s presenting his wife with an expensive new dress on Christmas morning cannot be followed on Christmas Island, as the native women never wear anything more than a somewhat exiguous ballet-skirt made of hay.  Instead, the Christmas Island husband adds an entirely new and elaborate tattoo-design upon whatever portion of his wife’s cuticle has not been already decorated in this manner.

Similarly, the native wife does not present her husband with the usual vivid hand-knitted tie.  She give him a little bundle of porcupine-quills to stick through his nose, and possibly a couple of old bloater-paste tines to insert in the pendant lobes of his enormous ears.

 Joyful Dawn

The children, too, clearly cannot hang up their stocking on the bedrail overnight, as stocking and bedrails are both unknown quantities on the island.  Failing this, however, they go to sleep on Christmas Eve with their mouths at full-cock, and it’s a very, very unlucky child who wakes on Christmas morning to find the cavity unfilled with one or other of the native sweetmeats; e.g., n’gz, which is a kind of toffee made of ants’ eggs mixed with caoutchouc; or m’bg, a sort of liquorice-stick made of bamboo soaked in the sepia of the cuttle-fish and fried in wart-hop’s dripping.

Special Christmas fare also appears upon the festive boards (or, rather, filthy mud floors) of even the humblest homes in the island.  The familiar turkey-and-sausages is, however, replaced by roast albatross garnished with small fried snakes, while, in lieu of Christmas pudding blazing in brandy, a boiled sea-urchin is served blazing in train-oil.

I had the honour of being invited by the Chief to eat my Christmas dinner beneath his hospitable punkah, and enjoyed a menu of the most select dishes the island could provide, including filleted iguana and roast python (which was served on a windlass).  The piece de resistance, however, was some very savoury vols-au-vents, of which I ate several with great gusto, though I should probably have chewed less and eschewed more had I known at the time of ingurgitation that the staple ingredient of these tasty patties was forequarter of my host’s great-aunt Louisa.  The Chief’s delightful quip to the effect that it was always Aunt Louisa’s way to have a finger in every pie did little if anything to relieve the acute dyspepsia with which I was subsequently afflicted; and my Christmas Island adventure ended with my cordially wishing myself a Happy Bismuth. 

Ashley Sterne The Truth about the Mistletoe Bough

 

Another comic Christmas story by Ashley Sterne, originally published in The Radio Times (December 20, 1935).

The Truth about the Mistletoe Bough

The ballad begins:  ’ The mistletoe hung in the  castle hall, the holly branch shone on the old oak wall; and the Baron’s retainers were blithe and gay, and keeping their Christmas holiday. ’

Yes, the Baron was one of the good old democratic sort, and made it a custom on Christmas Day to throw open the castle hall to his staff so soon as they had washed up the Christmas dinner crockery.

Here, in the holly-bedecked, mistletoe-behung, oak-bewalled hall, he would kick off the Christmas revels by treading a measure with the cook — a Turkey Trot, no doubt, or possibly a Christmas Cakewalk; and thereafter participating in some of the various quaint folk-dances, such as Jenny pull your stockings up, Green grow the goozgogs, Little zinc trousers, and so forth.

And into these capers none of the revellers threw themselves with greater zest and energy than the Baron’s freshly-married daughter, who (as far as the old ballad is concerned) was anonymous, but who, having espoused a rather poor fish named Lovel, may safely be referred to as Mrs. Lovel.

‘ The Baron beheld, with a father’s pride, his beautiful child, young Lovel’s bride; while she, with her bright eyes, seemed to be the star of the goodly company. ’

Yes, she was certainly plus-four at beauty and bright eyes, but there was no gainsaying the fact that, though small of stature, she was in the cruiserweight class.  On the weighing-maching in the bathroom she knocked up a generous twelve-stun-ten.  Hence her zeal for the rollicking round-dances; for in those remote days the virtues of orange-juice as an attenuant were unknown.

Of course, the Baron saw nothing ungainly in his daughter’s form.  He was all for carrying on the Old Tradition.  As for young Lovel, he simply adored his young bride, and wouldn’t willingly have dispensed with a single cubic yard of her.

‘ Oh! the mistletoe bough! ‘ the ballad parenthetically concludes its first (and every succeeding stanza.  But since this interest bit of parasitic vegetation plays no part whatever in the drama, one must simply regard it as an interjectory expression of the poet’s, like ‘ Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below? ‘

Now, when the revelry was at its height, and the Baron had just finished “setting to corners” with the wench who did the boots and knives in the fourth figure of Little zinc trousers, young Mrs. Lovel suddenly left her partner, darted to the middle of the hall, and clapped her hands for silence.

‘ “I’m tired of dancing now,” she cried.  “Here tarry a moment, I’ll hide, I’ll hide!  And Lovel, be sure thou’rt the first to trace the clue to my secret lurking place.” ‘

This erstwhile popular game of lurk-and-trace was the precursor of the somewhat similar game of our own childhood-day, hide-and-seek.  It had for many years been played in the castle on Christmas Day, and practically every lurking-place was familiar to the whole assembly.  Thus it grew increasingly difficult year by year to discover fresh lurks.  Nevertheless—

‘ Away she ran, and her friends began each tower to search, each nook to scan (which wasn’t fair until she called “Coo-ee”); and young Lovel cried “Oh, where dost thou hide?  I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.” ‘

Which just shows you the sort of cheap skate young Lovel was — couldn’t suffer his sugar out of his sight for a flick without giving vent to a languish.  But in vain did he turn the towers upside down and shake ‘em; in vain did he insinuate the vacuum-cleaner into every nook the castle contained.  No answer came to his reiterated demand for information.

At midnight the gong went for supper.  So did Lovel.  The retainers also ran.  Lovel tried to swallow the pork-pie.  But he couldn’t.  It didn’t fit.  It choked him, as food will always do when one is overwrought….  Then the search began again; and with renewed zeal, for the Baron had offered a small prize to the successful finder.  Indeed—

‘ They sought her that night, and they sought her next day, and they sought her in vain till a week passed away.  In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, young Lovel sought wildly but found her not. ‘

All this time, the Baron, you note, apparently took no active part in the search.  But he began to get apprehensive, and became a positive hive of industry.  He put through, time after time, an emergency call to Scotland Yard, only to meet with the usual fate of emergency-callers.  In tardy succession he became connected with the Drury Lane box-office, the Metropolitan Asylums Board, the Stogumber Steam Laundry, the Heckmondwike Fire Brigade, the Western Brothers (Kenneth and George), the Carlyle Cousins (George and Kenneth), the Houston Sisters (Kenita and Georgina), the Elder Brethren of Trinity House (Kenneth and George), and a police call-box in Steeple Bumsted.

The years flew by (blatantly asserts the ballad), until came the day when—

‘ At length an old chest that had long lain hid was found in the castle.  They raised the lid…  And a skeleton form lay mould’ring there, in the bridal wreath of the lady fair! ‘

This, of course, is mere poet’s license carried to a point where he deserved to have his licence endorsed, suspending him from active poetry for a year at least.  As modern research has shown (or if it hasn’t, it jolly well ought to), Mrs. Lovel was secreted in the chest about ten days in all, and could only be called a skeleton by the standards of Comparative Anatomy.  She certainly wasn’t half the woman she was, for her proportions were now reasonably normal.

Young Lovel was rather annoyed.  He shook her roughly by the shoulder, and she awoke once again to light and love.

“So here you are!” he began, testily.

“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Lovel.

“And what d’you think you’re doing?”

“Hibernating.”

“With what object, may I ask?”

Mrs. Lovel sat up in the chest.  “To slim,” she announced.  “To slim without interference — the birthright of every Englishwoman.”

“You might have slimmed yourself to death that way,” young Lovel grunted.  “D’you know that chest’s got a spring-lock?”

“Yes, and like all the other locks in this rotten old shatto, it’s broken.  As for starving to death, don’t you believe it!  What do snakes to when they pack up for the winter?”

“Hibernate,” said Lovel, just like a book.

“Bah!  I mean, what do they live on?  Why, on their fat, of course,  If you don’t believe me, ask any herpetologist you like.”

“I don’t like any herpetologist.  I hate ‘em all.”

“Well, never mind.  Help me out of this.”

Lovel lifted her out.  She tottered a little as he stood her up on end.  “Slimming or no,” he remarked, “I’m afraid you’ve had a pretty thin time.  Lean on me for the future”  and he offered her his arm.

‘ Oh! the mistletoe bough! ‘  — and hough!   

Ashley Sterne Not-So-Good King Wenceslas

Christmas greetings from 1931!  Below is Ashley Sterne’s revisionist history of Good King Wenceslas, as published in The Radio Times on December 21, 1931.

First of all, let's revisit the song:

Good King Wenceslas looked out
on the feast of Stephen,
when the snow lay round about,
deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shown the moon that night,
though the frost was cruel,
when a poor man came in sight,
gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me.
If thou know it telling:
yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
underneath the mountain,
right against the forest fence
by Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.
Bring me pine logs hither.
Thou and I will see him dine
when we bear the thither.

Page and monarch, forth they went,
forth they went together
through the rude wind's wild lament
and the bitter weather.

Sire, the night is darker now,
and the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how.
I can go no longer.
Ark my footsteps my good page,
tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his master's step he trod,
where the snow lay dented.
Heat was in the very sod
which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
wealth or rank possessing,
ye who now will bless the poor
shall yourselves find blessing

NOT-SO-GOOD KING WENCESLAS

The truth about an Old Bohemian, translated from and Early Fifteenth-Century MS. recently discovered in an Old Bohemian Monastery (The Spotted Dachshund) by Ashley Sterne.

Good King Wenceslas was in his counting-house checking up the house-keeping accounts.

“Ninepence-ha’p’ny seems a lot to spend on suet,” he muttered into his beard. “but I suppose that what with the mince-meat and the stuffing and all that…”  Lost-Chord-like, he trembled away into silence.

His consort, Queen Iggultruda (“Cowface” to her loyal subjects), was in the parlour eating an enormous slice of bread and goose-dripping and simultaneously perusing a book on Christmas Puddings entitled What to Do Till the Coroner Comes by Frau Lisa Kraeg.

The maid was in the garden hanging up a kingly pair of fur-lined pyjamas on the Royal clothes-line, while a late blackbird, perched on the roof of the Royal bicycle-shed hard by, rendered selections from Cyril Scott.

All of a sudden the Queen looked up from her book, and glanced at the Munchausen Calendar — a gift from the Royal coal-merchant — hanging over the mantel shelf.

“December 26!” she mused.  “The Feast of Stephen!  I wonder if Wence has forgotten.”

She rose from her seat and sought the counting-house.

“Eleven-and-five’s nineteen, and seven’s thirty-one, and eight’s forty-three,” mumbled the Royal auditor as the Queen entered…   “What is it, Igg?”

“Do you know what today is?” asked the Queen.

“Either it’s Boxing Day or I’m a liar.  Why?”

“Well, what about your annual Good Deed by virtue of which you have earned your sobriquet?  Have you thought it out yet?”

“Er — not exactly.  The fact is, good deeds are not so jolly easy to think of as all that. Lemme see — what did I do last year?”

“You sent a crooner to the scaffold.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure!  And a very popular move it was, too.  I think I’ll despatch another one this year.”

“My dear, you simply can’t repeat yourself.”

“Well, what did I do the year before?
 

“You distributed free crumpets to the Infant’s Welfare.”


“So I did.  That was also popular.  The papers all commended me for placing dyspepsia within the reach of the poorer classes.”

At that moment there came a knock on the door, and the maid who had been airing the Royal wash came in.

“Well, Parker, what is it?” the Queen inquired.

“If you please, ma’am, I thought I oughter tell you there’s a bloke in the paddock at the bottom of the garden, actin’ in a ‘ighly suspicious manner, and ‘aving no visible means o’ support.”

“What’s he a-doing of?” asked the King, at once placing the girl at her ease by his method of speech.

“Picking up sticks, sire.  Gatherin’ winter fu-oo-el, as you might say.”

“Well, he’s welcome to the sticks so long as he doesn’t start gathering our Derby Brights [high-quality coal nuggets].  Who is he, and where does he hang out?”

“He’s an old rustic, so I’ve heard tell, who goes by the name of Yonder Peasant, sire.  He lives a dev—a long way away, sire a good league hence, underneath the mountain.”

“Which mountain is he a-living under of?” asked the King.

“The big ‘un, with knobs, sire, the one by St. Agnesseses fou-oun-tain.”

The king got up from his roll-top desk and walked to the window.

“Let’s have a dekko of him,” he said… “Jehosophat! but it ain’t half snowing.  And the wind!  Gee, what a blizzard!!  There, I can spot the guy.  Poor blighter!  I’m glad I’m not him-he-him.  He’s blue with cold, and looks as emaciated as a mannequin.  What a life!”

“You needn’t look any further for you Good Deed, Wence,” the Queen pronounced significantly.  “Go and fetch the poor bli-wight in, and let’s give him a good time.”

“That’s a good idea, Igg!” exclaimed the King.  “‘He who now will bless the poor shall himself find blessing.”—Schopenhauer.  I’ll send the bell-boy to pull him in.”

“Tut-tut! “ said the Queen.  “Do it yourself, otherwise all the really good part of you Good Deed — ploughing through the snow and buffeting against the wind and getting your socks wet — would be the page’s Good Deed, not yours.”

“You put rather too fine a point on it for my liking, Igg, but perhaps you’re right.  However, Hopkinstein had better come too.  I may need help with Yonder Peasant.  Parker, tell Hopkinstein to bring me my waterproof crown, the State umbrella, and my gum-boots.”

   *    *    *     *

“You go first, Hopkinstein.  Then I can put my feet in your footprints.  The snow’s that deep it will go well over my boot-tops else.”

And closing the scullery-door behind them, page and monarch went forth, in the order named, slap through the rude wind’s wild lament and the bitter wea-ea-ther.

It was one of those long, very thin gardens that they had to traverse and the going was by no means good.  Twice Wenceslas tripped up, once over the sagging laundry-line, one over a hibernating garden-tortoise.  As they slowly proceeded, the atmosphere grew darker and the wind stronger, the winter’s rage more blood-freezing.  The King, who was a soft as putty from lack of exercise, began to develop engine-trouble in the cardic valves.  One more he tripped, over a concealed flower-pot, and went down for the third time.

“Kiss me, Hopkinstein, I’m done,” he just managed to gasp through a mouthful of snow.  “You’d better drip back to the Palace and tell ‘em to launch the ambulance pronto.  Go one step farther I cannot.”

And then the dazed monarch became aware that a third party had materialised from the Everywhere.  Vaguely, he recognised his old pal, Yonder Peasant.

“What’s all this how-d’you-do, your Nibs?”  the fellow asked.  “Can I lend a hand?”

“You can,” Hopkinstein replied.  “If I help to boost our gracious King on to your shoulders, d’you think you could carry him pickaback to the Palace?”

“I’ll say I can.  I’m as tough as hickory,  Eighty-one come next Michaelmas, and as hefty as a three-year-old.  Oopsy-daisy, then!  … There! and see here, Mr. Page, you walk in my footsteps, and you’ll find it’s not near so bad for your chilblains.”

   *    *    *    *   

They deposited the King on the sofa in the parlour.  He opened his eyes and saw Yonder Peasant drooping over him.

“Anything I can do for your Maj?”

“I’m hungry.  Bring me flesh,” said Wence.  “Not just any old flesh, though.  Tell the chef to hot up the remains of the turkey… and if it’s not troubling you too much, just heave a couple of pine-logs on the hearth.”

A few minutes later, waited on assiduously by Hopkinstein and Yonder Peasant, Good King Wenceslas dined.  They plied him with turkey; they plied him with tongue, they plied him with little green peas; they gave him three helpings of pudding (with sauce), and topped him with biscuits and cheese.  At the end of the repast the King ostentatiously put tuppence under his plate.

“For valor,” he said, graciously in his saviour’s direction.

“Couldn’t dream of it, King, couldn’t dream of it!” quoth the good fellow, “thanking you all the same.  Only too happy to oblige, I’m sure.”

“Well, go and have a glass of beer in the kitchen,” said the King.

   *    *    *    *

“A pretty cheap skate you showed yourself, Wence,” remarked Iggultruda, acidulously, as they retired that night.  “Why, that hobo did your job!”

“Come to that,” said the King sleepily, “I did his.  And if it’s not a Good Deed to do another man’s job for him — well, ask me another.”


The Back Side of Roxborough

My younger son and I were in the mood for an easy hike.  We chose the back side of Roxborough State Park, where a trail winds along the edge of the rocky hills.  

A fine vista greets the eye.  Looking out over the scrub oak and small evergreens along the trail, you see a broad expanse of pasture bordered by thick pine groves.  Clear blue skies and mild temperatures added to the enjoyment.

Roxborough again

I took another hike at Roxborough State Park today.  The weather was in transition.  To the east, everything was cheerful.

When I turned around to the west, everything was ominous.

I am thankful that my hike stayed pleasant throughout -- no wind, rain, or hail arrived.

A Warm November Day for a Hike

The weather report said blue skies and upper 70s today, and so I took advantage of this early November gift to hike in Castlewood Canyon.  The scrub oaks still retained some of their brown leaves and made a pleasant addition to the scenery.  Here is a photo that looks across the canyon to the slabs of horizontal rock on the far side.

The hike was very peaceful.  However, I had to keep my wits about me in carefully stepping over rocks on the trail.  Nature is unforgiving of careless footsteps.

Fall Colors

While I was in Iowa for the week, Mother Nature pulled a fast one and painted the trees with fall colors.  Here is a view from the library parking lot.

Return from Iowa

Today I returned from a trip to Iowa.

Before departing Iowa, I snapped this photograph of a Davenport house whose owners went hog wild over Halloween decorations.  I doubt that many young trick-or-treaters will be brave enough to run this gauntlet of horrors.

 

This next photograph is of the Carnegie Library in Sterling, Colorado.  This fine building, built in 1918, was the town library until 1976.  It was later converted to a bed and breakfast and, after that, a private residence.  Now it is being converted to a a home decor shop and an upscale coffee bar.  

A de-stacked library is not as dispiriting as a de-sanctified church building, I suppose; but I was rather put out by the thought of young Millennial consumers idly sipping lattes in the empty husk of a former cultural center.