ar that again--voices crying!"

"No, no," I answered, "not voices, only the night wind among the trees."

"My children's voices!" he exclaimed. "I hear them everywhere--they
come to me in every wind--and I see them as I wander in the night and
storm--my children--torn and dying in the trenches--beaten into the
ground--I hear them crying from the hospitals--each one to me, still as
I knew him once, a little child. Time, Time," he cried, reaching out his
arms in appeal, "give me back my children!"

"They do not die in vain," Time murmured gently.

But Christmas only moaned in answer:

"Give me back my children!"

Then he sank down upon his pile of books and toys, his head buried in
his arms.

"You see," said Time, "his heart is breaking, and will you not help him
if you can?"

"Only too gladly," I replied. "But what is there to do?"

"This," said Father Time, "listen."

He stood before me grave and solemn, a shadowy figure but half seen
though he was close beside me. The fire-light had died down, and through
the curtained windows there came already the first dim brightening of
dawn.

"The world that once you knew," said Father Time, "seems broken and
destroyed about you. You must not let them know--the children. The
cruelty and the horror and the hate that racks the world to-day--keep it
from them. Some day _he_ will know"--here Time pointed to the prostrate
form of Father Christmas--"that his children, that once were, have not
died in vain: that from their sacrifice shall come a nobler, better
world for all to live in, a world where countless happy children shall
hold bright their memory for ever. But for the children of To-day, save
and spare them all you can from the evil hate and horror of the war.
Later they will know and understand. Not yet. Give them back their Merry
Christmas and its kind thoughts, and its Christmas charity, till later
on there shall be with it again Peace upon Earth Good Will towards Men."

His voice ceased. It seemed to vanish, as it were, in the sighing of the
wind.

I looked up. Father Time and Christmas had vanished from the room. The
fire was low and the day was breaking visibly outside.

"Let us begin," I murmured. "I will mend this broken horse."

END

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Frenzied Fiction, by Stephen Leacock

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRENZIED FICTION ***

***** This file should be named 8457.txt or 8457.zip *****
This and