Classic Christmas Stories by Frank Galgay Page B

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     applications of punch, which seems to be as essential to the player as is the
     rosin to his bow, the “Banks of Newfoundland, ” “Garry Owen, ” and all the old
     favourites are rattled off. One of the “boys” is prevailed upon to sing, but he
     modestly protests and pleads either a cold or that he “don’t know no song.”
     Finally, after a deal of coaxing (and I think that bright eyed girl in the
     chimney corner had more to do with his consenting than all the others), he
     begins or rather prepares to begin. He coughs several times, smiles, and again
     faintly protests that he has a cold; but, excuses being of no avail, he
     stretches out his legs to their full length, puts both hands into his trousers
     pockets, and, throwing back his head, fixes his eyes on the ceiling and begins.
     His selection is not from the latest opera, nor probably the earliest, but is a
     good old-fashioned “Come all ye’s, ” handed down from grandfathers and fathers,
     each line terminatingwith a note of extraordinary duration.
     The voice of the singer may be a little out of order, but that is of slight
     consequence, as he makes up in volume and hearty enthusiasm what he may lack in
     tone. The ruthless critic is not present, and mistakes and break-downs are
     passed over good-humouredly. This vision of happiness gradually fades from my
     sight, and in its stead there rises up before me a scene of misery and
     desolation.
    Of the beautiful and prosperous city another remains but a mass of charred and
     blackened ruins, which stand up grim and gaunt against a white background of
     snow—desolate memorials of that destructive element which has proved such a
     cruel ravisher. Hardly a street can be recognized as such in the sweeping plane
     of black and white, and the sites of once happy homes and magnificent public
     buildings, which represented long years of unremitting toil and self-sacrificing
     love, are marked by heaps of ashes. Silence reigns all-around where a short time
     ago could be heard the rapid throb of industry’s heart, and the thinly clothed,
     hungry-looking people move silently along with faces expressive of sorrow and
     despair.
    Great crowds seem to be wending their way towards the old Parade Rink, which
     seems to have been almost miraculously preserved from the fire, in whose path it
     lay. Wondering what can attract them to such a place in the depths of their
     misery, I follow and, on coming nearer, am enlightened as to their real object.
     Oh! The cruel irony of fate. The Old Rink, the scene of so many joyous
     gatherings, when the click of steel and the ringing peals of merry laughter,
     mingled with the delightful strains of Bennett’s Band, has changed its
     character, and is playing a sad and sombre role. Hundreds of miserable and
     hungry people throng to its doors, anxiously waiting for relief, and I turn away
     from the pitiful sight only to gaze on desolation, wreck and ruin.
    Again the scene changes, and the black clouds of misfortune are lifted,
     revealing the bright blue sky beyond. The bright sun rises over the snow-covered
     hills and sheds a golden glory over the magnificent city, and those two rugged
     sentinels—South Side Hill and Signal Hill, their grim aspect softened by the
     snow’s soft mantle—look down upon the waters of the harbour, crowded with
     stately ships laden with goods from all parts of the world. Outlined against the
     azure canopy are the lofty spires and towers of magnificent churches, colleges
     and libraries. Immense business blocks of marble and granite, models of
     architecture and strength, givefurther evidence of the city’s
     commercial prosperity. Away to the east and north, for miles of what was a few
     years ago a vast tract of country, whose Acadian stillness was undisturbed by
     the hum of a city’s traffic, can now be seen the tall chimneys of workshops and
     factories, while