Life — December 26, 1889 — page 35: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

* ERE THE CUSTOMARY CHRISTMAS STORY. OBERT SMITH was the customary Christ- mas millionaire. That is to say, he had a hard heart, a great deal of money, and no * chickens nor children of his own. He could draw his check for thousands, and, what is more to the point, it would be cashed upon pres- entation at the bank, if prop- erly indorsed. Mr. Smith had in his employ the cus- tomary Christmas clerk, with the customary half-starved appearance, the customary large family, and the cus- tomary small salary. As he left his customarily-dingy office on the evening before Christmas the customary snowstorm was in progress and the shop windows were lighted up with their customary brilliancy, sending out the customary gleams of light, brightening up in their customary way the usual cheerless scene with- out. The regular Christmas chimes were ringing out their customary gladsome peal, announcing, as is customary at this time of year, “Peace on earth, good will toward men,” But there was the customary absence of response in the hard heart of Robert Smith. He was thinking the customary Christmas thought of the customary Christmas millionaire— that is, whether it would not be wise to go around to his bookkeeper’s the next day, and, as is usual, announce that, beginning with the ist of January, his salary would be cut “SHUST ONE MORE FOR DE SCHNAPPS, UNT WE ARE LOFELY.” DER LAST POTTLE?” “CHimauny 1! Vy DIDN'T VE QUIT MIT 13 down twenty-five per cent. This would mean an annual saving of $36.67, and it seemed quite worth the while. Robert Smith went to bed on Christmas Eve with the in- tention customary to Christmas millionaires of getting up next morning to make somebody else uncomfortable. But the customary Spirit of Christmas came during the night and sat on Robert Smith's digestive appurtenances, causing him to see the customary visions intended to show Christmas millionaires the error of their ways. . . . . . It was Christmas morning. As Robert Smith buttoned the customary overcoat about him and stepped out into the customary bracing Christmas air, his eyes beamed with the customary new light, and his features bore the customary benevolent smile of the Christmas millionaire who has been interviewed all night by the Spirit of Christmas. At last he reached the humble home of his bookkeeper. To the door came the wife of that individual, with the cus- tomary wan look and the customary number of children clinging to her skirts and staring at the millionaire with the customary half-scared eyes. “Oh, Mr. Smith!" she said, with the customary tremor in her voice. “Come in!” and going through the customary act of wiping off a chair seat with her apron, she invited the millionaire to be seated. s your husband here?” asked Robert Smith, “No, sir—" “Well, it makes no difference,” replied the Christmas millionaire, trying to hide the real feeling of his heart, which made the customary effort to show itself in his face. “ Yes- terday I had made up my mind to reduce his salary twenty- five per cent. beginning with the 1st of January. But [ have changed my mind.” The usual surprised look crept into the face of the bookkeeper's wife. “I find that a twenty-five-per-cent reduction figures out $36.67. 1 dis- like odd figures, so ‘we'll call it an even forty.” “My husband expected you would be here this morning and left this note for you,” said the bookkeeper's wife, producing a letter from beneath her apron. Robert Smith brought out his pen- knife, and, with the customary ‘de- liberation of the Christmas million- aire, cut open the envelope. This was what he read: Curistaas Eve, My Deak Mr. Smit: I sail for Spain to-morrow morning to find out why there is no extradition law between that country and the United States. My wife and children follow later. I do not lock the safe to-night, as it contains no comicbooks.com