From the ARCHIVE

The Yorkshire poet Walter Hampson narrates a tale that, according to him, took place on Christmas Eve 1890

Yo’be a musician, sir, bean’t yo’?” I gracefully pleaded guilty.

“Ay,” he continued, “moosic’s a fine thing, I dunnot understond it mysen tho’ I’m fond on it. I’ve a fiddler livin’ i’ one o’ mi houses an’ he’s paid no rent fer many a wick, but I sent bailiffs last neet. He used t’ play fiddle in theayter but he tuk ill arter he’d bin here a while an’ his shop as bin filled by another chap.” I seized my opportunity to ask the “property owner” where his tenants lived.

I don’t know how it is, but when the hard side of my nature encounters the soft side, the soft invariably wins, so I rushed on and with the help of a small boy, whom I bribed to direct me, I at length arrived at the house and gently knocked. The door was suddenly opened by a bright little girl about five years old, who stared at me with astonishment. Uncertain what to do I returned her look with interest. My eyes wandered over the pinched, pale features, and shabby pinafore and worn out boots, when she broke the awkward silence by saying, “Where’s your reindeer?”

I must confess this question quite puzzled me for a moment, until suddenly the meaning of her question flashed upon me. I was wearing a long fur overcoat which buttoned right up to my chin, also a soft felt hat which, with the overcoat, almost covered my face. It was Christmas Eve, the children had been talking about Santa Claus and the little girl firmly believed he had come in person. She at once beckoned me inside and warned me to tread lightly as daddy was asleep in bed upstairs and mammy had gone out. Again she repeated the question, “Where’s your reindeer?”

Assuming as gruff a voice as possible I replied that the reindeer had been left in the next street with the toys. She led the way into the living room. What a satire! The walls were bare of pictures save for a small one of Paganini, which in its cheap frame seemed to smile sardonically amidst the surroundings. Two little girls were seated on a soap box, whilst my guide was kneeling down on the stone floor, rocking the youngest baby to sleep.

I walked down the main street and going into the first toy shop I made huge purchases most disconcerting to a single man. How I was introduced to the sick violinist, how I sat on his bed and played to him until morning dawned and heard his life story must be told at a future time. Thank God he is alive to-day and he is looking hopefully forward to the London debut of the five-year-old little mother who, thirteen years ago, broke the silence by saying, “Where’s your reindeer?”

JIYANG CHEN