wit and wisdom stories

Bertie was a very good boy. He was kind, obedient, truthful, and unselfish. He had, however, one great fault,—he always forgot. No matter how important the errand, his answer always was, "I forgot." When he was sent with a note to the dress-maker his mother would find the note in his pocket at night. If he was sent to the store in a great hurry, to get something for tea, he would return late, without the article, but with his usual answer. His father and mother talked the matter over, and decided that something must be done to make the little boy remember. Christmas was near, and Bertie was busy making out a list of things which Santa Claus was to bring him. "Santa Claus may forget some of those things," said his mother. "He cannot," replied Bertie; "for I shall write sled, and skates, and drum, and violin, and all the things on this paper. Then when Santa Claus goes to my stocking he will find the list. He can see it and put the things in ...

It had seemed to the little Wendell children that they would have a very sad Christmas. Mama had been very ill, and papa had been so anxious about mama that he could not think of anything else. When Christmas Day came, however, mama was so much better that she could lie on the lounge. The children all brought their stockings into her room to open them. "You children all seem as happy as if you had had your usual Christmas tree," said mama, as they sat around her. "Why, I never had such a happy Christmas before," said sweet little Agnes. "And it's just because you are well again." "Now I think you must all run out for the rest of the day," said the nurse, "because your mama wants to see you all again this evening." "I wish we could get up something expressly for mama's amusement," said Agnes, when they had gone into the nursery. "How would you like to have some tableaux in here?" asked their Fren...

Grandma Burns sat knitting busily in the sun one bright morning the week before Christmas. The snow lay deep, and the hard crust glistened like silver. All at once she heard little sighs of grief outside her door. When she opened it there sat Peter and Jimmy Rice, two very poor little boys, with their faces in their hands; and they were crying. "My patience!" cried grandma. "What can be the matter with two bright little boys this sunny morning?" "We don't have no good times," sighed little Peter. "We can't slide. We haven't any sleds," whimpered Jimmy. "Why, of course boys can't have a good time without sleds," said grandma, cheerily. "Let us look about and see if we can't find something." And grandma's cap-border bobbed behind barrels and boxes in the shed and all among the cobwebs in the garret; but nothing could be found suitable. "Hum! I do believe this would do for little Pete;...

It was Christmas Eve and the frost fairies were busy getting ready for Christmas Day. First of all they spread the loveliest white snow carpet over the rough, bare ground; then they hung the bushes and trees with icicles that flashed like diamonds in the moonlight. Later on, they planned to draw beautiful frost pictures on the window panes, to surprise the little children in the morning. The stars shone brightly and the moon sent floods of light in every nook and corner. How could any one think of sleeping when there was such a glory outside! Jessie and Fred had gone to bed very early so they might be the first to shout "Merry Christmas!" but their eyes would not stay shut. "Oh dear! It must be 'most morning," said Fred; "let us creep softly down stairs and maybe we'll catch Santa Claus before he rides off." Hand in hand they tiptoed to the dining-room and peeped out the big window - surely, surely, that was something climbing up the...

It was the week before Christmas, and the dolls In the toy-shop played together all night. The biggest one was from Paris. One night she said, "We ought to have a party before Santa Claus carries us away to the little girls. I can dance, and I will show you how." "I can dance myself if you will pull the string," said a "Jim Crow" doll. "What shall we have for supper?" piped a little boy-doll in a Jersey suit. He was always thinking about eating. "Oh, dear," cried the French lady, "I don't know what we shall do for supper!" "I can get the supper," added a big rag doll. The other dolls had never liked her very well, but they thanked her now. She had taken lessons at a cooking-school, and knew how to make cake and candy. She gave French names to everything she made, and this made it taste better. Old Mother Hubbard was there, and she said the rag doll did not know how to cook anything. They dance...

Only two more days and Christmas would be here! It had been snowing hard, and Johnny was standing at the window, looking at the soft, white snow which covered the ground half a foot deep. Presently he heard the noise of wheels coming up the road, and a wagon turned in at the gate and came past the window. Johnny was very curious to know what the wagon could be bringing. He pressed his little nose close to the cold window pane, and to his great surprise, saw two large Christmas-trees. Johnny wondered why there were TWO trees, and turned quickly to run and tell mamma all about it; but then remembered that mamma was not at home. She had gone to the city to buy some Christmas presents and would not return until quite late. Johnny began to feel that his toes and fingers had grown quite cold from standing at the window so long; so he drew his own little chair up to the cheerful grate fire and sat there quietly thinking. Pussy, who had been curled up like a little bundle of wool, in the ver...

It was getting very near to Christmas time, and all the boys at Miss Ware's school were talking about going home for the holidays. "I shall go to the Christmas festival," said Bertie Fellows," and my mother will have a party, and my Aunt will give another. Oh! I shall have a splendid time at home." "My Uncle Bob is going to give me a pair of skates," remarked Harry Wadham. "My father is going to give me a bicycle," put in George Alderson. "Will you bring it back to school with you?" asked Harry. "Oh! yes, if Miss Ware doesn't say no." "Well, Tom," cried Bertie, "where are you going to spend your holidays?" "I am going to stay here," answered Tom in a very forlorn voice. "Here - at school - oh, dear! Why can't you go home?" "I can't go home to India," answered Tom. "Nobody said you could. But haven't you any relatives anywhere?...

"Chickadee-dee-dee-dee! Chickadee-dee-dee-dee! Chicka" "Cheerup, cheerup, chee-chee! Cheerup, cheerup, chee-chee!" "Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee!" "Rap-atap-atap-atap!" went the woodpecker; "Mrs. Chickadee may speak first." "Friends," began Mrs. Chickadee, "why do you suppose I called you together?" "Because it's the day before Christmas," twittered Snow Bunting. "And you're going to give a Christmas party," chirped the Robin. "And you want us all to come!" said Downy Woodpecker. "Hurrah! Three cheers for Mrs. Chickadee!" "Hush!" said Mrs. Chickadee, "and I'll tell you all about it. To-morrow IS Christmas Day, but I don't want to give a party." "Chee, chee, chee!" cried Robin Rusty-breast; "chee, chee, chee!" "Just listen to my little plan," said Mrs. Chickadee, "for, indeed, I want y...

Do you know, when we are having such good times at Christmas, what sweet music they have in Norway, that cold country across the sea? One day in the year the simple peasants who live there make the birds very happy, so that they sing, of their own free-will, a glad, joyous carol on Christmas morning. And this is why they sing on that morning more than on any other. After the birds have found shelter from the north wind on Christmas-eve, and the night is still and bright with stars, or even if the storm be ever so severe, the good people bring out sheaves of corn and wheat from their storehouses. Tying them on slender poles, they raise them from every spire, barn, gatepost, and gable; then, when the Christmas sun rises over the hills, every spire and gable bursts forth into joyous song. You can well believe that these songs of the birds make the people of Norway very happy. They echo, with all their hearts, their living, grateful anthem, "Glory to God in the highest, on earth...

In the summer of 1977  I was in my early 20s and about to go up to Edinburgh to perform in a play on the fringe. But three days before rehearsals were due to start, the director phoned to say that the play was off. To ease my disappointment, he asked me if I’d like to work for Bing Crosby for a couple of weeks. The famous crooner was coming to London to record a Christmas Special at Elstree Studios. I gave a noncommittal answer and then forgot about it. All I wanted was a good mope. Two hours later the phone rang and someone with an American accent asked to speak to Jo Ross. “Speaking.” “This is Bing Crosby.” “Oh, stop it – it’s not even funny. Anyway, he’s been dead for years.” Twenty toe-curlingly embarrassing minutes later I found myself employed as Mr Crosby’s ‘gofer’. My duties seemed to be remarkably light: take Mr Crosby to the set each morning, run errands for him, make sure his car was waiting for him at the end of the day. I reported for duty in a dark...

My dad loved pennies,  especially those with the elegant stalk of wheat curving around each side of the One Cent on the back. Those were the pennies he grew up with in Iowa during the Depression, and Lord knows he didn’t have many. When I was a kid, Dad and I would go for long walks together. He was an athletic 1.9 metres, and I had to trot to keep up with him. Sometimes we’d spy coins along the way – a penny here, a dime there. Whenever I picked up a penny, he’d ask, “Is it a wheat?” It always thrilled him when we found one of those special coins produced from 1909 to 1958, the year of my birth. On one of these walks, he told me he often dreamed of finding coins. I was amazed. “I always have that dream too!” I told him. It was our secret connection. Dad died in 2002. By then, I was living in New York, which can be exciting, or cold and heartless. One grey winter day, not long after his death, I was walking down Fifth Avenue, feeling bereft, and I glanced up and found myself ...

When I was a boy of nine   in the little town of Doylestown, Pennsylvania, I used to mow the lawn of Mrs Long, an elderly lady who lived across from the Presbyterian Church. She paid me very little for the chore, for she had not much money. But she did promise me, “When Christmas comes, I shall have a present for you.” I spent much time wondering what it would be. The boys I played with had baseball gloves and bicycles and ice skates, and I was so eager to acquire any one of these that I convinced myself that my benefactor intended choosing from among them. “It would hardly be a baseball glove,” I reasoned with myself. “A woman like Mrs Long wouldn’t know much about baseball.” Since she was a frail little person, I also ruled out the bicycle, for how could she handle such a contraption? On my last Saturday at work, Mrs Long said, “Now remember, because you’ve been a good boy all summer, at Christmas I’ll have a present waiting. You come to the door and collect it.” These...