>> ONE CHRISTMAS WAS SO MUCH LIKE ANOTHER IN THOSE YEARS AROUND THE TOWN.

NOW EXCEPT THE DISTANT SPEAKING OF THE VOICES I SOMETIMES HEAR WHEN PEOPLE ARE ASLEEP.

[BELL TOLLING] >> THE DATE WAS FEBRUARY 15, 1952.

THE PLACE, THE UNIVERSITY OF VERMONT'S IRA ALLEN CHAPEL, THE SPEAKER, A 38-YEAR-OLD WELSH POET NAMED DYLAN THOMAS.

WELCOME TO A SPECIAL CHRISTMAS EDITION OF "CROSSROADS."

SPANNING THE WINTER OF 1952, THOMAS AND HIS SPIRITED GROUP EMBARKED ON A TOUR OF PUBLIC APPEARANCES LACED WITH THE BEHAVIOR TYPICALLY ASSOCIATED WITH THE DYLAN THOMAS LEGEND.

BEFORE HIS PERFORMANCE HERE, HE SAID HE HOPED THE WALLS WOULDN'T CRUMBLE.

THEY DIDN'T.

BUT WITHIN THAT SAME YEAR, HIS HEALTH DID.

HE DIED AT THE AGE OF 39, LEAVING BEHIND A LEGACY OF SOME OF THE RICHEST VERSE EVER WRITTEN.

ONE OF DYLAN THOMAS'S MOST MEMORABLE WORKS WAS A CHILD'S CHRISTMAS IN WALES, A NOSTALGIC FIRST PERSON REFLECTION ON IMAGES OF THE POET'S OWN CHRISTMAS'S PAST.

IT'S AS MUCH A TRIBUTE TO THE SEASON AS IT IS A CELEBRATION OF THE SPIRIT OF CHILDHOOD.

OVER 30 YEARS AFTER THE INITIAL PUBLICATION, A CHILD'S CHRISTMAS BECAME THE FOCUS OF AN INDEPENDENT PROJECT BY THREE STUDENTS AT THE PUTNEY SCHOOL.

COLLABORATING WITH THEIR DRAMA TEACHER, LAELA KILBOURNE, SUSANNAH FRITH, AND JULIE SIGLER WROTE AND PERFORMED THEIR OWN ADAPTATION OF THE DYLAN THOMAS CLASSIC.

UNABLE TO ATTEND THE ORIGINAL STAGE PRESENTATION, OVER TWO YEARS AGO, WE MANAGED TO RE, RE ASSEMBLE THE CAST.

YOU ARE ABOUT TO WITNESSED THE CHILD'S LIFE IN THE 1920s.

IN THOSE DAYS, LONDON VIEWED WALES IN MUCH THE WAY THAT NEW W YORKERS SEE VERMONT AS THE IDYLLIC RURAL HAVEN FOR A BETTER WAY OF LIFE.

WE MUTE WANT TO REMIND OURSELVES, JUST AS DYLAN THOMAS DID, WHEN HE WROTE "A CHILD'S CHRISTMAS" THERE IS MUCH TO BE SAID FOR THE SIMPLER THINGS IN LIFE.

THAT THOUGHT AND WHAT'S TO FOLLOW COMPRISE OUR CHRISTMAS GIFT TO YOU.

>> ONE CHRISTMAS, WAS SO MUCH LIKE ANOTHER, IN THOSE YEARS AROUND THE CORNER.

NOW WITH ALL SOUND, EXCEPT THE DISTANT SPEAKING OF THE VOICES.

I SOMETIMES HEAR A MOMENT BEFORE SLEEP, BUT I CAN NEVER REMEMBER WHETHER IT'S KNOWN FOR SIX DAYS AND SIX NIGHTS WHEN I WAS 12, OR WHETHER IT SNOWED FOR 12 DAYS AND 12 NIGHTS WHEN I WAS SIX.

ALL THE CHRISTMASES ROLLED DOWN TOWARDS THE TWO-TIME SEA LIKE A COLD MOON BUMBLING DOWN THE SKIES THAT WAS OUR STREET.

AND THEY STOPPED AT THE ROOM OF THE ICE-EDGED FISH-FREEZING RAIN, AND I PLUNGED MY HANDS INTO THE SNOW, AND WE DEALT WHATEVER I COULD FIND.

IT WENT INTO THAT LIGHT OF THE HOLIDAYS, RESTING AT THE RIM OF THE CAROL-SINGING SEA.

AND OUTCOME THE PEOPLE ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE DAY OF CHRISTMAS EVE.

AND I WAS IN HER GARDEN, WAITING WITH HER SON, JIM.

IT WAS SNOWING.

IT WAS ALWAYS SNOWING AT CHRISTMAS.

DECEMBER IN MY MEMORY IS AS WHITE AS CAN BE, [INAUDIBLE] BUT THERE WERE CATS.

PATIENT, COLD, AND CALLOUS, OUR HANDS WRAPPED IN SOCKS, WE WAITED TO SNOWBALL THE CATS.

SLEEK AND LONG AS JAGUARS AND HORRIBLE WHISKERS, SNARLING, THEY WENT OVER THE BACK GARDEN WALLS, AND THE LINK-SIDE HUNTERS, JIM AND I, WITH THE MOCCASIN TRADERS OFF THE ROAD, WITH THE DEADLY SNOWBALLS OF THE GREENS OF THEIR EYES.

BUT, THE WISE CATS NEVER APPEARED.

WE WERE SO STILL, ESKIMO-FOOTED MARKSMEN IN THE SILENCE OF THE ETERNAL SNOWS.

WE NEVER HEARD THE FIRST CRY FROM THE IGLOO AT THE BOTTOM OF THE GARDEN, OR IF WE HEARD IT AT ALL, IT WAS TO US LIKE THE FAR-OFF CHALLENGE OF OUR EMMY AND PREY, THE NEIGHBOR'S POLAR CAT.

BUT SOON THE VOICE GREW LOUDER.

FIRE!

[INAUDIBLE] AND IT WAS ANNOUNCED LIKE A TOWN CRY.

THIS IS BETTER THAN ALL THE CATS IN WALES STANDING ON THE WALL.

AND WE BOUND INTO THE HOUSE, AND WE STOPPED AT THE OPEN DOOR WITH OF THE SEMINOLE FILLED ROOM, SOMETHING IS BURNING.

PERHAPS IT'S THE MR.

PROTHERO.

BUT HE WAS STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM SAYING OH, FINE, CHRISTMAS!

AND SMACKING AT THE SMOKE WITH A SLIPPER.

CALL THE FIRE BRIGADE, CRIED MRS.

PROTHERO, AS SHE BEAT THE GONG.

THERE WAS JUST CLOUDS OF SMOKE, AND MR.

PROTHERO STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THEM WAVING HIS SLIPPER AS THOUGH WE WERE CONDUCTING.

DO SOMETHING, HE SAID, AND WE THREW ALL THE SNOWBALLS INTO THE SMOKE.

I THINK WE MISSED, MR.

PROTHERO.

LET'S CALL THE POLICE, AS WELL, AND THE AMBULANCE, AND ERNIE JENKINS, HE LIKES FIRES, AND BUT ONLY ONLY CALLED THE BRIGADE, AND SOON THE FIRE ENGINE CAME AND THREE TALL MEN IN HELMETS BROUGHT A HOSE INTO THE HOUSE AND MR.

PROTHERO GOT OUT JUST IN TIME BEFORE THEY TURNED IT ON.

NOBODY COULD HAVE HAD A NOISIER CHRISTMAS EVE, AND WHEN THE FIREMEN TURNED OFF THE HOSE AND WERE STANDING IN ET WET, SMOKY ROOM, JIM'S AUNT, CAME DOWNSTAIRS AND PEERED IN AT THEM.

JIM AND I WAITED VERY QUIETLY, TO HEAR WHAT SHE HAD TO SAY TO THEM.

SHE SAID, THE RIGHT THING.

ALWAYS.

SHE LOOKED AT THE THREE TALL MEN AND THEIR SHINING HELMETS, STANDING AMONG THE SMOKE AND THE CINDERS AND THE DISSOLVING SNOWBALLS, AND SHE SAID, WOULD YOU LIKE ANYTHING TO READ.

YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS AGO WHEN I WAS A BORN, WHEN THERE WERE WOLVES IN WALES, AND BIRDS THE COLOR OF RED FLANNEL PET COATS WHISKED PAST THE HARP-SHAPED HILLS, WHEN WE SANG AND WALLOWED ALL NIGHT AND DAY IN CAVES THAT SMELT OF SUNDAY AFTERNOONS IN DAMP, FRONT FARMHOUSE PARLORS, AND WE CHASED WITH THE JAWBONES OF DEACONS, THE ENGLISH AND THE BEARS, BEFORE THE MOTOR CAR, BEFORE THE WHEEL, BEFORE THE DUCHESS-FACED HORSE, WHEN WE RODE THE DRAFT AND HAPPY HILLS, IT SNOWED AND IT SNOWED!

SNOWED LAST YEAR, TOO.

AND I BUILD A SNOWMAN, AND MY BROTHER KNOCKED IT DOWN, AND I KNOCKED IT DOWN.

BUT THAT WAS NOT THE SAME SNOW.

OUR SNOW WAS NOT ONLY SHAKEN FROM WHITE WASH BUCKETS DOWN THE SKY.

IT CAME SHAWLING OUT OF THE GROUND AND SWAM AND DRIFTED OUT OF THE ARMS AND HANDS AND BODIES OF THE TREES, SNOW GREW OVERNIGHT ON THE ROOFS OF THE HOUSES LIKE MINUTELY-IVIED THE WALLS AND SETTLED ON THE POSTMAN OPENING THE GATE LIKE A DUMB, NUMB THUNDERSTORM OF WHITE, TORN CHRISTMAS CARDS.

WERE THERE POSTMEN THEN, TOO?

WITH SPRINKLING EYES AND WIND-CHERRIED NOSE SAYS ON SPREAD, FROZEN FEET THEY CRUNCHED UP TO THE DOORS AND MITTENED ON THEM MANFULLY BUT ALL THE CHILDREN COULD WEAR WAS A RINGING OF THE BELLS.

YOU MEAN, THE POSTMAN WENT RAT, TAT, TAT, AND THE DOORS RANG.

I MEAN, THAT THE BELLS THE CHILDREN COULD WEAR WERE INSIDE THEM.

>> I ONLY HEAR THUNDER SOMETIMES, NEVER BELLS.

>> THERE WERE CHURCH BELLS TOO?

>> >> INSIDE THEM?

>> NO, NO, NO, IN THE BAT-BLACK, SNOW-WHITE BELFRIES, TUGGED BY BISHOPS AND STORKS.

AND THEY RANG THEIR TIDINGS OVER THE BANDAGED TOWN OVER THE GREEN FOAM OF THE POWDER AND ICE CREAM HILLS OVER THE CRACKLING SEA.

IT SEEMS THAT THE CHURCHES BOOMED FOR JOY UNDER MY WINDOW AND THE WEATHERCOX CREW FOR CHRISTMAS, ON THE FENCE.

GET BACK TO THE POSTMEN, THEY WERE JUST ORDINARY POSTMEN FOUND OF WALKING AND DOGS AND CHRISTMAS AND THE SNOW.

THEY KNOCKED ON THE DOORS WITH BLUE KNUCKLES, OURS GOT A BLACK KNOCKER, AND THEN THEY STOOD ON THE WHITE WELCOME MAT IN THE LITTLE, DRIFTED PORCHES AND HUFFED AND PUFFED MAKING GHOSTS WITH THEIR BREATHE AND JOGGED FROM FOOT TO FOOT LIKE SMALL BOYS WANTING TO GO OUT.

AND THEN PRESENTS, AND THEN THE PRESENTS.

AFTER THE CHRISTMAS BOX.

AND THE COLD POSTMAN, WITH A ROSE ON HIS BUTTON NOSE TING HE WOULD DOWN THE TEA-TRAY-SLITHERED RUN OF THE CHILLY GLINTING HILL, HE WENT WITH HIS ICE-BOUND BOOTS LIKE A MAN ON FISHMONGER'S SLABS.

HE WAGGED HIS BAG LIKE A FROZEN CAMEL'S HUMP, DIZZILY TURNED THE CORNER ON ONE FOOT AND BY GOD HE WAS GONE.

GET BACK TO THE PRESENTS.

THERE WERE THE USEFUL PRESENTS.

ENGULFING MUFFLERSOF THE OLD COACH DAYS AND MITTENS MADE FOR GIANT SLOTHS, ZEBRA SCARFS OF A SUBSTANCE LIKE SILKY GUM THAT COULD BE TUG-WARRED DOWN TO THE GALOSHES.

BLINDING TAM-O-SHALL NOTERS LIKE PATCHWORK TEA COZIES AND BUNNY-SUITED BUSBIES AND BALACLAV AS FOR VICTIMS OF HEAD-SHRINKING TRIBES, AND FROM AUNTS WHO ALWAYS WORE WOOL NEXT TO THE SKIN THERE WERE MUSTACHED AND RASING VESTS THAT MADE YOU WONDER WHY THE AUNTS HAD ANY SKIN LEFT AT ALL, AND ONCE I HAD A LITTLE CLOSUREAED NOSE BAG FROM AN AUNT NOW ALAS NO LONGER WHINNYING WITH US.

AND PICTURELESS BOOKS IN WHICH SMALL BOYS, THOUGH WARNED WITH QUOTATIONS NOT TO, WOULD SKATE ON FARMER GILES' POND, AND DID AND DROWNED, AND BOOKS THAT TOLD ME EVERYTHING ABOUT THE WASP, EXCEPT WHY.

>> GO ONTO THE USELESS PRESENTS.

>> BAGS OF MOIST AND MANY-COLORED JELLY BABYBIES, AND A FOLDED FLAG AND A FALSE NOSE AND A TRAM CONDUCTOR'S CAP AND A MACHINE THAT PUNCHED TICKETS AND RANG A BELL, NEVER A CATAPAULT.

ONCE, BY MISTAKE, THAT NO ONE COULD EXPLAIN, A LITTLE HATCHET AND A CELLULOID DUCK THAT MADE, WHEN YOU PRESSED IT, A MOST UNDUCK-LIKE SOUND, A SORT OF MATTHEWING MOO THAT AN AMBITIOUS CAT MIGHT MAKE WHO WISHED TO BE A COW, AND A PAINTING BOOK IN WHICH I COULD MAKE THE GRASS, THE TREES, THE SEA, AND THE ANIMALS ANY COLOR I PLEASED, AND STILL THE DAZZLING SKY-BLUE SHEEP SENIOR GRAZING IN THE RED FIELD UNDER THE RAINBOW-BILLED AND PEA-GREEN BIRDS.

HARDBOILEDS, TO HER, FUDGE, AND ALL SORTS, CRUNCHES, CRACKNELS, HUMBUGS, MARZIPAN, AND BUTTERWELSH AND TROOPS OF BRIGHT TIN SOLDIERS WHO, IF THEY COULD NOT FIGHT, COULD ALWAYS RUN.

AND SNAKES AND FAMILIES AND HAPPY LADDERS.

AND EASY HOBBI-GAMES COMPLETE WITH CONSTRUCTION FOR LITTLE ENGINEERS, COMPLETE WITH INSTRUCTIONS, EASY FOR LEONORDO, AND THE WHISTLE TO MAKE THE DOGS BARK TO MAKE UP THE OLD MAN NEXT DOOR TO MAKE HIM BEAT ON THE WALL WITH HIS STICK TO SHAKE THE PICTURE OFF THE WALL, AND A PACK OF CIGARETTES, YOU PUT THEM IN YOUR MOUTH AND YOU STOOD AT THE CORNER OF THE STREET AND WAITED FOR HOURS IN VAIN, FOR AN OLD LADY TO SCOLD YOU FOR SMOKING, AND THEN WITH A SMIRK, YOU ATE IT.

AND THEN IT WAS BREAKFAST UNDER THE BALLOONS.

>> WERE THERE UNCLES LIKE IN OUR HOUSE?

>> THERE ARE ALWAYS UNCLES AT CHRISTMAS.

THE SAME UNCLES.

AND ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, WITH DOG-DISTURBING WHISTLE AND SUGAR FAGS, I WOULD SCOUR THE SWATCHED TOWN FOR NEWS OF THE LITTLE WORLD, AND FIND ALWAYS A DEAD BIRD BY THE POST OFFICE OR BY THE DESERTED SWINGS.

PERHAPS A ROBIN, ALL BUT ONE OF ITS FIRES OUT.

MEN AND WOMAN WADING AND SCOOPING BACK FROM CHAPEL, WITH TAPROOM NOSES AND WIND-BUSSED CHEEKS, ALL ALBINOS, HUDDLES THEIR STIFF BLACK JARRING FEATHERS AGAINST THE IRRELIGIOUS SNOW.

MISTLETOE HUNG FROM THE GAS BRACKETS IN ALL THE FRONT PARLORS.

THERE WAS SHERRY AND WALNUTS AND BOTTLED BEER AND CRACKERS BY THE DESSERT SPOONS, AND CATS IN THEIR FUR-ABOUTS WATCHED THE FIRES, AND THE HIGH-HEAPED FIRE SPAT, ALL READY FOR THE CHESTNUTS AND THE MULLING POKERS.

SOME FEW LARGE MEN SAT IN THE FRONT PARLORS, WITHOUT THEIR COLLARS, UNCLES MOST CERTAINLY, TRYING THEIR NEW CIGARS, HOLDING THEM OUT JUDICIOUSLY AT ARMS' LENGTH, AND RETURNING THEM TO THEIR MOUTHS, COUGHING, THEN HOLDING THEM OUT AGAIN AS THOUGH WAITING FOR THE EXPLOSION, AND SOME FEW SMALL AUNTS, NOT WANTED IN THE KITCHEN, NOR ANYWHERE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER, SAT ON THE VERY EDGE OF THEIR CHAIRS, POSSED AND BRITTLE, AFRAID TO BREAK, LIKE FADED CUPS AND SAUCERS.

NOT MANY OF THOSE MORNINGS TROD THE PILING STREETS, AN OLD MAN ALWAYS, A FAWN-BOWLERRED, YELLOW-GLOVED, AND AT THE SAME TIME OF YEAR WITH SPATS OF SNOW, WOULD TAKE HIS CONSTITUTIONAL TO THE WHITE BOWLING GREEN AND BACK, AS HE WOULD TAKE IT WET OR FIRE ON CHRISTMAS DAY OR DOOMSDAY, SOMETIMES TWO HALE YOUNG MEN, WITH BIG PIPES BLAZING, NO OVERCOATS AND WIND BLOWN CARVES, WOULD TRUDGE, UNSPEAKING, DOWN TO THE FORLORN SEA TO WORK UP AN APPETITE, TO BLOW AWAY THE FUMES, WHO KNOWS, TO WALK INTO THE WAVES UNTIL NOTHING OF THEM WAS LEFT BUT THE TWO FURLONG SMOKE CLOUDS OFúTHE.

THEN I WOULD BE SLAP-DASHING HOME, THE GRAVY SMELL OF THE DINNERS OF OTHERS, THE BIRD SMELL, THE BRANDY, THE PUDDING AND MINCE COILING UP TO MY NOSTRILS, WHEN OUT OF THE SNOW-CLOGGED SIDE LANE WOULD COME A BOY THE SPIT OF MYSELF, WITH A PINK-TIPPED CIGARETTE AND THE VOICELET PAST OF A BLACK EYE, COCKY AS A BULLFINCH, LEERING ALL TO HIMSELF.

I HATED HIM ON SIGHT AND SOUND, AND WOULD BE ABOUT TO PUT MY DOG WHISTLE TO MY LIPS AND BLOW HIM OFF THE FACE OF CHRISTMAS WHEN SUDDENLY HE, WITH A VIOLET WINK, PUT HIS WHISTLE TO HIS LIPS AND BLEW SO STRIDENTLY, SO HIGH, SO EXQUISITELY LOUD, THAT GOBBLING FACES, THEIR CHEEKS BULGED WITH GOOSE, WOULD PRESS AGAINST THEIR TINSELED WINDOWS, THE WHOLE LENGTH OF THE WHITE ECHOING STREET.

FOR DINNER, WE HAD TURKEY AND BLAZING PUDDING, AND AFTER DINNER, THE UNCLES WOULD LOOSEN ALL BUTTONS, PLACE THEIR LARGE, MOIST HANDS OVER THEIR WATCH CHAINS, GROANED A LITTLE, AND SLEEP.

MOTHERS, AUNTS, AND SISTERS SCUTTLED TO AND FRO BEARING TUREENS.

AUNT SEAN COLVIN BESSIE, WHO ALREADY HAD BEEN FRIGHTENED TWICE BY THE CLOCK-WORK MOUSE, WHIMPERED AT THE SIDEBOARD AND HAD SOME ELDERBERRY WINE.

THE DOG WAS SICK.

AUNTIE DOSIE HAD TO HAVE THREE ASPIRINS, BUT AUNTIE HANNAH, WHO LIKED PORT, STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SNOWBOUND BACKYARD SINGING LIKE A BIG-BOSOMED THRUSH.

I WOULD BLOW UP BALLOONS TO SEE HOW BIG THEY WOULD BLOW UP TO, AND WHEN THEY BURST, WHEN THEY ALL DID, THE UNCLES JUMPED AND RUMBLED.

IN THE RICH AND HEAVY AFTERNOON, THE UNCLES BREATHING LIKE DOLPHINS AND THE SNOW DESCENDING, I WOULD SIT AMONG FESTOONS AND CHINESE LANTERNS AND NIBBLE DATES AND TRY TO MAKE A MODEL MAN OF WAR, FOLLOWING THE INSTRUCTIONS FOR LITTLE ENGINEERS, AND PRODUCE WHAT MIGHT BE MISTAKEN FOR A SEA-GOING TRAMCAR.

OR I WOULD GO OUT, MY BRIGHT NEW BOOTS JOKING INTO THE SEAWARD HILL ONTO THE WHITE SHORE, TO CALL ON JIM AND DAN, AND TO PAD THROUGH THE STILL STREETS, LEAVING HUGE, DEEP FOOTPRINTS UNDER THE HIDDEN PAVEMENTS.

>> I BET PEOPLE WILL THINK THERE'S BEEN HIPPOS.

>> WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU SAW A HIPPO COME DOWN OUR STREET?

>> I WOULD GO LIKE THIS, BANG!

I WOULD THROW HIM OVER THE RAILINGS AND ROLL HIM DOWN THE HILL, AND THEN I WOULD PARTICULAR HIM UNDER THE EAR AND HE'D WAG HIS TAIL.

>> WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF SAW TWO HIPPOS?

>> IRON-FLANKED AND BELLOWS HE-HIPPOS, CLANKED AND BATTERED TOWARDS US THROUGH THE SCUDDING SNOW AS WE PASSED MR.

DANIEL'S HOUSE.

>> LET'S POST MR.

DANIEL A SNOWBALL IN HIS LETTER BOX.

>> LET'S WRITE THINGS IN THE SNOW.

>> LET'S WRITE, MR.

DANIEL, LOOKS LIKE A SPANIEL ALL OVER HIS LAWN.

>> OR WE WALKED ON THE WHITE SHORE.

CAN THE FISHES SEE IT SNOWING?

>> THE SILENT ONE-CLOUDED HEAVENS DRIFTED ONTO THE SEA.

NOW WE WERE SNOW-BLIND TRAVELERS LOST ON THE NORTH SHORE, AND VAST DEWLAPPED DOGS AND AMBLED AND SHAMBLED UP TO US, BAYING, EXCELSIOR!

WE RETURNED HOME THROUGH THE POOR STREETS WHERE ONLY A FEW CHILDREN FUMBLED WITH BARE RED FINGERS IN THE WHEEL-RUTTED SNOW AND CAT-CALLED AFTER US.

THEIR VOICES FADING AS WE TRUDGED UPHILL INTO THE CRIES OF THE DOCK BIRDS AND THE HOOTING OF SHIPS OUT IN THE WHIRLING BAY.

AND THEN AT TEA THE RECOVERED UNCLES WOULD BE JOLLY.

AND THE ICE CAKE LOOMED IN THE CENTER OF THE TABLE LIKE A MARBLE GRAVE.

AUNTIE HANNAH LACED HER TEA WITH RUMBAS IT WAS ONLY ONCE A YEAR.

BRING OUT THE TALL TALES NOW THAT WE TOLD BY THE FIRE WHILE THE GASLIGHT BUBBLED LIKE A DIVER.

GHOSTS WHOOED LIKE OWLS IN A LONG NIGHT, WHEN I INDIANA PACERRED NOT LOOK OVER MY SHOULDER, ANIMALS LURKED IN THE CUBBYHOLE UNDER THE STAIRS WHERE THE GAS METER TICKED.

AND I I REMEMBER THAT WE WENT SINGING CAROLS ONCE, WHEN THERE WASN'T THE SHAVING OF THE MOON TO LIGHT THE FLYING STREETS.

AT THE END OF A LONG ROAD WAS A DRIVE THAT LED TO A LARGE HOUSE, AND WE STUMBLED UP THE DARKNESS OF THE DRIVE THAT NIGHT, EACH ONE OF US AFRAID, EACH ONE OF US HOLDING A STONE IN HIS HAND IN CASE, AND ALL OF US TOO BRAVE TO SAY A WORD.

THE WIND THROUGH THE TREES MADE NOISES AS OF OLD AND UNPLEASANT AND MAYBE WEB-FOOTED MEN WHEEZING IN CAVES.

WE REACHED THE BLACK BULK OF THE HOUSE.

WHAT SHALL WE GIVE THEM?

HARK THE HERALD?

>> NO, GOOD KING WENCELAS.

I'LL COUNT THREE, ONE, TWO, THREE.

AND WE BEGAN TO SING, OUR VOICES RISING HIGH AND SEEMINGLY DISTANT IN THE SNOW-FELTED DARKNESS AROUND THE HOUSE OCCUPIED BY NOBODY WE KNEW.

WE STOOD CLOSE TOGETHER AND NEAR THE DARK DOOR.

GOOD.AND IN A SMALL VOICE, A DRY VOICE, LIKE THE VOICE OF SOMEONE WHO HAS NOT SPOKEN FOR A LONG TIME, JOINED US SINGING, A SMALL, DRY VOICE THROUGH THE KEYHOLE.

AND WHEN WE STOPPED RUNNING, WE WERE OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE.

THE FRONT ROOM WAS LOVELY.

BALLOONS FLOATED UNDER THE HOT-WATER-BOTTLE-GULPING GAS.

EVERYTHING WAS GOOD AGAIN AND SHONE OVER THE TOWN.

PERHAPS IT WAS A GHOST.

PERHAPS IT WAS TROLLS.

LET'S GO AND SEE IF THERE IS ANY JELLY LEFT.

AND WE DID THAT.

ALWAYS ON CHRISTMAS NIGHT THERE WAS MUSIC.

AN UNCLE PLAYED THE FIDDLE.

A COUSIN SANG DRAKE'S DRUM, AND ANOTHER SANG CHERRY RIPE.

IT WAS VERY WARM IN THE LITTLE HOUSE.

AUNTIE HANNAH, WHO HAD GOT ONTO THE PARSNIP WINE, SANG A SONG ABOUT BLEEDING HEARTS AND DEATH, AND THEN ANOTHER IN WHICH SHE SAID HER HEART WAS LIKE A BIRD'S NEST, AND THEN EVERYBODY LAUGHED AGAIN, AND THEN I WENT TO BED.

LOOKING THROUGH MY WINDOW OUT INTO THE MOONLIGHT AND THE UNENDING SMOKE-COLORED SNOW, I COULD SEE THE LIGHTS IN ALL THE OTHER HOUSES ON OUR HILL AND HEAR THE MUSIC RISING FROM THEM UP THE LONG, STEADY FALLING NIGHT.

I TURNED THE GAS DOWN.

I GOT INTO BED.

I SAID SOME WORDS TO THE CLOSE AND HOLY DARKNESS, AND THEN I SLEPT.

>> FOR MORE CLASSIC PROGRAMS, VISIT VERMONTPBS.ORG/FROMTHEARCHIVES.