Colonel Crockett's Cooperative Christmas - Rupert Hughes

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way too fun to miss. Hi, this is Alex Cantrowitz. I'm the host of Big

Technology podcast, a longtime reporter and an on-air contributor to CMBC.

And if you're like me, you're trying to figure out how artificial intelligence

is changing the business world and our lives. So each week on Big Technology, I

bring on key actors from companies building AI tech and outsiders trying to

influence it. Asking where this is all going, they come from places like

Nvidia, Microsoft, Amazon, and plenty more. So if you want to be smart with

your wallet, your career choices, and meetings with your colleagues, and at

dinner parties, listen to Big Technology podcast or ever you get your

podcasts. Colonel Crockett's co-operative Christmas by Rupert Hughes.

Forward. Of all the strange gatherings that have distinguished Madison Square

Garden, the strangest was probably on the occasion. Last Christmas when the

now well-known Colonel DA Crockett of Waco rented the vast auditorium for

$1,000 and threw it open to the public. As he is going to do it again in this

coming Christmas, an account of the con in and reception of his scheme, may

interest some of the thousands who find themselves every Christmas in the

Colonel's flight. My plan to describe it was frustrated by the receipt from his

wife of three letters he wrote her. It seems only fair then that the author of an

achievement which is likely to become an institution should be allowed to be the

author of its history. I shall therefore content myself with publishing verbatim

two of the Colonel's own letters, Rupert Hughes.

Letter one. New York, New York, December 26, 19 on four.

Friend, wife. The measure was not I ever spent in all my born days, the

solitaryest with no seconds, was sure this identical Christmas night in New York

City. And I've been some loansome too in my time. I've told you how, as a boy,

I shipped before the masks, the wrong mask, and how the old tub bumped a reef and

went down with all hands and feet, except mine. You remember me telling how I

grabbed a hold of a large wooden box and floated onto a dry spot? It knocked the

wind out of my stomach considerable, but I hung on kind of unconscious till the

tide went out. When I come to, I looked round to see where in Sam Hill I was at,

and found I was on a little pinhead of an island about the size of Freckle would

be on the moon. All round was mostly sky, except for what was water, and me would

nothing to drink it with. I sat down hard on the box and felt as blue as all the

square words ever swore. There was nothing inside to eat, and that made me so

hungry that me and the box fell over backward. As I laid there sprawled out with my

feet up on the box, I looked between my knees, and read them beautiful words, eat

Buggins biscuit, and plain sight before me on the end of the box. Well me and

friend Buggins inhabited that place about as big as one of Man Friday's

footprints. We're going on for weeks. When tide was in, I held the box on my head

to keep my powder dry. Long toward the end of my visit, just before the ship

that saved me whole inside, I began to feel a might tired of that place. I kind of

felt as if I had saw about all that was interesting on that there island. I

thought I was unhappy, and I had a sneaking idea I was lonely. But I see I was

mistaken. I hadn't spent a Christmas night alone in a big city room. Then once

when I was prospecting for our mind, I was snowed up in a pass. I reckon I've

told you how I got typhoid fever and wrestled it out all day by my

lonesome, unparalleled thirst, Boston-backed brains, red flannel tongue, delirium

dreamens, and self-acting emetic down to the final blissful, where am I at? And on

through the nice long convalescence, till my limbs change from twine strings to

human members. Six weeks doing time as doctor, patient, train nurse, and

fellow-mason all in one, was being alone right smart. But it wasn't a patch on

the little metrology of Manhattan on Santa Claus Day. Then once I had a rather

unrestful evening out in the western part of Texas. A fellow sold me a horse-right

sheep, and later a crowd of gentlemen accused me of stealing it, and I was put

in jail with a promise of being lynched before breakfast. That was being

uncomfortable, son, too. But I wished last night that my friend, Judge Watson,

hadn't come along that night and identified me. It would have saved me from

New York Idus. Then there was the night when I proposed for your hand, and you sent

me to your paw, and he said, if I ever come near again he'd sick the dogs on me. I

spent that night at a safe distance from the dogs, leaning on offense, and not

noticing it was barbed wire till I looked at my clothes and my hide next day. I

watched your windows till the light went out and all my hope with it. And on

after that, till, as the poet says, till they light dust appeared.

Then there's the time I told you about when, but there's no use of making a

catalog of every time I've been loansome. I have taken my pen in hand to inform

you that last night beat everything else on my private list of troubles. My

other lonely times was when I was alone, but the loansomest of all was in the

heart of the biggest crowd on this here continent. There was people aplenty, but I

didn't know one gall during galoops. I had plenty of money, but nobody just

spend it on, except tip-takers. I was stopping at this big hotel with luxuries

spread over everything, thicker than sorghumon cornpone, but lonely, while honey I was

so lonely that as I walked along the streets, I felt as if I'd like to break into

some of the homes and compel them at the point of my gun to let me set in and

dine with them. I felt like asking one of the bellboys to take me home and get

his mod to give me a slice of goose and let her talk to me about her

foats. There was some four million people in a space about the size of our

range. There was theaters to go to, but who wants to go to the theater on Christmas?

It's like going to church on the Fourth of July. There were dime museums, penny

vaudevilles, dance halls. There was a big dinner for newsboys, the Salvation

Army, and the volunteers gave feeds to the poor, but I couldn't qualify. I wasn't

poor. I had no home, no friends, no nothing. The streets got deserter and

deserter. A few other wretches was marooned like me in the hotel quarters. We looked at

each other like sneaked thieves patrolling the same streets. Waiters glanced at us

pitiful as much as to say. If it wasn't for shrimps like you I'd be home with my

kids. The worst of it was I knew there were thousands

of people in town in just my fits. Perhaps some of them were old friends of mine

that I'd have been tickled to death to foregather with, or at least ways people from my

state. Texas is a big place, but we had abandoned brothers and sisters, or at least cousins

once removed. Poor Christmas sick. But they were scattered around at the St.

Regis, or the Mill's Hotel, the Monk for Washington, or somewhere, while I was at the

Waldoer-Hyphen Astoria. It was like the two men that dickens. I believe it was dickens,

tells about. Somebody gives a concertina, but he can't play on it. We'd

are coming on and no overcoat. He can't wear the concertina any more than he can

total it. A few blocks away is a fellow Mr. B. He can play a concertina something grand,

but he hasn't got one and his fingers each. He spends all his ready money on a brand new

overcoat and just the end his aunt sends him another one. He thinks he'll just swap one

of them overcoats for a concertina. So he advertises in an exchange column.

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Hi, this is Alex Cantrowitz. I'm the host of Big Technology podcast, a long time reporter and

an on-air contributor to CNBC. And if you're like me, you're trying to figure out how artificial

intelligence is changing the business world and our lives. So each week on Big Technology,

I bring on key actors from companies building AI tech and outsiders trying to influence it,

asking where this is all going. They come from places like Nvidia, Microsoft, Amazon,

and plenty more. So if you want to be smart with your wallet, your career choices,

and meetings with your colleagues and at dinner parties, listen to Big Technology podcast

wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Josh Speagle, host of the podcast,

Lunatic in the newsroom. If you enjoy journalism that drifts into mild panic,

wild overthinking, and a guaranteed nervous breakdown, Lunatic in the newsroom is for you.

It's news like you've never heard before. The only newsroom with a panic button,

you'll laugh, you'll cry, and gasp and horror as the show spirals completely out of control.

It's not just news, it's emotionally unstable. Lunatic in the newsroom, listen today.

About the same time, hey, advertisers, that he'll trade one house broken concertina for a nice

overcoat. But does either A or B ever see B's or A's advertisements? Not on your beautiful

dark garrow type. That was the way with us all in New York. The town was full of loans and

the strangers, and we went moping around stumbling over each other and not daring to speak.

They call us transients here. It's like a common sailor that's lost at sea. He's only a casualty.

So us poor homeless dogs in New York are only transients. Why, do you know, I was that lonely,

I could have stood out in the square like a lonely old cow in the rain and just mood for somebody to

take me in. I'd have telegraphed for you and the children to come to town, but Texas is so far away

and you'd have got here too late and you couldn't come anyway being sick as you wrote me and one

of the kids have a malaria. How is his blessed self today? I hope you're feeling better.

Telegraphed if you ain't and I'll take the first train home.

Well, last night I ate a horrible mockery of a Christmas dinner in a deserted restaurant

and it gave me heartburn in addition to heart ache and a whole brewed stable of nightmares.

I went to bed early and stayed awake late. Gee, that was an awful lot.

I tried philosophy. The next station beyond despair. I said to myself,

you old fool, why in the name of all that it's sensible, should you feel so excited about one day

more than another? I wasn't so lonely the day before Christmas. I ain't so lonely today,

but then I was like a small boy with the mumps and the earache on the 4th of July.

The firecrackers will pop just as lively another day, but well, the universe was simply

throwed all out of gear like it must have been when Joshua held up the moon or was it the sun.

You remember reading me once about I reckon it was Mr. Aldrich's pleasing idea

of the last man on earth. Everybody killed off by a pestilence or something and him sitting

there by his lonely little lonesome. And what would he have done if he had heard his doorbell ring?

Well, I reckon he'd have done what I'd have done if I had met a friend,

given one wild whoop, wrapped his arms round his neck, kissed him on both cheeks,

and died with a faint gurgle of joy. I'd have been glad to have died so too.

Finally I swore that if I ever foresaw myself being corralled again in a strange city on Christmas,

I'd put on a sandwich board or something and march up and down the streets with a sign like this.

I'm lonely, I'm homesick for a real Christmas, there must be others, let's get together.

Meet me at the fountain in Union Square. We'll hang our stockings on the trees.

Perhaps some snow will fall in them. Come one, come all, both great and small.

I bet such a board would stir up a procession of exiles a mile and a half long.

And we'd get together and have a good crying match on each other's shoulders

and ring each other's hands while the band played old Lang's sign.

But it's over now, I've lived through the game of Christmas solitaire in a big city and I feel

as relieved as a man just getting out of a dentist's office. He's minus a few molars and aches

considerable but he's full of a pleasing emptiness.

But let me say right here and put it in black and white. If I'm ever dragged away from home again

on Christmas, I'll take laughing gas enough for a day and two nights or I'll take some violent

steps to get company. If I have to hire a coy use on a laryon and rustle broadway,

rounding up a herd of other unbranded stray cattle.

Well, this is a long letter for me, honey, and I will close.

Loving kisses to the sweet little kids and to the best wife a fellow ever had.

Your love and Austin.

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Hey, I'm Josh Spiegel, host of the podcast, Lunatic in the newsroom.

If you enjoy journalism that drifts into mild panic, wild overthinking and a guaranteed

nervous breakdown, Lunatic in the newsroom is for you.

It's news like you've never heard before.

The only newsroom with a panic button.

You'll laugh, you'll cry, and gasp and horror as the show spirals completely out of control.

It's not just news, it's emotionally unstable.

Lunatic in the newsroom, listen today.

I pulled off the deal all right.

The syndicate buys the mine.

I get $500,000 in cash, and $500,000 in stock, and I start for home in three days.

We'll hang up our stockings on New Year's Day.

Between letters.

The Fates accepted Colonel Crockets' challenge and buy an irresistible syndication of events.

Forced him to be alone in New York, again, the very next Christmas.

After a series of masterly financial strokes, he had felt rich enough, in his two millions,

to spend a year abroad with his family.

A cablegram called him to America early in December to a director's meeting.

Expecting to return at once, he had left his family in Italy.

A legal complication kept him postponing his trip from day to day,

and finally an important hearing, in which he was a valued witness,

was postponed by the referee, or deferee, till after the holidays.

The Colonel saw himself confronted with another Christmas far away from any of his people.

The first two days he spent in violent profanity,

and in declining invitations which he received from business acquaintances,

to share their homes. Then he set out to make the occasion memorable.

Once more, we may leave the account to him.

Letter to

New York, New York, December 28th, 1925.

A friend once.

Well, I've been and wind and gone and done it, and golly but it was fun.

Barren wishing you and the little ones had have been here too.

Next year, we'll arrange it so, for I'm going to do it again.

You remember Artemis Ward's man who had been dead three weeks and liked it?

Well, that's me. This cabin out in New York is getting to be a habit.

I'm sending you a bundle of newspaper clippings as big as a stove pot,

all about yours true.

As soon as I saw that circumstances had organized a pool to corner me in my Christmases,

I spent a couple of days sending up rain-making language.

Then I settled down to work like a Bronco does to harness,

after kicking off the dashboard and snapping a couple of traces.

If I've got to be alone this Christmas, I says to myself,

I'll make it the gallblamed as crowded as solitude ever heard of this side of the river.

I looked for the biggest place in town under one roof.

Madison Square Garden was it. You remember it.

We was there to the horse show, so called. You recollect our reckon that the garden holds

right smart of people. At a political meeting, once they got 14,000 people into it,

and there was still room for Grover Cleveland to stand and make a speech.

Well, feeling kind of flush and reckless like, I decided to go and see the manager,

or janitor, or whatever he is, and go, I did. I says to him,

could I re-intercute little chap for one evening? Christmas night.

Certainly, sir, he says there happens to be nothing doing this Christmas.

How much would it set me back? I says, very polite.

Only 1,000 plucks says he, smiling.

But my dear Gaston, I says with a low bow, I don't want to buy your little Noah's Ark for the

baby. I only want to borrow it for one evening. 1,000 is our bargain counter-limit, he says.

I couldn't make it less for the poor old Tsar of Rushi.

I kind of hesitated, remembering the time when a thousand dollars would have kept me comfortable

for about three years. It's hard to get over the habit of counting your change.

Then Mr. janitor, seeing me kind of groggy, says a little less polite.

If that's more than you care to pay for a single room, you can get a cot for five cents on the

battery. For a quarter, you can get a whole suite. That riled me. I flashed a water bills on him

that made his eyes look like two automobile lamps. He could see it wasn't Confederate money either.

Then I shifted my cigar to detractive tension while I swallowed my Adam's apple and I says,

I was only hesitating my boy because I wondered if your nice little garden would be big enough.

You haven't got a couple more to rent at the same price. He wilted and caved in like a box of ice

cream does just for you to get home with you. Then he began to bow lower and we cut for a new deal.

He took the lead. He says, what might I be wanting to use the garden for?

Oh, I wouldn't boast of the walls or strain the floor, I says. I only want it for a Christmas tree.

I am going to invite my friends to a little party.

Woo, but you must be popular, he says. Who the Dickens are you, brother Teddy or mother Eddie?

I'm Colonel D Austin Crockett of Waco, I says, as me as I could.

Please, the meet you, Colonel, he says, what you're running for, district attorney or are you

starting a new mutual benefit life assassination? Neither, I says, I'm a stranger in New York.

But these friends of yours, he gets, is all Waco coming up here on an excursion?

Is the town going to move bodily? Mr. Prosecutor, I says, if you'll stop cross examining a minute

and let me tell how it all happened, it will save right smart of time. I'm a stranger here to

about four million people. They are strangers to me. We ought to know each other. So I'm going to give

a little Madison Square Garden warming and invite them in. What are you going to sell them?

Prize, poultry or physical culture? I have nothing to sell. I'm just going to entertain them.

Well, I've heard of Southern hospitality, he says. But this beats me. How much you're going to

charge ahead? Nothing. Everything is to be free. Admission included.

Not on your dear old lost cause, he exclaims. These ways, not in our little doll's house,

not for $10,000. Why, man, do you realize that if you offer these New York Brooklyn Bronx

hack and sack and a whole bokeh and folks a free show, more than 2,000 women would get trappled

a dip. Did you ever see a bargain counter crowd on 23rd Street? Well, that's only for a chance to

get something they don't want at a fish bait prize. But if you offer them a free, take one chance.

Holy Kiwis, I can just see it now. The garden ain't half big enough in the first place.

There's enough take winners in these parts to fill the old Colosseum. And that makes the wild

animals look like a cage of rabbits or white mice. Well, the upshot of it was. He persuaded me to

charge an admission. So we set it at a dollar ahead on the hoof. I wrote out a card and sent it

to all the papers to print at advertising rates. It costs right smart, but it looked neat.

To every stranger in New York and his lady, if you are not otherwise engaged on Christmas night,

the honor of your presence at Madison Square Garden is requested by David Austin Crockett's

Colonel 5th Texas Calvary CSA. Music, dancing, refreshments, souvenirs. For the purpose of keeping

out the undesirable element, a charge of $1 will be made.

I knew that the magic words, refreshments, and souvenirs would hit him hard.

In order to wet the public interest, I asked the papers where I advertised to give the

thing some editorial or other reference. But they was very cold and said the best they could do

was to send their dramatic critics to criticize the show after. A lot of good that would do

so I took more space in advertising. In a day or two, I was visited at the hotel by one of the

most in-parent-looking fellows I ever met up with. He sent up a car. James J. James, publicity expert.

I said to show him in and he sort of ooze through the door. He was that oily.

He looked about to see if we was alone, then winked slow and important and says.

What's your game, Colonel? It looks pretty slick, but I can't quite make it out.

It's a new bunco all right, but slick as it looks, it ain't quite so slick as it ought to be.

Look here you cup, I wrote. If you imply that I have any evil motives in this, I'll shoot you

so full of holes you'll look like a mosquito net. He wasn't a bit scared. He simply winked the other

eye and said in a kind of foreign-sounding language. Forget it, Colonel. Cut it out. Back to the

alfalfa with your buffalo-billed vocabulary. If you are really on the level, you don't need

prove it with artillery. But it makes no diff to me about that. My business is producing fame

not merit. Once more I ask, what's your leg? I overcame a desire to kick him through the

ceiling and told him I proposed to entertain the strangers in New York.

Strangers in New York? Well, that means everybody. There's been only one man born in New York since

the war, and he's kept an alcohol at a dime museum. Your idea is really to give Old New York

a Christmas party, huh? Very pretty. Very pretty indeed. But if you insist on exploding money

all over the place, I don't see why you shouldn't get a run for it. Besides, I need a bit of it myself.

What you want is a press agent. You're starting all wrong. People in New York can't understand or

believe anything except for the language of the press agent. You take one on your staff,

and in three days you'll be so famous that if a child in a kindergarten is asked who is the

queen of Holland, it will answer Colonel Crockett of Waco. Well, he poured out the most remarkable

string of talk I ever heard. And before I knew it, he had made me promise to trust my soul and my

scheme to him to be surprised at nothing that might appear in the papers and to refer all reporters

to him. The next morning I found my name on the front page of every journal with my picture in

most of them. It seems I'd held at bay 200 angry Italians who were trying to mob a Chinese

laundromat. The evening paper said that I had stopped at Runaway Coaching 4 on 5th Avenue

that morning by lassoing the leader. On the coach were Mrs. Aster, Mrs. Fitch, Reggie Vanderbilt,

George Gould, Harry Lear, and a parcel of other among those presents.

That night I went to a music call according to the next morning's papers and broke up the

show by throwing a pocketful of solitaire to the chorus girls. The next day three burgers got into

my room, I held them up in a corner, took away their masks, spanked them, and gave them each $100

bill to help them to avoid temptation. That afternoon the three big life insurance companies asked me

to be president and so on. You can read for yourself in the clippings. Only for heaven's sake don't

believe any of it. In every article was a neat allusion to my Christmas party. I wanted to kill

James James and I scoured the town for him but he dodged me. He kept his word though. For the last

few days I've been the most talked of man in town. Looks like I'd been the only man in New York.

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in condition supply. And now to tell about my little party. Where two days a regiment of men

was working in the garden under my direction and at my expense it was like paying the war

appropriation of Russia but it was worth it. At six o'clock Christmas night the crowd began to

line up at the garden doors at six thirty up latune of police arrived at six forty the line reached

twice around the garden. At six forty five they sent for more police. At seven fifteen every

street was solid with people. They called out the police reserves and clubbed about 400 innocent

bystanders insensible. At seven forty five the fire department was called and played the hose

on the crowd. This thinned them off a bit on the outskirts. Then the ambulances give out and the

fainting women was carried home in express wagons and wheel barrels. The subway was the only line

that could run cars. At eight thirty the doors opened. You should have seen the rush.

The Galveston flood wasn't in it. At eight forty five the garden was so full they closed the doors.

That sent some of the outside crowd home. The garden was a beautiful site.

On the tower outside in big electric letters was a sign. Mary Christmas to you and yours.

Inside it was decorated with holly leaves and berries, tons and tons of it. At one end was built a

big house with a chimney and an old-fashioned fireplace. The roof of the house was covered with snow,

cotton, and the sky back of it was full of electric stars that twinkled something beautiful.

And there was a moon that looked like the real thing.

There was four bands in the balconies and a chorus of angels with real wings and electric halos.

They sang peace on earth goodwill to men written for the occasion by Mr. Decoven.

By and by all the bands bust out gorgeous and then sandy claws appeared in a sleigh,

drawed by six real-life stuffed reindeer. He run along the sky on unseen grooves and drove up to

the roof of the house and slid down the chimney with a pack of presents. He filled all the stockings

with candy, corny, copies, and toys and a lot of attendants passed them out to the children.

You should have heard them squeal with joy poor little thoughts living in hotels and apartment

places where sandy claws would have had to come up the steam radiator or the gas log pie to get in.

Well, my sandy claws had to make 16 trips to satisfy the children.

The garden was divided into sections, one for every state and territory, with its own shield

in electric flights and colors. There was a native of every state in charge,

and every state had its own big Christmas tree and reception room and refreshments.

Some of the people I noticed seemed to have been born in several states at once,

the way they passed from one booth to another, filling up their pockets and stomachs.

I reckon they paid for it the next day in doctor's bills.

But there was an area sign of rowdyism. That dollar admission was a regular

sieve for straining out the tuffs. Then there were policemen everywhere, and every other man

nearly was a plain clothesman or a detective. Besides, after sober consideration and on advice

from the gardeners, I cut out all drinks except soft stuff. So there were no jags except what

some people brought with them from their Christmas dinners and loaded plum puddings.

And then of course, that peculiar something we get into us at Christmas time filled everybody

with a sort of loving fellowship and a hankering to hug their neighbors and divvy up their funds

like a mutual life insurance company prospectus says it's going to do some day.

In the center of the hall, there was a big sign in electric letters.

Everybody is hereby introduced to everybody else for tonight only.

At every state booth you'd see people gathering, recognizing old friends,

or introducing themselves to new ones, it was surprising how each state had its gathering.

At the Texas booth, there was a big immense crowd. A lot of them turned out to be old friends of

hours, school friends of yours, ranch friends of mine, people I had worked for, people who had worked

me, or forming. A lot of them sent their love and a Merry Christmas to you. I remember especially

here we omitted a list of names somewhat lacking in universal interest.

I had advertised that people who wanted to give each other Christmas presents could have them

hung on the state trees. My attendance gave them checks for their gifts, and there wasn't

many mix-ups. Old Miss Samantha Clay got a box of cigars meant for Judge Randolph,

and he got a pair of silver buckle garters meant for her. But most of them came out right,

and several of them was so surprised at getting presents in New York that they bust out crying.

Major Calhoun's whiskers was soaking wet with tears when he got a bottle of old bourbon from Judge

Payton. Ridge folks who had been poor men met charter members of the I'm onto your origin association.

But the Christmas spirit made them forget to be snobs. You'd hear millionaires telling plain

people how they used to play Halloween jokes, how they scraped up to bother mother's little Christmas

gifts, what ridiculous things they used to get and give.

All evening as fast as anybody went out, they'd let somebody else in. Along about 11 o'clock,

a lot of the people began to go home. Then a new crowd came in. People who had taken their

children home and put them to bed would come back for more fun. Others who had spent the evening

dining began to dribble in. All the actor people and singers came. It was good to see them.

Some of them told me what had gods in such a thing was to them homeless by profession.

A lot of them brought their wives and babies. One father was playing Romeo in Newark. His wife

was playing Little Eva in Harlem and their daughter was playing Camille on Broadway.

You should have seen them rejoicing around the Kansas tree.

Now midnight the big refreshment hall was opened and everybody that could squeeze in,

set down to long tables where I had supper served. I had some of the best after dinner speakers

in town come in and you should have heard some of the funny stories. It would have brought back

dear old childhood memories. Mayor McClellan gave us all a welcome and then there was

Chauncey Dipu of course and Simeon Ford and Augustus Thomas and Wilton Laque and Job Hedges and

Lemuel Ely Quig and General Horace Porter and a Passal of others. They all made the most

surprising illusions to your poor old husband. They called me daddy and sang about me being a

jolly good fellow and one of them christened me santi crock. Why my ears burned so hot I near set my

collar on fire. It sure was worth all I spent and I had a terrible time to keep from blubbering.

I must have swallowed about 411 Adam's apples.

Finally they called on me for a speech. I just kind of jibbered. I don't know what.

The papers say I said, Merry Christmas my children. This old world sure is some comfortable after all.

The only trouble is that the right people can't seem to get together at the right time,

often enough. But this year Christmas supper tastes to me terrible much like more.

I'm going to try it again and I hereby invite you all that ain't in any better place or any better

world to meet me here a year from tonight and so God bless you all and and God bless everybody.

Then after a lot of songs singing and hand ringing we all went home tears in every eye and smiles

on every mouth the remnants of food and toys made more than the twelve baskets full of scripture.

I sent them round to the hospitals and orphaned the solomans. I've engaged the garden again

for next Christmas and paid a deposit down. In any of the extravagance it looks either for

while the expenses was high twelve thousand dollars. They took in at the door nearly eighteen thousand

dollars. I sent the profit to the Salvation Army and the volunteers and now I'm being prayed for

and hallelujahed for everywhere there's a base drum but I do it again if it cost me twenty thousand

it's worth that and more to have your heart nearly break wide open with joy and fellowship.

It was broad daylight when I got to bed all wore out with happiness. I cuddled up like I was a

little boy once more in the days when I used to get up Christmas morning cold and early and look

at my presence and then crawl back under the covers again with a double armful of toys to keep warm

and sleep some more. If only you and the chicks had have been there. Next time you shall be

you're loving Austin.

End of Colonel Crockets Cooperative Christmas by Rupert Hughes.

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