Letters from Father Christmas. J. R. R. Tolkien

stars tidy.

      Then I found out that the reindeer had broken loose. They were running all over the country, breaking reins and ropes and tossing presents up in the air. They were all packed up to start, you see—yes it only happened this morning: it was a sleighload of chocolate things, which i always send to England early. I hope yours are not badly damaged.

      But isn’t the North Polar Bear silly? And he isn’t a bit sorry! Of course he did it—you remember I had to move last year because of him? The tap for turning on the Rory Bory Aylis fireworks is still in the cellar of my old house. The North Polar Bear knew he must never, never touch it. I only let it off on special days like Christmas. He says he thought it was cut off since we moved – anyway, he was nosing round the ruins this morning soon after breakfast (he hides things to eat there) and turned on all the Northern Lights for two years in one go. You have never heard or seen anything like it. I have tried to draw a picture of it; but I am too shaky to do it properly and you can’t paint fizzing light can you?

      I think the Polar Bear has spoilt the picture rather—of course he can’t draw with those great fat paws—

       Rude! I can—and write without shaking.

      by going and putting a bit of his own about me chasing the reindeer and him laughing. He did laugh too. So did I when I saw him trying to draw reindeer, and inking his nice white paws.

       Father Christmas had to hurry away and leave me to finish. He is old and gets worried when funny things happen. You would have laughed too! I think it is good of me laughing. It was a lovely firework. The reindeer will run quick to England this year. They are still frightened!…

       I must go and help pack. I don’t know what Father Christmas would do without me. He always forgets what a lot of packing I do for him…

       The Snow Man is addressing our envelopes this year. He is Father Christmas’s gardener—but we don’t get much but snowdrops and frost-ferns to grow here. He always writes in white, just with his finger…

       A merry Christmas to you from North Polar Bear

      And love from Father Christmas to you all.

       1927

      Cliff House,

      Top o’the World,

      near the North Pole

      Wednesday December 21st 1927

      My dear people: there seem to get more and more of you every year.

      I get poorer and poorer: still I hope that I have managed to bring you all something you wanted, though not everything you asked for (Michael and Christopher! I haven’t heard from John this year. I suppose he is growing too big and won’t even hang up his stocking soon).

      It has been so bitter at the North Pole lately that the North Polar Bear has spent most of the time asleep and has been less use than usual this Christmas.

       Of course you know! and everybody does sleep most of the time here in winter—especially Father Christmas.

      The North Pole became colder than any cold thing ever has been, and when the North Polar Bear put his nose against it—it took the skin off: now it is bandaged with red flannel. Why did he? I don’t know, but he is always putting his nose where it oughtn’t to be—into my cupboards for instance.

       That’s because I am hungry

      Also it has been very dark here since winter began. We haven’t seen the Sun, of course, for three months, but there are no Northern Lights this year—you remember the awful accident last year? There will be none again until the end of 1928. The North Polar Bear has got his cousin (and distant friend) the Great Bear to shine extra bright for us, and this week I have hired a comet to do my packing by, but it doesn’t work as well.

      The North Polar Bear has not really been any more sensible this year:

       I have been perfectly sensible, and have learnt to write with a pen in my mouth instead of a paintbrush.

      Yesterday he was snowballing the Snow Man in the garden and pushed him over the edge of the cliff so that he fell into my sleigh at the bottom and broke lots of things—one of them was himself. I used some of what was left of him to paint my white picture. We shall have to make ourselves a new gardener when we are less busy.

      The Man in the Moon paid me a visit the other day—a fortnight ago exactly—he often does about this time, as he gets lonely in the Moon, and we make him a nice little Plum Pudding (he is so fond of things with plums in!)

      His fingers were cold as usual, and the North Polar Bear made him play ‘snapdragons’ to warm them. Of course he burnt them, and then he licked them, and then he liked the brandy, and then the Bear gave him lots more, and he went fast asleep on the sofa. Then I went down into the cellars to make crackers, and he rolled off the sofa, and the wicked bear pushed him underneath and forgot all about him! He can never be away a whole night from the moon; but he was this time.

       I have never been expected to look after the Man in the Moon before. I was very nice to him, and he was very comfy under the sofa.

      Suddenly the Snow Man (he wasn’t broken then) rushed in out of the garden, next day just after teatime, and said the moon was going out! The dragons had come out and were making an awful smoke and smother. We rolled him out and shook him and he simply whizzed back, but it was ages before he got things quite cleared up.

      I believe he had to let loose one of his simply terrificalest freezing magics before he could drive the dragons back into their holes, and that is why it has got so cold down here.

      The Polar Bear only laughs when I tell him it’s his fault, and he curls up on my hearthrug and won’t do anything but snore.

      My messengers told me that you have somebody from Iceland staying with you. That is not so far from where I live, and nearly as cold. People don’t hang up stockings there, and I usually pass by in a hurry, though I sometimes pop down and leave a thing or two for their very jolly Christmas Trees.

      My usual way is down through Norway, Denmark, Germany, Switzerland, and then back through Germany, Northern France, Belgium, and so into England: and on the way home I pass over the sea, and sometimes Iceland and I can see the twinkling lights faint in the valleys under their mountains. But I go by quick, as my reindeer gallop as hard as they can there—they always say they are frightened a volcano or a geyser will go off underneath them.

      This must be all: I have written you a very long letter this year as there was nothing to draw, but dark and snow and stars.

      Love to you all, and happiness next year.

      Your loving Father Christmas

       1928