Sure, Virginia, Sure

Somewhere a little old lady named Virginia sits reading her newspaper in a rocking chair. Sometimes the headlines in the papers frighten here, and this is one of those times. DOCTOR SAM TELLS OF TUSSLE; REDS HOLD INNOCENT SOLDIERS; HEMINGWAY RECOVERS FROM CRASH WOUNDS, they say. Virginia lowers her spectacles and quivers. She had always thought there was a Santa Claus, ever since that nice editor answered here letter, but maybe. . .

Suddenly there is a waffling noise in her chimney, the sound of tearing cloth, and a rain of shiny brass buttons into the fireplace. Then, with a loud plop, a red-clad figure appears on the hearth in a cloud of ash-dust, coughing violently. And Virginia thinks the recognizes him.

Yes, Virginia, this is Santa Claus. He was not, as you may have feared, the bushy-haired intruder in the Sheppard home that July night, and his red clothes don't early have anything to do with those Red Chinese you worry about sometimes. Nor was he the one who forced Hemingway's plane down in the African jungles, disguised as some sort of silly bird.

You look doubtfully at the copy of Sports Illustrated lying beside your sewing basket, Virginia. This is not the dapper-looking, sharp-eyed man with his arms full of cigarette cartons and whiskey bottles that you've been seeing pictures of. This man is old and fat and bumbling, and does not look very assertive. His is not booming out hardy greetings, but is wistfully picking up his lost buttons and rubbing the soot off his well-worn suit.

He has been busy, Virginia, helping along the poor little people, and gleaning a little floss from the dross. How do you think Dorothy Kilgallen would have had a chance to write again without the murder trial? Why do you think Hemingway got a Nobel Prize right after hurting his head, And who do you think has been busy in his North Pole workshop whipping up a new wing for Winthrop House?

No wonder his clothes are shabby and his beard unkempt and bristling with wood shavings. But he has something for you, Virginia. Shyly he smiles, sneezes, and floats unsteadily up the chimney, leaving a Grandma Moses original on the hearth. Your eyes are lighting up, Virginia. Now you realize. This was Santa Claus.