Dickinson!" The next parcel contained a gift which I had
bought in a Calcutta bazaar. "Mr. Dickinson will like this," I had
thought at the time. A dearly beloved disciple, Mr. Dickinson had
been present at every Christmas festivity since the 1925 founding
of Mt. Washington. At this eleventh annual celebration, he was
standing before me, untying the ribbons of his square little package.
"The silver cup!" Struggling with emotion, he stared at the present,
a tall drinking cup. He seated himself some distance away, apparently
in a daze. I smiled at him affectionately before resuming my role
as Santa Claus.
The ejaculatory evening closed with a prayer to the Giver of all
gifts; then a group singing of Christmas carols.
Mr. Dickinson and I were chatting together sometime later.
"Sir," he said, "please let me thank you now for the silver cup.
I could not find any words on Christmas night."
"I brought the gift especially for you."
"For forty-three years I have been waiting for that silver cup! It
is a long story, one I have kept hidden within me." Mr. Dickinson
looked at me shyly. "The beginning was dramatic: I was drowning.
My older brother had playfully pushed me into a fifteen-foot pool
in a small town in Nebraska. I was only five years old then. As I
was about to sink for the second time under the water, a dazzling
multicolored light appeared, filling all space. In the midst was
the figure of a man with tranquil eyes and a reassuring smile.
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