Mr. Gandhi and Uncle Sam

BY STEPHEN LEACOCK.

[Around the idea of Christmas there has grown up in our fiction a fine literary tradition. Under this convention Christmas is presumed to be a time of great good will, of family reconciliations, a period when old quarrels are forgotten and bygone sins are forgiven. At Christmas time, especially on Christmas eve, when the soft snow is gently falling, the stern old Earl relents, the wayward prodigal comes home, the estranged brothers shake hands, and the banished daughter returns to place the inexplicable infant on its grandfather's knee. These "Christmas Stories" are familiar to all of us as literature. But no one has yet realized the use that might be made of them in politics. All they need is to be retold in the proper political and international setting, and the good that could be derived from them is incalculable.]

1.—CHRISTMAS IN THE CASUAL WARD.

(This dear old story of Christmas is laid in and around a great London hospital. There has been a street accident on Christmas morning and—but let the story speak for itself, with only the pre- liminary explanation that if Mahatma Gandhi never was in London at Christmas time, he might easily have been there.) THE pathetic figure on the little stretcher was carried up the steps of the great hospital. " What is it ? " asked the group of people who had gathered about the entrance.

"Street accident," said the policeman (he was, of course, a burly policeman), "Poor chap."

"Christmas, too," said the doorman. "Hard luck." (The doorman had little ones of his own at home.) "Is he much hurt ? " asked a sympathetic bystander. (The unsympathetic one hadn't thought of this question.) "Can't live, I heard 'em say," said -the policeman. "Knocked down by a dray, I understand."

" I saw it happen," said a woman in the crowd. " Can't say it was the drayman's fault either. The little chap didn't seem to know where he was going—kind of dazed like, queer in his mind and talking to himself. Wasn't a white man either ; more like a Canadian or something."

Upstairs in the ward a little group of nurses and internes stood about the bed on which lay the pathetic little figure. They were waiting for the great specialist who had been hurriedly summoned.

"Do you know who he is ? "asked one of the nurses. The interne shook his head. "No clue," he said.

"Linen, such as he had, marked Gandhi, Bombay.", "Anything in that bundle he was carrying ? " "Nothing really to go on. Two spoons with a coronet marked Willingdon,' another spoon marked 'United Service Club, Bombay.' That was all."

The conversation hushed as the great specialist, Sir Magnus Alhell, stepped into the ward.

He bent over the bed, removed the bed-clothes, and ran his trained hand over the poor shrunken chest and feeble limbs of the little figure.

" Nothing there," he. murmured. " I find no injury." The patient opened his eyes.

"I refuse to co-operate," he murmured. Then his eyes closed again.

"Can you answer my questions ? "

"Yes, but I won't," came the faint reply as the eyes again opened.

" Yes, but you will," said the great specialist. There was something in the touch of his hand, something in the mesmerism of his eye—the legacy of Hippocrates— that compelled the will of the patient.

"Now then," said Sir Magnus, "when did you last have a square meal ? "

"A square meal ? "

"Yes, a square meal. Think. when ! " - "Thirty years ago ! " said the patient quietly. He spoke quite firmly now.

"And since then ? " Never."

"Never a beefsteak ? "

"Never once."

"Never had a Christmas dinner ? "

"Yes, once," said the patient, sitting half up. "At least that was what I had thirty years ago. It was a real English Christmas dinner "—he seemed to gather anima- tion as he spoke—" we had turkey—" "And cranberry sauce ? " laughed Sir Magnus.

"Yes, and mashed potatoes."

"And plum pudding ? "

"Oh—yes, yes ; plum pudding, all on fire with brandy, and raisins and. . . "

"You see," said the great specialist, turning to the little group, "it is simply a case of malnutrition, of underfeeding. If you young students," he added almost severely, "would only read a little old-fashioned Christ- mas literature, instead of sticking your heads into books of diagnosis, you would know that underfeeding is the cause not only of all the street accidents but of half the troubles of the world-. This poor fellow—Gandhi is your name, isn't it ?—is merely underfed. All the trouble came from that."

Half an hour after, Mahatma Gandhi, propped up in bed, a napkin at his neck, a tray in front of him, devoured wing after wing of the turkey in front of him.

Half a month after that he weighed two hundred and fifty pounds.

Half a year after that India became free (to take effect A.D. 3000). Its liberator always used to say : "It is better for my people to give up swaraj, suttee, thuggee, and stick to things like Bombay duck, chutney and Chile con Came, where you know what you are getting."

IL—THE UNCLE FROM AMERICA.

(Here is another familiar type of Christmas story that needs political application. It is called "The Uncle from America," and is known in France as " L'Oncle d'Amerique." In this story the wide of a certain family is supposed to have gone away to America, years and years ago— so long ago that his relations have lost all track of him. In reality he has made a great fortune, but they do not know it. The family them- selves have had exactly the opposite fate. They have sunk from affluence to poverty, their home has been mortgaged, and the mortgage has fallen due, as mortgages always do in fiction, on Christmas Eve.

And then—well,everyone knows what happens. But here is the political and international version of it.) The fatal evening had come. There was no help, no hope. The mortgage had fallen due. To-night it would be foreclosed and Europa House, the fine old property that had come down for centuries must go under the hammer.

Good old squire John Bull, the senior member of the family, restlessly paced the library floor, pausing at intervals to speak with a fair-haired gentleman who sat in an armchair, his good-humoured countenance dis- figured by an expression of utter dejection.

" It's too damn bad, Fritz," said John Bull. " I wish the rotten business was over and done and the papers signed. Let the damn fellow take the old place. There's no help for it. You've no money have you, Fritz ? "

Fritz shook his head.

"Not a mark," he said. "Neither has Jacques nor Benito. Only paper, and he won't take it."

"Damn, his impudence," said John Bull. "But never mind, Fritz ; we'll stick it out together somehow. But here come the others. Come in Jacques. Come in Benito ! "

John Bull advanced to the door with outstretched hands with something of his old glad hospitality in his face, shaking hands with his guests as they arrived. .

"Come in Jacques. Ah, and this is little Slovakia with you, is it ? How are you, dear ? And this I suppose i cousin Polonia Corridor—nay ? But you have grown into a great girl ! So cousin Ivan wouldn't come, eh.? Let him go to the devil in his own way. Angus, pour them out a glass of Scotch. It's there on the sideboard. Damn it, cousins, the old place is ours for half an hour yet anyway. Stir up the fire, Patrick ; let us have a good blaze for the last one. Now then, you all know what the trouble is and why you're here ; so we won't mince matters. This darrm American fellow has closed out the mortgage. Well, you've none of you any money, have you ? What about you, Benito ?"

" Money ! " said Benito, a dark Italian-looking man, scarcely recognizable as cousin to John and Fritz, but re- sembling Jacques. " Money ! Millions and millions ! I have kept telling you so."

"Then where is it ? " said John Bull.

"I have told you," said Benito ; "first lend me ten—a hundred million bra—and in ten years The assembled family broke into laughter. . "In ten years ! Mon cher Benito," said Jacques. "We are all like that. Oh, it is sad to think of it. Behold us, a united family, loving one another, and now ruined by a stranger. Ah, if only Fritz had not made that sacred War ! "

"Me make a War ! " cried Fritz jumping up. "It is to laugh ! You made it Jacques—you and Ivan."

"I make the War ! " shouted Jacques. "You insult my honour, do you ? You shall answer "Gently, gently," said John Bull. "Remember we are all cousins."

"I never made the War," said Fritz, his face distorted with anger. "I love peace. You Jacques, you and cousin John Bull here—" "Damn your eyes, Fritz," said John Bull clenching his fist, "I'm a peace-loving man, but .

The room was filled with angry tumult. But at that moment a butler announced at the door : "The American gentlemen are here, Mr. Bull."

There was an instant silence as a tall man in a charac- teristic stovepipe hat and swallowtail coat, with a mous- tache and a long beard, walked into the room. He was followed by two others, evidently attorneys, who pro- duced and spread out on the library table a bundle of documents which they carried.

"Well, gents, and young ladies," said the Yankee, lighting a cigar without so much as asking permission or even removing his hat. "All here, eh—quite a family party ! Sounded from your voices just now like a real affectionate. pow-wow ! "

"Look here, sir," said John Bull, striding towards the American. "Do the business you are here for, but your damned insults you can keep to yourself. I won't have them."

"And I too not," said Fritz.

"Nor me neither," said Jacques.

"All right," said the American quite unruffled. "I reckon money talks anyway. There's the conveyance laid out on the table. You get a discharge of all you owe and I take over Europa House and the grounds, including the famous Concert Room and the Conservatory and the Moratorium. Now gents, you can either put up or shut up. My pal there, Idaho Bill, will either take the money or give you a pen to sign with. Which is it ? "

The Yankee's manner as he looked at the assembled cousins seemed purposely and dramatically offensive. There was tti moment of tense silence. Jacques' hands were clenched in anger ; Benito's face was dark with rage ; and Fritz's keen eyes glittered like steel.

But John Bull stepped towards the table.

"Cousins," he said, "there is no help for it. I am the oldest here. If there's been any fault it's mine as much as anyone's. I'll sign first." And then a strange thing happened.

'Wait a bit," said the American. " I'll just see these papers arc in the shape they ought to be."

He walked to the table, picked up the papers, carried them over to the fireplace, tore and crushed them into an indistinguishable mass, and threw them into the flames. Then, as he turned round again, he took off his stovepipe hat and false beard and stood smiling at the astonished family.

"Well, John," he said, "don't you know me now ? "

"God bless my soul ! " exclaimed Squire Bull. " Sam ! Why it's Sam ! Cousins ! This is your Uncle Sam from America ! "

"Uncle Sam ! " exclaimed everybody.

"Yes, Sir," said Uncle Sam, " back from America and back with a pile big enough to make the value of them papers look like two cents. Boys and girls, I've lived for years just for this. All the time I was working and making my pile I thought of this home-coming to the old place to clear up the mortgages that I'd bought up one by one and pay back some part of what I owe. You and I, John, were kids together. Fritz, it was your mother taught me music. Jacques, I knew your pa. He gave me a statue once. Come, cousins, fill 'em up to the health of the old house ! 'We'll mend and repair it till it's grander than it ever was and your Uncle Sam will pay the bill for the Reparations."

And as he spoke the Christmas bells rang out their glad message of Peace, including its Economic Conse- quences, and good will towards Americans.