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- 3 But the best of the Christmas celebration is the carol singing on Christmas Eve. Though it doesnt seem quite so jolly on the three previous Wednesday evenings, when those who cannot cook up any excuse gather in the church for a practice. It is icy cold, dark and empty, and we keep on our coats and our hands ache holding the song sheets and our voices sound piping and odd, lost among the stone recesses of the old building No one is very enthusiastic Atmosphere, that's all the practices lack really, the atmosphere of Christmas Eve, excitement, the sense of occasion which pulls everyone together and lifts up our hearts and our voices Christmas Eve comes. This year it came cold; frost lay hard as iron, the gutters and taps hung with icicles like sugar sticks and all the rooftops and stone walls, the garden fences and the gravestones, gleamed phosphorescent, like silver snails' trails, where it had rained a little that morning and then suddenly frozen. Our breaths plumed out on the air, our footsteps rang, the stars prickled. There was that curious crackling feel to the atmosphere as it touched face and fingers. Barley lay, empty and beautiful under the frost-rimmed moon. Behind closed doors and curtained windows, in firelight and lamplight, people waited. The singers arrived, and there was much blowing on hands and stamping and sucking of those red winter cough drops that smell of paraffin and cloves, and then, piling out of cars and off bicycles, the players, mostly older children who belong to a nearby silver band; a trombone and two trumpets, a clarinet, several recorders, a saxophone; the leader played the flute and had a music stand borne ahead of her and set down at each stopping place by two eager pupils. More puffing and blowing and tuning up, a lot of throat clearing. The vicar, wreathed in mufflers, said a prayer, gave a blessing, went home, coughing, and we were off, to the corner of the Old Manor House, and by the almshouses, down as far as old Miss Reevers, whose dog barked, though she herself gave no sign that she had heard us; back up the lanes, marching hard, laughing and chatting, joined on the way by latecomers, and various children. We sang 'O Come all ye Faithful' at the Fox and Feathers, under their ten-foot-high, lighted Christmas tree, and 'See Amid the Winter Snows' beside the iced-over pond. We wished a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to ninety-three-year-old Mr. Stump, who adjusted his hearing aid up and down, and got his wife, who is ninety-seven, to stand on a chair and open the window wide, and we greeted a new baby at Fen Farm with 'Away in a Manger.' Our fingers were stiff with cold and our voices as raw as cheesegraters. The Church Clock struck ten. Some of the children were taken home. It was colder still, too cold for snow. We were glad to get to the Manor House again, and pile into the hall in the old way, for mince-pies and sausage rolls and punch and the blaze of the fire on our frozen faces. The lights went out, except for those of the tree. 'Silent Night,' which brings tears to the eyes. A second or two of absolute silence, before the bursting of a log up like a firework and down again in a great golden shower of sparks. Laughter and lights again and a Happy Christmas, a Happy Christmas, and a Happy Christmas floating faint on the freezing air down all the lanes and home. JUST FOR FUN (Reader's Digest) To create a wreath to send to my mother for Christmas, I took tremendous care choosing, drying and arranging rose buds, hydrangea and baby's breath. I carefully wrapped the parcel and hoped it would arrive intact in England. On my next trip overseas, I saw my gift hanging on the wall of Mother's home, but it was now adorned with plastic daisies! I asked about the destruction of my work of art. "oh, by the time it arrived all the way from Canada," my mother explained, "the flowers in it were all dead." - Claire Delaney (Parksville, B.C.) .../4