Ah Christmas is fast descending upon us. With the Yule Tide season comes good will and old customs and traditions.

In the dining room, hangs a white berry called mistletoe. If someone nonchalantly stops underneath it, anyone who witnesses it, is entitled to a kiss.

Now you may find yourself wondering, "Golly of gee, what if I see someone nonchalantly standing under the Little white whacchamacallit, and she's ugly, and short, and fat, and terrible, and I don't want to kiss her?" Probably the only graceful way to get out of it, especially if she was looking at you when you were looking at her, is to faint.. This may prove fatal if you're prone to embarrassment. Because, chances are, when you wake up, ten people are gawking at you, and some helpful hand has some horrible thing with the odor of rotten eggs in front of your face.

Probably the oldest of old tradition is that of decorating a Christmas tree. Every year the entire family trots off to some lot overflowing with evergreens of all shapes and sizes. Of course it's five below zero; it always is when one decides to go tree hunting. So you hunt, looking at hundreds of trees which are either too big, too small, too full, or too skimpy. Finally after your fingers are almost numb, though still able to ache from being stuck by the branches, you find the perfect tree Ten dollars too much. After twenty minutes of haggling, the price is down fifty cents, and you stuff the tree into your car.

Now comes the time to decorate it. First the tree is too tall for the front room, so two feet are chopped from the top. Then comes putting on the tree lights, which have to be tested individually. Most of them don't work. Next the ornaments have to be put up, and little children are right there "helping" for all their worth. The next two hours are taken by the tinsel‑putter‑oners. Tinsel‑putter‑oners are of two types. There is no inbetween. Either they just take a handful of tinsel and throw it at the tree, or each strand is placed on every single branch. It's positively nerve‑shattering to watch them at work!

The final touch is the star which is placed with great care on the tip‑top of the beautiful creation. There it sits in all its majesty . . . crooked. So down it comes, and after another ordeal it is placed on the top of the tree. Perfectly centered, utterly splendid, but the light bulb in the middle doesn't work. Take it down again. After ten more minutes of rigamorol, the star usually ends up where it was in the first place . . . in a box. Just think how much trouble the Wise men would have following this star.

Say! What is that beautiful music I hear? Oh isn't that nice. All those darling children out in the snow singing Christmas carols. Look how happy they are. Happy ha! Those poor kids are just about frozen to death. They've been walking around for about two hours. Their faces are blue, their throats are raw, their eyes are tearing, their lips are chapped, their fingers and toes are numb, their ears are frostbitten, and they are so tired they barely manage to stand up. Why, oh why, do people insist on saying they look so happy?

Ho! Ho! Ho! There is only one person who laughs like that . . . old Saint Nick. Or would it be more accurate to say there is only one persons who laughs like that . . . old Saint Nicks. There must be at least fifty short, plump, jolly, white whiskered, Santa Clauses in the city, each one posted in the toy department of some large store. He is protected from nothing (unless he brushes his teeth with Gardol) and must listen to the thousands of pleas from thousands of little monsters. Dressed in his best red velvet snowsuit, Santa fights for his life. In fact, no one can deny Santa must have internal fortitude to survive year after year.

As he sits in the center of a gigantic array of toys, he sees miles of little heads bobbing around him. The first attacker timidly approaches Santa.. Giving a shy, deceiving little smile, he places himself on the old gentleman's knee ‑ all bashfulness disappears. His fiery red hair begins to curl, and his big blue eyes dance, as he spots Santa's long white whiskers.

After a week of hand bitings, shin kicking, beard pullings, fingers in the eyes, and jumping on toes, it is no surprise Santa retreats to the North Pole for the rest of the year. After all, how much bother can a reindeer be?