by Scott Ross

An Ivy league elf. It was hard to believe, but there he was, standing in front of my desk. He was wearing a dark green Kuppenheimer suit with brass buttons, a vest . . . and pipestem pants. Gone was the leather jerkin, the pointy cap, the quaint shoes with the bells on the toes. He peered up at me behind heavy horn‑rimmed glasses.

It was then I realized that this must be one of the new elves from Public Relations. The peak season was drawing near, and Snitkin (his name was embossed in gold on his briefcase) must be here with the reports.

"Well," I said, "any new developments in Public Relations?"

He drew himself up to his full height of 37 inches.

"The way I see it S. C., we ought to roll up into one big bag of toys. Market‑wise . . .

I listened, only half hearing his speech. From that slim little briefcase he produced pamphlets, market reports, files, graphs, charts, dittoes and carbons. Words and phrases seemed to echo in my brain: ". . . just talking off the tip of my antenna . . . consumer-wise hitch it to the sleigh and see if it flies . . ." I thought about the old days.

The Old Days. When the workshops rang with the busy sound of hammers, drills, saws, and the musical tinkle of belied shoes. The bustle of the Records Department as hundreds of tiny, green-visored clerks checked reports to see just who got what. The stables with the reindeer getting a last-minute currying from their grooms. The takeoff ramp, with the final loading, supervised by the scurrying elves, packing every available space with the precious cargo.

Things were different then. They've torn down the old shops and built an automatic toy factory, where glittering machines stamp out toys far faster than the old hand carving.

The Records Department has cleared out all the old ledgers, files, desks, and wooden stools. They've been replaced by a shiny new computer. And Shipping! The sleigh is loaded by an automatic conveyor belt. What few elves there are left on the job take a milk‑break every fifteen minutes. Oh well...

When Snitkin had gone, I snapped out of my reverie. Things might change, but I still had a job to do. I began going through my morning mail. There were the usual fan letters and Christmas lists. Then came the official looking envelope with the Boss' letterhead. I opened it and read:

"Dear Sir: we regret to inform you that your services are no longer required . . .

It's going to be a rough winter . . .