A Child's Christmas in Wales (1987) - full transcript

[music - "silent night"]

[music - "deck the halls"]

MOM: Will you look at that rain?

GRANDPA: Oh, it's coming
down in absolute buckets.

MOM: Dad, let
Thomas do that one.

Thomas, come and give
your grandad a hand then.

Come on.

Tomorrow's Christmas.

[thunder]

MOM: We can't always have
a white Christmas, Thomas.

You should be used to that.



Well, it shouldn't rain.

Oh, it-- it doesn't
snow like it used to.

There.

But then, it isn't
Christmas yet, is it?

What?

Well, it's only Christmas Eve.

You mean, it's going
to snow tomorrow?

Well, I don't know.

It might.

Grandad said it's
going to snow tomorrow.

Now, he didn't
say that, Thomas.

Dad.

Here we go then.

Ah, there.



Now, isn't it time
that Thomas opened

his Christmas Eve present then?

Yeah.

So what should it be then?

Well, it's that
lovely knit cap.

No, not a cap.

What about that package
from Uncle Guy in America?

No, he always sends
socks, doesn't he?

Scratchy ones.
Socks?

Lovely.

But you can't play with socks.

Why, I think socks
is a very good present.

It's a rule.

The Christmas Eve
present has to be a toy

or a book or something good.

Yes.

- Oh, doesn't it.
- Yes.

Yes it does.

So is it time now then?

Yes, please.

Here you are.

Happy Christmas, Thomas.

MOM: Merry Christmas
Eve, Thomas.

DAD: Merry Christmas, boy-o.

What's that, I wonder.

I don't know.

Well, come on then.

Open it.

At least better than socks?

MOM: Are you sure?

[music playing]

Do you like it then?

It's lovely, Grandad.

There's a good boy.

Look here, [inaudible].

John gave you that, didn't he?

Yeah, a long time ago.

Before I was born?

Oh, yes.

Before I was born nearly.

Grandad, did it snow
Christmas when you were a boy?

GRANDPA: Oh, yes, Thomas.

It snowed.

One Christmas was so much
like another in those years

around the sea town corner.

Now and out of all sound,
except the distance speaking

of the voices I
sometimes hear a moment

before sleep, that I can never
remember whether it snowed

for six days and six
nights when I was 12,

or whether it snowed for 12 days
and 12 nights when I was six.

All the Christmases rolled down
towards the Welsh speaking sea,

like a snowball growing
whiter and bigger and rounder,

like a cold and headlong
moon bundling down

the sky that was our street.

And they stop at the rim of the
ice-edged, fish-freezing waves.

And I plunge my
hands in the snow

and bring out
whatever I can find,

holly or robins or pudding,
squabbles and carols

and oranges and tin whistles
and fire in the front room

and bangle the crackers
and holy, holy, holy,

ring the bells.

In goes my hand into that
wool white bell-tongued bowl

of holidays, resting at the
rim of the carol singing sea.

And out comes Mrs.
Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon
of Christmas Eve

and I was in Mrs.
Prothero's garden waiting

for cats with her son Jim.

It was snowing.

It was always
snowing at Christmas.

December, in my memory,
is white as Lapland,

although there were no reindeer.

But there were cats.

Patient, cold, and callous.

Our hands wrapped in socks we
waited to snowball the cats.

Sleek and long as jaguars
and horrible-whiskered,

spitting and snarling.

They would slink and sidle over
the white back garden walls.

And the lynx-eyed
hunters, Jim and I,

fur-capped and moccasin
trappers from Hudson Bay,

off Mumbles Road, would
hurdle our deadly snowballs

at the green of their eyes.

The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still
Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen

in the muffling silence of
the eternal snows, eternal

ever since Wednesday.

And we never heard Mrs.
Prothero's first cry

from her igloo at the
bottom of the garden.

Or if we heard it at
all, it was to us,

like the far off challenge
of our enemy and prey,

the neighbor's polar cat.

But soon, the voice grew louder.

Ready, aim--

MRS. PROTHERO: Fire.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): We ran down
the garden with the snowballs

in our arms toward the house.

And smoke indeed was
pouring out the parlor.

And the gong was
bombilating and Mrs.

Prothero was announcing ruin,
like a town crier in Pompeii.

Fire.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
This was better

than all the cats in Wales
standing on a wall in a row.

We bounded into the house
laden with snowballs

and stopped at the door
of the smoke filled room.

Something was burning all right.

But there was no fire to be
seen, only clouds of smoke

and Mr. Prothero standing
in the middle of it,

waving his slipper, as
if he were conducting.

Fine Christmas.

Call the fire brigade.

Oh, they won't be there.

It's Christmas.

Well, do something.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): We threw
our snowballs into the smoke--

I think they missed
Mr. Prothero--

and ran out of the house
to the telephone box.

Let's call the police as well.

And the ambulance.

And Ernie Jenkins.

He likes fires.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): But we
only called the fire brigade.

[calling orders]

And soon the fire engine came
and three tall men in helmets

brought a hose into
the house, Mr. Prothero

got out just in time
before they turned it on.

Nobody could have had a
noisier Christmas Eve.

Down, boy.

FIREMAN: Well done, boys.

Well done.

I've never seen
one like that before.

I wonder what
caused that then.

Oh.

Well, we'll be on
our way then, sir.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): When the
firemen turned off the hose

and were standing in the
wet, smoky room, Jim's aunt,

Ms. Prothero came downstairs
and peered in at them.

She looked at the three tall
firemen and their shining

helmets standing among
the smoke and cinders

and dissolving snowballs.

Jim and I waited
very quietly to hear

what she would say to them.

She said the right
thing, always.

Would you like
anything to read?

What did she say?

Eat?

Years and years
ago, when I was a boy,

there were wolves in Wales.

And birds, the color of
red flannel petticoats,

whisked past the
harp-shaped hills,

when we sang and wallowed all
night and day in caves that

smelt like Sunday afternoons
and damp front farmhouse parlors

and be chased with the
jawbones of deacons,

the English and the bears.

Before the motor car,
before the wheel,

before the Duchess-faced
horse, when we rode

the daft and happy
hills bareback.

It snowed and it snowed.

It snowed lasted year too.

I made a snowman.

My friend knocked it down.

So I knocked him down.

And then, we had tea.

But it was not the same snow.

Our snow was not only shaken
from white wash buckets

down the sky.

It came shawling out
of the ground and swam

and drifted out of the arms
and bodies of the trees.

Snow grew overnight on
the roofs of houses,

like a pure and
grandfather moss.

Minutely white ivied the walls
and settled on the postman

opening the gate, like
a dumb numb thunderstorm

of white torn Christmas cards.

Were there postmen then too?

The sprinkling eyes and
wind-cherried noses on spread

frozen feet, they
crunched up to the doors

and mittened on them manfully.

But all the children could
hear was the ringing of bells.

You mean the postmen
went rat-a-tat-tat

and the doors rang?

I mean that the bells
the children could hear

were inside them.

I only hear thunder
sometimes, never bells.

There were church bells too.

Inside them?

No, no, no, in the
bat-black, snow-white belfries,

tugged by bishops and storks.

And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town,

over the frozen foam of the
powder and ice cream hills,

over the crackling sea.

It seemed that all the churches
boomed for joy under my window.

And the weathercocks crew
for Christmas on our fence.

Get back to the postman.

POSTMAN: Get way, will you?

What are you doing?

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Oh, well, they

were just ordinary postman,
fond of walking and dogs

and Christmas and the snow.

They knocked on the
door with bare knuckles.

And then, they stood
on the wet welcome mat

in the little, drifted porches
and huffed and puffed making

ghosts with their
breath and the jogged

from foot to foot like small
boys wanting to go out.

And then, the presents,
after the Christmas box.

Thank you.

Come here.

Merry Christmas.

Thank you.

Have a nice Christmas.

Happy Christmas.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
And the cold postman,

with a rose on his
button-nose, tingled

down the tea tray slithered run
of the chilly glinting hill.

He went in his ice
bound boots, like a man

on fishmonger's slabs.

He wagged his bag like
a frozen camel's hump,

dizzily turned the corner on one
foot, and by God, he was gone.

Where did he go?

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): Oh,
he went to deliver letters

and presents to other families.

But Father Christmas brings
the presents, doesn't he?

He does, boy.

But the-- the postman
brings presents from people

who live far away, like--

like Uncle Guy.

Will Father Christmas be able
to get here in such heavy rain?

Of course, boy.

Why do you think
he uses rain-deer?

I'm not going
to sleep tonight.

Aren't you now?

I'll go up to
bed, but I'm staying

awake until Father Christmas
comes so I can see him.

- I used to try that.
- Did you ever see him?

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
No, I never did.

But on Christmas Eve, milk and
biscuits waiting by the fire,

I would hang at
the foot of my bed,

Bessie Bunter's black stocking.

And always I said I would stay
awake all the moonlit night

to hear the roof
alighting reindeer

and see the hollied boot
descend through soot.

But soon the sand of the
snow drifted into my eyes.

And though I stared
toward the fireplace

and around the
flickering room where

the black sack-like
stocking hung,

I was asleep before the chimney
trembled and the room was

red and white with Christmas.

Then, in the morning,
though no snow

melted on the bedroom floor,
the stocking bulged and brimmed.

It was Christmas.

Bed time, Thomas.

Not yet.

Now.

Straight up.

No messing.

But it's Christmas.

Don't I know it.

You don't want to be
sleeping through it,

do you, with all your
aunties and uncles here?

Katie, do you know
where that photo is?

What photo?

GRANDPA: You know, the
one of me all dressed up.

Oh, Dad, I'm trying
to get the boy to bed.

Now, just a minute.

I know it's here.

Oh, you're hopeless.

Well-- oh, here.

Now, oh, here we are then.

THOMAS: That's you?

Oh, I'd forgotten how--

oh, my.

Look, Katie.

MOM: How silly.

THOMAS: Look.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): Now,
these were the useful presents,

engulfing mufflers of the old
coach days and mittens made

for giant sloths, zebra scarves
of a substance like silky gum

that could be tug-o-warred
war down to the galoshes.

Blinding tam-o-shanters
like patchwork tea cozies

and bunny-suited
busbies and balaclavas

for victims of head
shrinking tribes.

From aunts who always wore
wool next to the skin,

there were mustached
and rasping vests

that made you wonder why the
aunts had any skin left at all.

And once I had a
little crocheted

nosebag from an aunt, alas,
no longer whinnying with us.

And pictureless books, in
which small boys, though

warned with quotations not to,
would skate on Farmer Giles'

pond, and did and drowned.

And books that
told me everything

about the wasp, except why.

Go on.

Go on to the useless presents.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): Oh,
yes, the useless presents.

Are you going to
sell me some tickets?

You are?

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Well, there were

bags of moist and many
colored jelly babies

and a folded flag
and a false nose

and a tram conductor's cap
and a machine that punched

tickets and rang a bell.

Yes, please.

[chatter]

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Never a catapult.

No, no, no.

Buy a ticket.

Buy a ticket.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): Once,
by mistake that no one could

explain, a little hatchet.

Oh, and a celluloid duck that
made, when you pressed it,

almost unduck like
sound, a mewing moo

that an ambitious cat might
make who wished to be a cow.

[duck noise]

Happy Christmas.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
And a painting book

in which I could make
the grass, the trees,

the sea, and the animals
any color I pleased.

And still, the
dazzling sky blue sheep

are grazing in the red field
under the rainbow-billed

and pea green birds.

We had hardboileds, toffee,
fudge, and allsorts, crunchies,

cracknels, humbugs,
glaciers, marzipan,

and butterwelsh, for the Welsh.

There was a company, Gallant
and Scarlet, but never

nice to taste, though I
always tried when very young,

of belted and [inaudible]
and musketed lead soldiers.

So soon to lose their
heads and legs in the wars.

Troops who, if they could
not fight, could always run.

[mimicking gunshots]

[drums]

[disembodied marching orders]

[bagpipes]

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): Then,
there were Snakes and Families

and Happy Ladders and easy hobby
games for little engineers,

complete with instructions.

Easy?

Oh, easy for Leonardo.

- Cheers.
- Cheers.

Oh, you want
something, do you?

Here you are, boy.

Still drinking, I see.

Oh, don't you worry, auntie.

It's Christmas day.

Let's have a happy time.

Cheers.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): And a
whistle to make the dogs bark,

to wake up the old man
next door, to make him

beat on the wall with
his stick, to shake

our picture off the wall.

Be quiet, dog.

Bad dog.

Mumbles.

Now, you there, Mumbles.

Stop it.

[chatter]

Will you stop it?

Hey.

Hey--

You little scamp you.

Out.

And then, it was breakfast
under the balloons.

Were there uncles
like in our house?

There are always uncles at
Christmas, the same uncles.

Would you like
some tea, auntie?

Oh, no thank you, dear.

Oh, oh.

What a trick to play.

You should know better.

Both of you, acting
like children.

It was him.

Him.

Him.

Him.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Auntie Bessie

played "Pop Goes the Weasel"
and "Nuts in May" and "Oranges

and Lemons" on the untuned
piano in the parlor

all through the thimble hiding,
musical cheering, blindman's

bluffing party on the never
to be forgotten day at the end

of the unremembered year.

And on Christmas
mornings, I would go out

with my packet of cigarettes.

You put one in your mouth
and you stood at the corner

of the street and you waited for
hours in vain for an old lady

to scold you for
smoking a cigarette.

And then, with a
smirk, you ate it.

Then, with dog disturbing
whistles and sugar fags,

I would scour the swatched town
for news of the little world

and find always a dead bird
by the white post office

or by the deserted swings.

Perhaps a robin.

all but one of it's fires out.

And that fire still
burning on his breast.

[bells ringing]

Men and women wading or scooping
back from chapel with taproom

noses and wind-bussed cheeks.

All albinos huddled their
stiff black jarring feathers

against the irreligious snow.

Mistletoe hung from
the gas brackets

in all the front parlors.

There was sherry and walnuts
and bottled beer and crackers

by the dessert spoons.

And cats in their fur-abouts
watched the fires.

And the high heat fires spat,
all ready for the chestnuts

and the mulling pokers.

Some few large men sat
in the front parlors

without their collars,
uncles almost certainly,

trying their new cigars,
holding them out judiciously

at arm's length, returning
them to their mouths coughing,

then holding them
out again as though

waiting for an explosion.

And some few small
aunts, not wanted

in the kitchen, nor anyone
else for that matter,

sat on the very edges of their
chairs, poised and brittle,

afraid to break like
faded cups and saucers.

[music - "carol of the bells"]

Not many those mornings
trod the piling streets.

An old man, always
fawn-bowlered,

yellow gloved, and at this time
of year, with spats of snow,

would take his constitutional
to the white bowling green

and back, as he
would take it wet

or fire on Christmas
day or doomsday.

Sometimes, two hale young
men, with big pipes blazing,

no overcoats, and
wind blown scarves

would trudge, unspeaking,
down to the forlorn sea.

To work up an appetite?

To blow away the fumes?

Who knows?

To walk into the waves until
nothing of them was left,

but the two curling
smoke clouds of

their inextinguishable fires?

Then, I would be
slap-dashing home,

the gravy smell of the dinners
of others, the bird smell,

the brandy, the
pudding and mince

coiling up to my nostrils, when
out of a snow-clogged side lane

would come a boy,
the spit of myself,

with a pink tipped cigarette and
a violent past of a black eye,

cocky is a Bulfinch,
leering all to himself.

[ominous music playing]

I hated him on sight and
sound and would be just about

to put my dog whistle
to my lips and blow him

off the face of Christmas,
when suddenly he,

with a violent wink, put
his whistle to his lips

and blow so stridently, so
high, so exquisitely loud

that gobbling faces, their
cheeks bulged with goose,

would press against
their tinseled windows

the whole length of the
white echoing street.

[christmas music playing]

If at first you
don't succeed, give up.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
At dinner we had turkey

stuffed with walnut dressing,
little potatoes, and wine,

always wine.

And when that was done,
we had blazing pudding.

Someone found the silver
threepenny bit with a currant

on it.

And some one was
always Uncle Arnold.

Uh oh.

Don't bother, boy.

I got the threepenny
bit right here.

Oh, duck.

There's a shoe nut.

Have you got a shoe horn
to open it with, boy?

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): And
after dinner, the uncles

sat in front of the fire,
loosened all buttons,

put their large moist hands
over their watch chains,

groaned a little, and slept.

[groans]

Nice drop of port.

Thank you, auntie.

Better in that out.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): Mothers,
aunts, and sisters scuttled

to and fro bearing tureens.

Auntie Bessie, who had
already been frightened

twice by a clockwork mouse,
whimpered at the sideboard

and had some elderberry wine.

The dog was sick.

Auntie Dosie had to
have three aspirins.

But Auntie Hannah,
who liked port,

stood in the middle of the
snowbound backyard singing

like a big bosom thrush.

[singing]

Oh, no.

Oh, Hannah.

She's out in the yard.

[chatter]

(SINGING) You may think, which
is happy and free from hell.

I tried to keep an eye on her.

We'll you didn't
do it, did you?

Well, I've been busy.

I know.

(SINGING) Tis sad when you--

[dogs barking]

She's been drinking
the whole day.

Oh, she's tiddly as a newt.

Maybe she won't even
notice the cold then.

(SINGING) For
an old man's gold.

He's a bird in a gilded day.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): I would
blow up balloons to see

how big they would blow up to.

And when they burst,
which they all did,

the uncles jumped and rumbled.

In the rich and heavy
afternoon, the uncles, breathing

like dolphins, and
the snow descending,

I would sit among festoons and
Chinese lanterns and nibble

dates and try to
make a model man

of war, following
the instructions

for little engineers.

But instead, I would produce
what might be mistaken

for a seagoing tramcar.

And I remembered that on the
afternoon of Christmas day,

when the others
sat around the fire

and told each other that
this was nothing, no nothing

to the great snow bound and
turkey proud yule log cracking,

holly berried, bedizened, and
kissing under the mistletoe

Christmas when they were
children, I would go out,

my bright new boots squeaking
into the white world

onto the sea woodhill to call on
Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad

through the still streets,
leaving huge, deep footprints

on the hidden pavements.

[music - "i saw three ships"]

Watch out.

You're going to fall.

I bet people are going to
think there's been hippos.

What would you do if you saw
a hippo coming down the street?

I'd go like this, bang.

And throw him over the railings
and roll him down the hill.

I'd tickle him under the
ear and he'd wag his tail.

What would you do
if you saw two hippos?

Look, I made a snow pie.

What's it taste like?

Like snow pie.

[horn]

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Iron-flanked and bellowing

he hippos clanked and
battered through the scudding

snow toward us as we
passed Mr. Daniel's house.

What shall we do?

Let's post Mr.
Daniel a snowball

through his letter box.

Let's write
things in the snow.

Let's write, Mr. Daniel
looks like his spaniel

all over his lawn.

Yeah.

[mischievous music playing]

[barking]

[music - "i saw three ships"]

ALL: (SINGING) Mr. Daniel
looks like his spaniel.

You wicked boys.

Clear off.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
And then, we

walked along the white shore.

The silent one clouded
heavens drifted onto the sea.

Can the fishes see
when it's snowing?

Don't be daft.

They think it's the
sky falling down.

It's not so daft as Mrs.
Griffins up the street.

They says she puts her
head under the water

and listens to the
fish talk Welsh.

[laughter]

[flute music playing]

[music - "the first noel"]

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): Now,
we were snow-blind travelers

lost on the north hills.

And vast dewlapped
dogs with flasks

round their necks
ambled and shambled

up to us, begging excelsior.

Come on, boy.
Good boy.

Good boy.

Follow Mumbles.

He'll lead us home.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): We returned
home through the poor streets.

But only a few children
fumbled with bare red fingers

in the wheel-rutted snow
and catcalled after us.

Get out of me yard.

You [inaudible].

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Their voices fading away

as we trudged uphill into
the cries of the dock birds

and the hooting of ships
out in the whirling bay.

And then, at tea the recovered
uncles would be jolly.

And the ice cake loomed in
the center of the table,

like a marble grave.

Auntie Hannah laced the
tea with rum, because it

was only once a year.

It all sounds like an
ordinary Christmas to me.

And it was.

Christmas when you
were a boy wasn't

any different to Christmas now.

Oh, it was.
It was.

Why was Christmas
different then?

I mustn't tell you.

Why can't Christmas
be the same for me

as it was for you
when you were a boy?

I mustn't tell you,
because it's Christmas now.

[footsteps]

You ought to be
in bed, young man.

Grandad was
telling me a story.

Well, it's past your bedtime.

Thomas?

He's just about to go up.

Where you going now?

THOMAS: I have to leave
something for Father Christmas.

He's so excited.

GRANDPA: He'll stay awake all
night if you allow him to.

It will be nice if it
snowed for tonight.

Well, it's a big day tomorrow.

I think I'll go to bed.

Goodnight, Dad.

Thanks for keeping
an eye on him.

Oh, it's no trouble.

He's a pleasure.

He sits there good as
gold while I ramble on.

He seems interested too.

Is that enough for Father
Christmas, do you think?

Should I leave more?

Don't worry about it.

If he wants some more, he'll
know where to find them.

I hope so anyway.

Come along, Thomas.

I'll tuck you in.

Goodnight then, son.

Sleep well.

Goodnight, [inaudible].

And Thomas, remember,
not to early, all right?

All right.

Grandad, is this
what the town looked

like when you were a boy?

Oh, yeah.

It was just the same.

MOM: Goodnight.

Don't you dare.

Ho, ho, ho.

Would you like to hear more?

THOMAS: Yes, please.

Bring out the tall tales
now that be told by the fire

as we roasted chestnuts and
the gaslight bubbled low.

Ghosts with their heads under
arms trailed their chains

and said, oh, like
owls in the long night

when I dare not look
over my shoulder.

Wild beasts lurked in the
cubby hole under the stairs

where the gas meter ticked.

I remember we went
singing carols once,

when there wasn't
a shaving of a moon

to light the flying streets.

At the end of a long
road was a drive

that led to a large house.

And we stumbled up the darkness
of the drive that night,

each one of us afraid,
each one holding

a stone in his hand, in case.

And all of us to
brave to say a word.

The wind through the trees made
noises as of old and unpleasant

and maybe web-footed
men wheezing in caves.

We reached the black
bulk of the house.

What should we give them?

"Hark the Herald?"

"Christmas Comes
But Once a Year."

No, no.

"Good King Wenceslas."

I'll count three.

One, two, three.

ALL: (SINGING) Good
King Wenceslas looked

out on the Feast of Stephen.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
And we began to sing,

our voices high and
seemingly distant

in the snow felted darkness
around the house that

was occupied by nobody we knew.

ALL: (SINGING) Though
the frost was cruel.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
We stood close

together, near the dock door.

ALL: (SINGING)
Gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and
stand by me if though

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): And then a
small, dry voice of someone who

has not spoken for
a long time joined

our singing, a small,
dry eggshell voice

from the other side of the door.

ALL: (SINGING) Right
against the forest fence--

9 by Saint Agnes' fountain.

Bring me flesh
and bring me wine.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): A small,
dry voice through the keyhole.

MAN IN HOUSE: (SINGING)
Though and I shall see him

dine when we bear them thither.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): And
when we stopped running,

we were outside our house.

Perhaps it was a ghost.

Perhaps it was trolls.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Dan was always reading.

Let's go in and see if
there's any jelly left.

Yeah.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): The
front room was lovely.

Balloons floated under the
hot water bottle gulping gas.

Everything was good again.

And shone over the town.

[music - "on to bethlehem town"]

(SINGING) On to
Bethlehem town.

Join the crowd and travel
down, down the road

that leads us to the cradle.

Come all who are able.

Come, come to the stable with
hearts full of love as we kneel

and pray.

Come and see the child
with his mother Mary mild.

Come along and
worship at the cradle.

There we'll see the boy,
hearts aglow with boundless joy

with the everlasting word.

We will bow before him.

Come, come and adore him.

Bringing gifts of gold,
frankincense, and myrrh.

Come to Bethlehem town.

Join the crowd and travel
down, down the road

that leads us to the cradle.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Always on Christmas

night there was music.

An uncle played the fiddle.

A cousin sang "Cherry Ripe."

And another uncle
sang "Drake's Drum."

[music - "drake's drum"]

(SINGING) Drake, he's in his
hammock and a thousand mile

away.

Captain, art though
sleeping there below?

Slung atween the round
shot in Nombre Dios Bay

and dreaming all the
time of Plymouth Hoe.

Yonder looms the island.

Yonder lie the
ships, with sailor

lads a-dancing heel and toe.

And the shore lights
flashing and the night

tide dashing, he sees it all so
plainly as he saw it long ago.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): It
was very warm in the house.

Auntie Hannah, who had got
on to the parsnip wine,

sang a song about
bleeding hearts and death.

And then another, in
which she said her heart

was like a bird's nest.

And then, everybody
laughed again.

(SINGING) Came tripping
there so lightly.

On her beauty, so
amazing, all transfixed

he stood there gazing.

'Mong the fairest
she seemed rarest.

Her smile did shed
around fresh beauty.

She shone and angel too his
view to love her was but duty.

That's lovely.

Why don't we
sing-- why don't we

sing "All Through the Night?"

[MUSIC - "ALL THROUGH THE
NIGHT"]

ALL: (SINGING) Sleep my
love and peace attend

thee all through the night.

Guardian angels God will send
thee all through the night.

Soft the drowsy
hours are creeping.

Hill and dale in
summer sleeping.

I my loving watch am keeping
all through the night.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
Then, I went to bed.

ALL: (SINGING) While
the moon her watch

is keeping all
through the night.

While the weary world is
sleeping all through the night.

Over they spirit gently
stealing visions of delight--

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER): Looking
out through my bedroom window,

out into the moonlight and the
unending smoke-colored snow,

I could see the lights in the
windows of all the other houses

on our hill and hear the
music rising from them,

up the long steadily
forming night.

ALL: (SINGING) Peace attend
thee all through the night.

Guardian angels--

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
I turned the gas down.

I got into bed.

ALL: (SINGING) All
through the night.

Soft the drowsy
hours are creeping.

Hill and dale in
summer sleeping.

GRANDPA (VOICEOVER):
I said some words

to the close and holy darkness.

And then, I slept.

ALL: (SINGING) While
the moon her watch

is keeping all
through the night.

While the weary world is
sleeping all through the night.

Over they spirit gently stealing
visions of delight revealing.

Breathes a pure and holy
feeling all through the night.

[christmas music playing]

[music - "deck the halls"]