I have always thought of
Christmas time, when it has come round, as a good time; a kind, forgiving,
charitable time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year,
when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and
to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the
grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.
Instead of being a time of
unusual behavior, Christmas is perhaps the only time in the year when people
can obey their natural impulses and express their true sentiments without
feeling self-conscious and, perhaps, foolish. Christmas, in short, is about the
only chance a man has to be himself. 
I sometimes think we expect
too much of Christmas Day. We try to crowd into it the long arrears of
kindliness and humanity of the whole year. As for me, I like to take my
Christmas a little at a time, all through the year. And thus I drift along into
the holidays — let them overtake me unexpectedly — waking up some fine morning
and suddenly saying to myself: "Why, this is Christmas Day!
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