I first encountered James Thurber when I viewed the Danny Kaye film The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I was a teenager at the time and was just discovering that movies were often adapted from prose. Finding the humor of Mitty to my liking, I eagerly sought out Thurber's work and must admit, was disappointed. I have, however, delved back into his work over the years and am pleased to report that either Thurber, or I, have improved with age. Although some of his references are dated, his insight into the human condition still rings true today and it is easy to see why he is considered by many to be the greatest American humorist since Mark Twain.
   James Grover Thurber was born on December 8, 1894 in Columbus, Ohio. His father, Charles Leander Thurber, worked in a number of clerical and secretarial jobs for various Ohio politicians and had many periods of unemployment. His mother, Mary Agnes Fisher, was a full-time housewife, lifelong practical joker and her skewed sense of humor was probably the major influence on Thurber's writing. There was another influence, however, that was of a much more serious nature.
   At the age of 7, Thurber was engaged in a game of William Tell with his brothers and was struck in his left eye during the game. There was some delay in removing the damaged eye and his right eye suffered as a result. For the rest of his life, Thurber was plagued by failing eyesight. The injury also impacted his childhood since kept him from participating in many activities. As a result, Thurber excelled at academics throughout his school years and, although he was quite popular in school, he tended to spend many hours alone studying, developing elaborate fantasies for his own amusement and teaching himself to draw.
   Upon graduation from high school, Thurber entered Ohio State where he failed to attain a degree after two attempts (he did, however, keep close ties to the University). Next, he worked for the State Department during WWI as a code clerk and, after the war, tried his hand as a reporter. In 1922, he married Althea Adams, who many consider the prototype of the "Thurber Woman": a shrewish and domineering female figure. Shortly after his marriage, Thurber began work as a freelance writer and supplemented the lean times with more newspaper work.
   Thurber's fortunes changed, however, when he met E. B. White in 1927. White introduced Thurber to Herbert Ross, the editor of The New Yorker. Ross hired Thurber as a editor/writer and also began to use Thurber's cartoons in the magazine. In 1929, White and Thurber collaborated on a book, Is Sex Necessary?, a parody of popular psychology books of the time, and, although not widely advertised, it sold quite well. A book of Thurber cartoons followed in 1932 and within a short time, Thurber was able to step down from his editorial post at The New Yorker.
   For nearly the next 30 years, Thurber made his living as a freelance writer, contributing essays and fiction to The New Yorker and other publications and later collecting these works into books. But, there was a dark side to his life. His marriage to Althea, never very good as marriages go, ended bitterly in 1935. Although he remarried a mere two months later, all accounts suggest that his second union was not a happy one for either party. His eyesight continued to deteriorate, he lost the ability to draw and became legally blind in the 40s. He also became withdrawn, subject to nervous breakdowns, and had problems with alcohol. Throughout it all, however, Thurber continued to write comedy and, even if it was humor with a darker edge, it still made light of the world and the people who lived in it. He was even able to pull himself together enough to portray himself for eighty-eight performances in one of the sketches of the play A Thurber Carnival in 1960. His health began to spiral downward after this and he eventually succumbed to pneumonia and other medical complications on November 2, 1961.
   A Visit from Saint Nicholas IN THE ERNEST HEMINGWAY MANNER originally appeared in The New Yorker, December 24, 1927. We hope you enjoy it.
Bob Gay
December, 2004
Introduction © 2004 by Bob Gay

It was the night before Christmas. The house was very quiet. No creatures were stirring in the house. There weren't even any mice stirring. The stockings had been hung carefully by the chimney. The children hoped that Saint Nicholas would come and fill them.

The children were in their beds. Their beds were in the room next to ours. Mamma and I were in our beds. Mamma wore a kerchief. I had my cap on. I could hear the children moving. We didn't move. We wanted the children to think we were asleep.

"Father," the children said.

There was no answer. He's there, all right, they thought.

"Father," they said, and banged on their beds.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"We have visions of sugarplums," the children said.

"Go to sleep," said mamma.

"We can't sleep," said the children. They stopped talking, but I could hear them moving. They made sounds.

"Can you sleep?" asked the children.

"No," I said.

"You ought to sleep."

"I know. I ought to sleep."

"Can we have some sugarplums?"

"You can't have any sugarplums," said mamma.

"We just asked you."

There was a long silence. I could hear the children moving again.

"Is Saint Nicholas asleep?" asked the children.

"No," mamma said. "Be quiet."

"What the hell would he be asleep tonight for?" I asked.

"He might be," the children said.

"He isn't," I said.

"Let's try to sleep," said mamma.

The house became quiet once more. I could hear the rustling noises the children made when they moved in their beds.

Out on the lawn a clatter arose. I got out of bed and went to the window. I opened the shutters; then I threw up the sash. The moon shone on the snow. The moon gave the lustre of mid-day to objects in the snow. There was a miniature sleigh in the snow, and eight tiny reindeer. A little man was driving them. He was lively and quick. He whistled and shouted at the reindeer and called them by their names. Their names were Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen.

He told them to dash away to the top of the porch, and then he told them to dash away to the top of the wall. They did. The sleigh was full of toys.

"Who is it?" mamma asked.

"Some guy," I said. "A little guy."

I pulled my head in out of the window and listened. I heard the reindeer on the roof. I could hear their hoofs pawing and prancing on the roof.

"Shut the window," said mamma.

I stood still and listened.

"What do you hear?"

"Reindeer," I said. I shut the window and walked about. It was cold. Mamma sat up in the bed and looked at me.

"How would they get on the roof?" mamma asked.

"They fly."

"Get into bed. You'll catch cold."

Mamma lay down in bed. I didn't get into bed. I kept walking around.

"What do you mean, they fly?" asked mamma.

"Just fly is all."

Mamma turned away toward the wall. She didn't say anything.

I went out into the room where the chimney was. The little man came down the chimney and stepped into the room. He was dressed all in fur. His clothes were covered with ashes and soot from the chimney. On his back was a pack like a peddler's pack. There were toys in it. His cheeks and nose were red and he had dimples. His eyes twinkled. His mouth was little, like a bow, and his beard was very white. Between his teeth was a stumpy pipe. The smoke from the pipe encircled his head in a wreath. He laughed and his belly shook. It shook like a bowl of red jelly. I laughed. He winked his eye, then he gave a twist to his head. He didn't say anything.

He turned to the chimney and filled the stockings and turned away from the chimney. Laying his finger aside his nose, he gave a nod. Then he went up the chimney. I went to the chimney and looked up. I saw him get into his sleigh. He whistled at his team and the team flew away. The team flew as lightly as thistledown. The driver called out, "Merry Christmas and good night." I went back to bed.

"What was it?" asked mamma. "Saint Nicholas?" She smiled.

"Yeah," I said.

She sighed and turned in the bed.

"I saw him," I said.

"Sure."

"I did see him."

"Sure you saw him." She turned farther toward the wall.

"Father," said the children.

"There you go," mamma said. "You and your flying reindeer."

"Go to sleep," I said.

"Can we see Saint Nicholas when he comes?" the children asked.

"You got to be asleep," I said. "You got to be asleep when he comes. You can't see him unless you're unconscious."

"Father knows," mamma said.

I pulled the covers over my mouth. It was warm under the covers. As I went to sleep I wondered if mamma was right.

A careful search of copyright records has shown that this story is in the Public Domain.