Seasonal Greetings Genuine carol singers were few and far between
this season. The callers we had fell into two main sorts. One sort rang the bell and waited for the door to open, sang a faltering note or two and held out a hand for a donation. The other sort sang a line and hammered the door like debt-collectors. The last of the entertainers disappeared after Christmas Eve and we heaved a sigh of relief. The second wave of door-knockers came at New Year. A thundering alarm as though to bring warning of fire usually introduced a youngster to pipe up, `Compliments of the season,' the price of peace being a copper or two. There was something less barefaced about the second wave. They didn't pretend to have entertained. Even so, I found it hard to greet any of them with enthusiasm, for I could still remember that New Year's morning when I was so rudely awakened at six. With a pounding heart and sleep blinding my eyes, I rushed downstairs thinking of all sorts of calamities. In the gloom of the porch stood a little fellow of no more than ten years of age. 'Happy New Year,' he said. Alas, I had left my sense of humour in bed and the early bird took off in alarm at my reaction to his greeting.
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