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loreena mckennitt - a child's christmas in wales, part one كلمات أغنية

one christmas was so much like the other, in those years around the sea_town corner now, out of all sound except the distant 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 twelve, or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when i was six
all the christmases roll down towards thе two_tongued sea, like a cold and hеadlong 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. in goes my hand into that wool_white bell_tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol_singing sea, and out come mrs. prothero and the firemen
it was on the afternoon of the day 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 reindeers. 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 slide and sidle over the white back_garden walls, and the lynx_eyed hunters, jim and i, fur_capped and moccasined trappers from hudson bay, off mumbles road, would hurl 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—that 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 neighbour’s polar cat. but soon the voice grew louder. “fire!” cried mrs. prothero, and she beat the dinner_gong
and we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, towards the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining_room, and the gong was bombilating, and mrs. prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in pompeii. this was better than all the cats in wales standing on the wall in a row. we bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke_filled room
something was burning all right; perhaps it was mr. prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. but he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, “a fine christmas!” and smacking at the smoke with a slipper
“call the fire brigade,” cried mrs. prothero as she beat the gong. “they won’t be here,” said mr. prothero, “it’s christmas.”
there was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and mr. prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting
“do something,” he said
and we threw all our snowballs into the smoke—i think we missed mr. prothero—and ran out of the house to the telephone box
“let’s call the police as well,” jim said
“and the ambulance.”
“and ernie jenkins, he likes fires.”
but we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and mr. prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. nobody could have had a noisier christmas eve. and when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, jim’s aunt, miss prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. jim and i waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. she said the right thing, always. she looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said: “would you like anything to read?”

- loreena mckennitt

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