At the age of six we had faith. Took mother's hand and went to Macy's where Santa Claus gave us little presents. But by the age of nine we discovered that the Santa at Gimbel's gave bigger, better things away. And any-how the line was shorter. At age twelve we moved into an apartment house so we knew damn well that this chimney-stack stuff was a farce.

A year later, when we began to go to the zoo, we discovered that reindeers have an awful odor and, being behind a fence, staring out unhappily, they couldn't even fly. At fourteen we realized that Santa was so fat that his ability to walk, not to mention fly, was a highly dubious question. With another year, morality entered the picture, and we decided that a big-red-nose was a sure sign of excessive drinking, his bulging waist a sign of slovenly eating, and his shaggy-white-beard a sign of sloppiness and laxness.

At length we concluded that Santa did not exist, and if he did he should certainly be banished for his personal habits and his influence upon the innocent youth of the world.

But with the mellowing of later years, we had to give credit where due. So we admitted that the old boy certainly did enjoy himself--that is, if he did exist. And if he doesn't, well, drinking, eating, carousing, and even beards aren't as repugnant as once they seemed. So we now conclude that if Santa doesn't exist, what he stands for is worth believing in. And if he doesn't really exist, we'd like to volunteer our services.