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[Trees for Auction: Presented by Safeway Grocers: An Elizabethan Xmas: NW Natural, Designer: Reed and Cross-Kay Pederson, Nature's Xmas Celebration: Willis of Eugene. Designer: Beverley Verbanic. Imagine Waking Up On Xmas Morn: Swanson Superior Forest Products, Highlander Heaven: Sponsor: Knecht's Auto Parts, Designer Peggy Saleeby, Christmas in the Last Frontier: Sponsor: McKenzie Surgical Group. Designer: Lisa Farstad, Do It Up Royally: Sponsor: PC Market of Choice Grocers. Designer: Peggy Saleeby][Festival Board of Directors: Cary L. Hughes, Carol L. Berkman, Linda A. Snyder, G. David Jewett, Terry E. Allen: Treasurer, Richard M. Abrhahm MD, Thomas Costabile, Donald J. Churnside, Fran Curtis, Judith Ekstrom MD, Mike Gillespie, Gerald Harper DDS, Jon V. Jaqua, Scott H. Kitchel MD, Joyce Langehers, Douglas McKay, Chris Miller, J. Peter Moore, Andy Moore, Donna Moore, John R. Murphy, Roy J. Orr, Gary D. Papé, Annie M. Sakaguchi, Walid G. Saleeby, Ray M. Settelmeyer, Kay L. Toolson, Greg A. Weiss, David L. Weiss. Honorary Directors: Paul B. Cole, Janice Eberly, Corinne Fuller, Aaron and Marie Jones, Bill McCabe, Pete Pifer, Marty W. Smitth, Donna P. Woolley]Festival of Trees Welcome Statement
Welcome to the Eighth Annual McKenzie-Willamette Hospital Foundation Festival of Trees. Every year we are asked the same question, “How can you top that?” Each year our leaders bring a special ingredient to the formula that has made this event successful. ...The holidays have always been an important time to remember our families, & our friends. Supporting the Festival of Trees is a way to enjoy family & friends while also helping others. We especially want to thank the people at Safeway [Grocers], our first Title Sponsor for their generous support. Festival is about people. ...We think this our best yet, but we’re a bit biased. McKenzie-Willamette Hospital Foundation

Wish Upon A Star........: Along with the excitement of this years’ event being the 1st of the new millennium is the opportunity to achieve yet another milestone – the $2 million dollar mark. Since its inception in 1993, the Festival of Trees has generated over $1.75 million in net proceeds for the McKenzie-Willamette Hospital. These terrific results have made possible significant improvements to the hospital – enhancing the quality of health care service for all of us. We hope the best is still yet to come. With a bit of good luck & the amazing generosity of our community, the $2 million milestone is within each! ...Each special area of the Festival, from Dickens’ Village to the inaugural Candy Cane Forest area for children is the result of countless volunteer hours & many creative ideas. ...We encourage you to have a great time taking in the sights, smells, sounds & tastes of the 2000 Festival. While doing so, don’t forget to “Wish Upon A Star,” because as the Festival of Trees has proven, dreams can come true.....Happy Holidays! Andy & Donna Moore

Important Festival Information
Trees Live Auction: Certain trees have been selected for live auction. You may participate by submitting a sealed bid. All other trees may be purchased through “silent auction”.
Guaranteed Sales Price: If you are willing to pay the stated price, you may buy the tree outright.
Candy Cane Forest: This is a new area this year. For 5 dollars children have the opportunity to decorate a 12" tree with candy and donate it to his/her favorite charity. It is our hope to educate children about the sense of giving at the holidays.

In the Workhouse: Christmas Day, George R Sims
It is Christmas Day in the workhouse,
And the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table,
For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They’ve paid for — with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their ‘Thank’ee kindly, mum’s ’
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes!
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
“Great God!” he cries, “but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died!”

The guardians gazed in horror,
The master’s face went white;
“Did a pauper refuse the pudding?”
“Could their ears believe aright?”
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose ’mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians’ ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
“I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:
Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark, unhallowed graves.”

“He’s drunk!” said the workhouse master,
“Or else he’s mad and raves.”
“Not drunk or mad,” cried the pauper,
“But only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture’s feast

I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won’t be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out,
It’s only on Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey on my burning brain;
I’ll tell you the rest in a whisper –
I swear I won’t shout again.”

Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend;.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watched the captured beast.
Here’s why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast”

Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You’re doing a noble action
With the parish’s meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me,
My Nance was killed by you!’

Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who’d loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief,
That the House was open to us,
But they wouldn’t give out relief.

I slunk to the filthy alley —
’Twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve
And the bakers’ shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.

Then I told her the house was open
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
and up in her rags she sat,
Crying, Bide the Christmas here, John,
We’ve never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger
The other would break my heart.

All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered No,
The moon shone in at the window,
Set in a wreath of snow.

Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling’s eyes
The faraway look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent

And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo’d by the Devon shore;
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
Give me a crust — I’m famished
For the love of God, she groaned.

I rushed from the room like a madman
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, Food for a dying woman!
And the answer came, Too late.
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel’s clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

Back through the filthy byways!
Back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush;
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv’ry moonlight,
My Nance lay, cold and still.

Up to the blackened ceiling,
The sunken eyes were cast
I knew on those lips, all bloodless,
My name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband —
O God! had I but known! —
Had called in vain, and, in anguish,
Had died in that den — alone.

Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
for a loaf of the parish bread;
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!

There, get ye gone to your dinners, Don’t mind me in the least, Think of the happy paupers Eating your Christmas feast; And when you recount their blessings In your smug parochial way, Say what you did for me, too, Only last Christmas Day.

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© 2000. Christine O’Keeffe, Ver. 1.1. Saturday, December 9, 2000