IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE: LIVE IN CHICAGO! BACKSTAGE GUIDE 21 my sake but for others too. You don’t know what a mess this town is in. You don’t understand. I’ve got to get back. They need me here.” “I understand right enough,” the stranger said slowly. “I just wanted to make sure you did. You had the greatest gift of all conferred upon you—the gift of life, of being a part of this world and taking a part in it. Yet you denied that gift.” As the stranger spoke, the church bell high up on the hill sounded, calling the townspeople to Christmas vespers. Then the downtown church bell started ringing. “I’ve got to get back,” George said desperately. “You can’t cut me off like this. Why, it’s murder!” “Suicide rather, wouldn’t you say?” the stranger murmured. “You brought it on yourself. However, since it’s Christmas Eve—well, anyway, close your eyes and keep listening to the bells.” His voice sank lower. “Keep listening to the bells...” George did as he was told. He felt a cold, wet snowdrop touch his cheek— and then another and another. When he opened his eyes, the snow was falling fast, so fast that it obscured everything around him. The little stranger could not be seen, but then neither could anything else. The snow was so thick that George had to grope for the bridge railing. As he started toward the village, he thought he heard someone saying “Merry Christmas,” but the bells were drowning out all rival sounds, so he could not be sure. When he reached Hank Biddle’s house he stopped and walked out into the roadway, peering down anxiously at the base of the big maple tree. The scar was there, thank heaven! He touched the tree affectionately. He’d have to do something about the wound—get a tree surgeon or something. Anyway, he’d evidently been changed back. He was himself again. Maybe it was all a dream, or perhaps he had been hypnotized by the smooth-flowing black water. He had heard of such things. At the corner of Main and Bridge Streets he almost collided with a hurrying figure. It was Jim Silva, the real estate agent. “Hello, George,” Jim said cheerfully. “Late tonight, ain’t you? I should think you’d want to be home early on Christmas Eve.” George drew a long breath. “I just wanted to see if the bank is all right. I’ve got to make sure the vault light is on.” “Sure it’s on. I saw it as I went past.” “Let’s look, huh?” George said, pulling at Silva’s sleeve. He wanted the assurance of a witness. He dragged the surprised real estate dealer around to the front of the bank where the light was gleaming through the falling snow. “I told you it was on,” Silva said with some irritation. “I had to make sure,” George mumbled. “Thanks—and Merry Christmas!” Then he was off like a streak, running up the hill. He was in a hurry to get home, but not in such a hurry that he couldn’t stop for a moment at his parents’ house, where he wrestled with Brownie until the friendly old bulldog waggled all over with delight. He grasped his startled brother’s hand and wrung it frantically, wishing him an almost hysterical Merry Christmas. Then he dashed across the parlor to examine a certain photograph. He kissed his mother, joked with his father, and was out of the house a few seconds later, stumbling and slipping on the newly fallen snow as he ran on up the hill. The church was bright with light, and the choir and the organ were going full tilt. George flung the door to his home open and called out at the top of his voice: “Mary! Where are you? Mary! Kids!” His wife came toward him, dressed for going to church, and making gestures to silence him. “I’ve just put the children to bed,” she protested. “Now they’ll—” But not another word could she get out of her mouth, for he smothered it with kisses, and then dragged her up to the children’s room, where he violated every tenet of parental behavior by madly embracing his son and his daughter and waking them up thoroughly. It was not until Mary got him downstairs that he began to be coherent. “I thought I’d lost you. Oh, Mary, I thought I’d lost you!” “What’s the matter, darling?” she asked in bewilderment. He pulled her down on the sofa and kissed her again. And then, just as he was about to tell her about his queer dream, his fingers came in contact with something lying on the seat of the sofa. His voice froze. He did not even have to pick the thing up, for he knew what it was. And he knew that it would have a blue handle and varicolored bristles. The End.