'Tis the season, and time for holiday stories.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.... It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
-- James Joyce's "The Dead," 1914
"The Dead," a novella about a party preceding Feast of the Epiphany ("Little Christmas") around 1910, is the greatest holiday story I know. Its beauty lies in misdirection. Most of the story takes place around an annual holiday party in Dublin, Ireland. At first, the plot seems to be about social conflict among the partygoers, but it takes an astonishing turn when the main character, Gabriel Conroy, makes a discovery about his marriage. What is remarkable is the way Gabriel comes to terms with this discovery, overcoming his initial shock and anger, and instead finding understanding and compassion.
Read and be jolly.