CATE DEVINE wonders whether the magical tradition of writing to Santa still survives in the hi-tech world of the nerdy nineties

ONLY the most hard-hearted of Santas, old as he undoubtedly is at 1600 years of age, could be immune to the bewitching image cast up by the contents of his mailbag of the past few weeks - that of thousands upon thousands of tiny human beings transfixed in utter concentration as they strive with their plump little hands and outsized pens to compose the most flattering of impeachments to the bearded one who will make or break their Christmas morning. In near-perfect baby letters (some are even joined up) do they fill their pages, each outline containing the ultimate expression of hope, anticipation, and blind, absolute faith. Faith that Santa, or St Nicholas, patron saint of children, will do the business with a delivery of

toys as requested.

The ritual burning on Christmas Eve of the finished oeuvre whose words waft up the chimney to Lapland still works its spell on an estimated 600,000 believing children all over the world. Parents and older siblings all take part with the younger ones in this, one of the most enduring and magical moments of childhood.

Or is it? Do they? Is he? In the nerdy 90s it is tempting to believe that this Christmas tradition is as antiquated as the letter recently found intact in the chimney stack of a Wiltshire cottage 85 years after it was ``posted''. Do children still believe in Santa enough to write to him? And do their parents encourage them to, even in the age of high

technology,

central heating, and secular

cynicism?

After all, those who lead hard and desperate lives, for whatever reason, could be forgiven for rejecting the too-good-to-be-true image of this magical man who is said to be infinitely wise, lives in an ecological world, and only visits children who are good.

And yet most children we spoke to on the day before Christmas Eve told us that yes, they'd sent or would be sending letters to Santa this year. The main problem for parents is trying to keep the older ones from spoiling the magic for the younger ones.

Peer-group pressure is such that if one child starts not to believe the others soon follow, keen for the kudos of joining those ``in the know'', those who have passed through the rite of passage that takes them from childhood to adulthood, and who instantly pity or patronise those who aren't there yet. In one family, a nine-year-old boy, obviously teetering on the brink of deciding his non-believing pal must be right despite what his parents were half-heartedly telling him, was beside himself with excitement - not so much at the prospect of Santa's imminent visit to his house, however, as at the promise that this year he was about to be let into The Secret.

How such children affect their younger friends or siblings seems to depend on individual families. In one family we spoke to the 10-year-old daughter no longer believed, and her seven-year-old brother had this year followed suit and downed his pencil. ``He does everything she does,'' said their gran nonchalantly.

Many families of children approaching the Watershed of Wisdom - which averages out at around the age of eight or nine - do struggle to maintain the myth for the younger members in the family. One 13-year-old boy and his 11-year-old sister told me they'd decided to comply with their parents' request to pretend for the sake of the two younger children. As a result, all four children will be sending their letters. Their mother said: ``What is Christmas without the magic? We just love to see that look in the children's faces when their dreams have come true. Everything changes when they no longer believe.'' A father of three boys reported that his youngest, approaching the grand old age of three-and-a-half, was just learning to write and would be sending his letter from nursery next year, and even though his big brothers had stopped writing long ago, they'd be encouraging him.

Yet other children told us they had never written to Santa ``cos it's just a joke''. They could be overheard in shops all over Glasgow discussing with their parents the price differentials between presents, quite happy to be privy to such mundane information. Indeed many parents feel it is more important for their children to learn the hard facts of economic reality as early as possible in order to offset potential financial disaster for them, and crashing disappointment for the children when ``Santa'' fails to deliver.

Elsewhere, averting disappointment is being dealt with in a variety of other ways. ``Santa doesn't visit greedy children,'' is one; ``Don't expect to get Action Man's helicopter, a mountain bike, and a remote control racing car; Santa can't carry everything,'' is another we heard about.

Such is the fervour with which most of the children we spoke to wanted to communicate with Santa that the burning question of how actually to send a letter has also been neatly sidestepped. No chimney? No problem. Just post it, via Royal Mail, to Lapland. Many children have already done so - and got replies.

Some others reported they'd used their local supermarket's postal service to Lapland, while others again had an ingenious mother who burned the letters on a baking sheet to let the smoke waft up their living-flame lum.

Those of a more sophisticated bent have been contacting Santa in cyberspace via the Internet, which on its KidZone site is doing its very charming best to keep Santa alive. It's offering a service which, for around #4, lets you send your loved ones a letter from Santa by e-mailing him at Alaskan Enterprises Inc. To encourage children to keep writing to him, it has kept his e-mail address to a relatively simple santanorthpole.u-net.com.

``You don't believe in Santa? it asks world-weary weans. ``Why, not to believe in Santa is not to believe in fairies. Santa exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist.''

It seems to be working. Santa and his little helpers are receiving letters at a rate of some 10,000 a day. If he'd rather they were all handwritten, he certainly hasn't told us.