  "His back, or rather burden showed As if it stooped with its own load. To poise this, equally he bore A paunch of the same bulk before, Which still he had a special care To keep well crammed with thrifty fare." Butler. A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash; The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of day to the objects below; When what to my wondering eyes should appear But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver so lively and quick I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. And he whistled and shouted and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blixen! To the top of the stoop, to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys and St. Nicholas too; And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound; He was dressed all in furs from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of toys he had flung on his back; And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face, and a little round belly That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" Clement C. Moore. THE HARD TIMES IN ELFLAND.Strange that the termagant winds should scold The Christmas Eve so bitterly! But Wife, and Harry, the four-year old, Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I, Blithe as the wind was bitter, drew More frontward of the mighty fire, Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknew The heaven that Christian dogs desire— Stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave, Huge nose on heavy paws reclined, With never a drowning boy to save, And warmth of body and peace of mind. And as our happy circle sat, The fire well capp'd the company: In grave debate or careless chat, A right good fellow, mingled he: He seemed as one of us to sit, And talked of things above, below, With flames more winsome than our wit, And coals that burned like love aglow. Smooth down the channel of the night, We spoke of Time: thereat, one told A parable of the seasons' flight. Those seasons out, we talked of these: And I, with inward purpose sly, To shield my purse from Christmas-trees, And stockings, and wild robbery When Hal and Nimblewits invade My cash in Santa Claus's name,— In full the hard, hard times surveyed, Denounced all waste as crime and shame; Hinted that "waste" might be a term Including skates, velocipedes, Kites, marbles, soldiers, towers infirm, Bows, arrows, cannon, Indian reeds, Cap-pistols, drums, mechanic toys, And all th' infernal host of horns Whereby to strenuous hells of noise Are turned the blessed Christmas morns; Thus, roused—those horns! to sacred rage, I rose, forefinger high in air, When Harry cried, some war to wage, "Papa is hard times ev'ywhere? It isn't hard times none at all!" Now, blessed vision! to my hand Most pat, a marvel strange did fall. Scarce had my Harry ceased, when "Look!" He cried, leapt up in wild alarm, Ran to my Comrade, shelter took Beneath the startled mother's arm, And so was still: what time we saw A foot hang down the fireplace! Then, With painful scrambling, scratched and raw, Two hands that seemed like hands of men, Eased down two legs and a body through The blazing fire, and forth there came Before our wide and wondering view A figure shrinking half with shame, And half with weakness. "Sir," I said, —But with a mien of dignity The seedy stranger raised his head: "My friends, I'm Santa Claus," said he. But oh, how changed! That rotund face The new moon rivall'd, pale and thin; Where once was cheek, now empty space; Whate'er stood out, did now stand in. His arms mere sickles seemed to be: But most o'erflowed our sorrow's cup When that we saw—or did not see— His belly: we remembered how It shook like a bowl of jelly fine: An earthquake could not shake it now; He had no belly—not a sign. "Yes, yes, old friends, you well may stare: I have seen better days," he said: "But now with shrinkage, loss, and care, Your Santa Claus scarce owns his head. "We've had such hard, hard times this year For goblins! Never knew the like. All Elfland's mortgaged! And we fear That gnomes are just about to strike. "I once was rich, and round, and hale, The whole world called me jolly brick; But listen to a piteous tale, Young Harry,—Santa Claus is sick! "'Twas thus: a smooth-tongued railroad man Comes to my house and talks to me: 'I've got,' says he, 'a little plan That suits this nineteenth century. Six reindeer slow from house to house, Let's build a Grand Trunk Railway through From here to earth's last terminus. "'We'll touch at every chimney-top An Elevated Track, of course, Then, as we whisk you by, you'll drop Each package down: just think the force "'You'll save, the time! Besides, we'll make Our millions: look you, soon we will Compete for freight—and then we'll take Dame Fortune's bales of good and ill— "'Why, she's the biggest shipper, sir, That e'er did business in this world! Then Death, that ceaseless traveller, Shall on his rounds by us be whirled. "'When ghosts return to walk with men, We'll bring 'em cheap by steam, and fast: We'll run a branch to heaven! and then We'll riot, man; for then, at last, "'We'll make with heaven a contract fair To call each hour, from town to town, And carry the dead folks' souls up there, And bring the unborn babies down!' Nay every penny I could raise. My wife e'er cried, ''Tis rash, 'tis rash:' How could I know the stock-thief's ways? "But soon I learned full well, poor fool! My woes began that wretched day. The President plied me like a tool, In lawyer's fees, and rights of way, "Injunctions, leases, charters, I Was meshed as in a mighty maze; The stock ran low, the talk ran high, Then quickly flamed the final blaze. "With never an inch of track—'tis true! The debts were large ... the oft-told tale. The President rolled in splendor new, —He bought my silver at the sale. "Yes, sold me out: we've moved away. I've had to give up everything; My reindeer, even, whom I ... pray, Excuse me" ... here, o'er-sorrowing, Poor Santa Claus burst into tears, Then calmed again: "My reindeer fleet, I gave them up: on foot, my dears, I now must plod through snow and sleet. Yes, every luxury is cut off, —Which, by the way, reminds me how I caught this dreadful hacking cough: "I cut off the tail of my Ulster furred To make young Kris a coat of state That very night the storm occurred! Thus we become the sport of Fate. "For I was out till after one, Surveying chimney-tops and roofs, And planning how it could be done Without any reindeers' bouncing hoofs. "'My dear,' says Mrs. Claus, that night, A most superior woman she! 'It never, never can be right That you, deep sunk in poverty, "'This year should leave your poor old bed, And trot about, bent down with toys; There's Kris a-crying now for bread— To give to other people's boys! "'Since you've been out, the news arrives The Elfs' Insurance Company's gone. Ah, Claus, those premiums! Now, our lives Depend on yours: thus griefs go on. I do believe, if out you went, You'd go, in spite of all that's passed, To the children of that President!' "Oh, Charley, Harry, Nimblewits, These eyes that night ne'er slept a wink; My path seemed honeycombed with pits, Naught could I do but think and think. "But, with the day, my courage rose. Ne'er shall my boys, my boys, I cried, When Christmas morns their eyes unclose, Find empty stockings gaping wide! "Then hewed, and whacked, and whittled I; The wife, the girls, and Kris took fire; They spun, sewed, cut,—till by and by We made, at home, my pack entire!" He handed me a bundle here. "Now, hoist me up: there, gently: quick! Dear boys, don't look for much this year: Remember, Santa Claus is sick!" Sidney Lanier. OLD CHRISTMAS.Now he who knows Old Christmas, He knows a wight of worth, For he's as good a fellow As any on the earth; He comes warm-cloaked and coated, And buttoned to the chin; And ere he is a-nigh the door, We ope to let him in. He comes with voice most cordial, It does one good to hear; For all the little children He asks each passing year: His heart is warm and gladsome, Not like your griping elves, Who, with their wealth in plenty, Think only of themselves. He tells us witty stories, He sings with might and main; We ne'er forget his visit Till he comes back again. With laurel green and holly We make the house look gay; We know that it will please him, It was his ancient way. What gifts he gives away! There's not a lord in England Could equal him to-day! Good luck unto Old Christmas, Long life now let us sing; He is more kind unto the poor Than any crownÉd king. Mary Howitt. MRS. SANTA CLAUS.The moon was like a frosted cake, The stars like flashing beads That round a brimming punch-bowl break 'Mid spice and almond seeds; And here and there a silver beam Made bright some curling cloud Uprising like the wassail's stream, Blown off by laughter loud. It was the night of Christmas Eve, And good old Santa Claus His door was just about to leave, When something made him pause: "I haven't kissed my wife," quoth he, "I haven't said good-by." So back he went and lovingly He kissed her cap awry. Now Mrs. Claus is just a bit— The least bit—of a shrew. What wonder? Only think of it— She has so much to do. Imagine all the stocking-legs, Of every size and shape, That hang upon their Christmas pegs With greedy mouths agape. The northern skies aflame With quivering light, 'tis only she— This very quaint old dame— Striking a match against the Pole Her whale-oil lamp to light, That she may see to work, poor soul, At making toys all night. "Odd he should kiss me," this she said Before the sleigh had gone; "'Tis many a year since we were wed; I'll follow him anon. For faithless husbands, one and all, Ere on their loves they wait, Their wives' suspicion to forestall Seem most affectionate." So, pulling on her seal-skin sacque, Into her husband's sleigh She slipped, and hid behind his pack Just as he drove away. "Great Bears!" growled Santa in his beard, "A goodly freight have I; Were't fouler weather, I had feared The glacier path to try." Yet none the less they safely sped Across the realms of snow— The sparkling frost below— Until the reindeer stopped before A mansion tall and fair, Up to whose wide and lofty door Inclined a marble stair. So soundly all its inmates slept, They heard no stroke of hoof; No fall of foot as Santa leapt From pavement unto roof. So, down the chimney like a sweep He crept, and after him Went Mrs. Claus to have a peep At chambers warm and dim. As luck would have it, there was hung A stocking by the fire To wear which no one over-young Could fittingly aspire: Long, slender, graceful—it was just The thing to fill the heart Of Mrs. C. with deep distrust; And—well—it played its part. Scowling, she watched her husband fill The silken foot and leg With bonbons, fruit, and toys until It almost broke its peg. This little boy is wise; He knows I fill 'em to the top, No matter what the size." But Mrs. Claus misunderstood, Like every jealous wife; She would make bad things out of good, To feed her inward strife. Snapped she unto herself: "The minx Sha'n't have a single thing! I'll take 'em home again, methinks, Nor leave a stick or string!" So said, so done; and all that night She followed Santa's wake, And as he stuffed the stockings tight, She every one did take, Stowing them all unseen away, In order grimly neat, Within the dark box of the sleigh, All underneath the seat. And when gray dawn broke, and all The bells began to peal, And tiny forms down many a hall And stairway 'gan to steal, Those weeping girls and boys— For Christmas morn had come and brought No candy and no toys. Charles Henry LÜders. SANTA CLAUS TO LITTLE ETHEL.(IN ANSWER TO HER LETTER, GIVING HIM A LIST OF HER CHRISTMAS WANTS.)My dear little Ethel, I fear that the breath'll Be out of our bodies before we get through; Day in and day out We are rushing about, And you haven't a notion how much there's to do. Ever since last December, When you may remember I paid you a visit at dear Elsinore, There's not been a minute With a resting-place in it, And my nose has not once been outside of the door. My shop has been going, My bellows a-blowing, My hammers and tongs and a thousand odd tools, Never give up the battle, But click, bang, and rattle Like ten million children in ten thousand schools. And yet, my small deary, I read all the letters as fast as they come; If I didn't,—good gracious! The house is not spacious, And the letters would soon squeeze me out of my home. "I would like a nice sled, And a dolly's soft bed, With a night-gown and bed-clothes of pretty bright stuffs, And paints, and a case Where my books I may place, And besides all these things, Dolly's collars and cuffs." That's a pretty big list! But may I be kissed On the back of my head by a crazy mule's hoof, If the list I don't fill, Though it takes all the skill Of every stout workman beneath my broad roof. "Hans, Yakob, and Karl! Let me not hear a snarl, To work now, instanter! Trot, gallop, and canter, And finish this job ere you go to your beds!" So I set them to work With a jump and a jerk, And everything's finished in beautiful style. Christmas Eve's here again, And I'm off with my train, Every reindeer prepared for ten seconds a mile. I shall slip down the flue With this letter for you, So softly, for fear I your slumbers might break. Not a word will I speak, But I'll kiss your soft cheek, And be gone in a jiffy, before you awake. Should you find I've forgot Any part of the lot That I ordered prepared and all marked with your name, Let me just add a word, So if that has occurred, You will know just exactly how I was to blame. The fact is, my dear, As I go, year by year, The bumps and the scratches That Santa Claus catches Have rubbed all the hair from the top of his head. And my brain being bare Of my cover of hair, Is rapidly losing its power, my pet! Sometimes, after all's fixed, I get everything mixed, And you must forgive if I ever forget. Good-by, Ethel dear! May the coming New Year Bring all kinds of blessings to you from above; Make you happier and better: And so my long letter Must close, with a great deal of Santa Claus's love. Francis Wells. |
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