In The Yule-Log Glow Volume Iv Part 17

'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 l.u.s.tre 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.

More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came, 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; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 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.

While thus our rippling discourse rolled 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 h.e.l.ls 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?

"Maybe in Santa Claus's land 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 s.p.a.ce; Whate'er stood out, did now stand in.

His piteous legs scarce propped him up; 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.

"'Instead of driving as you do, 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!'

"The plan seemed fair: I gave him cash, 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,