The Night Before Christmas, by Clement C. Moore

We all know it.  We all know the poem The Night Before Christmas by Clement C. Moore.  Millions of American families read it aloud on Christmas Eve; countless re-publications (with varying illustrators) have flown off the shelves of stores year after year.  The Night Before Christmas is synonymous with its titular holiday.

But that wasn't always the case.

In her book The Everything Family Christmas Book, author Yvonne Jeffery writes, "On Christmas Eve, 1822, Dr. Clement Clarke Moore unveiled what is arguably the most popular Christmas poem of all time, A Visit from Saint Nicholas.  Also known as 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, the poem was written strictly for the enjoyment of Moore's children, but a listener present at the reading was impressed enough to send the poem to The Troy Sentinel, where it was published the following December."

I, for one, am so glad this friend did.

Jeffery continues, "[Clement Moore] liked to dabble in rhymes and poetry, but was too embarrassed by A Visit to take public credit for it.  The poem was published anonymously until 1844 [1837 according to some sources], when Moore, presumably encouraged by the poem's success, included it in a collection of his other works."

She expands further, "Much of what we now consider as essential to Santa -such as his plumpness- first appeared in Clement C. Moore's poem A Visit from St. Nicholas.  Moore apparently based his St. Nick on a rotund gardener who worked for him, but preferred to call the character St. Nicholas rather than Santa Claus.  Moore's portrayal of St. Nicholas as a generous gift giver and friend to children was, of course, an outgrowth of the legends surrounding St. Nicholas.  The influence of [Washington] Irving's (often imaginative) accounts of the Dutch legend is also apparent throughout Moore's poem.  Moore was not the first to assign a reindeer to St. Nicholas, but he was the first to set the total at eight, and the first to popularize the names now associated with the animals."

My favorite edition of this beloved poem is the one illustrated by Cyndy Szekeres (1982).  Her darling illustrations feature an adorable family of mice being visited by St. Nick himself.  Parents, in particular, will appreciate the very real capturing of mice-children's reactions upon being awoken in the middle of the night.  (Think: mandatory potty breaks, mild temper tantrums, overstimulation.)  Readers should also pay close attention to the details in the home furnishings of the little mice:  the matchbox bed, the dollar bill area rug, the spool of thread end table (and so on).  It is, in my opinion, the most charming rendition of this poem ever published.

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

'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 sugarplums danced in their heads;

And Mama 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 luster of midday to 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 and Vixen!

On, Comet!  On, Cupid!  On, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch!  To the top of the wall!

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that 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 a 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 fur 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 peddler 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!"

Christmas Trees, by Robert Frost

November was a shit show.

I started the month with some seemingly minor injuries (incurred in October) that I'm still working on healing.  Then my son decided he wanted to go headfirst down a fire pole on the school playground, ending with us being refused by three urgent cares before finally going to the emergency room...where he won himself a pair of staples in the head.  Then, we went out of town.  Then, we decided to move.  Then, it was Thanksgiving.  Then, I got scammed, like some sort of amateur.  Then, I got a third injury.  I haven't rested any of these injuries enough and I'm going on two months of no exercise or activity beyond packing and hauling boxes.  Everything hurts and I'm just finally getting to the point in this process where I can stop and take care of myself a little.  Oh, and by the way, Christmas is coming.  This year, I am thanking my past (and forever) OCD self for completing the Christmas shopping by Halloween.  Had I not done so, Christmas would be a debacle.

Of course, all of this going on has meant a long pause in my reading.  I'm in the beginnings of a classic novel, which doesn't exactly make for light reading in the midst of all this.  I will pick it up again soon, but I will definitely not have a review to post before the end of December.  Not possible.  In the meantime, I thought I would share another poem from our boy, Bobby Frost.  (I will try to have a second poem for you -by another author/poet- prior to Christmas.)  Taken from The Everything Family Christmas Book (Yvonne Jeffery), the description of this particular poem is as follows: "His offering gently explores the tension between commercialism and the natural way of life."  On point.

The last bit.  Read it to the end.  The last bit to me is just so magical and sweet and everything I hope that you and your loved ones encounter during this festive season of warmth, love, light and generosity.

CHRISTMAS TREES

The city had withdrawn into itself

And left at last the country to the country;

When between whirls of snow not come to lie

And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove

A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,

Yet did in country fashion in that there

He sat and waited till he drew us out,

A-buttoning coats, to ask him who he was.

He proved to be the city come again

To look for something it had left behind

And could not do without and keep its Christmas.

He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;

My woods -- the young fir balsams like a place

Where houses all are churches and have spires.

I hadn't thought of them as Christmas trees.

I doubt if I was tempted for a moment

To sell them off their feet to go in cars

And leave the slope behind the house all bare,

Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.

I'd hate to have them know it if I was.

Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees except

As others hold theirs or refuse for them,

Beyond the time of profitable growth,

The trial by market everything must come to.

I dallied so much with the thought of selling.

Then whether from mistaken courtesy

And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether

From hope of hearing good of what was mine,

I said, "There aren't enough to be worth while."

"I could soon tell how many they would cut, 

You let me look them over."

"You could look.

But don't expect I'm going to let you have them."

Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close

That lop each other of boughs, but not a few

Quite solitary and having equal boughs

All round and round.  The latter he nodded "Yes" to,

Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,

With a buyer's moderation, "That would do."

I thought so, too, but wasn't there to say so.

We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,

And came down on the north.

He said, "A thousand."

"A thousand Christmas trees! -- at what apiece?"

"He felt some need of softening that to me:

"A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars."

Then I was certain I had never meant

To let him have them.  Never show surprise!

But thirty dollars seemed so small beside

The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents

(For that was all they figured out apiece),

Three cents so small beside the dollar friends

I should be writing to within the hour

Would pay in cities for good trees like those.

Regular vestry trees whole Sunday Schools

Could hang enough on to pick off enough.

A thousand Christmas trees I didn't know I had!

Worth three cents more to give away than sell

As may be shown by a simple calculation.

Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter.

I can't help wishing I could send you one,

In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.