Christmas Poem Written To Save Small Boy's Life

Otago Daily Times, Issue 26963, 24 December 1948, Page 5

Christmas Poem Written To Save Small Boy's Life

Behind one of the most enduring of all Christmas jingles—a poem which has delighted children and adults now for over a century—lies an inspiring story., Almost everyone knows the first lines of the poem: ’Twas the night before . Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse . . .

... yet not so many can give' a name to it. The title is “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” and the poem was written by a pompous old professor- in the hope of saving the life of his small son.

The professor’s son was only seven year old. That day he had been galloping his pony along a winding pathway when it had slipped and fallen hard, hurling the boy to the ground. The animal’s leg was broken, and it had to be destroyed. The child had seen his beloved pony die—and he had lost the desire to live. That was the problem facing Professor Clement C. Moore one dark afternoon shortly before Christmas of 1882.

Cheer the boy up, the doctor had said. But what did Moore know about cheering up little boys? He had devoted most of his life to producing a monumental work entitled “A Compendious Lexicon of the Hebrew Language.” As professor of Biblical Learning and Interpretation of Scripture at the Diocesan Seminary, his style of writing and speaxing was dignified, almost pompous. He had just finished writing an essay expressing his alarm because “ more of the well-disposed among my young countrymen do not devote their leisure hours to the attainment of useful learning, rather than to frivolous amusements.” But now Professor Moore knew he must dev a “frivolous amusement ”. to keep his son alive- He went to the < in his study, thought awhile, then began to write desperately. 1 -vo hours his quill pen raced over sheet after sheet of foolscap. At *cist he rose and hurried to his son’s bedroom, where the child looked up, apathetic, and his fade white and streaked with tears. Dr. Moore began to read —to read in a gay and rollicking voice a poem totally unlike anything he ever wrote before or afterward. But millions of children have since been enchanted with it. And the boy for whom it was written? He liked it, too—liked it so well that he kept on living for Christmas, and for 60 years thereafter! And this was the poem:,

' ’Twas the night before Christmas, when, all through the. house - Hot-a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung ' by the chimney with care, In the 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 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 the 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 tne'lustre of mid-day to objects. below, When, what- to my wondering eyes should appear. But a jniniature sleigh, ' and eight tiriy reindeer, uWith a little, old driver,' .•■•.'-'so lively and- quick, ■ I; .knew in. a moment h'. 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 Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! ... to the top of the wall! 5-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,

RETAINING THE SEASONAL SPIRIT

Written for the Daily Time* byCharles Mansergh “Christmas comes but once a year” —that’s true enough—“and when it comes’.'it.. brings ” —well, what does it bring? ' Good cheer, or income tax, additional expense, more work, more , worry, and the seeds of six months’ 'indigestion? ' Is it a question of years? The older you get, the less you get out of Christmas and the more you pay. Well, if you insist on being sober-minded, paying certainly is a bore. But I _sfispect you know, that the soberestminded individual has his abandoned moments. Two drinks are expensive, but after that—well, blow the expense. And the person of normal senses, having for the moment lost them, begins to enjoy himself. If it can be done for a drink it can be done far more easily for the one short week of the year when the world pulls up for a breather. ■ Business ana the worries of living may keep us busy planning and scheming all the year; we can surely give them a miss for one short week and forget income tax and quarter day.. In plain parlance, it is up to us to throw all we have in the way of funds and surplus vigour into keeping up the genuine Christmas spirit.

. “ Goodwill to all men.” You’ve got it there. For a week, at least, your pet enemies are your friends. You’ll be bearing them envy, hatred and malice all the rest of the year. So you can afford to give them a rest at Christmas. And that isn’t idiotic sentimentality. It’s sound common sense. Didn't you know that animosity of any kind has a definitely bad effect .on health and personal well-being? And all this talk and songs about wearing a smile aren’t altogether blub. It is, in fact, just what the doctor ordered, or Ought to have ordered—a dose of Christmas spirit. The folk who have it naturally, or have achieved it, are all well-nourished and rosy-hued with wealth. Whereas —what’s that description Shakespeare has of the envious Cassius?-—” Yon Cassius has a lean and hungrv look.” Dickens and other writers have done their best to give Christmas a special glamour of its own. We’ve got our Christmas customs, but even if we don’t get them, Christmas still means, or should, mean, the same to every one of us—a pause in the hectic rush from one common task to the next.

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 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 packHis eyes—how they twinkled! His r dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! Hig droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin - was as white as the snow; The stump of his pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He wfes 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 nis 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.”

Realisation . . .

We’ve got time given us to breathe, time.to realise that if we are Christians, we are also brothers and sisters, with the same common problems to face and the same driving ambitions ]to keep us estranged and in constant rivalry. We can for the moment forget everything else and indulge in the pleasant luxury of loving our neighbours.

And if you were to ask: “Why can’t it always be Christmas? ’’ I could give you a hundred reasons why it isn’t, but not one single honest one as to why it can’t be. Anyhow, it will be enough if you dull and unhappy grown-ups stop thinking that Christmas belongs to the children. The children get what pleases them most, presents and excitement; We may not thrill at the thought of presents and parties, but there is no present and no thrill like the unaccustomed sensation of goodwill shared with all and sundry.

baskets dug into their backs and elbows into their ribs, and a prize of four days’ bread at the end of it. Then the butcher—another long wait for the week-end joint, the small goods and the bacon. Perhaps the greengrocer or the fish merchant comas nextmore waiting and more heavy parcels to add to the bulging shopping bags. Out on the street again friends wish the shopper a merry Christmas, and, forcing a smile, she returns the greeting with a “Thanks—same to you.” Then another look at the long shopping list and a fearful look at the diminishing money. She cannot remember whether she had bought a present for Aunt Mary, whether she should send a card to the Smith’s.

And finally with the shopping all done there is the task of catching a tram, cable car or bus. It is a mad scramble of women armed with bas-' kets, sharp elbows and heavy feet. At last she is on board, and several weary minutes later she is home—just in time, to get the lunch for the family.. The afternoon brings no relief from the preparations and then there is the evening meal. The children insist on going to town for Christmas Eve—it would not be Christmas without it, they claim—and mother must go, too. And Christmas Eve in town is a mad struggle with humanity in the mass and Dunedin people trying to throw off their inhibitions in an effort to acquire the Christmas spirit. But even when the family has won back home, the mother’s task is not over There are the children’s stockings to fill and a jelly to make. The man of the house is tired and his feet are sore. He claims he is of little use at parcelwrapping, and cannot make jellies. If his wife will make him a cup of tea he will go off to bed. He must be in good fettle for his Christmas dinner? And as with the country mother there is no respite on Christmas morning. The children rush in with their stockings, father wants his breakfast, and the meat will take, three hours. Mother gets up, does her housework as usual, and prepares a large and special dinner. She sees that the choicest bits go to other members of the family and wonders if everything is properly cooked- Thirty minutes later the meal which took hours of planning and preparing is finished, and there remain the dishes to be done. “ I’ve eaten too much,” says father, sinking down on to the sofa for his after-dinner rest. And mother and the children do the dishes.

Yes, mothers bear -the brunt of Christmas. There is still no 40-hour, five-day week for them, and no Act of Parliament gives them two holidays instead of one for Christmas Day. In fact, they do. not have even one holiday or overtime pay for their overtime duties. And yet what mother would wish to see custom change and Christmas vanish. The children love it, they say with a smile, and what else counts? Christmas will remain and mothers will continue to make it a “ merry Christmas ” in the years to come.