123.- 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 sugarplums 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 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 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, Donder 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 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 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 of 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 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,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
A fellow in a market town,
Most musical, cried "Razors!" up and down,
And offered twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,
As every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin' the great offer heard,
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard,
That seemed a shoe brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself in whispers said,
66 This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
"No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;
It certainly will be a most enormous prize."
So home the clown2 with his good fortune went,
Smiling, in heart and soul content,
And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began, with grinning pain, to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze.
'Twas a vile razor! Then the rest he tried:
All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed,
"I wish my eighteen pence were in my purse."
Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and begun :
"P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun
That people flay themselves out of their lives.
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave!"
"Friend," quoth the razor man, "I'm not a knave.
As for the razors you have bought,
Upon my word, I never thought
That they would shave."
Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wonder
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell:
"What were they made for, then, you scamp?" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow with a smile, "To SELL!"
This piece is an illustration of "sound the echo of the sense," and, if well rendered, will produce an amusing illustration of rampant piano playing. The successive changes sufficiently indicate the elocution: first soft, then staccato, etc.
First a soft and gentle tinkle,
Gentle as the raindrop's sprinkle,
Then a stop,
Fingers drop.
Now begins a merry trill,
Like a cricket in a mill;
Now a short, uneasy motion,
Like a ripple on the ocean.
See the fingers dance about,
Hear the notes come tripping out;
How they mingle in the tingle
Of the everlasting jingle,
Like to hailstones on a shingle,
Or the ding-dong, dangle-dingle
Of a sheep bell! Double, single,
Now they come in wilder gushes,
Up and down the player rushes,
Quick as squirrels, sweet as thrushes.
Now the keys begin to clatter
Like the music of a platter
When the maid is stirring batter.
O'er the music comes a change,
Every tone is wild and strange :
Listen to the lofty tumbling,
Hear the mumbling, fumbling, jumbling,
Like the rumbling and the grumbling
Of the thunder from its slumbering
Just awaking. Now it's taking
To the quaking, like a fever-and-ague shaking.
Heads are aching, something's breaking.
Goodness gracious! Ain't it wondrous,
Rolling round above and under us,
Like old Vulcan's1 stroke so thunderous?
1 Vulcan, the Roman god of fire, and hence of the smithy.
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