Goody Santa Claus on a Sleigh Ride

  Katharine Lee Bates

  Goody Santa Claus on a Sleigh Ride

  Santa, must I tease in vain, Deer? Let me go and hold the reindeer,

  While you clamber down the chimneys. Don't look savage as a Turk!

  Why should you have all the glory of the joyous Christmas story,

  And poor little Goody Santa Claus have nothing but the work?

  * * *

  It would be so very cozy, you and I, all round and rosy,

  Looking like two loving snowballs in our fuzzy Arctic furs,

  Tucked in warm and snug together, whisking through the winter weather

  Where the tinkle of the sleigh-bells is the only sound that stirs.

  * * *

  You just sit here and grow chubby off the goodies in my cubby

  From December to December, till your white beard sweeps your knees;

  For you must allow, my Goodman, that you're but a lazy woodman

  And rely on me to foster all our fruitful Christmas trees.

  * * *

  While your Saintship waxes holy, year by year, and roly-poly,

  Blessed by all the lads and lassies in the limits of the land,

  While your toes at home you're toasting, then poor Goody must go posting

  Out to plant and prune and garner, where our fir-tree forests stand.

  * * *

  Oh! but when the toil is sorest how I love our fir-tree forest,

  Heart of light and heart of beauty in the Northland cold and dim,

  All with gifts and candles laden to delight a boy or maiden,

  And its dark-green branches ever murmuring the Christmas hymn!

  * * *

  Yet ask young Jack Frost, our neighbor, who but Goody has the labor,

  Feeding roots with milk and honey that the bonbons may be sweet!

  Who but Goody knows the reason why the playthings bloom in season

  And the ripened toys and trinkets rattle gaily to her feet!

  * * *

  From the time the dollies budded, wiry-boned and saw-dust blooded,

  With their waxen eyelids winking when the wind the tree-tops plied,

  Have I rested for a minute, until now your pack has in it

  All the bright, abundant harvest of the merry Christmastide?

  * * *

  Santa, wouldn't it be pleasant to surprise me with a present?

  And this ride behind the reindeer is the boon your Goody begs;

  Think how hard my extra work is, tending the Thanksgiving turkeys

  And our flocks of rainbow chickens — those that lay the Easter eggs.

  * * *

  Home to womankind is suited? Nonsense, Goodman! Let our fruited

  Orchards answer for the value of a woman out-of-doors.

  Why then bid me chase the thunder, while the roof you're safely under,

  All to fashion fire-crackers with the lighting in their cores?

  * * *

  See! I've fetched my snow-flake bonnet, with the sunrise ribbons on it;

  I've not worn it since we fled from Fairyland our wedding day;

  How we sped through iceberg porches with the Northern Lights for torches!

  You were young and slender, Santa, and we had this very sleigh.

  * * *

  Jump in quick then? That's my bonny. Hey down derry! Nonny nonny!

  While I tie your fur cap closer, I will kiss your ruddy chin.

  I'm so pleased I fall to singing, just as sleigh-bells take to ringing!

  Are the cloud-spun lap-robes ready? Tirra-lirra! Tuck me in.

  * * *

  Off across the starlight Norland, where no plant adorns the moorland

  Save the ruby-berried holly and the frolic mistletoe!

  Oh, but this is Christmas revel! Off across the frosted level

  Where the reindeers' hoofs strike sparkles from the crispy, crackling snow!

  * * *

  There's the Man i' the Moon before us, bound to lead the Christmas chorus

  With the music of the sky-waves rippling round his silver shell —

  Glimmering boat that leans and tarries with the weight of dreams she carries

  To the cots of happy children. Gentle sailor, steer her well!

  * * *

  Now we pass through dusky portals to the drowsy land of mortals;

  Snow-enfolded, silent cities stretch about us dim and far.

  Oh! how sound the world is sleeping, midnight watch no shepherd keeping,

  Though an angel-face shines gladly down from every golden star.

  * * *

  Here's a roof. I'll hold the reindeer. I suppose this weather-vane, Dear,

  Some one set here just on purpose for our teams to fasten to.

  There's its gilded cock, — the gaby! — wants to crow and tell the baby

  We are come. Be careful, Santa! Don't get smothered in the flue.

  * * *

  Back so soon? No chimney-swallow dives but where his mate can follow.

  Bend your cold ear, Sweetheart Santa, down to catch my whisper faint:

  Would it be so very shocking if your Goody filled a stocking

  Just for once? Oh, dear! Forgive me. Frowns do not become a Saint.

  * * *

  I will peep in at the skylights, where the moon sheds tender twilights

  Equally down silken chambers and down attics bare and bleak.

  Let me show with hailstone candies these two dreaming boys — the dandies

  In their frilled and fluted nighties, rosy cheek to rosy cheek!

  * * *

  What! No gift for this poor garret? Take a sunset sash and wear it

  O'er the rags, my pale-faced lassie, till thy father smiles again.

  He's a poet, but — oh, cruel! he has neither light nor fuel.

  Here's a fallen star to write by, and a music-box of rain.

  * * *

  So our sprightly reindeer clamber, with their fairy sleigh of amber,

  On from roof to roof , the woven shades of night about us drawn.

  On from roof to roof we twinkle, all the silver bells a-tinkle,

  Till blooms in yonder blessèd East the rose of Christmas dawn.

  * * *

  Now the pack is fairly rifled, and poor Santa's well-nigh stifled;

  Yet you would not let your Goody fill a single baby-sock;

  Yes, I know the task takes brain, Dear. I can only hold the reindeer,

  And so see me climb down chimney — it would give your nerves a shock.

  * * *

  Wait! There's yet a tiny fellow, smiling lips and curls so yellow

  You would think a truant sunbeam played in them all night. He spins

  Giant tops, a flies kites higher than the gold cathedral spire

  In his creams — the orphan bairnie, trustful little Tatterkins.

  * * *

  Santa, don't pass by the urchin! Shake the pack, and deeply search in

  All your pockets. There is always one toy more. I told you so.

  Up again? Why, what's the trouble? On your eyelash winks the bubble

  Mortals call a tear, I fancy. Holes in stocking, heel and toe?

  * * *

  Goodman, though your speech is crusty now and then there's nothing rusty

  In your heart. A child's least sorrow makes your wet eyes glisten, too;

  But I'll mend that sock so nearly it shall hold your gifts completely.

  Take the reins and let me show you what a woman's wit can do.

  * * *

  Puff! I'm up again, my Deary, flushed a bit and somewhat weary,

  With my wedding snow-flake bonnet worse for many a sooty knock;

  But be glad you let me wheedle, since, an icicle for needle,

  Threaded with the last pale moonbeam, I have darned the laddie's sock.

  * * *

  Then I tucked a paint-box in it ('twas no easy task to win it

  From the Artist of the Autumn Leaves) and frost-fruits white and sweet,

  With the toys your pocket misses — oh! and kisses upon kisses

  To cherish safe from evil paths the motherless small feet.

  * * *

  Chirrup! chirrup! There's a patter of soft footsteps and a clatter

  Of child voices. Speed it, reindeer, up the sparkling Arctic Hill!

  Merry Christmas, little people! Joy-bells ring in every steeple,

  And Goody's gladdest of the glad. I've had my own sweet will.

  Carol

  Kenneth Grahame

  Carol

  Villagers all, this frosty tide,

  Let your doors swing open wide,

  Though wind may follow, and snow beside,

  Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;

  Joy shall be yours in the morning!

  Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,

  Blowing fingers and stamping feet,

  Come from far away you to greet—

  You by the fire and we in the street—

  Bidding you joy in the morning!

  For ere one half of the night was gone,

  Sudden a star has led us on,

  Raining bliss and benison—

  Bliss to-morrow and more anon,

  Joy for every morning!

  Goodman Joseph toiled through the snow—

  Saw the star o’er a stable low;

  Mary she might not further go—

  Welcome thatch, and litter below!

  Joy was hers in the morning!

  And then they heard the angels tell

  “Who were the first to cry NOWELL?

  Animals all, as it befell,

  In the stable where they did dwell!

  Joy shall be theirs in the morning!”

  A Kidnapped Santa Claus

  L. Frank Baum

  A Kidnapped Santa Claus

  Santa Claus lives in the Laughing Valley, where stands the big, rambling castle in which his toys are manufactured. His workmen, selected from the ryls, knooks, pixies and fairies, live with him, and every one is as busy as can be from one year's end to another.

  It is called the Laughing Valley because everything there is happy and gay. The brook chuckles to itself as it leaps rollicking between its green banks; the wind whistles merrily in the trees; the sunbeams dance lightly over the soft grass, and the violets and wild flowers look smilingly up from their green nests. To laugh one needs to be happy; to be happy one needs to be content. And throughout the Laughing Valley of Santa Claus contentment reigns supreme.

  On one side is the mighty Forest of Burzee. At the other side stands the huge mountain that contains the Caves of the Daemons. And between them the Valley lies smiling and peaceful.

  One would thing that our good old Santa Claus, who devotes his days to making children happy, would have no enemies on all the earth; and, as a matter of fact, for a long period of time he encountered nothing but love wherever he might go.

  But the Daemons who live in the mountain caves grew to hate Santa Claus very much, and all for the simple reason that he made children happy.

  The Caves of the Daemons are five in number. A broad pathway leads up to the first cave, which is a finely arched cavern at the foot of the mountain, the entrance being beautifully carved and decorated. In it resides the Daemon of Selfishness. Back of this is another cavern inhabited by the Daemon of Envy. The cave of the Daemon of Hatred is next in order, and through this one passes to the home of the Daemon of Malice—situated in a dark and fearful cave in the very heart of the mountain. I do not know what lies beyond this. Some say there are terrible pitfalls leading to death and destruction, and this may very well be true. However, from each one of the four caves mentioned there is a small, narrow tunnel leading to the fifth cave—a cozy little room occupied by the Daemon of Repentance. And as the rocky floors of these passages are well worn by the track of passing feet, I judge that many wanderers in the Caves of the Daemons have escaped through the tunnels to the abode of the Daemon of Repentance, who is said to be a pleasant sort of fellow who gladly opens for one a little door admitting you into fresh air and sunshine again.

  Well, these Daemons of the Caves, thinking they had great cause to dislike old Santa Claus, held a meeting one day to discuss the matter.

  "I'm really getting lonesome," said the Daemon of Selfishness. "For Santa Claus distributes so many pretty Christmas gifts to all the children that they become happy and generous, through his example, and keep away from my cave."

  "I'm having the same trouble," rejoined the Daemon of Envy. "The little ones seem quite content with Santa Claus, and there are few, indeed, that I can coax to become envious."

  "And that makes it bad for me!" declared the Daemon of Hatred. "For if no children pass through the Caves of Selfishness and Envy, none can get to MY cavern."

  "Or to mine," added the Daemon of Malice.

  "For my part," said the Daemon of Repentance, "it is easily seen that if children do not visit your caves they have no need to visit mine; so that I am quite as neglected as you are."

  "And all because of this person they call Santa Claus!" exclaimed the Daemon of Envy. "He is simply ruining our business, and something must be done at once."

  To this they readily agreed; but what to do was another and more difficult matter to settle. They knew that Santa Claus worked all through the year at his castle in the Laughing Valley, preparing the gifts he was to distribute on Christmas Eve; and at first they resolved to try to tempt him into their caves, that they might lead him on to the terrible pitfalls that ended in destruction.

  So the very next day, while Santa Claus was busily at work, surrounded by his little band of assistants, the Daemon of Selfishness came to him and said:

  "These toys are wonderfully bright and pretty. Why do you not keep them for yourself? It's a pity to give them to those noisy boys and fretful girls, who break and destroy them so quickly."

  "Nonsense!" cried the old graybeard, his bright eyes twinkling merrily as he turned toward the tempting Daemon. "The boys and girls are never so noisy and fretful after receiving my presents, and if I can make them happy for one day in the year I am quite content."

  So the Daemon went back to the others, who awaited him in their caves, and said:

  "I have failed, for Santa Claus is not at all selfish."

  The following day the Daemon of Envy visited Santa Claus. Said he: "The toy shops are full of playthings quite as pretty as those you are making. What a shame it is that they should interfere with your business! They make toys by machinery much quicker than you can make them by hand; and they sell them for money, while you get nothing at all for your work."

  But Santa Claus refused to be envious of the toy shops.

  "I can supply the little ones but once a year—on Christmas Eve," he answered; "for the children are many, and I am but one. And as my work is one of love and kindness I would be ashamed to receive money for my little gifts. But throughout all the year the children must be amused in some way, and so the toy shops are able to bring much happiness to my little friends. I like the toy shops, and am glad to see them prosper."

  In spite of the second rebuff, the Daemon of Hatred thought he would try to influence Santa Claus. So the next day he entered the busy workshop and said:

  "Good morning, Santa! I have bad news for you."

  "Then run away, like a good fellow," answered Santa Claus. "Bad news is something that should be kept secret and never told."

  "You cannot escape this, however," declared the Daemon; "for in the world are a good many who do not believe in Santa Claus, and these you are bound to hate bitterly, since they have so wronged you."

  "Stuff and rubbish!" cried Santa.

  "And there are others who resent your making children happy and who sneer at you and call you a foolish old rattlepate! You are quite right to hate such base slanderers, and you ought to be revenged upon them for their evil words."

  "But I don't hate 'em!" exclaimed Santa Claus positively. "Such people do me no real harm, but merely render themselves and their children unhappy. Poor things! I'd much rather help them any day than injure them."

  Indeed, the Daemons could not tempt old Santa Claus in any way. On the contrary, he was shrewd enough to see that their object in visiting him was to make mischief and trouble, and his cheery laughter disconcerted the evil ones and showed to them the folly of such an undertaking. So they abandoned honeyed words and determined to use force.

  It was well known that no harm can come to Santa Claus while he is in the Laughing Valley, for the fairies, and ryls, and knooks all protect him. But on Christmas Eve he drives his reindeer out into the big world, carrying a sleighload of toys and pretty gifts to the children; and this was the time and the occasion when his enemies had the best chance to injure him. So the Daemons laid their plans and awaited the arrival of Christmas Eve.

  The moon shone big and white in the sky, and the snow lay crisp and sparkling on the ground as Santa Claus cracked his whip and sped away out of the Valley into the great world beyond. The roomy sleigh was packed full with huge sacks of toys, and as the reindeer dashed onward our jolly old Santa laughed and whistled and sang for very joy. For in all his merry life this was the one day in the year when he was happiest—the day he lovingly bestowed the treasures of his workshop upon the little children.