FISHERMEN: #35 THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS

Tags

angling, balsam, eagle, fir trees, fishing, fly fishing, Mountain scene, stream

 

Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the stream

Not a creature was stirring, ‘twas my fondest dream.

The stocking waders were donned with great care,

In hopes that I wouldn’t find a rip or a tear.

The trout were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of earthworms danced in their heads.

And mamma made sure that I took my cap,

Then she went back to bed for a well-deserved  nap.

When out in the woods there arose such a clatter,

I looked up from the stream to see what was the matter.

Away through the woods they flew like a flash,

Leaped over hemlock logs – with a loud crash.

The sun on the breast of the peaks full of snow

Gave the luster of first-sun to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But an old man chasing eight laughing reindeer.

The little old man was so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they flew,

And he whistled, and shouted, as more flustered he grew!

“Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

Oh, Comet! Oh, Cupid! Oh  Donner and Blitzen!

Come back here you ingrates before I trip and fall!

Damn each one of you! Damn you! Damn it all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they met with an obstacle, jumped very high.

So up to the tree-tops the coursers they flew,

With a neigh and a guffaw, and St Nicholas in a stew.

And then, right behind me, I heard with a “poof”

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the shore-line St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was covered with fir needles, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all muddy, his red suit kaput.

Somewhere, in the chase, he had fallen on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, that dirty old sad-sack.

His eyes,  they were afire! His grimace how scary!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth screaming aloud “Whoa, whoa,”

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

An old briar pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad red face and a big beer belly,

That shook when he shouted, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right angry old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

The glare in his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had something to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Shackled all of the reindeer, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his fist aside of my nose,

He then gave me a nod and brushed off his clothes.

He took the end of the chain, to his team gave a whistle,

Away they all walked through the brush and the thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he walked out of sight,

“To hell with you all, you guys aren’t too bright!”

 

© Copy written for what I will never know.