jakemac
Well-known member
A Visit from St. Toolmus
BY CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE (with a little help from jakemac)
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except that damned mouse;
The toolboxes were stacked by the woodstove with care,
In hopes that St. Toolmus soon would be there;
The children were drooling all sprawled in their beds;
While visions of Bob the Builder danced in their heads;
The ‘ol lady in her mud mask, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When out on the curb there arose such a fuss,
I sprang from my futon to see whatsup.
Away to the window I flopped like a fish,
Tore open the shutters and destroyed the satellite dish.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a luster of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did I oogle,
But a miniature rust bucket and eight tiny labradoodle,
With a little old driver so lively and cool,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Tool.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Cornwell! now, S•K! now Craftsman and Armstrong!
On, Proto! on, MAC! on, Williams and SnapOn!
To the top of the carport! to the top of the fence!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away hence!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With a truck full of tools, and St. Toolmus too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard each little hoof,
The prancing and pawing was destroying my roof.
As I pulled in my head, and was turning around,
Down the stovepipe St. Toolmus came with a bound.
He was dressed all in denim, from his head to his boot,
And his clothes were all soiled with ashes and soot;
A bundle of tools he had strapped to his back,
And he looked like a hobo 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 stogie he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a big beer 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 lift 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 toolboxes; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the stovepipe he rose;
He sprang to his hoopty, to his team gave a bark,
And away they all flew like an electrician that’s been sparked.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
BY CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE (with a little help from jakemac)
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except that damned mouse;
The toolboxes were stacked by the woodstove with care,
In hopes that St. Toolmus soon would be there;
The children were drooling all sprawled in their beds;
While visions of Bob the Builder danced in their heads;
The ‘ol lady in her mud mask, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When out on the curb there arose such a fuss,
I sprang from my futon to see whatsup.
Away to the window I flopped like a fish,
Tore open the shutters and destroyed the satellite dish.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a luster of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did I oogle,
But a miniature rust bucket and eight tiny labradoodle,
With a little old driver so lively and cool,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Tool.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Cornwell! now, S•K! now Craftsman and Armstrong!
On, Proto! on, MAC! on, Williams and SnapOn!
To the top of the carport! to the top of the fence!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away hence!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With a truck full of tools, and St. Toolmus too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard each little hoof,
The prancing and pawing was destroying my roof.
As I pulled in my head, and was turning around,
Down the stovepipe St. Toolmus came with a bound.
He was dressed all in denim, from his head to his boot,
And his clothes were all soiled with ashes and soot;
A bundle of tools he had strapped to his back,
And he looked like a hobo 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 stogie he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a big beer 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 lift 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 toolboxes; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the stovepipe he rose;
He sprang to his hoopty, to his team gave a bark,
And away they all flew like an electrician that’s been sparked.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
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