Being Santa
Being Santa must be fun!
Giving gifts to everyone
And riding on a magic sleigh;
Jingle-jingle all the way.
He’s read a billion Christmas lists,
Employed some elves to wrap the gifts,
Fed the reindeer, tied his boots
And slipped into his nice red suit.
Setting out on Christmas Eve,
Flying over towns and trees,
To every place, down every road
To all the children round the globe.
It’s such a feat of dedication
Speeding to each destination
With a smile upon his face
Then onward, to another place.
When he’s been all round the world
To every boy and every girl
And left some presents to be found,
His work is done; he’s homeward bound!
Mince pies and milk, he’s had plenty.
His heart is full, his sack is empty.
He cheers as he returns, a winner.
Home in time for Christmas dinner!
by Author Unknown
Being Santa must be fun!
Giving gifts to everyone
And riding on a magic sleigh;
Jingle-jingle all the way.
He’s read a billion Christmas lists,
Employed some elves to wrap the gifts,
Fed the reindeer, tied his boots
And slipped into his nice red suit.
Setting out on Christmas Eve,
Flying over towns and trees,
To every place, down every road
To all the children round the globe.
It’s such a feat of dedication
Speeding to each destination
With a smile upon his face
Then onward, to another place.
When he’s been all round the world
To every boy and every girl
And left some presents to be found,
His work is done; he’s homeward bound!
Mince pies and milk, he’s had plenty.
His heart is full, his sack is empty.
He cheers as he returns, a winner.
Home in time for Christmas dinner!
by Author Unknown
Piccola
Poor, sweet Piccola! Did you hear
What happened to Piccola, children dear?
’Tis seldom Fortune such favor grants
As fell to this little maid of France.
’T was Christmas time, and her parents poor
Could hardly drive the wolf from the door,
Striving with poverty’s patient pain
Only to live till summer again.
No gift for Piccola! sad were they
When dawned the morning of Christmas day!
Their little darling no joy might stir;
St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her!
But Piccola never doubted at all
That something beautiful must befall
Every child upon Christmas day,
And so she slept till the dawn was gray.
And full of faith, when at last she woke,
She stole to her shoe as the morning broke;
Such sounds of gladness filled all the air,
’Twas plain St. Nicholas had been there.
In rushed Piccola, sweet, half wild -
Never was seen such a joyful child -
“See what the good saint brought!” she cried,
And mother and father must peep inside.
Now such a story I never heard!
There was a little shivering bird!
A sparrow, that in at the window flew,
Had crept into Piccola’s tiny shoe!
“How good poor Piccola must have been!”
She cried, as happy as any queen,
While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed,
And danced with rapture, she was so charmed.
Children, this story I tell to you
Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true.
In the far-off land of France, they say,
Still do they live to this very day.
By Celia Laighton Thaxter
Celia Laighton Thaxter was born on 29 June 1835 in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, United States of America. She became a writer and a poet. “Among the Isles of Shoals” (1873) is her most noted work in prose. Celia Laighton Thaxter passed on at 58 years of age on 25 August 1894 on Appledore Island, Isles of Shoals, Maine, United States of America.
Poor, sweet Piccola! Did you hear
What happened to Piccola, children dear?
’Tis seldom Fortune such favor grants
As fell to this little maid of France.
’T was Christmas time, and her parents poor
Could hardly drive the wolf from the door,
Striving with poverty’s patient pain
Only to live till summer again.
No gift for Piccola! sad were they
When dawned the morning of Christmas day!
Their little darling no joy might stir;
St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her!
But Piccola never doubted at all
That something beautiful must befall
Every child upon Christmas day,
And so she slept till the dawn was gray.
And full of faith, when at last she woke,
She stole to her shoe as the morning broke;
Such sounds of gladness filled all the air,
’Twas plain St. Nicholas had been there.
In rushed Piccola, sweet, half wild -
Never was seen such a joyful child -
“See what the good saint brought!” she cried,
And mother and father must peep inside.
Now such a story I never heard!
There was a little shivering bird!
A sparrow, that in at the window flew,
Had crept into Piccola’s tiny shoe!
“How good poor Piccola must have been!”
She cried, as happy as any queen,
While the starving sparrow she fed and warmed,
And danced with rapture, she was so charmed.
Children, this story I tell to you
Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true.
In the far-off land of France, they say,
Still do they live to this very day.
By Celia Laighton Thaxter
Celia Laighton Thaxter was born on 29 June 1835 in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, United States of America. She became a writer and a poet. “Among the Isles of Shoals” (1873) is her most noted work in prose. Celia Laighton Thaxter passed on at 58 years of age on 25 August 1894 on Appledore Island, Isles of Shoals, Maine, United States of America.
Christmas Gift Suggestions
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, service.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourself, respect.
By Oren Arnold
Oren Arnold was born on 20 July 1900 in Minden, Texas, United States of America. He became a newspaper reporter and editor, a novelist, a biographer, and a humorist. Among his many published works are the books, “Wild Life in the Southwest” (1935), “Ghost Gold” (1954), and “The Wild West Joke Book” (1956). Oren Arnold passed on at 80 years of age on 30 August 1980 in Laguna Hills, California, United States of America.
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, service.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourself, respect.
By Oren Arnold
Oren Arnold was born on 20 July 1900 in Minden, Texas, United States of America. He became a newspaper reporter and editor, a novelist, a biographer, and a humorist. Among his many published works are the books, “Wild Life in the Southwest” (1935), “Ghost Gold” (1954), and “The Wild West Joke Book” (1956). Oren Arnold passed on at 80 years of age on 30 August 1980 in Laguna Hills, California, United States of America.
The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus
In Baltimore there lived a boy
He wasn’t anybody’s joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws.
In school he never led the classes.
He hid old ladies’ reading glasses.
His mouth was open while he chewed.
And elbows to the table glued.
He stole the milk of hungry kittens,
And walked through doors marked ‘No Admittance.’
He said he acted thus because
There wasn’t any Santa Claus.
Another trick that tickled Jabez
Was crying “Boo!” at little babies.
He brushed his teeth, they said in town,
Sideways instead of up and down.
Yet people pardoned every sin
And viewed his antics with a grin
Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,
“There isn’t any Santa Claus.”
Deploring how he did behave,
His parents quickly sought their grave.
They hurried through the portals pearly,
And Jabez left the funeral early.
Like whooping cough, from child to child,
He sped to spread the rumor wild:
“Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes
There isn’t any Santa Claus!”
Slunk like a weasel or a marten
Through nursery and kindergarten,
Whispering low to every tot,
“There isn’t any, no, there’s not!
No beard, no pipe, no scarlet clothes,
No twinkling eyes, no cherry nose.
No sleigh, and furthermore, by Jiminy,
Nobody coming down the chimney!”
The children wept all Christmas Eve
And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.
No infant dared to hang up his stocking
For fear of Jabez’ ribald mocking.
He sprawled on his untidy bed,
Fresh malice dancing in his head.
When presently with scalp a-tingling
Jabez heard a distant jingling.
He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof
Crisply alighting on the roof.
What good to rise and bar the door.
A shower of soot was on the floor.
Jabez beheld, oh, awe of awes,
The fireplace full of Santa Claus!
Then Jabez fell upon his knees
With cries of, “Don’t,” and “Pretty please.”
He howled, “I don’t know where you read it.
I swear some other fellow said it!”
“Jabez,” replied the angry saint,
“It isn’t I, it’s you that ain’t.
Although there is a Santa Claus,
There isn’t any Jabez Dawes!”
Said Jabez then with impudent vim,
“Oh, yes, there is; and I am him!
Your language don’t scare me, it doesn’t -”
And suddenly he found he wasn’t!
From grinning teeth to unkempt locks
Jabez became a jack-in-the-box,
An ugly toy in Santa’s sack,
Mounting the flue on Santa’s back.
The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;
They searched for him, but not with zeal.
No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,
Which led to thunderous applause,
And people drank a loving cup
And went and hung their stockings up.
All you who sneer at Santa Claus,
Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes.
The saucy boy who told the saint off;
The child who got him licked his paint off.
By Ogden Nash
Frederick Ogden ‘Ogden’ Nash was born on 19 August 1902 in Rye, New York, United States of America. He was married to Frances Rider Leonard in 1931. He became a writer of humorous poetry. Frederick Ogden ‘Ogden’ Nash passed on at 68 years of age on 19 May 1971 and rests in North Hampton, New Hampshire, United States of America.
In Baltimore there lived a boy
He wasn’t anybody’s joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws.
In school he never led the classes.
He hid old ladies’ reading glasses.
His mouth was open while he chewed.
And elbows to the table glued.
He stole the milk of hungry kittens,
And walked through doors marked ‘No Admittance.’
He said he acted thus because
There wasn’t any Santa Claus.
Another trick that tickled Jabez
Was crying “Boo!” at little babies.
He brushed his teeth, they said in town,
Sideways instead of up and down.
Yet people pardoned every sin
And viewed his antics with a grin
Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,
“There isn’t any Santa Claus.”
Deploring how he did behave,
His parents quickly sought their grave.
They hurried through the portals pearly,
And Jabez left the funeral early.
Like whooping cough, from child to child,
He sped to spread the rumor wild:
“Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes
There isn’t any Santa Claus!”
Slunk like a weasel or a marten
Through nursery and kindergarten,
Whispering low to every tot,
“There isn’t any, no, there’s not!
No beard, no pipe, no scarlet clothes,
No twinkling eyes, no cherry nose.
No sleigh, and furthermore, by Jiminy,
Nobody coming down the chimney!”
The children wept all Christmas Eve
And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.
No infant dared to hang up his stocking
For fear of Jabez’ ribald mocking.
He sprawled on his untidy bed,
Fresh malice dancing in his head.
When presently with scalp a-tingling
Jabez heard a distant jingling.
He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof
Crisply alighting on the roof.
What good to rise and bar the door.
A shower of soot was on the floor.
Jabez beheld, oh, awe of awes,
The fireplace full of Santa Claus!
Then Jabez fell upon his knees
With cries of, “Don’t,” and “Pretty please.”
He howled, “I don’t know where you read it.
I swear some other fellow said it!”
“Jabez,” replied the angry saint,
“It isn’t I, it’s you that ain’t.
Although there is a Santa Claus,
There isn’t any Jabez Dawes!”
Said Jabez then with impudent vim,
“Oh, yes, there is; and I am him!
Your language don’t scare me, it doesn’t -”
And suddenly he found he wasn’t!
From grinning teeth to unkempt locks
Jabez became a jack-in-the-box,
An ugly toy in Santa’s sack,
Mounting the flue on Santa’s back.
The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;
They searched for him, but not with zeal.
No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,
Which led to thunderous applause,
And people drank a loving cup
And went and hung their stockings up.
All you who sneer at Santa Claus,
Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes.
The saucy boy who told the saint off;
The child who got him licked his paint off.
By Ogden Nash
Frederick Ogden ‘Ogden’ Nash was born on 19 August 1902 in Rye, New York, United States of America. He was married to Frances Rider Leonard in 1931. He became a writer of humorous poetry. Frederick Ogden ‘Ogden’ Nash passed on at 68 years of age on 19 May 1971 and rests in North Hampton, New Hampshire, United States of America.
It’s Christmas Time!
Chins Up!
Heads High!
At This Glad Season
You And I
Have Faith To Hold
And Cheer To Give -
All Things That Make
Life Sweet To Live
All Truth, All Light,
All Loyalty -
The Justice That Will
Keep Men Free
Bid Us To Hail
The Christ Child’s Birth -
Our Dearest Hope
Of Peace On Earth!
By Jessie Howe Fairweather
Chins Up!
Heads High!
At This Glad Season
You And I
Have Faith To Hold
And Cheer To Give -
All Things That Make
Life Sweet To Live
All Truth, All Light,
All Loyalty -
The Justice That Will
Keep Men Free
Bid Us To Hail
The Christ Child’s Birth -
Our Dearest Hope
Of Peace On Earth!
By Jessie Howe Fairweather
Sweet Symbol
A significant symbol of Christmas
Is the simple candy cane.
It’s shape is the crook of the shepherd,
One of the first who came.
The lively peppermint flavor is
The regal gift of spice.
The white is Jesus’ purity,
The red is sacrifice.
The narrow stripes are friendship
And the nearness of his love.
Eternal, sweet compassion,
A gift from God above.
The candy cane reminds us all
Of how much God cared.
And like His Christmas gift to us,
It’s meant to be broken and shared.
by Author Unknown
A significant symbol of Christmas
Is the simple candy cane.
It’s shape is the crook of the shepherd,
One of the first who came.
The lively peppermint flavor is
The regal gift of spice.
The white is Jesus’ purity,
The red is sacrifice.
The narrow stripes are friendship
And the nearness of his love.
Eternal, sweet compassion,
A gift from God above.
The candy cane reminds us all
Of how much God cared.
And like His Christmas gift to us,
It’s meant to be broken and shared.
by Author Unknown
Christmas Wish for a Best Friend
I’d like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.
I’d like to be the help that you’ve been always glad to be.
I’d like to mean as much to you each minute of the day,
as you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way.
I’d like to do the big things and the splendid things for you,
to brush the gray from out of your skies and leave them only blue.
I’d like to say the kindly things that I so often have heard,
and feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you’ve stirred.
I’d like to give you back the joy that you have given me,
so that sunshine on your horizon is all that you will see.
I’d like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on,
undaunted in the darkest hours, with you to lean upon.
I’m wishing at this Christmas time that I could but repay
a portion of the gladness that you’ve strewn along my way.
And could I have one wish this year, this only would it be,
I’d like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.
by Author Unknown
I’d like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.
I’d like to be the help that you’ve been always glad to be.
I’d like to mean as much to you each minute of the day,
as you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way.
I’d like to do the big things and the splendid things for you,
to brush the gray from out of your skies and leave them only blue.
I’d like to say the kindly things that I so often have heard,
and feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you’ve stirred.
I’d like to give you back the joy that you have given me,
so that sunshine on your horizon is all that you will see.
I’d like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on,
undaunted in the darkest hours, with you to lean upon.
I’m wishing at this Christmas time that I could but repay
a portion of the gladness that you’ve strewn along my way.
And could I have one wish this year, this only would it be,
I’d like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.
by Author Unknown
Making Memories
Christmas is a time of joy,
A time for love and cheer,
A time for making memories,
To last throughout the year
by Author Unknown
Christmas is a time of joy,
A time for love and cheer,
A time for making memories,
To last throughout the year
by Author Unknown
In Santa’s Workshop
In Santa’s workshop far away,
Ten little elves work night and day.
This little elf makes candy canes,
This little elf builds streamlined trains,
This little elf dips chocolate drops,
This little elf makes lollipops,
This little elf makes great board games,
This little elf gives dolls their names,
This little elf packs each jack-in-the-box,
This little elf sews dolly socks,
This little elf wraps exciting books,
This little elf checks twice and looks,
As Santa packs them in his sleigh,
Ready for you on Christmas Day.
by Author Unknown
In Santa’s workshop far away,
Ten little elves work night and day.
This little elf makes candy canes,
This little elf builds streamlined trains,
This little elf dips chocolate drops,
This little elf makes lollipops,
This little elf makes great board games,
This little elf gives dolls their names,
This little elf packs each jack-in-the-box,
This little elf sews dolly socks,
This little elf wraps exciting books,
This little elf checks twice and looks,
As Santa packs them in his sleigh,
Ready for you on Christmas Day.
by Author Unknown
Day Before Christmas
We have been helping with the cake
And licking out the pan
And wrapping up our packages
As neatly as we can.
We have hung our stockings up
Beside the open grate.
And now there’s nothing more to do
Except
To
Wait.
by Author Unknown
We have been helping with the cake
And licking out the pan
And wrapping up our packages
As neatly as we can.
We have hung our stockings up
Beside the open grate.
And now there’s nothing more to do
Except
To
Wait.
by Author Unknown
