The Night Before Christmas By Edgar Allan Poe

On the night before Christmas, alone in my house, Sorrow gnawed at my soul, like a ravenous mouse. Entombed in my blankets, I struggled to sleep, Ready to snap if I counted more sheep. I rose at the sound of scratching and creaking. “Who’s there?” I cried, “Is it trouble, you’re seeking?”   Like a ghost in the shadows, I crept from my room, And drawing my knife, which gleamed in the gloom, I silently stole down the cold, cheerless hall, Avoiding the portrait that hung on the wall.   A faraway voice came from somewhere unknown, As if calling to me in a jovial tone. Ah, could it be? Had my beloved returned? For this day I had prayed, I had desperately yearned.   So I turned to the portrait, stared into her eyes, The eyes of Sweet Mary, whose tragic demise Sent me into despair! For never was there A creature so lovely, exquisite and rare. I was torn from my reverie by footsteps below. Had she come from above, like the new fallen snow? Down the spiraling stairs, I quickly descended. Perhaps death itself, my love had transcended! An ephemeral fragrance arose in the air. It was brandy —the drink, that provoked our affair. The scent of this spirit, this trace of her essence, Drew me to the kitchen, seeking her presence. She wasn’t there—was her visit so fleeting? In the silence I heard my lonely heart beating. As I sighed and sullenly gazed at the ground, I saw crumbs bathed in liquor, scattered around. “She’s never untidy,” I said with conviction. “Perhaps an intruder has been in my kitchen.” Instinct compelled me to look in my cupboard. My rations had been demolished and plundered! There was a trail of fine cheese and bread. It led to the hearth—where I drew back with dread. In front of the chimney there stood an old coot. He wore a long cap and a fuzzy red suit. “Ho, ho!” he chortled, “Now wait until morning!” He waggled his finger, giving a warning. “How dare you!” I cried, as we stood face to face. “You’ve devoured my food, leaving hardly a trace!”   To this, he replied, “You have it all wrong! I left you a gift! And I’ll be getting along!” Wondering if I should believe the old troll, I reached in my stocking and pulled out...some coal. “I have lists,” he explained, “of who’s naughty and nice. You haven’t been good, and I fear there’s a price!” “Who are you?” I barked, at this gnome on my brick. “Don’t you know me?” he smiled. “I am St. Nick!” The name was familiar but that didn’t matter. This aged Bacchus was mad as a hatter. “You’re a fool and a fraud,” I said, raising my voice, “And you barged in my house, there’s no cause to rejoice!” “So whether you’re Santa, or Hannukah Harry, Jesus, or Joseph or just the Toothfairy--”   “Happy Christmas!” he chuckled. “Well, I musn’t tarry! Now cheer up good fellow, you don’t seem merry!” “See Mary?” I burst out. “Have you brought her here? Has my love come at last, ‘pon a midnight clear?”   “Sometimes,” he winked, “all is not what it seems. Especially, when you live in your dreams!” “Villain!” I shrieked, grabbing hold of his beard, “Bring her to me or your suit will be smeared.”   I took out my knife and punctured his sleeve, “This blade,” I intoned, “is not make believe!” “No more presents,” he warned, “if you do these bad deeds!” Then he whistled, quite shrilly, and called for his steeds. They dove down the chimney, with a great rumble, Antlers and hooves, entwined in a jumble. “Like Mary,” I muttered, “he has deceived me.” And he stood there, smugly, the overstuffed deity! In a rage, I hurled a torch up the flue. “Care to join me,” I sneered, “for some venison stew?” With a guttural puff, he charged for the door, But I pulled on a chain, and he dropped through the floor. “Dash away all! “ he called out as he fell. But his deer were already roasting in Hell. I turned a deaf ear to his echoing cries, As he plunged towards the place where Dear Mary lies.   And just as a hush came o’er the old house, From the cinders there sprung an impetuous mouse. There was cheese on his paws and jam on his nose, Gravy dripped down from his ears to his toes. It was clear from the smell that arose from his fur, He had showered himself with my fancy liqueur. This gluttonous thief, like the vandals of Rome, Had raided my kitchen and shattered my home! He staggered about on the stony, gray floor. Til he slipped ‘neath my foot, and then knew no more.   It was peaceful at last, so I settled in bed. Trophies of reindeer danced ‘round in my head. One dreary year later, upon Christmas Eve, The stocking I’d hung up began to unweave. And what should fall out of it, onto the brick, But a sparking and sputtering dynamite stick!   Quickly, I sought to extinguish the flame. It wouldn’t go out--‘twas a cruel, deadly game!   I discarded the stick and dashed to the door. What witchcraft was this? It was stuck to the floor! From the roof came a laugh of sadistic delight. Then suddenly there was a bright flash of light. And just as my soul began to take flight, That fiendish elf cried, “Happy Christmas! Good night!”