One of the best loved poems in the English language is a holiday favorite called Twas the Night Before Christmas. So who wrote it? Well, that’s a very good question. You see, when the poem was first published in 1823, the poet was not named. In other words, the poem was published anonymously. And it quickly became a holiday favorite.

As the years passed, the poem gained popularity but the poet remained unknown. Then, in 1837 a writer and professor named Clement Clark Moore claimed to be the man who penned the poem. Mystery solved? Maybe yes; maybe no. Many scholars now believe that poem was actually written by a farmer and poet named Henry Livingston, Jr.

 

Mr. Livingston had died nine years before Mr. Moore made his claim, and Livingston’s family knew nothing about Mr. Moore’s assertion of authorship, so they could not complain. But many years later, they claimed that it was Livingston, not Moore, who actually wrote the poem.

Today, some experts are confident that it was Livingston who wrote the familiar words that follow. Other experts are certain that Moore, not Livingston, wrote them. Nevertheless, the experts can agree on one thing: Twas the Night Before Christmas is a holiday favorite. Happy reading! 

Twas the Night Before Christmas

 

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap—

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of midday to objects below;

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleighful of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddlar 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 pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face, and a little round 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 twist 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 stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to the team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle,

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!” 

About Santa

There is something very real about Santa: He personifies giving and the spirit of the holiday.
Fred Rogers

The great thing is not to believe in Santa Claus; it is to be Santa Claus.
Pat Boone

My Uncle Bill always dressed up like a fat old man with whiskers playing Santa Claus. Nobody was fooled, but we pretended to be—that was part of the fun.
Katherine Anne Porter

Christmas is for children, but over the years I’ve discovered that it’s the old fellow in the red suit who has the very best time of all.
John P. Hayes