Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the loft, the children were stirring, and one of them coughed.
“Is it Christmas yet?” Hamish whispered.
“Go back to bed,” said his sleepy-eyed sister.
But he was wide awake and thought he heard a noise.
Was it Santa in his sleigh, laden with toys?
He rushed to the window and peered through the frost.
Hamish felt a tad guilty, like a little boy lost.
The milk and cookies were still on the mantel, and the wax piled up from a decreped old candle.
He prayed that St. Nicholas didn’t forget to stop by, after he sat on his knee and started to cry.
Hamish was good all year except for some teasin, but his sister deserved it; that was the reason
He started to fret and think the worst.
Did the Grinch come by with an almighty curse?
But the tree still sparkled with tinsel aglow.
In fact, he sprayed it last night with glitter and snow.
“Master Teddy,” he said, “oh what shall we do?” “Santa’s not coming, is that really true?
The elf on the shelf still had a big smile.
So maybe he’d sit there and wait for a while.
But Hamish was tired and crawled under the tree, brooding and mulling over this absolute mystery.
In no time at all he awoke with a start, to see his little sister pulling presents apart.
It was morning time and the house was a mess.
Hamish was buried in gifts up to his chest.
And taped to his head was an enchanting note.
That Santa had left, and this is what he wrote:
Thanks for looking out for your sister this year, and the kindness you’ve shown when she shed a tear.
You’re my little tin soldier on a mission of good.
Spread it far and wide so it is understood.
The more people we help, the better the world can be.
It’s all about love and giving; a magical symmetry.
Lyonel Doherty, editor
