HE comes in the night! He comes in the night!
He softly, silently comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
Are dreaming of bugles and drums.
He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,
While the white flakes around him whirl;
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home
Of each good little boy and girl.
His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;
It will carry a host of things,
While dozens of drums hang over the side,
With the sticks sticking under the strings.
And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,
Not a bugle blast is blown,
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,
And drops to the hearth like a stone.
The little red stockings he silently fills
Till the stockings will hold no more;
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills
Are quickly set down on the floor.
Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,
And glides to his seat in the sleigh;
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard
As he noiselessly gallops away.
He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,
Of his goodies he touches not one;
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast
When the dear little folks are done.
Old Santa Claus doeth all he can,
This beautiful mission is his;
Then, children, be good to the little old man
When you find who the little man is.
One my childhood Christmas traditions until I was perhaps eight or nine years old was that my mum would read the above poem to me on Christmas Eve when I went to bed. On the last year, before I decided I should read the poem myself, the last line of the poem peeked my then virgining perception. When you find who the little man is. I asked my mother what this line meant and it was in her reply, a smile with eyebrows raised and fained profession that she did not know the meaning, that the truth was made clear to me.
I said nothing at the time, I had for several years believed that I did indeed look out of my window one late Christmas Eve and see a blur in the distance of reindeer dancing across the sky with sleigh following at their hinds. Such wonderful delusions have no doubt fought off the disappointing truth in many children over the years, but regrettably, I was quite a sober sided child and logic slowly chipped away at fantasy and I was left with one sure and sad reality; There is no Santa Claus.
And so I have believed (or not, as the case may be) until now.
Now you're getting worried about me, I can tell, but I swear to you that Father Christmas is a real. What I never realised and have never took the time to analyse is something a child cannot know. For all these years I never really understood that last line - When you find who the little man is. Of course I know that it was our parents wrapping those gifts and placing them under the tree while we slept, but don't you see? They are Santa Claus. It's so much bigger than an anonymous bearded man – it is their love for you. Quantified as best they can and wrapped in bright colours, brought to you by a magical being clothed in red – it is their love for you. Santa Claus is a feeling. It is the warmth you feel by giving to others and bringing them joy.
For Children Santa Claus is essential. When you learn where the presents come from you may begin to feel guilty about what is spent on; you realise the price of your joy. Children must never know this. It must be magical for them. They must believe, for as long as their development will allow, in the magic of Christmas, the magic of Santa Claus.
My realisation about Old St. Nick came to me on a sleepless night like tonight last Monday. That was the night that that my best friend and his fiancée became both parents and, of course Santa Claus, to their daughter Zoe. She could not ask for a greater gift than her parents.
Merry Christmas to the new, the old and the in-between, I hope Santa is good to you all this year.