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 a lustre 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 Saint 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 sleigh full of toys,-and Saint 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 Saint 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 peddler 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 his 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!"

Clement Clarke Moore, who wrote this poem, published a whole volume of poems, but none of the others is as famous as is this. It was written for his own children, and he did not even know that it was to be published. It appeared in the Troy Sentinel in 1823, just two days before Christmas, and we can imagine how delighted children were when they had it read to them for the first time. It is not a great poem; but no Christmas poem that has been published since has been half as popular with children, and even grown people like it for its jolliness and its Christmas spirit.

THE STORY OF PHAETHON

P

HAETHON, the son of the nymph Clymene, was very proud of his mother's beauty, and used to boast of it greatly to his playmates. Tired of the boy's bragging and conceit, one of his friends said to him one day:

"You're very willing to talk about your mother, but I notice you never speak of your father. Are you ashamed of him?"

"No, I'm not," replied Phaethon, trying to look unabashed.

"Well, then, tell us about him. If he were anything great, you would be willing enough to brag about him."

And because Phaethon kept quiet, all of his playmates began to jeer at him, cruelly enough.

"You don't know your father.

seen him," they cried.

You've never

Phaethon would not cry before them, but there were tears of shame and anger in his eyes as he told the story to his mother.

"Never mind, my boy," she said soothingly. "To-morrow you shall tell them the name of your father, and that will stop their taunts. Come, let me whisper it to you."

When Phaethon heard what she had to tell him, his eyes shone with joy and pride, and he could scarce wait for morning to carry his news to his mocking friends. He was first at the meeting

place, but he would say nothing until all his playmates were gathered. Then he said, quietly, but O, so proudly:

"My father is Apollo, the sun-god!"

For a moment there was silence; then came a burst of laughter from the group crowded about Phaethon.

"A likely story! Who ever heard anything so ridiculous? It's quite plain that your mother is ashamed of your father, and is trying to throw you off the track."

Again Phaethon ran home, his cheeks burning, his eyes flashing, and again he told his mother all that had passed.

"It's too late to do anything about it to-day," said Clymene, "but to-morrow you shall go yourself to your father's palace, before he sets out on his trip across the sky; and if he is pleased with you, he will give you some proof that you are really his son."

Long before daylight the next morning Phaethon set out, and with his mother's directions in mind, walked straight east until he came to the dazzling palace of the sun. Had he not been a bold youth, he would have been frightened and turned back; but he was determined to prove his boasts, and passed on into the palace. At last, on a great golden throne, he saw his father-surely a more glorious father than ever boy had before. So glorious was he that Phaethon dared not approach him closely, as the light about the throne was blinding. When Apollo recognized him, however, he took off the crown of rays from about his head and called to Phaethon to approach fearlessly.