CROCHETERS’ NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

Original knit version by Nancy Massaroni, 2003
rewritten (crochet version) by Dee Stanziano, 2006

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all around me
There was unfinished crocheting not under the tree,
The stockings weren’t hung by the chimney with care
‘Cause the heels and the toes had not a stitch there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
But I had not finished the caps for their heads.
Dad was asleep—he was no help at all.
And the sweater for him was 6″ too small.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I put down my hook to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash.
Tripped over my yarn and fell down in my stash.

The tangle of yarn that lay deep as the snow
Reminded me how far I still had to go.
When out on the lawn I heard such a noise,
I was sure it would wake up both Dad and the boys.

And although I was tired–my brain a bit thick,
I knew in a moment that it must be St Nick.
Yet what I heard left me very perplex-ed
For nothing I heard was what I expect-ed.

“Move Rowan! Move Patons! Move Koigu and Clover!
Move Shelridge! Move Starmore! Move Spinrite! Move over!
Lopi, don’t circle around, just stand there in line.
Pay attention you sheep and you’ll work out just fine!

I know this is hard as it’s just your first year
But I’d hate to go back to 8 tiny reindeer.”
I peered over the sill. What I saw was amazing:
Eight wooly sheep on my lawn all a-grazing!

And then in a twinkle, I heard at the door
Santa’s big boots stomping on the porch floor.
I rose from my knees and got back on my feet.
As I turned around, St Nick I did meet.

He was dressed all in wool from his head to his toe
And his clothes were hand crochet from above to below.
A bright Fair Isle sweater he wore on his back.
And his toys were all stuffed in an Aran crochet sack.

His hat was a wonder of bobbles and lace
A beautiful frame for his rosy red face.
The scarf on his neck could have stretched for a mile,
And the socks peeking over his boots were Argyle.

On the back of his mitts was an intricate cable.
And suddenly on one I spotted a small label:
“S.C.” in duplicate on the cuff.
So I asked, “Hey, Nick, did YOU crochet all this stuff?”

He proudly replied, “Ho, ho, ho, yes I did.
I learned how to crochet when I was just a kid.”
He was chubby and plump, a well dressed old man,
And I laughed to myself, for I’d thought up a plan.

I flashed him a grin and jumped up in the air,
And the next thing he knew, he was tied to a chair.
He spoke not a word, but looked down in his lap
Where I had laid my crochet hook and yarn for a cap.

He began then to crochet, first one cap then 2–
For the first time I thought I might really get through.
He put heels in the stockings and toes in some socks,
While I sat back drinking a scotch on the rocks.

Quickly like magic his hooks they flew,
Good Grief! He was finished by two!
He sprang for his sleigh when I let him go free,
And over his shoulder he looked back at me.
I heard him explain as he sailed past the moon,
“Next year, start your crocheting sometime around JUNE!”