By Karen Donato
Staff Writer
Local resident Edith Long wrote the Plight of St. Nicholas in the 1950s, when her children were very small. It was originally published in the Pioneer Times in 1985.
Long, 92, has since moved from the family farm on the Bangor Road and now resides in town. She was the wife of Charles S. Long and a homemaker all her life. Together they raised four boys, Leonard, James, Cecil and Herbie.
Through the years she wrote several short stories and poems. Some of them were published in the magazine Farm Journal and other publications.
We hope you enjoyed this light-hearted rendition of “The Plight of St. Nicholas” and thank you, Mrs. Long for sharing your talent with us.
We join Mrs. Long in offering it to you as our gift for this holiday season with sincere hope that you have a very Merry Christmas.
By Edith Long
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring — except one gray mouse.
She was chomping and chawing on my chenille spread
A gnawing out tufts to line her new bed.
The sounds of her chewing made such a noise
I thought al the racket came from my boys.
So I leapt out of bed, down the hall I did patter
Could find just one slipper, but that didn’t matter,
But their snuffs and their snorts told me they snoozed on yet
A-dreaming of cap guns and planes run by jet,
They each had a cold, so ‘ere my chance was gone,
I grabbed up the jar and rubbed more Vick’s on.
They stirred in their sleep; one gave a soft moan —
When up from the parlor came the sound of a groan!
I sneaked down the stairs, my heart beating wildly,
To say I was scared would be putting it mildly,
I peered through the door-way, such a sight met my eyes —
For there was Old Santa — but what a surprise!
For he didn’t look happy, nor like a fat elf
From his look, I knew he was ashamed of himself
And small wonder why. As he’d perched on a chair
To hand gifts on the tree, he had slipped in mid-air
And sailed into the tree, and by a queer chance
Had hanged himself neatly, by the seat of his pants!
He hung on that branch, softly swayed to and fro,
A most horrible predicament to be in, I know.
So I seized the big chair, pushed it under the limb
And grabbing the scissors, snipped away with much vim,
And I cut Santa free, with a slash and a chop
‘Till he came dropping down in the chair with a plop.
But he wasn’t hurt. No, for him there’s no match,
Still I knew poor old Santa badly needed a patch.
So I got him a blanket, while I turned my head.
He took off his trousers (you know they are red)
But in my scrap bag, though I hunted in vain.
I could find not a scrap of red cloth, plaid or plain!
But I did find a piece of Aunt Ann’s evening gown,
Except —‘twas bight green velvet smooth, soft as down
But Santa was pleased. Though he said, “It won’t match,
Still, who ever sees me to notice my patch?”
So I patched up his trousers the best I knew how
When he’d got them back on, he gave a low bow.
So I sat down and watched while he finished the tree,
(I suspect he put on a few extra for me)
Then laying his finger aside of his nose,
He stepped to the fireplace, up the chimney he rose.
(He just gave a leap, and sailed up the hatch
The last thing I saw was that brilliant green patch!)
He hopped in his sleigh, to his team said, “Let’s go!”
And eight reindeer took off in a flurry of snow,
The sleigh and the reindeer sailed off in the night,
But I heard his last words, ’ere he vanished from sight;
“Merry Christmas to all, and to you, Friend, Good Cheer,
And I’ll have a new pair of red britches next year!”
